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offsidekineticist · 2 months

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I (finally!) finished my first OC Kiss Week fic! A little familial bonding between Theoven and @silversiren1101's wonderful OC Minovae for the prompt "Lost."

CW: Grief-driven depressive episode, implied child death, referenced chronic pain, reference to an angry outburst resulting in violence against furniture

You were not expecting visitors, so it takes you a moment to get to the door. The second it swings open, you are blinded with an explosion of sunlight shining past the silhouette in the door. Wincing, you raise an aching hand to block the sunlight from your eyes, but it’s no good. Even if you weren’t blinded by the flaming ball of gas in the sky, you haven’t been able to find your glasses since you threw them at the wall in frustration about ten minutes ago.

“Agh–damn. Sorry. I left my glasses inside–who is this?” you ask.

“It’s Minovae,” the figure replies, and you’re at once confused, concerned, and horrified. Confused, because ever since you reconnected with your brother, Gilly has been adamant that he not be allowed to know where you live, lest he and his wife tell the Order of the Rack where you are. You pushed back by pointing out–several times–that the Rack could probably find you on their own, given that you live in the apartment above Gilly’s alchemy shop; his name is literally written on the side of the building. Nevertheless, Gilly was insistent, and everyone involved thought it better to humor him than waste time arguing. For Minovae to be here, either he finally caved or–and this is the source of your concern–something has gone very, very wrong.

On the other hand, you are horrified because you stayed home for a reason! You are not in any state to be seen today, especially not by Regill or his wife. Your hair is unwashed and clumped together from greasiness; you haven’t shaved in days; you probably smell awful; and you don’t even have the energy to bother with proper facial expressions. You’ve been absolutely miserable to be around the past few days, constantly holding yourself back from snapping at people, including the kids (thankfully you haven’t slipped–yet), and so you chose to spare everyone that experience. Let Gilly take the children to a picnic with Aunt Mino and Uncle Regill. Give your family a break from walking on eggshells around you. Nobody was supposed to come to your house in the middle of your temper tantrum.

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Giliys just found these in his pocket and thought you’d need them. I volunteered to bring them so he wouldn’t have to cut the outing short.”

‘These’ were a pair of black fingerless gloves she was holding out close enough for you to see. The very gloves you’ve been raging about not being able to find. You remember now–Gilly had dragged you out of the apartment for a walk a few hours before the heatwave finally broke, so it felt too hot to keep the gloves on. The children had taken your bag at the time, and your usual clothes don’t have pockets, so you gave the gloves to Gilly for safekeeping.

It would have been nice of him to remember that before he–

You cut off the thought. You’re being unfair again. It was an honest mistake, one that he immediately took steps to rectify. You would have preferred Minovae not see you in this state, but you know Gilly doesn’t trust her or Regill enough to leave the children alone with them, and you’d rather suffer a little embarrassment than cut short the children’s fun.

(Though you’re not sure that leaving Regill and Gilly together unsupervised was a good idea. Hopefully Harper will be able to keep them in line–your daughter has them both wrapped around her finger)

You reach out with a shaky hand and take the gloves. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it. I won’t keep you any longer, then. I’m sure you’re eager to return to the picnic.” You begin to close the door, but Minovae’s arm shoots forward and holds it open.

“Actually, it was a pretty long walk here from Kite Hill. No shade the whole way, and I forgot to grab a waterskin. Could I come in and sit down for a second? Maybe get a drink of water?”

She expects you to believe that she’s tired and thirsty after walking–without armor–for less than two miles in pleasantly warm weather. You want to slam the door on her arm for her obvious excuse to stay here any longer, but that would be rude. You step back into the apartment and gesture for her to enter. You almost close the door on her tail because you can’t see it without your glasses, but it (thankfully) springs forward at the last second and (less thankfully) almost slaps you in the face. It takes your eyes a moment to readjust to the darkness in the apartment–you’ve closed the curtains trying to reproduce the heat of the last week to stop your hands from aching–but your heart sinks when they do. This floor of the apartment is a single room, with a kitchen and dining area in the half nearest the door and a den area in the other half. Minovae is staring at what used to be the den. You can’t see it very well, of course, but you don’t need to be able to see it to know what she’s looking a: chairs overturned, books strewn across the floor, a bookshelf on its side, broken glass scattered by a pile of copper pieces, toy blocks spread across the floor. You know it’s all there without having to see it because you’re the person who made it like that.

