#but then the white shirt w the waistcoat and slacks

[mydemonsdrivealimo]

jensen wears scrubs pretty often at work bc he just can't be bothered. but then there are just some days where he whips out the waistcoat for The Vibes and honestly i love him for that

[igbylicious]

My god Im so curious about Yunho from your Woosan fic 😫 anything for a solo scene with him to see what hes like esp cuz damn

oh god strictly speaking i don’t take requests but OOF anon it’s whiway and you caught my brain right in the middle of a perfect Yunho-shaped storm asdjhadshj. so here you go, i whipped this up real quick >:3c

WHICHEVER WAY: A YUNHO BONUS

(set before the main series but doesn’t need context. features a different reader character)

pairing: yunho x gn reader

genre: pure smut, strangers who fuck

wc: 2.5k

warnings: bdsm sex party but like a lowkey chill semi-privately hosted one, dom Yunho, sub reader, big dick Yunho obv, explicit consent, blow job, exhibitionism (you suck Yunho off in the middle of a room full of strangers), a lil rough face-fucking & light choking, hand kink, hand on throat, Yunho wears a leather glove, dirty talk, cum swallowing, light hairpulling (@ reader), copious amounts of drool, degradation that sometimes leans into praise, nicknames for reader (‘cocksleeve’, ‘cockslut, sweetheart), corruption kink if you squint, Yunho pov, mention/cameo of the skz aussie line, also a San cameo and he’s shy :3, implied threesome w/ San at the end

a/n: gender neutral reader, wearing clothes described to have ‘generous amounts of see-through fabric’ but no specific details. reader is called ‘little’ but in a sweetly demeaning way; not a reflection on physical size, and also called ‘pretty’. there is a mention that Yunho has larger hands

Yunho always enjoys the parties hosted by Chris. He has a ridiculously large home with plenty of room to accommodate his guests, zero tolerance for unwanted shenanigans — and great snacks at the buffet table.

People tend to underestimate the importance of a good snack during a sex party. Not Yunho.

He scopes out the room while munching on some kkokkalcorn, not in any particular rush to get his hands dirty or his dick wet. It’s still early; the door has not even been closed yet, but already there is a decent amount of people. Yunho knows some of them, at least by face, but there are some unfamiliar ones too.

Yunho hones in on the unfamiliar faces. He enjoys meeting new people, like that adorably inexperienced dom he met at his last party; nerve-wrecked yet filled with potential — but San is not here. Too bad. Yunho wouldn’t mind taking him under his wing again.

But San quickly fades from Yunho’s mind when a stranger catches his eyes. When you catch his eyes.

He stops reaching for more snacks, absent-mindedly using a tissue to wipe his hands clean while he watches you instead. You took the flexible dresscode and ran with it, wearing a sexy getup with generous amounts of see-through fabric. Covered yet exposed. Intended to provoke… but not exuding any particular authority. You want to be noticed, noticed by someone who will act on what they see.

It’s enough for Yunho to mentally categorise you a sub, or at least a switch. He can never be completely sure from just a look, of course — but Yunho has a solid track record of educated guesses, and you’ve put too much effort into your look to be unintentional about what message you telegraph to others. Well, you succeeded in your efforts; Yunho has noticed you, and he is definitely contemplating to act on it.

Your getup almost makes him feel a little under-dressed in comparison. Nice slacks and a flattering pinstripe waistcoat, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his strong forearms. The look is finished by a nice, bulky watch on his wrist and silver rings adorning his long fingers on one hand, a leather black glove on the other.

(Okay, maybe he’s not that under-dressed. He also wanted to telegraph a message.)

You must feel his eyes on you, glancing Yunho’s way and unmistakably pleased by his attention. You bite your lip, almost like you’re shy, but then you subtly arch your back a little, pushing your pretty plump ass back. You grin when Yunho’s eyes follow the movement, then you saunter over to the buffet table with confident steps.

Yunho watches with a slow, amused smile how you ignore him completely, pouring yourself a glass of water instead. Already you’re playing. He doesn’t mind that, not at all. He can give a little chase if you want to be pursued.

“Haven’t seen you around this scene before. First timer?” he asks. His voice is casual, his burning gaze anything but.

You look at him over the brim of your glass, hiding a coy smile. Your eyes flicker over to Yunho’s hands, lingering on his leather glove. “Second, actually,” you answer, though Yunho infers from your tone that while you might be new to parties, you are not inexperienced with this type of play in general.

“Shame,” he says with a shrug. “Wouldn’t have minded showing you around. Give you the grand tour.”

You set down your glass, tilting your head with a playful glint in your eyes. “…You can still show me around, if you like. Wouldn’t mind being seen with you.”

The way you tilted your head shows off the column of your neck in a way that has Yunho’s hands itching. He considers your grin for a long moment, flexing his fingers. You don’t waver.

“Yeah. I can do that,” Yunho says, something darker creeping into his voice. “So what are you looking for? Any hard limits?”

“Nothing outside what Chris doesn’t allow in his house,” you say, not in the least thrown by the directness of Yunho’s question. You talk through some of your expectations and preferences, and Yunho listens with vested interest as the vast extent of your compatibility rapidly becomes clear.

His pants are already getting a little tight. You notice.

“Then… want to play with me?” you grin, biting your lip at him.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Yunho extends his ungloved hand to you, and he chuckles at how you almost seem disappointed. “Hey. All good things to those that wait,” he teases, beckoning his long fingers, showing off his rings.

“I’m not good at waiting,” you sulk, but take his hand anyway. For all your pouting, Yunho can feel the shudder that runs through you as his warm palm envelops yours, his rings pressing into your skin.

He leads you away from the buffet table (‘shenanigans near the snacks’ is among the things Chris does not allow), across the house’s open floorplan to a semi-secluded lounge area. You won’t be alone there.

Some of your future bystanders look up at the new arrival, though a few are too wrapped up in each other to pay you and Yunho any mind. Soft moans and faint wet squelches make up the background music, punctuated by the occasional muffled cry from a private room nearby.

Everyone else is seated, but Yunho takes you to stand right in the middle of the lounge area.

“Now, let us see what you can do,” he drawls, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. It’s time to play for real now. “On your knees, sweetheart.”

