She reaches up and takes a hold of his collar... and drags him down to her level. Gently, surprisingly so, brushes and kiss upon his forehead. "My Little Wolf, you would make Artorias proud."
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She reaches up and takes a hold of his collar... and drags him down to her level. Gently, surprisingly so, brushes and kiss upon his forehead. "My Little Wolf, you would make Artorias proud."

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Nervous, that's the only emotion the child can muster, wide eyes gazing upon the many faces of people coming and going, baggage in hand. His mother isn't among them, her flight won't be in for another twenty minutes or so. But he waits, waits with a hand tightly grabbing his father's, and the other almost crushing the bouquet of lilies to his small chest. His gaze moves to his father once more. " Is she here yet? "
His focus lay on something other than the masses and faces. Gaze traveling from clocks to split-flap displays in search for the name of the flight bringing back the mother of his child. It was crowded, no doubt. Loud and too full to even his liking. Nevertheless he heard it, that faint subdued voice of his boy clinging to his hand the entire time. Not that the man was not clinging back although giving his best not to grasp the tiny hand too hard despite the lingering fear of loosing his little one in the enormous tangle of walking people.
Cold, sharp eyes sank to watch the boy to his side before his features softened into a genuine smile. A smile many surely questioned whether he was even capable of, given his usual monotone attitude. Not around him. Not around his most precious one.
Big hand tightened around the tiny one gently before the man suddenly let go, yet only to lean down enough to lift the child onto one arm. Hœnir had considered asking first if it would be okay to do so and did not wish the boy to be uncomfortable or even embarrassed, being carried by his father like that. He did not, however, and instead gave the far younger one the freedom to complain afterwards if it really would be the case.
This way, with the boy on his arm he should be able to see better. See his beloved mother the second his father would.This way, sharing his own height with the boy he could give a rest to those short legs and calm himself at least a little too. Having him so close. Not accidentally trampled over by someone rushing by trying to catch their flight in the last minute. Not traumatized by someone thinking it would be alright to touch in inappropriate places, because all were too busy to notice. Because all were busy with themselves. How he would not be able to forgive anyone that…
“ Just a little longer. Hold onto the flowers till then, alright? I am sure they will make your mama really happy. “ With his voice low it is not a mumble nor a whisper he silently spoke to reassure his child. Slowly a free hand rose to carefully stroke some of the pitch-black strands aside to be able to see him better. How he loved this hair. It was just like hers.
“ Though… not as happy as she will be when she sees you. “
Small fingers toyed with the heavy ring, turning it this way and that just to watch the shadows that played across the insect engraved upon the titanium band. Bright blue eyes rose to gaze upon the giant he called father, mouth parting to ask when mother was coming home. But he waited, waited until his father was off the phone, waited until his fingers hurt from pressing into the warm ring. "Was that mama?"
Go anon and pretend to be my character’s child
A wince, tearing the grown man out of any thought holding him inside the overwhelming void his mind was right now. Him startled like this being such a rare sight, his entire frame flinching at the sole, soft sound of his son’s voice. For a second he stood, tense. Posture as though someone held him by the neck. Grip of the long fingers holding onto his phone tightened, twitcht ever so slightly as if the man did try to hold it even tighter when in truth it was his entire body trying his best not to start trembling. He could not. Not in front of his boy.
Slowly he turned; halted halfway
If not noticable by his nonnatural behavior it now was visible by his eyes the shock that sat deep in his bones. He was shaken. Concern knitting is brows as he had obviously trouble holding eye contact with the boy standing there asking for his mother. As if he had known.
How could he look at him now when he was to blame. When he had not been there, had not been able to protect her. Was he not expected to assure that they’d be safe. Assure that they’d be together. How was he to look at him and tell him that they could no longer.
His eyes started to burn. Now of all times. Did his body really have to betray him like this. Could it not wait just a little longer till he was alone, all by himself. Could it not grant him at least enough dignity to properly face his son and be strong enough at least for him?
Lips parted and he deeply inhaled. The next moment his gaze settled on the little one which made the hole inside his chest only gape wider. He turned to him fully and slowly crouched down, wanting to meet the child’s height at least as much as he could to be on his level. For a second he wanted to be the one breaking down, wanted to drop onto his knees rather and cling to the boy in utter frustration, burrying his face in the boy’s chest — crying.
