ockiss prompt 2: rain
and whos to say the gothic monsters can't have a little kissy in a rain of rose petals. :3
now EAT my bestie's @kamiporterbridges writing with this. he did SO SO well with the gothic motifs and imagery. PLEASE LOOKSIES!!!
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Thunder roared over the dense forest south from Divinity’s Reach, and Wakeland looked up, pushing a thick strand of hair off behind her pointy ear. The air was thick with anticipation, and the wind carried that unique, humid smell of rain towards them.
“Henry?” she called, strutting up ahead to catch up with him. Henry glanced up, sighing.
“Yes,” he simply replied, boots stomping the soft, wet soil. It had been an unusually rainy spring in Kryta. “We must simply bear it, I’m afraid. Not to mention, it will wash away our tracks.”
Wakeland’s ears droppéd slightly, and the hair strand became loose, framing his face once more.
“Well thought,” he said, looking down at her white, leather boots, covered in thick, black ooze.
Even when the hunt was a success, the walk back home had some drag to it. They bore new scars. They learned new fears. Demons were resourceful; always watching for an opening, for a weakness. But so were they.
Demons are relentless, as Henry always said. But so are we.
Wakeland didn’t feel relentless. The cold pressed against her, and the pull of exhaustion made her legs heavy. As his condition worsened, fighting became a truly miserable experience. But if Henry wasn’t giving up, he refused to be less.
The first raindrop fell and bounced off Wakeland’s wide-brimmed hat. Soon, another one followed.
The promised storm unleashed not with violence, but with a quiet shower pointed by thunder and lightning. Rolling over them in shadows and silver, as the water soaked into their hunting armor, dripping from loosened, brunette curls over Henry’s black glasses, and from long, pale blonde locks down Wakeland’s back. The world was tinted in grayscale, as the demonic blood washed away from them; the thick, oil-like substance diluting in the cleansing rain before seeping into the ground.
There was something beautiful about the stillness of the rain, of a storm rolling in. How the world held its breath for a moment before unleashing a bellowing thunder. Wakeland tilted his face up into the sky, feeling that same cleansing water washing over him as he breathed in.
“Henry?” she called once more, stopping in a small, sudden clearing.
Framed in deep, washed out greens, a shadow deeper than the shadows around him, Henry turned to give him a questioning glance.
Even in the growing darkness of a storm, Wakeland could feel the burning fires of his passion. Even behind those glasses.
The clouds seemed to part around them, and weak rays of light bathed the forest. Insinuating the oncoming bloom, as the soil soaked in the rain, nurturing the life within.
“In one of my books, the protagonists dance under the rain,” she explained, hands clasped behind her back, wriggling them nervously. “It’s very nice.”
Henry turned completely to face him; his stern face not betraying any emotion. But when Wakeland clumsily twirled in place to demonstrate, tripping on her own legs, Henry quickly reached out to hold her upright, avoiding her inevitable collapse on the muddy floor.
“Caution,” he warned, pulling Wakeland close by the waist. “You’re tired. Don’t overexert yourself–”
“Would you dance with me?” Wakeland interrupted, looking at him with a soft, almost saddened smile. “A little waltz won’t kill me.”
His hand sought for Henry’s; holding it, feeling its warmth despite the rain. And Henry sighed, glancing down at their interlocking fingers briefly before meeting Wakeland’s eyes once more.
“Then we will make haste for home,” he warned, stern as ever, ignoring Wakeland’s brimming, bright grin. “I do not wish to expose you to the elements any further.”
He cared so much for her. But if Wakeland didn’t experience the whimsy of the world, if she was to be forced to lay in a bed for the conceivable future, he would be as good as dead.
As Henry took a step backwards, interlocking fingers sliding off to a soft, gingerly contact, Wakeland’s smile seemed to seep into the ground like the rain. Henry bowed, and the forest was a castle, a dance hall, a masquerade they both attended dressed in silk and velvet. Swept away in a waltz, Wakeland didn’t feel the rain. He felt soft petals caressing her skin, joyous as they swayed and turned and made a ball out of that muddy clearing.
The greens seemed greener. The hidden flowers bloomed. For a moment, the clouds parted, and the rain glistened like the endless crystal tears of a candelabra. Just like in those novels - no, even better than his romantic, starry-eyed novels. For Henry wasn’t a collection of eagerly expected words; he was real, warm against her chest, stern yet soft when he guided her steps.
The imaginary music of raindrops ceased, easing into a light rain softly kissing Wakeland’s cold skin. And Henry finished their dance with a polite bow, as the illusion vanished, and they were still soaked in the forest.
Wakeland giggled, cheeks warming up with a light pink blush - all the blood his body could spare. And Henry leaned up to kiss her briefly, never allowing him to sink to his level. Not even for a kiss.
His lips warmed hers in a soft caress, before he parted briefly to speak.
“We should get moving,” he murmured, lips still gliding over Wakeland’s. “Before the storm winds up again.”
It was a reasonable request. But the rose bushes were bright red, and the sun danced on the raindrops clinging to the deep green leaves. The world was shades of love and pink, and Wakeland leaned down, despite Henry’s quiet protest, to kiss him once again.
From the maws of desperation, he’d reclaim his happiness. Over and over and over again.
henry and wakeland posting. my silly doodles and bits :)
@kamiporterbridges owns the BRITISH BITCH!!!
@commander-winterberry did the sketch on the first one and owns velli!! i requested to line and color. also ft. @norn-knot's adonis :)