As you do just so, Yunho glances about the room again. Everyone not otherwise occupied is watching you intently. Hungry interest; some of pure appreciation, others laced with envy.

Just as you unbutton Yunho’s slacks and pull them down, inhaling tightly when you fully comprehend what you are dealing with, Yunho catches the eye of a delicate young man with long blond hair. A pair of lips is lavishing his chest with attention and yet he can’t look away, can’t seem to decide if he wants to fuck you or want to be you, face-to-face with Yunho’s impressive size.

Yunho grins at the pretty freckled blush on the young man’s face — and then ignores him completely, putting his hand on your head to give you a light push down to his half-hard cock. He sighs in bliss when you press a soft kiss against the tip. A sweetheart you are indeed.

You start off slow, not taking him very deep yet; first a few hungry strokes with the flat of your tongue over the underside of his slowly hardening dick. It creates an easier slide for your hand, but your mouth is focused on sucking his cockhead, teasing at his slit. Yunho takes deep breaths, not wanting to show just how affected he is already.

He idly wonders if this is your usual style, working up to more, or if you’re a little intimidated by his sheer girth and length. He wouldn’t mind that — it’s kinda cute, honestly. And it does lead to wonder just how filthy you’ll get once the timidity wears off…

Yunho likes the thought of that. Wants to coax it out of you.

“Cute,” he taunts with a raspy chuckle, sinking his ungloved hand into your hair. “The little cockslut is nervous about taking my dick down that tight throat. Never had one that big before, have you?”

You moan around him, glancing up with a pitiful shimmer in your eyes. You take him just a little deeper, whine in frustration at the physical limitation of your mouth, and pitifully shake your head at him.

His cock twitches, and not just from the vibrations of your whines. Usually Yunho believes he doesn’t have an ego about his size, just appreciates its utility — but then someone like you comes along and proves him all wrong.

A light movement catches Yunho’s eye, and he chuckles again. “Look at you, can’t even keep your hands to yourself,” he scoffs as you try to relieve some of the pressure between your legs. “No. No, that won’t do. Cocksleeves don’t get to touch themselves until they’ve served their purpose.”

You make a noise, slightly more distressed this time as you stare up at him.

“I’m not good at waiting,” you had said. It sounded bratty to Yunho’s ears at the time, still does now, but there is not a hint of defiance in your needy eyes, only desperation.

“But… I happen to be in a friendly mood. How about we make a deal,” Yunho offers in compensation. (Fuck, is he soft on you already?) “You keep your hands where they belong” — he pats on his thighs — “and I will use mine to reward you after.”

Just to make his point, Yunho goes to lightly wrap his gloved hand around your neck, leather pressing against bare skin, while his other hand tugs at your hair a little harder. He saw you check them out earlier. Yunho knows perfectly well how most people feel about his hands, and you are no different.

You swallow thickly around his cockhead, anticipation shuddering through you. Obediently, you press your palms against Yunho’s thighs, fingers brushing against his hipbones. Good. Yunho likes his hands too, likes using them. Especially to wrap around a pretty neck like yours.

“Then come on, sweetheart,” he says, tugging at your hair again. “Show me how far you can take my cock without gagging on it.”

Again, you let out a little moan around him, in protest this time.

Yunho’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Oh? My little cockslut is ready to choke on my dick now?” (You sure changed your tune on that one quick. Yunho is definitely not complaining though. Maybe you really aren’t a brat.)

You make an affirmative noise that grows whiny when his gloved fingers tighten ever so slightly. Shit. He’s gonna have so much fun with you.

“Then relax for me, sweetheart. Let’s see how deep I can fit in that tight throat.”

The answer is, right around three-quarters deep. It’s a brave effort, honestly; some don’t even get that far. And Yunho hardly cares about the neglected part of his cock, not when you are so warm and welcoming and wet around the rest of him, drool leaking down your chin. Your eyes are even tearier than before, swollen lips stretched obscenely around his fat cock.

You gurgle weakly, your eyes fluttering shut as you let him guide you up and down his length. He can’t imagine that your jaw isn’t aching, but you make no noise of complaint, content to let him take control now it’s clear where your limit lies. Yunho is fine with that, except…

“Look at me,” he says, just sharp enough to snap you out of your cockdrunk haze. “Let me see those pretty eyes while I’m fucking your mouth. A good cocksleeve can do that for me, can’t you?”

You blink up at him, your gaze wet and shimmering. There is almost an innocence to it, like it’s your first time sucking dick and you are in the middle of a holy revelation right here on your knees for him. Never wanting to let him out of your mouth again.

Although… Judging by the way you’re starting to squirm, rubbing your thighs together, Yunho suspects that last part might just be wishful thinking. He hisses when your nails dig into his hips, like you’re trying to stop yourself from reaching down. Yunho smacks at your hands in warning.

“Hey, hey, don’t go and ruin things for yourself now,” he sweetly coos, though his grin mocks as he firmly rubs his thumb over the length of your neck. “You were doing so well, is this your limit? Is this as much as a fragile cockslut like you can take?”

Immediately you whine in protest, trying to shake your head but pinned by Yunho’s hold on your hair, stuffed too deeply by his dick.

“That’s it,” Yunho hums in approval. “I’m gonna move a little faster now, alright? Be good and swallow my load, then I’ll give you everything you need.”

You moan eagerly, letting him fuck into you with shallow but rough thrusts. Muffled whimpers and wet gurgles escape past his cock, your chin soaked with saliva that spills down onto his glove. It doesn’t take him much longer, not with how good your hot mouth feels enveloping him, and the eyes surrounding you and him still watching how Yunho takes exactly what he wants from you.

He grunts sharply when he hits the back of your throat and you spasm around him with a loud, choked moan — and it takes all his self-control not to buck harder into your willing mouth. He could break you, he knows that. You would gladly let him, he knows that too. Not yet. Not this early in the night.

Instead Yunho pulls back until just his cockhead rests heavy and leaking on your tongue. He strokes his spit-glistening length, just a few quick passes and he groans lowly as hot euphoria bursts through his veins, magnified by the sight of your throat bobbing as he spills inside, swallowing him down.

Yunho pants with harsh breaths as he carefully releases your hair, still semi-hard when your glossy lips are finally released. They stay open in a wide ‘o’ as you stare up at him in a daze, like he fucked the shape of himself into them.