“Oh. Yes.” You pause as you consider how to explain, and settle for understatement. “I was a bit overzealous while looking for my gloves. I was going to clean that up before anyone came home, but…” you gesture towards her. “Anyway, you wanted water.”

“Ah, yes, that would be lovely. Is it alright if I sit here?” You think she’s pointing at the dinner table, but she could be pointing at the bookshelf you knocked over. You don’t care which it is.

“Oh, that’s fine,” you say, moving towards the sink and taking a glass from the counter to fill it. When you turn around, a full glass in your aching hand, Minovae–or at least a large blob you assume is Minovae–is, indeed, sitting at the kitchen table. It’s a comical sight once you come closer. You have furnished your apartment with furniture made for smallfolk, so she is sitting in a chair too small for her, her knees poking above the top of the table. “Here you are,” you say, sliding the glass towards her before retreating to the wall opposite her.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the glass and taking a long sip. “Oh, that’s nice after a long walk.”

You stare at her flatly. You’re fairly sure she invited herself in because she found your appearance concerning. Now that she’s probably even more concerned, you’re morbidly curious as to what excuse she’ll make for why she still can’t leave.

“So, you did all that just since Giliys left with the kids?” Minovae asks, gesturing towards the den.

Ah, so she’s dispensing with subtlety entirely. Then you can do so, as well. “Despite my appearance, I am not so senile as to need a minder. You should go back to enjoying the day with your family.”

“You’re my family, too. And…” she hesitates “...I’m worried about you.”

“Because my face is blank,” you say. There are other reasons, you’re sure–your appearance, the den, your missing glasses, your absence from the picnic–but you’re not willing to discuss any of them, so you ignore them. “Believe it or not, this is my natural level of expression. After the bleaching, my emotions became…muted, but also disconnected. My face doesn’t naturally express much emotion. People find that unsettling, of course, so I learned to put on a face for them. Best not lend any credence to the idea I didn’t have emotions anymore.”

“Don’t tell me people believe that nonsense!” she exclaims in disbelief.

“One of my childhood best friends became completely hostile towards me because she believed it. Tried to get me fired several times. Even tried to steal Qweck away from me once,” you say, and while she does a good job of keeping it from her face, the way her tail is squirming in agitation tells you she’s furious on your behalf.

“So you learned to put on an act for them, because otherwise they would treat you like a pariah,” Minovae says, and you think you hear a note of bitter sympathy as she does.

“It’s not exactly an act–I think of it more like speaking a foreign language. My thoughts are in my native tongue, but my native tongue won’t be understood. So instead I speak as the locals do. Through facial expressions.” You briefly put on a wry, if somewhat melancholic, smile before again dropping the mask. “I just don’t have the energy today, I’m afraid. The change in the weather aggravated my hands. Better I stay home and rest for the day.”

“It’s not just today, though, is it?” she asks with a gentleness that feels patronizing. “You’ve been feeling…off…for awhile. Mayhew let me look at his sketchbook. And I accidentally saw–”

“His artistic impression of his father moping at the kitchen table,” you say, and you are glad she can’t see how exposed you feel by that.

Mayhew’s style is unusual, especially for a child of his mental age. He senses people’s emotions as naturally as you hear sounds, and that colors the way he sees the world to such an extent that “realism” to him means conveying feelings even at the expense of physical form. He usually does this through his use of color, choosing colors based on the mood. Mayhew’s most recent portrait of you, however, was more than just a recolored portrait. He drew your face, shattered and distorted like a broken mirror, against a dark red background, with black seeping through the cracks in your face like some kind of anti-light.

