Prompt
Idea: "True Love's Kiss Motif". In which a prince is cursed to live an immortal life. He enjoys life at first but grows bored easily. Begins his search to find true love's kiss by courting various women throughout his life. Playboy phase (multiple women)?
Grows old and has never found true love. And he tries to off himself more than once to many failures.
But one day, he somehow awakens right before he's brought back to life at the crossroads between worlds. He meets Death. He decides then and there that the only way to truly die is to obtain a kiss from Death. But while he courts Death and shows him/her/them how to live-- he finds himself falling for him/her/them.
(Can be any characters or pairings? Go wild with funny antics, angsty, Happy Ending or Bittersweet… I love everything you write <3)
Moo loaded a shotgun and pointed it right at my chest.
BETWEEN SPACES
Ominis Gaunt x Male!OC (very nonspecific)
Word Count: 1500ish
This is just incredibly painful angst with very small comfort, PLEASE ENJOY!
Ominis Gaunt met him, in the shadow and the night.
Long after life should have left him - after his bones ought to have been dust, and the world had turned without him. Long after his friends had passed into nothing, and on, and on: onward, until the world had changed irreparably.
Anne had gone first. Lovable, gentle Anne. Anne, who had survived so much: who had courted death and run from him. Anne had gone in quiet slip - somewhere in the middle of her life. Ominis had grieved her, so sudden and quick - and asked death to take him, too.
Death had not.
And so Ominis Gaunt had sought. Bony hands, pale fingers; undressing women with the talents of a gentleman. The efforts of a man of his station: the Prince of Slytherin, and the heir to all of its curses and wants. He had fallen into desperation, almost: feverish, to find meaning and purpose and something to explain it all.
Once, a handful of years ago - a boy had whispered something in his ear.
“Don’t you grow tired of all of this?”
They had been sixteen, then, and he had not known kisses or love. He had known of stories, and music, and had liked to imagine them as things that were real, and proper, and meaningful as anything.
He could fall in love. He could.
His face had been a mysterious thing - only felt a handful of times, and only in the throes of the moment. He had been alive, in the creases of those cheekbones. When the pad of his thumb had run over those lips.
And then - that boy had vanished, too. And he had forgotten entirely that life could be vast, and music could be good. Stories could have meanings, and not simply morals.
But that was long ago. And the days turned to months, and the months into years.
Sebastian was next. His brother, and his life. War. Muggles have always liked war, and Sebastian had always been fit to raise one. When he received the letter, and his wand traced the paper of it: he had not cried. Not properly.
He had drank, and drank, and tried to forget. He had lain in the grass and tried to picture the colours of the sky. He had wondered what he should feel - whether someone who had lived half as long would feel twice as much. Whether the curse that had been laid at his feet meant, in the end: he would slowly feel himself seeping through the cracks of the pavement, worn away by the bombs dropped from afar.
The Great War came, and ended. Another. Another.
He had fucked his way through it. Women - always women. Always the curves of them against him: and never too much of anything else. Anything else would hurt, too much, too quickly: too many things lost along the way. And he had kissed, and fucked, and touched, and lit matches under himself that burned out. The fifties had come, and he had looked much the same. Not that he had known that, of course - but he had kept himself well, and groomed.
Smoked? He had smoked most in the sixties. He had wondered if it was yellowing his teeth, or making him smell acrid - but he stopped caring by the seventies, and he yearned for the old smoking bars. The comfort of the continual rise of it. The coughs, and the jackets. Christ, but he missed the dinner jackets.
The time passed in a haze. Everyone was gone, by then, and he was frozen. A piece of time, long antiquated. Most of his days spent in vague states of removal from reality. He missed Anne for most of it, and Sebastian for half of it (though that half, he thinks, was an agonising half). He found he missed the gargoyles in the classes, and Professor Binns’ innocuous droning. He missed everything.
Wizarding War. He had a brief, painful realisation of the truth of it. His own flesh and blood. That inclination would have inspired something in him, if his life hadn’t been so bloody long.
But then it was done. And then the eighties. And then the nineties, and he only briefly measured that a boy came to stop what would try to pass.