Your knees are stiff and unsteady as Yunho helps you back on your feet. It endears him, appealing to his softer side again. The sloppy mess on your face and neck, however, appeals to a different side. He sort-of wipes you clean, two tender hands cupping your cheeks, but he doesn’t try too hard. He likes the wrecked look too much on you. Wants to see how much further he can take you.

But as Yunho glances up to give his audience one last look, his eyes light up when he finds a familiar face. A face that has clearly been watching them intently for at least a while, cheeks dusted with an adorable blush, a distinct tenting in the pants underneath.

San.

Almost as shy and uncertain as the last time, though he no longer looks like he might bolt at any second — and he looks exactly as eager to please. Yunho is still not wholly convinced that San isn’t a switch, despite what he may say himself; but then again, Yunho’s guesswork has never been an exact art. Doesn’t matter right now anyway. A sweet thing like you might be just what San needs to melt that uncertainty away… and Yunho finds himself in a sharing mood.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Yunho murmurs to you, gently brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Yeah,” you say, slightly hoarse but with a tired, radiant smile. “I’m really good.”

“Then… how does my pretty slut feel about having two cocks tonight?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, but you quickly find the target of Yunho’s suggestion, whose flush deepens when he realises he’s been noticed. Your breath catches at the sight of San, and Yunho smiles slowly as he draws you towards him. The night has just gotten started, and already it’s far beyond even his sweetest expectations.

[mysterious-cuchulainn-x]

Character Bios: Rising DAWN

At the urging of @ftmshepard: My eight (!) RWBY original main characters, along with their weapons and Semblances, complete with Fate/series-inspired elemental affinities, parameters, and Type-Moon style descriptions.

Team DAWN

Diomedes Aiolos

5′ 11″, blond, grey-eyed human

Element: Electricity / Origin: Storm

Str B / Dex A+ / Aura B / Semblance B

Weapon: Taran-Nuada (shifting spear/rifle)

Semblance: Stormcaller

Combat wear: Black boots & gloves, khaki slacks, grey waistcoat, navy blue long coat & button-down shirt

Born in Vale, where he attended Pharos combat school before applying successfully to Beacon. 

Aurora Raines

5′ 9″, pale blonde, green-eyed human

Element: Earth, Ether / Origin: Refraction

Str B / Dex A / Aura B / Semblance B+

Weapons: Hyperborean Divide (shifting pistols/batons/quarterstaff)

Semblance: Prismatic Aegis (hard-light shield projection)

Combat wear: Magenta jacket, black knee-length boots, white pants, midnight blue collared shirt, teal-green sweater vest, necklace with six-petaled flower pendant and red center

Raised in Mantle by independent Huntsman Telamon Raines, Aurora twice topped the combat rankings at Iapetus combat school.

Willow Nox

5′ 6″, black-haired, violet-eyed human

Element: Water, Void / Origin: Transference

Str C / Dex A / Aura C / Semblance C

Weapons: Crimson Shadow (chain dart), Vernal Call (dagger)

Semblance: Inverse Shadow (Phasewalk/Aura Siphon)

Combat wear: Black boots, pants, shirt, waistcoat, and hooded, knee-length jacket

Born in the village of Ilios, north of Vale, Willow was rescued from a bandit attack and trained in combat (although fortunately not humor) by a time-dilating mercenary.

Nevis Mithraosha

6′ 7″, dark brown-haired, golden-eyed faunus (bovine horns)

Element: Fire / Origin: Self-Overcoming

Str A / Dex B / Aura A / Semblance A

Weapon: Sunbreaker (short sword/fangtian ji)

Semblance: Dawnblade (weapon-focused fire attacks)

Combat wear: red leather & bronze breastplate w/ winged pauldrons, knee-high boots/sandals w/bronze greaves, red shorts, leather calf-length half-skirt w/ bronze faulds

Born and raised in rural Vacuo, Nevis made a name for herself locally before applying to Beacon in the hopes of elevating her monster-hunting skills to the greatest possible degree.

Team CNDL

Cereus Tallow

5′ 10″, white-haired, brown-eyed human

Element: Earth, Ether / Origin: Paradox/Reversal

Str B / Dex B / Aura B / Semblance C

Weapon: False Promise (Gravity Dust-infused short sword)

Semblance: Armamentarium (replicate worn or carried items)

Combat wear: Black boots, pants, dress shirt, band-collared jacket and duster, and gloves; silver key pendant

Diomedes’ classmate at Pharos; characteristically withdrawn, introspective, and spiritual, although she has a penetrating capability to infer others’ strengths, desires, and psychological weaknesses.

Nova Aiolos

6′ 2″, blond, brown-eyed human

Element: Fire, Earth / Origin: Bulwark

Str A / Dex B / Aura A / Semblance A

Weapon: Sol Verdict (Greatsword/reverse shotgun)

Semblance: Luminosity (Temporary Aura overcharge)

Combat wear: Bronze plate armor over dark boots, pants, and shirt, with orange fabric tucked below the faulds and worn as a mantle

Diomedes’ younger brother; due to his combat aptitude, and with significant effort in his schoolwork, he was able to enter Beacon a year early.

Domanya “Anya” Ember

5′ 4″, red-haired, amber-eyed human

Element: Fire, Void / Origin: Belonging

Str B / Dex A / Aura C / Semblance D

Weapons: Accuser & Defender (Shifting pistol-knives)

Semblance: Hearthstone (Creation of safe-return teleport keys)

Combat wear: Dark pants, tank top, and leather boots; red leather jacket; and brown fingerless gloves and gunbelt

Born in a small village near the border with Vacuo, Anya was orphaned in a bandit attack and adopted by the raiders, before striking out on her own in her early teens.

Leaina Phoebis

5′ 7″, copper-blonde, blue-eyed faunus (lion tail)

Element: Ether, Fire / Origin: Resolution/Catastrophe

Str C / Dex B / Aura A / Semblance A++

Weapon: Lunar Echo (shifting bow-staff)

Semblance: Soul Arrow (aura-generated projectiles)

Combat wear: Black knee-high boots, dark blue knee-length dress, and silver cuirass, pauldrons, and left arm vambrace, all with white detail

Born and raised on the island of Patch, and attended Signal. Leana has social yearnings but an introverted nature, preferring to hunt on her own rather than socialize conventionally.