“He said that he made it to show you that your feelings are lying to you,” she continues.

“Did he now?”

Of course he did. Mayhew is a child–your child–and he’s idolized you since the day you met. Gilly calls him Junie–short for Theo, Jr–and it’s not just because of the resemblances in your coloration and mannerisms. Mayhew thinks the world of you, dreams of being like you, and this is the time of year when you remember just how unworthy you are of his esteem. Of course he thinks your feelings are lying.

You hadn’t realized that was what he was trying to show you, though. It felt like a very correct portrait to you, so you had assumed he finally saw through you.

“He’s worried about you,” Minovae says. You lean back against the wall with a soft sigh through your nose.

“I know. I know he is.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Well, stop that,” you say, almost immediately kicking yourself for it. She isn’t used to deadpan Theoven. “That was a joke,” you clarify.

“I’m serious. You don’t seem alright.”

You close your eyes, bracing yourself. Clearly, she isn’t going to leave until you've given her some kind of explanation. You choose your words carefully before you open your eyes and speak. “It’s nothing permanent. It’s just a few bad days–entirely expected. It should subside sometime next week. Anniversaries of mistakes prompt reflection. And reflection is not always a nice experience.” You force a friendly smile to cap off the reassurance. “But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that.”

“I want you to be alright.”

“My dear, you are several years too late for that.” You can’t see her expression from where you’re standing, but the lack of reaction tells you the joke fell flat. “That was also a joke,” you clarify.

“One that you believe.”

“Of course. Those are the best kinds of jokes.”

She sighs heavily. “Just…is there something I can do?”

You shake your head. “No. It is too late for anything to be done. I checked. It can’t be helped now.”

“I meant to help you.”

“I know.” Because what else could help you? You are like this because you are guilty. The only way to get rid of the guilt is to pluck out its source–and that can’t be done.

“Are you sure nothing can be done? I’m willing to help–there are things I can do that most can’t.”

“Yes, things such as running the first successful Mendevian Crusade in decades, closing the worldwound, and convincing my brother to marry. But even the great Knight-Commander herself can’t resurrect a soul that’s already been judged.” The bitter words slip out before you can stop them. You stop to center yourself before–

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Do not patronize me!” you snap, and you immediately regret it. You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Balance, you remind yourself. She is tearing open old wounds. She is trying to help. Both can be true. Both are true. Let that guide your words. “I’m sorry. That was rude. And uncalled for. I just…I don’t like that phrase. It…”

You search for words to explain safely, but can find none. There is no safe way to explain the way it grates for other people to apologize to you for a loss that is entirely your fault.

“Would you like to talk about it?” she asks.

“No.” Of course you don’t want to talk about it–you haven’t even told Gilly about it. He assumes this annual pity-party is about your arrest. He’s right, partly. It’s just that it’s not the arrest itself that haunts you.

Leave Mister Theo alone!

Minovae doesn’t hear the cry echoing through the years. She only hears the silence that rings after you say no. Perhaps now she’ll understand that you want her to leave.

“You’re going to need help if you’re going to clean this mess up before Giliys and the kids get home.”

“By the gods, do you ever stop?” you demand, fixing her with an exhausted glare. “What do I have to say to make you go? Are you going to stay until I tell you about her? Is that it? Gilly gave you our address, so now you’re entitled to see me bare my soul to–” you cut yourself off. You’re putting words into her mouth, expecting her to read your mind and know you want her to leave when you haven’t told her that’s what you want. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me. What I’m trying to say is that I need to be alone today.”

She doesn't answer right away, seemingly needing a minute to deal with the whiplash of your outburst and immediate apology. You can’t blame her.

“Would it be alright for me to clean up while you rest?” she finally asks.

You stare at her, trying to search her face for sincerity but unable to make out her facial expressions without your glasses. She seems to have gotten her tail back under control, so the only clue you’ll get to her intentions (without squinting and moving closer like an old man in the comedies, at least) is her tone. “Why?”

“Because Mayhew is worried about you, and I think coming home to something like this will make it worse. And I don’t think you’ll be able to do it by yourself in the state you’re in.”

She’s right. She’s absolutely right. You’re a mess, and it’s hurting the children, and you can’t fix it yourself. And even if being alone is what you want, it’s not what’s best for your children.

Maybe it’s not even best for you.

You lean your head back against the wall and do your best to swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you finally say. “You shouldn’t have to spend your day off cleaning up after me. This is why I didn’t go today–none of you should have to put up with this. Especially not without warning.”

She gets up from her comically undersized chair and approaches you. She’s short for tallfolk, but you’re so small that she still towers over you. She puts her hands on your shoulders and looks down at you with an expression of earnest care.

“I understand if you didn’t have the energy, or if you didn’t want to be seen like this. But if it’s for our sakes, I think both Regill and I would rather that you let us help you.” She hesitates, and then says “I would rather that you let me help you.”

You don’t want that. You don’t want to be a burden. But you also know that mentality isn’t healthy–and how many times have your attempts not to be a burden hurt the people you were afraid of inconveniencing? You take a long, deep breath and remind yourself: when you feel the urge to do something self-destructive, do the opposite.

You bow your head, staring at the floor. “I think I will work on the mess. I don’t think lying in bed will help me much.” You have to fight yourself to get the next words out. “If you…want to help…I would appreciate it. Just…” you pause, wanting to make sure you say the right words, wanting to be fair but firm. You raise your head, looking her in the eye as you speak. “Do not ask me about it anymore. I don’t want to discuss it.”

She leans over and kisses you on the crown of your head. “I understand. I’m sorry for pushing.”

You take another breath. Breathe. “You were–are–worried. I can’t hold that against you.” You turn your head towards the mess of blurry shapes that used to be the den. “You know, without my glasses, it looks much less intimidating from here. We should consider cleaning from here. And if we find my glasses it might be effective to re-lose them. It may be easier.”

There’s a moment of silence, and for the third time you’re kicking yourself for forgetting she’s not used to picking your jokes out from the rest of your words without tone markers. You’re about to clarify–“that was a joke”–when she snorts.

She isn’t fluent in your native tongue, but you think she might be learning–and that means everything.

#pwotr pals #pathfinder wotr #friend's oc #oc: minovae arangeir #oc: theoven derenge #ockiss24

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silversiren1101 · 3 months

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At The End - OCKiss24 Salvadore x Minovae

I managed to find time to actually participate in a writing event! We can thank my new ADHD meds for that I'm sure. Anyway, this first is featuring my Minovae and @dmagedgoods Salvadore, who I have long cherished their relationship as much as it's fascinated me. They're what could have been and what could never be. I'm so happy with how this came out - please know I cried multiple times while writing it!

Violet eyes looked out over the city below and beyond the marble balustrade. Smoke rose from nearly every main plaza and thoroughfare, and even what seemed to be the most innocuous of alleyways as well as the highest parapets. For the first in some many decades, nay, a century, even, there was no cause for alarm from this. It wasn’t demons ravaging the last line of defense in this nation that both was and wasn’t, but now could be. The war hadn’t reached here, Nerosyan, the capital, because the war was over.

The Knight Commander had done it. Knight Commander Salvadore had closed the Worldwound. Where no other could, and it hadn’t been for lack of trying, but for all so much bloodsoaked and desperate failure, the war had finally ended.

And by a poncy, arrogant noble with a stick up his ass to rival even Iomedae’s.

Miracles, it seemed, weren’t in so short supply as the name of this age had made it seem.

Minovae sighed deeply looking out over the city with its night sky filled with smoke for the first time not from war but from celebration, her tail listlessly hanging off the edge between the balusters. Bonfires beat back the darkness, and she realized then that the smell and sight was what was making her stomach clench and eyes rimmed with wet. How much like home it was, poor battered and stripped Westcrown, whose nightly pyres weren’t out of any cause for celebration but to beat back the shadow-beasts that stalked her streets once the sun set and feared the light.

A home she knew she’d never see again.