Weapons

Taran-Nuada

Forms: Baton (storage), spear, rifle

Ammunition: Dust rounds

The silver arm of the king of storms. The gun component, optimized for lightning-dust rounds, is located in the butt end of the staff, allowing it to be fired in melee form and for the hooked spear blade to be used as a bayonet in rifle form.

Hyperborean Divide

Forms: Dual machine pistols, dual shot-batons, quarterstaff

Ammunition: Hard-light Dust

A complex weapon partly inspired by that of a certain Mistralian tournament champion. Internal mechanisms regulate rate of fire in proportion to the weapon’s current melee capacity, resulting in slower but more powerful shots as the weapon assumes larger forms.

Crimson Shadow

Forms: Chain dart

Ammunition: None

A black metal chain dart with curious Aura-conductive properties, uniquely suited to a certain Semblance. Also useful as a close-range melee weapon and for entangling opponents.

Vernal Call

Forms: Straight dagger

Ammunition: None

A black metal dagger, identical to the blade of Crimson Shadow. Can be thrown once or used as a secondary weapon in melee.

Sunbreaker

Forms: Short sword, fangtian ji

Ammunition: None

An oddly shaped short sword that extends into a truly impressive polearm; however, it lacks ranged capability unless wielded in conjunction with a certain Semblance.

False Promise

Forms: Hilt (storage), short sword (jian)

Ammunition: Gravity Dust (Internal)

A single weapon optimized for use with an unusual Semblance and fighting style.

Sol Verdict

Forms: Single-edged greatsword with collapsible blade

Ammunition: Burn Dust explosive slugs

A massive sword with a small reverse-oriented grenade launcher built into the hilt and base. The long blade can fold down for easier use of the firearm.

Accuser & Defender

Forms: Dual shotgun-axes

Ammunition: Dust cartridges, Dust slugs

Twin weapons designed for brutal efficacy and simple maintenance. 

Lunar Echo

Forms: Baton (storage), quarterstaff, compound bow

Ammunition: None

A simple, versatile weapon designed for use with its bearer’s Semblance, although not much help to anyone else who might attempt to wield it.

Semblances

Stormcaller

Rank: B

Damage Type: Electricity, Anti-Army

An affinity for the generation and manipulation of electricity from one’s Aura. Although it can be used directly, the strength of this Semblance lies in its versatility, allowing the user to augment their physical movement and attacks rather than being a purely destructive tool.

Prismatic Aegis

Rank: B+

Damage Type: Kinetic, Anti-Army (Self)

The ability to project palm-sized hexagonal crystals that can withstand significant damage. In their base manifestation, these panes appear in a dome around the user, although with practice they can be used to entrap an opponent or given velocity and used as projectiles, although this is more Aura-intensive.

Inverse Shadow

Rank: C

Damage Type: Ether, Anti-Unit (Self)/Anti-Unit

An assassin’s Semblance, given to a noble-hearted young woman. One aspect allows the user to step out of physical existence momentarily, appearing from the outside to “teleport,” although this is inaccurate from the user’s perspective. The other utilizes the same liminal perspective to drain the Aura of an antagonist who has been immobilized by appropriate means.

Dawnblade

Rank: A

Damage Type: Fire, Anti-Army

The power to generate flames through one’s weapon. Although somewhat restrictive in its means of use, this is a Semblance with almost unparalleled destructive capacity; it drains Aura very little when used efficiently, allowing for well-timed power attacks without inflicting rapid exhaustion.

Excelsior Solar: The full-scale, maximum-intensity form of attack this Semblance makes possible, unleashing a torrent of flames over a wide area that can destroy even powerful common-type Grimm.

Armamentarium

Rank: B

Damage Type: Kinetic, Anti-Unit

The power to project copies of any worn or carried object. These projections are given form by the user’s Aura but do not drain it continuously; however, a small amount of Aura is sacrificed as long as a given object remains in existence. The effects of Dust imbued into a copied object may also be utilized.

Luminosity

Rank: A

Damage Type: None, Anti-Unit (Self)

A Semblance that makes the user an unconquerable beacon, able to withstand any attack or strike through any defense for the moment that it persists, although the user will suffer Aura loss afterwards in proportion to the damage sustained.

Hearthstone

Rank: D

Damage Type: None, Anti-Unit

An item-creation ability that allows the user to link an object to a place of safety, creating an emergency teleportation key. The effect persists until used, but destroys the object on activation; additionally, the bound location must be one the user personally considers a refuge, although the effect will not wear off or alter if that location later ceases to be considered safe.

Soul Arrow

Rank: A++

Damage Type: Ether, Anti-Fortress

A power for creating ammunition from the strength of one’s soul. The more spiritual energy is put into a manifested projectile, the more powerful the attack will be; therefore, one can use a projectile weapon without concern for physical ammunition, but Aura will be depleted more quickly.

Resolution of the Falling Star - Celestial Catastrophe: The true ‘ultimate attack’ that can be achieved with the full strength of Soul Arrow, capable of slaying a dragon in a single shot. However, the amount of power required is equivalent to the user’s maximum supply of Aura.

[akumeis]

♚ ``APPEARANCE HEADCANONS.

tagged by; @meialesait.

tagging; whoever wants to do it. u w u

BODY.

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Toned thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Toned arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Voluptuous frame. Petite frame. Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Thick ass. Small waist. Long waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Broad shoulders. Narrow shoulders. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT.

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm to 150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 172 cm. 173 cm to 180 cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2 m. Taller than 2 m. // whAT ARE THESE MEASUREMENTS. yells in british. he’s 6′11″, god d aMN IT.

SKIN.

Pale...ish. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth ( Face ). Acne. Dry. Greasy. Soft. Scarred ( Body ).

EYES.

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Monolid. Epicanthic fold. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

HAIR.

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curlyish. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Asymmetric bob (soldier). Pixie-cut. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Buzz cut. Undercut. Bald. A bit below the jaw length. Mullet. Mohawk. White. Platinum blonde. Orange blonde. Golden blonde. Redhead. Dirty blonde. Blonde. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Auburn. Copper. Dyed red. Dyed any unnatural color. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows.

TATTOOS / PIERCINGS.