The ache in her mind from Thrune’s brand told her as much. She’d never make it as far as Westcrown once she crossed the border of homeland. They’d take her back to Egorian, where the beginning of this end began, and they’d put the loose end that she was to close once and for all. It was coming. Soon. She knew it was. They might even be ready to disappear her as soon as she stepped from Nerosyan’s walls.

The thought only reinforced that emptiness that pervaded her. She had nothing left to fight for, anyway. Even more, she’d fought alongside heroes. She’d helped do the impossible. The Crusades were over, and she’d played no small part in it. Even the fact she wore this evening not her armor, its weight heavy and familiar comfort, but finery, felt strange. So much of her existence had been defined by steel and blood and blade and shield, and now it was drawing to a close not in the middle of a craggy field that smelled of iron, but on the night of celebration, in a gala hosted by literal royalty.

The liquor in her glass burned comfortingly as she took another sip. ‘As strong as you have’, she’d told the man, who’d grinned and reached under the bar for something so old and dusty she hadn’t been able to catch the label. It did the trick, vapors stinging her nose and warming her throat and gut better than anything she’d had in years, and she reminded herself to thank him before she left for the night.

“Ah, here you are.”

She would have started had her senses not been dulled by drink—truthfully, this was her fifth glass. The clink of the ice as she’d knocked it back had disguised his footsteps, she surmised. He had no reason to sneak up on her tonight, and he walked with all the confidence and bravado his station and title presumed on his behalf at nearly all times.

“Here I am…”, she flicked her gaze to the corner as he came to the balcony balustrade, leaning against it, mindful of her tail where it trailed across the marble. Those icy blues locked onto hers and held that gaze firm. She might have thought it a challenge, or some type of implied order as he was oft to give, had his lips not been lightly tugged ever so upwards at their corners into a smile that was, by all accounts, warm. She stared at those lips perhaps a moment too long, before continuing. “Though I’m not sure it is really you, Sal, with such an expression on that face.”

He took no offense to the diminutive of his name. Not with her, at least. But she did note the quirk in his brow; inquisitive.

“My dear, it is a night for celebration, if you have not noticed.

“And so even the great Salvadore can afford himself a smile? I see”, she smirked.

It felt bitter. Even as happy as she truly was for him, for all of them, the emptiness of her future had tainted this night before it had even began. She quickly returned her gaze to the bottom of the glass cradled between her fingers, dangling over the edge of open air above the city below.

A heavy beat of silence passed. She knew without meeting that gaze again that he was aware something was weighing on her. He was one of the few she’d ever met that matched her ability to read nearly anyone, no matter how inscrutable.

“You should go back inside, you know. It is a night for celebration, after all”, she used his own words, hoping it would rub him wrong enough to just make him leave. “I’m sure they’ll be wondering where the man of the evening is.”

But, she knew the copious drink had taken her off her game tonight. Normally she could handle him as she did other nobles, though certainly not lightly–he’d ever been one of her most difficult rivals. Even admitting as such had rankled her, but now, here, she could only think of the term fondly. She internally cursed the sweet heat cloying her thoughts.

“Without you? Without whom this would not be possible? No, my dear, your absence has been noticeable enough. You have spent enough time endearing the night air with your appearance, when it would be much better spent on the unworthy eyes back inside.”

She snorted at that. Shook her head. “Are you saying I look nice?”

“Is that such a surprise? You look beautiful. It is a crime that the first time I have seen you in a dress, you’ve spent most of it hiding away.”

It was true. She’d been present for the opening ceremonies, of course. She’d even started the night just as lively and bright as nearly everyone else, dancing one or two waltzes with their friends—then, someone had asked her what she would do next, after all this was done.

And the brand seared into her mind had started to ache.

She swallowed down a sigh, not wanting him to hear. Her tail, heavy, almost languidly, pulled itself back up from the plummet she wanted to take before them and instead squished the air like shoulders would a shrug.

“You could have always ordered me into a dress, if you were so desperate to see it.”