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Neck tattoo. Chest tattoo. One tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoos. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercing. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Tragus piercing. Angelbites. Labret. Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings ( His ear decor, inc. his linkpearl earring, are actually clipped on ).

COSMETICS.

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes ( When attending Ishgardian balls ). Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears make up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Uses only light makeup. Never wears make-up.

SCENT.

Floral. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Shampoo. Cigarettes. Leather. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Alcohol. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Raw earth. Candles. Herbs.

♚ ``MODERN AU ATTIRE.

CLOTHES.

Jeans. Tight pants. Stockings. Slacks. Work pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/formfitting dress. Cardigans. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports T-shirt. Sweatpants. Tank top ( Only when working out ). Fur. Faux fur. Leather. Designer ( Select modern aus ). High street. Online stores. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Suspenders. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Waistcoat. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harlem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers. Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sports bra. bra-less. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Silk. Lace. Velvet. Chemise. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Black. Dark colors.

SHOES.

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Knee-high boots. Thigh highs. Platforms. Stripper heels. Barefoot. Loafers. Oxfords. Gladiator shoes.

[harleyquilt]

Beginning - Touken Minific

Summary: Just a minfic about Touka first going through her new found feelings towards Kaneki back in the early days of TG. Fic made for the first day of Toukenweek, hope you enjoy!

It was a quiet day at Anteiku, the day passing slowly and lazily. There were only a few customers in today, including Hide, Kaneki’s best friend. Though Touka was sure that he was also Kaneki’s only friend...Regardless, she watched Kaneki chat with his loud friend, Touka tempted to scold him for slacking off, but she decided against it - she may not exactly respect Kaneki after him being such a bastard towards her when they first met, but she could at least give him a break after everything he’s been through. Especially after that day…

“If you died, Touka, I’d probably be...sad.”

It was such a simple, silly thing that anyone could’ve said, but even so, when he said those words so...sincerely, it sparked something within her. During the past week, she’s tried nothing but to bury this unneeded feeling away, but every time he was close, every time she heard his voice, every time he called her name, her heart would flutter a little. She felt like an utter idiot for feeling this way, this silly crush of hers nothing more than a nuisance for her. And yet...Why does she feel so happy when he’s near?

Whilst she contemplated these continuous thoughts of hers, she started to brew some coffee for herself, mimicking the exact movements and order Yoshimura follows -  she hoped that one day she could be as good as him, brewing delicious beverages  for everyone to enjoy. However, when she looked up again, her eyes caught Kaneki’s, who was staring right back at her. She was about to look away again until he flashed her a big, goofy smile, awkwardly scratching the back of his head and that single smile made Touka’s knees weak, her cheeks heated up slightly.

Flustered, she then accidentally poured the coffee too quickly, the top flying off and hot, boiling coffee spilt onto her hand and apron. Everyone in the cafe turned to see her uniform stained and her hand throbbing with a red burn across the back of her palm. Kaneki’s eyes widened and he quickly got to his feet.

“Fucking son of a-” Touch clenched her jaw tightly and let out a loud grunt of pain, kicking the counter and slamming the coffee pot down against it. In the corner of her eye, she saw Kaneki nearing her, his eyes filled with worry and concern and she immediately left to the break room to avoid any more embarrassment.

“T-Touka-chan, wait!” He called for her, following behind to the break room, where he saw Touka already trying to open the med kit, only for her to hiss, her burnt hand flinching, and dropped the supplies. “Let me do that.”

Kaneki kneeled down to gather the dropped items, looking up to see Touka stubbornly pouted and her eyes averted away from him. He then gently took her hand, Touka first tempted to slap him away, until he pressed some cool ice against the wound, rubbing it over the back of her palm in slow, circular motions. Her hard stare softened, a small blush arisen from the feeling of her hand gently held in his.

“Does that feel better?” Kaneki asked, looking up and she turned her face away again, trying to hide her blush behind her hair and nodded. “You should be more careful-”

“Shut up, idiot.” She snatched her hand away once Kaneki wrapped a bandage around it, but he didn’t move away. The way his soft eyes looked at her... “W-What?”

“Your clothes - they’re soaked.” Touka looked down to the stain that covered her shirt, waistcoat and what was a white apron. “You’re gonna catch a col-”

“And why do you care?” Touka snapped, crossing her arms. “You don’t need to mother me, you know.”

“Touka-chan, don’t be like that.” Kaneki sat down besides her, the close proximity creating butterflies in her stomach and she shuffled in her seat awkwardly. “I care about you.”

Oh jeez, Touka thought and for a moment she had no idea how to react. Should she punch him for being so corny? Act it cool? Wait, no, at this point, that option wasn't available. Ignore him completely? How was it he had such an effect on her with just a few words? It was both confusing and irritating at the same time.

“You look so cute when you're blushing.” Kaneki laughed and out of both embarrassment and panic, she kicked his foot, hiding her flushed cheeks behind her hand. “D-Don’t say stupid shit like that.” Touka mumbled.

“But it's true.” Kaneki got up and held a hand out to help Touka back onto her feet, and though she was tempted to take it, she slapped it away instead.

“Idiot.”

Touka mumbled curses beneath her breath as she stormed past him and back into the shop, but when Kaneki was busy with a new customer, Touka returned to the break room leaning against the wall. She placed a hand over her racing heart, her mind a melted mess. She still wasn't certain of her feelings for him, not completely, but all she knew was that this was only the beginning.

“Shit.” Touka rested her head back against the wall, her eyes shut. “Stupid shithead Kaneki.”

[paintingraves]

Okay dear - what about one-word prompts? Either "Drowning" or "Wings". Do you worst :D

Drowning. 

-

Hours.

Hours have passed since he’s been left there. A cell, tall enough to contain him, but barely wide enough for him to lie down when exhaustion takes over.

He tries to climb it up, using his back as leverage to support himself on one wall. Placing his feet against the opposite wall, he goes inch by torturous inch to reach the open darkness he sees above him. He almost succeeds, too, when his head bumps into something solid. He swallows. His body trembling with the effort of holding himself upright like this, Graves raises his hands to feel the invisible ceiling of his prison. It is as solid and immovable as glass beneath his fingertips. He punches it, only to be shocked by a wave of defensive magic so strong it sends him crashing down, back to the floor of his small cell.

He lands on his back and lets out a grunt of pain. For a moment he lies there, dazed, staring at the ceiling stretching high above him. He has no clue where he is. What is the actual ceiling made of? Stone? Wood? Does it matter? Yes. He refuses to believe the walls surrounding him are all Grindelwald devised to contain him.

He has to escape.

He doesn't know how long it has been since Grindelwald threw him down inside this hole, how much damage the man has already done with the Director of Magical Security under lock. He grits his teeth and sits upright, resisting the urge to punch the stone walls until his knuckles bleed. He has to reign his anger in. Or at the least, channel it into something useful. He’s heard tales of wizards and witches doing impossible things because they were driven by emotions.

He has a lot of emotions sizzling inside him. Guilt, shame, anger, fear. He fears so much for everything he holds dear it becomes a physical ache. In his mind he claws at the walls, screams and curses Grindelwald to let him out. But as Percival Graves, he can not let that show. He has to think rationally. He has to remind himself that this prison does not mean his end. He's been there before. He has to trust that his people will notice what Grindelwald has done. He has to be ready for when Grindelwald comes back.

So he sits, and waits.

-

Magic is useless. Each time he tries, he is hit by the same violent rebound as when he first approached the ceiling. He keeps doing it anyway. He tests the prison’s limits.

It knocks him out cold, makes him lose track of days. The next time he wakes up his throat is parched. Thirst has become his most urgent need. He could always drink his own piss if it came to it, but just the thought of it makes him gag. He won't stoop so low.

Grindelwald still needs him. That is the only reason Graves has, to explain that he is kept alive instead of lying six feet underground. Yet, despite that slight reassurance, he hadn’t seen neither hide nor hair of the dark wizard since he first woke up in this cramped space.

It is so small. Graves can stretch his arms and span the width of it. He grows claustrophobic. There is no light save for a flickering candle placed atop the invisible glass ceiling. It appeared after he screamed his throat raw to beg for water. He stopped abruptly. Grindelwald could hear him. He just pretended not to. Or perhaps, he simply didn’t have the time to care. Graves knows firsthand how mind consuming his position can be.

-

What day is it?

He touches his clothes idly. He still wears his vest with blue trimming, his white shirt, his slacks. Even his watch still glimmers, strapped to his wrist - although it stopped ticking a long time ago. He scratches his beard.

He almost wishes Grindelwald tortured him. At least he wouldn't be drowning in his own mind.

He makes a ball of light. Rebound. He moans when he wakes up and touches his head, feeling something warm and sticky on his fingers. Not good.

He tastes it. Iron. Not good. He licks his hand clean and rises up again.

“What did Pr. Dmitrov say?” He says aloud. “Focus, Percival, that's what he said.” He closes his eyes. “Feel for your magic. Your core, right at your center. It will always be there.” Tepid and feeble, but there. He lets it expand, spread in his body, gathers it in his palm where he can feel it. He feels as assured and steady as if it was a shield he held in front of him, made of fire, of dripping light. “Confringo.”

His magic aims at the ceiling. It touches it, has the glass rippling and undulating as though Percival was a little kid playing ricochets, ankles deep in the water. For a second, time stills, and he hopes.

He always hopes. He can't shake it off.

Another ripple. He closes his eyes and prepares for the blow.

-

“When will you give up?” He thinks he hears. The voice is gentle, cautious. “You’re destroying yourself when I still need you.”

“W’ter,” he hears someone else slur. His throat hurts. His whole body hurts, an inferno of pain, burning in places he didn’t know could feel like this. Someone lifts him up, a weight under him pulling him upright. He blinks, unable to focus properly on the person in front of him.

“Yes, of course.” Cold. It is not water but ice, and there are fingers in his mouth alongside it. He sucks without questions, to soothe the ache in his throat. “Good.” He loses count of how many melt on his tongue until it is over.

He is left alone again.

“W - wait,” he mumbles to the darkness, doing his best to sit up on his own. “N - no, don’t leave me alone, please, no, please, please, don't, no…”

-

Two walls, a ceiling protected with dark magic, and in the center of it all - a man. Sitting with his back against the stones, and his knees pulled up to his chest. His clothes are dirty, torn in places. His hair is long and matted. His beard, overgrown. His lips, dry and split. His eyes - vacant.

Sometimes, he talks. If you come close enough, you might hear him. He speaks of old lessons and memories.

“Theseus,” he says to the silence. “We can only make it if you’re the leader. I trust you. I’ll have your back.”

What if I fail all of you?

“Fucking’ bullshit. You’re the strongest man I know.”

That’s you, Pup. Not me. You should be in charge of the command.

“I’ll have your back, Thes,” the man says, a tear sliding down his cheek, clearing itself a path through the dirtiness of his skin. “I always do. Just like you’ll have mine. Isn’t that right, love?”

I love you, Theseus says, caressing Percival’s cheek with wonder in his eyes. I’ll never leave you.

“Where are you, Thes?” The man folds in on himself, lost. “Where are you?”

-

“Asphodel, dragon blood…” He coughs. The glass at his side is empty. The other has not come for a couple of days. Talking hurts, but it’s the only thing he knows will keep him sane. “Gillyweed, worm guts…”

He closes his eyes.

“... All fuckin’ useless.”

-

He is dozing when he feels it. It laps at his toes through the burnt holes in his shoes - remnants of a rebound. Water seeps through the thin material of his clothes, touches his thighs, his backside. He opens his eyes, blinks at his surroundings confusedly. Why would there be water here?

He touches the floor of the prison that has become his home. The water comes up to his first knuckle, and it rouses him awake. He drips as he stands up, a steady trickle of droplets that join the water rising at his feet. He looks down, frowning.

The water is rising.

Rising.

He suddenly feels much more alert, his head clearing as he analyses the situation. Because that is what he does. He takes action. He is weakened, but he wants to survive. He knows he can save himself from this danger. Water splatters against his feet, overlaps them. Cold seeps through his bones. It comes up to his ankles. He needs to find a way out, there has to be a way out.

Hands up. Ceiling. Focus.

“CONFRINGO !”

A blast of light. He pales. Water gushes from the walls that surround him, coming to embrace the flood at his feet. The bottom of his pants are wet. The ceiling ripples.