“It would not have looked half as radiant on you than one donned willingly. I can see there was truth to your stories. Any lesser man in there would crumple before you, if you had your heart set on crushing theirs.”

Had he always been this funny, she wondered. No, it was the alcohol working in his favor. Still, she chuckled. Heat licked to the skin beneath her scaled cheeks. She knew she must’ve looked much like a watermelon then–those green-tinted opals sitting in a sea of red.

“Alright, alright. Need I tattle to Daeran with how much you’re trying to butter me up?”

It was an empty threat and joke, they both knew. The only thing Daeran would be mad at was that he was not here to see and hear this for himself.

“When I left, he was last doing what I expected you to be doing all evening. Dancing the night away, breaking those hearts with each hand he trades for another.”

“I’m glad he’s enjoying himself. It’s just… louder in there than I remember…”, she answered wistfully. “I’m not used to being around so many people again. At least, not in a war camp… without my armor.”

He knew all about her past navigating through galas and parties much like these. She’d told him as such, how she used to stalk her prey on their own grounds, playing their own game; the Hellknight who’d eschew her armor for a dress and weapon for an invitation to dance, luring the guilty in with honey only to bring them to the guillotine all the same.

She only hoped he’d accept the excuse. Just telling him the truth would kill her. Him, possibly, too. Literally. The last thing she wanted on her record before she went to the Boneyard was taking down the angelic hero who’d ended the Crusades in a blackened, infernal blaze of her brand detonating.

“It has quieted some. The wine has seen to that, and most have had their choices in dance.”

She hummed. “Then surely my presence isn’t that missed.”

“On the contrary”—a shift of movement caught her attention. She looked back up from her glass toward him once more, and found a hand, fingers lightly curled upward, extended in invitation towards her.

“This entire Crusade, you have bragged about your prowess on the dance floor and told me of your greatest triumphs taking down ‘arrogant blowhard fops of my caliber,’”—she felt a rush of even hotter flame to her cheeks and a rattle shook her tail as he’d remembered one of the rants she’d gone on after particularly pissing her off—“, and yet, I have yet to see it for myself. I insist: would you have but a single dance with me, Lady Minovae?”

She stared. First, at his hand, those tan fingers extended invitingly. By all accounts they should be as rough and calloused as hers, and yet they looked untouched by the horrors of the war they’d both fought through, side by side. His nails were perfectly cut and filed, and shone beneath the moonlight. Hells, she swore there was a light glow emanating from it, but she had no idea if it was just from how bright the moon was, or because of the angelic power coursing through him. It looked warm, despite him being a dhampir.

And then her gaze shifted upward, to the rest of him. His blue eyes had narrowed, warm, inviting, despite how piercingly cold their color was. She noticed then that the night had gotten to his usual perfectly manicured and groomed self. Some hairs had fallen from his typical neat style, wayward curls—curls!—teasing his forehead and giving him an almost roguish appeal that made her breath catch. For once, he looked real. He looked mortal. At this, his highest point in power, literally touched by the Heavens and the Abyss alike, Salvadore looked more like a living, breathing, touchable person than at any other point in which she’d known him. He didn’t rise in her that distrust and disgust that normally appeared when she lay eyes upon a noble, even with him dressed in the brightest white and gold finery she’d ever seen.

He looked…

Warm. Handsome. Inviting. Mortal. An ally. A friend. Something more. Her breath caught for a moment. She found herself staring at his lips again, sitting above his chiseled chin and jawline. Had they always looked so… soft? He was doing that soft smile again, confident and controlled, but welcoming. The kind that made you let down your guard, of which the whiskey clouding her thoughts certainly wasn’t helping.

“A good kisser?”, she snorted derisively. “I didn’t know they taught you how to kiss in noble school. I certainly don’t know where else you would’ve learned given how insufferable you are. Unless that mysterious ‘mentor’ of yours taught you that, too.”

Salvadore only made a low noise in the back of his throat, confident and knowing. The look he shot her was much the same. “You are welcome to a demonstration, if you need the proof, my lady knight, Arangeir.”