“C’mon,” he says, finding his voice again. It is hoarse and croaky from disuse. It is all he has. “C’mon.”

He waits for the rebound. It never comes. The water is up to his knees now, slowing his movements. Grindelwald must have been caught, he guesses as he casts another blasting curse at the invisible ceiling. That’s why the magic isn’t working. Which means that this is just glass now. As breakable as anything.

“I will not d - die in this fucking hole! CONFRINGO!”

Spider cracks. He looks up and nearly sobs in relief, trying to ignore the steadily growing hum of water. It reaches his mid-thighs and its level goes up still, up, up - threatening to swallow him whole. He won’t die. Not like this. Everything he thought about while being imprisoned spins around in his head. Wishes and memories intertwine : the sunlight, Seraphina’s headdress, Theseus’ naked back. The trees in Central Park, blood staining his fingers as he lights up a cigarette, the ache in his back as he signs another report. The taste of coffee in his mouth, the velvet smoothness of his favorite waistcoat.

He has a chance to see the light of day again. He is starved, he is weak, he is dizzy. He wants to live despite it all.

“Confringo,” he says one last time. He clings to the freezing walls to avoid slipping, shivering helplessly. The water has reached his waist, and he is still trapped. “God damn it, just break! Please! Confringo!”

-

Miles away, Gellert Grindelwald stops in his tracks.

“Percival,” he says to the Aurors leading him to his cell. “He’s going to die.”

“Shut your mouth and step forward,” an Auror sneers.

“I can save him now. If you wait tomorrow to interrogate me, it will be too late. Do you care so little?”

“We care about keeping you in jail where you belong,” the other Auror says, clipped. “Another word and we’ll have to gag you.”  

Grindelwald looks at them. Without another word, he marches forward, and thinks about Percival Graves.

-

His spells light up the darkness and splits the ceiling. There is water at his hipbones. If he does not die drowning, it will be hypothermia. He punches the ceiling with everything he has, crying out. He does it again, and again, and again. He doesn’t think his body will resist another attempt at magic. If he passes out, he is dead. If he stays, he is dead. If he gets out, there is hope that he might live to see another day. He’s never wanted to stay alive as much as he does now. It reminds him of the war.

Come on, Pup. You can do it. Break his nose.

I never learned to fight, Thes.

So you’re gonna let him win?

“No,” he says aloud. “I’m not going to let him win.”

Good man. Fold your hand. Thumb outside, not inside. And punch.

He punches, yells in pain. Sucks at his knuckles, tries again. Glass embeds itself in his hand. Blood trickles down his forearm, staining the tattered remains of his shirt and tainting the water. But the ceiling gives. The ceiling gives. He can smell freedom as surely as if he were drowning in it. He uses his uninjured hand to throw another punch, the other one swaying in the water and going numb by the second. He lets it float for a minute, tries to catch his breath.

He only has to lean down a little to drink water now. The coolness of it has him shiver and focus again. The glass is on the verge of breaking. It must be magical, or thicker than normal glass would be, to resist his assault for so long. He does not let that deter him.

He blows on his hands, rubs them together. He looks at them. They’re shaking uncontrollably, violent tremors running through his right hand where various gashes marr the skin. He bites the inside of his cheek, resists the urge to scream. No one would hear him. Not trapped as he is, within four walls slowly filling with water.

He doesn’t want to die.

He balls his hands into fists. Water laps at his collar, beneath his clothes. He shudders and whimpers. He's so cold. He’s running out of time. He doesn’t know what to do.

He tries.

“Confringo.” The spell is weak. Graves is afraid to use it, and it shows. His vision dims for a split second. The magic is still enough to make the glass break, a piece of the ceiling falling down into the water and sinking. The sound gives him hope again. He laughs.

He takes both of his hands and hurls them at his own personal hell. More fissures open in his skin, passages to the very bones of him. He does not care. He does not want to die. Even if he does die, he will die as a free man.

It takes him too much time to notice the ceiling is gone. It has broken, pieces of it lodged in Graves’ body. Hurts. All he has to do now is haul himself up these walls, and escape wherever he is.

He ignores the pain in his arms the best he can. He will have to bandage his wounds soon. He cannot faint from blood loss, not when he is so close to life again. He places his hands on top of the wall, braces himself. He kicks at the water beneath him, puts one knee on the ledge, then the other. Slowly, he gets up to look at his surroundings - living, for the first time in months, in something bigger than a space made to contain solely his own body. There is a single light bulb flickering on the ceiling. The candle sank into the water. He casts a glance at his prison. It fills like a well still, water almost at its edges. He wonders whether it will overflow, or stay magically contained within the four walls. He does not care.

He jumps on the floor and stumbles back, the wall of his cell the only thing preventing him from falling. Christ. How long has it been since he used his legs? He barely had enough space to stretch. He does it now, curses leaving his lips as he straightens each of his limbs, head lolling over his shoulders.

He walks to the center of the room to look at his arms under the light. He feels as if every nerve hurts, struck raw by the glass ceiling. Graves sits down slowly, his left hand hovering above his right hand. Unsteadily, he pinches one of the glass pieces trapped in the skin of his forearm and pulls. It complies easily enough. The wound is empty for a second, before blood wells in it, little red dots growing into a river. He watches as scarlett flows to the tips of his fingers. He feels alive.

Behind him, the water brims over the walls. He does not see it. Each piece of glass falls to the wooden floor with a thud. The mindless task helps him gather his thoughts. He doesn’t know where he is, and he has seen no door at first glance to leave - but now he has time. He tears the last glass from his skin with a wince, almost impressed by the amount of blood on his hands. His head is spinning. He looks up at the ceiling and counts to ten. He takes off his vest, then his shirt. It is dirtied and bloodied. It won’t do. His pants, perhaps? But they fare no better. His vest, then. He does not have the strength to tear it up to make bandages out of it.

He has to ask his body for one last effort. He looks at his arms, taking notes of where the cuts are the deepest. He will only heal those, he decides, and hurry to find the door and his way to freedom. His magic burns within him as he obliges it to stop the blood flow and close the wounds the best it can. It’s all he can do not to retch at the feeling. His own body has learnt to associate use of magic with immediate pain, it seems - due to his numerous, failed attempts at escaping. It does not matter, not now. He has to go.