Her boisterous laugh was all the answer he needed: never in a million years.

She remembered the moment in a sudden flash like it was yesterday. She couldn’t even remember what had triggered that conversation, but she certainly remembered the tease and invitation now. It hadn’t been a million years, but she wouldn’t get a million years. Sal might. He and Daeran together. But she wouldn’t. She might not even get a week. Daeran would forgive her for this, she knew… and well, if he didn’t, she supposed she wouldn’t be around long to suffer it.

“…A dance?”, she licked her lips, suddenly feeling overly warm, overly flushed. Her dress exposed much of her back and shoulders, letting her feathers and scales breathe , and only went to about her mid-thigh regardless. Still, she felt hot. She felt stupid, too, but did it matter? “You can have your dance, if I can have something in return.”

That piqued his curiosity. Salvadore drew his hand back slightly, if only because he’d straightened his posture. His head tilted, and a brow raised. Something glinted in his eye. Concern? She didn’t care.

“Do you remember months ago… You claimed to be a good kisser. I didn’t believe you. What if I told you I still don’t?”

Her pulse was racing now. She could feel it thud-thud-thudding in her chest. It got even worse as realization dawned upon him.

She half expected a slap; he was a taken man now, after all. He might have even just turned around and gone back inside, which, fine. For the moment, though, he only stared at her. She could tell he was trying to decipher why she was asking for this now, why in the Hells now? Could she blame him? Of course not, he had no idea the severity of the truth, of just how little time she had left to do what she wanted and be a little crazy before everything ended.

What she didn’t expect was for those fingers to return. Closer. Curled under her chin.

She gasped lightly, hotly, as Salvadore clasped her jaw. Those hands were cold, as she thought, but the feel of that icy chill across her flushed skin felt almost like healing magic dancing across wounds, knitting them closed.

Her tail vibrated anxiously, filled with so much energy where it had lain dead before. She could feel her feathers rising from neck to tail tip, fluffing up in that way that made her look like an alarmed cat.

Their eyes held each others’, and his additionally held a question.

Now or never.

“You promised a demonstration”, she merely answered.

He needed no other reassurance.

Their height difference made it more difficult than it should have been, but Salvadore had been only truthful in his claims. He knew exactly what to do.

A hand pressed to the flat of her back, directly over the strip of feathers running down her spine and scales surrounding them—now running icily themselves trying to cool her down. She briefly wondered if he even noticed with the chill in his own hands, but let it drift away as soon as it had come. He pressed her close and up, bidding her to her toes as he himself confidently arched downward.

Soft. They were soft. How funny it was, she thought, that such iron and coldness could come from those lips only for them to be so damn soft. Softer than hers. Theirs pressed against the other, and her eyes slipped closed upon the gentle impact. She mapped them in the darkness behind her eyelids, each and every crease, the cupid’s bow, the feel of his breath across her face.

When had she last been kissed? She didn’t remember. Wetness rimmed her eyes again. She didn’t even love him. Love had escaped her at every turn, snatched away always and viciously by circumstance. All she could think of was the emptiness, of what hadn’t been and what she’d never had. His lips right then, for only this brief moment, were filling that yawning void. It was a piece that didn’t fit in this puzzle. Not perfectly. But for a moment, it was filled.

Then pressing. Then prodding. Further still, he took it, and she went rigid in shock before melting as his tongue breached what should have been where this had ended. It brought with it the taste of wine, luxurious and more opulent than any her salary would have spared. Something in her found it funny that for as much as she’d always tormented him about her dislike of fine wines, he’d still found a way to share a glass with her.

At the end. Of everything.

#oc: minovae arangeir #oc: Salvadore #ockiss24 #MANY TEARS were shed writing this #obv this is one of the darker timelines I could see Mino falling into - but is it truly too late?#I think he could still free her and save her future but time is short #where is regill in this? she didn't become more to him in this timeline - with her companion quest unresolved he wasn't pushed towards her #the loneliest and most doomed Mino is a selfish and reckless Mino who realizes she has nothing left to lose

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