-

He wakes in a pool of water.

Percival jumps to his feet with an exclamation, and immediately slips on the floor. It is made of wood, wet wood now; it is utterly unstable. He falls backwards and catches himself on his hands, letting out a loud whimper as pain flares up his body. He cradles his arms to his chest, rocking back and forth. He’d forgotten he was injured. He’d forgotten he was still trapped. He’d fallen asleep. How long? He sits cross-legged on the floor now, and water keeps flowing from his former prison. How long was he out for?

He gets up, ankles deep in the water. This can’t be happening. It can't. He wouldn’t - would Grindelwald…?

He thinks of a man who kept another human being prisoner in a cell the size of a closet for months. Yes, Grindelwald could.

An exit. There has to be an exit. He runs across the room, taps at the walls, tries to feel for anything. The ceiling is flat, and he can touch it if he stretches his arms and stands on his tiptoes.

“Oh, God,” he says when the gurgle of water becomes louder. “Oh God, no, please no. Please no. No no no, no, stop, please. ” No one listens. The flow becomes greater. It is almost as if invisible gates had broken in response to his fear, and the level of water rises briskly, but this time Graves sees no way out. There is no way out. It’s as if he was locked in a small wooden box and someone was having fun holding it underwater. “God, God, Merlin, fuck, stop!”

Nothing on the ceiling. Nothing on the walls. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“I don’t want to die!” He sobs, water already at his waist. “I don’t want to die! Please don’t let me die!”

He swims. Floats to one side of the room, then the other side. Tries to feel for the walls, desperation filling his throat with panicked cries. He cannot feel anything. There are no traces of magic within those walls, no hidden doorway, no trap doors, no nothing. He’s never been so focused on his casting in his life, and it remains useless. Useless. Useless.

If he were to die, would anyone care? Grindelwald threw him into hell without a second glance. His colleagues, co-workers, some he would even have called friends, have not seen past Grindelwald’s deception. He has already been forgotten. Would it matter if he disappeared?

It matters to me.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Lets himself sink.

-

Water fills the room to bursting. Graves looks around, moves forward. He feels almost at peace, like this; weightless, mindless. Water overtakes him. He moves his hands, looks at his body. He spins.

The light in the room goes out. He is surprised it lasted this long.

-

He has never been good at giving up. People, throughout his life, have considered that trait either strength or madness. He doesn’t know which of the two apply to him today; he only knows that he is not ready to fall into oblivion just yet.

It is not time. He has more to give to this world than his failures and regrets. He has years still to live, and he will use them.

Bubble-head charm.

His magic is feeble. But his body knows he is dying, and so it does its best to keep him alive, just a little bit longer. Fresh air wraps around his face and he inhales deeply, the burn in his lungs receding. Just a little longer.

He searches. He finds.

One of the wooden planks on the floor seems off. To the untrained eyes, it would not be seen. But Graves was the Director of Magical Security; his job is to notice the abnormal around him. He swims towards the floor, hope blooming again in his chest, a broken record he knows the lyrics to perfectly. He still listens to it, lets it drive him forward.

The plank is askew. Percival grabs a hold of it and pulls. It gives easily, like he felt it would. The piece of wood floats back to the surface and Percival looks at it before focusing on the new space he just created for himself. A little whirlwind of water has formed, departing somewhere he cannot see through that hole. He only has to follow it.

Wood flies around him, unmoored, lost at sea. The whirl gets bigger with each plank he sets free, until it is enough for his body to pass through.

He does not think. He goes.

-

Water takes him whole. The bubble-head charm fails him and he finds himself swallowing water and coughing it up, only to swallow more. It clogs his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears, smothering him in its deathly embrace. He cannot breathe.  He cannot breathe, he does not know where he is going, he only wishes for it all to stop. He needs it to stop.

The torrent spats him back out, in water colder than the one which had been his companion. He would cry if he had the strength, and the air for it; instead he kicks with all his might, arms going up and down, legs valiantly bringing him up, up, up towards the surface. He breaks it with a sharp, shallow gasp, and coughs. The violence of it almost has him sinking back down. He forces himself to stay afloat, taking in his surroundings. He sees shore afar : he has no choice but to swim to reach it.

Swim, then rest. One last effort. His body is pushed to its limits, but he is almost there. Almost. It is not so far now. It is --

“Ah, fuck!” He can’t move his foot. Pain flares up his right leg when he tries. He is so cold. He has no choice but to wait for the cramp to pass. He breaks to float on his back, fills his lungs with air and holds it there not to sink. His legs and arms are spread on either side of his body.

It is the first time he has seen the sky in months.

There are birds flying above him, swirling lazily among strokes of whites.

He breathes.

He is exhausted.

He wishes he had not let his shirt and vest in the room. Perhaps then he wouldn't feel so cold.

He can’t feel his feet, but they do not hurt anymore. Idly, he flips around and glides towards the shore again.

He must be in the Hudson. There are buildings ahead of him, past the beach he wants to reach. He feels slow, numb. His movements are automatic, something that drives him forward bit by bit. There’s a storm brewing above, he can see it in the darkness of clouds on his left. He hopes he can reach shore before its start.

He dreams of his flat. Of a fire, dancing in the family chimney; of warm nights tucked in bed with a book to read and hours to spend; of the smell of bread in the mornings, coming from the little bakery across his street. He dreams, and it is what keeps him moving, even after his body has given up.

A few miles. Just a few more.

He reaches land.

He heaves his body on the shore, crawls up until he no longer touches water. His hair hangs limply around his face, wet, mingling with his tears. He looks at the buildings ahead of him. He does not have the strength to reach them. He will wait here. He has gotten used to it.

He rolls over on his back, then does it again. Sand clings to the naked skin of his chest, dressing him up once again. It gets in the wounds he had not managed to close up, and he barely notices. His breath fogs the air in front of him. He coughs, once, twice. He wheezes.

He lays his hands over his stomach, feeling feverish. He looks.

He looks up at the sky, and sees. Liberty is written in big letters in the clouds as they finally break over him. It rains. He shudders helplessly as the drops hit his skin, yet he welcomes it all the same. He wants it to end. He never wants it to stop. He is alive. He can only hope, now, that he will stay that way for much longer.

But most importantly -

He is free.

He closes his eyes, and smiles.

-