Instead the tall man looked at his small son with a sudden cold painting over his previous unsettled expression another layer of stone. A single hand rose signing the child to come closer, so he could place both his arms around its body in an embrace. How great the effort was not to start clinging in pure desperation himself. This would be hard for him. This would hurt. Hœnir could only guess his little one’s reaction. He would probably deny. Struggle and scream and cuss him a liar.
—and Hœnirwished that he would be that macabre, that he could tell his boy these lies and it all was no more than a horrible joke. But it was not like that.
“ …mama won’t come home tonight. “
❝ You deserve so much better than this. If you were mine, I’d… ❞
sentence starters: misc. romantic tension !
He had pretended to be asleep.
Took so selfishly advantage of her letting him stay. With his head on her lap resting together on her couch, cleaned from all the sweat and dirt and blood from before. All gone. The only thing visibly left of his emotional turmoil prior now hidden away behind closed eyes. She had been there for him, had taken care of him. Despite that slight indifference in sound.
She cared.Was this not already more than he deserved? After she had made him undress and had shoved him under the shover. After treating the wounds and going as far as allowing him to settle so close afterwards, covered by a single blanket with her hand in his winter hair. Caressing. Letting him hear her breathing and feel her heat, that eminent warmth coming from her touch both through fingers and thighs he had his head on. Sensation so soothing like her presence alone. It made him happy, made him relax on her lap and allow the stroking through his hair as he had closed his eyes about to drift off. All so perfect. Till she opened her mouth and whispered those words.What then? Why did she not continue? Why did she not speak what was on her mind so openly like she had began. Had she believed that he had been asleep? Had he understood her wrong…? Why would she not tell him directly if she was not being honest. Why would she lie when she was not sure whether he heard it or not. Suddenly his head hurt.
It hurt and he didn’t know why, because he wanted to be happy. He wanted to be happy although he knew he did not deserve to be. He did not deserve any better even if she thought he did, because oh he had provoked this to happen. Had willingly started the fight. Had known how it would end and was alright with that, and then come back to get her attention. He could feel the numbing ache in his chest almost paining in euphoria still, only disturbed by the constant quick beating of his heart. How hard it was to keep pretending that he was not there. How he wanted to open his eyes and look up at her and ask. Ask if she meant it: him deserving better. Ask what it was she would say or do if he was hers. Eyes slowly opened but… he did not manage to make a sound. He didn’t look up and did not move, and wasn’t even sure if she noticed he was not sleeping. What if he was. What if this really was a dream after all. Why else would it suddenly be so incredibly hard to say what he had wanted to tell after hearing what he had wanted to hear all this time?
“Who the hell did this to you?” The words are so incredibly casual, so calm, almost out of place considering. But Ciaran is a woman who has learned to hold her emotions in check, to remain so terribly cold.
hurt meme.
When will he not embarrass himself so. The scandal first, the rumors and constant assumptions following. Him hiding away at her place. Gloomy. Feeling sorry for himself about his own mistake. He was a walking failure on two legs ashamed of himself, and no matter what he did or how hard he tried it only got worse and worse. It was too late for her to like him back. After finding out this delicate information through the media. After hearing he had been sexual with other men. Despite it being no more but speculation she surely knew it had been true. He wondered if she thought him disgusting because of it. If she only did not have the heart to tell him off entirely for good. Why was she so goddamn far away from him.She was always so calm. So collected. So cool. Always said the right thing and never made mistakes. Remained logic no matter the situation, at least the ones he had seen her in. Never losing temper, never letting anything slip past that cold façade. Hœnir had once thought to be the same. Then he ended more and more frequently bruised and bloody or drunk and wasted. Sometimes both. Exactly what had gotten him into this situation.Like a besten up dog he stood right before her. Head lowered, avoiding eye contact in shame. His lower lip was bust open oozing red like the torn bridge of his ruined nose, which also bled from both his nostrils. He swallowed and even tasted blood in his mouth. Torn tissue, perhaps bit open by himself. Maybe even lost a tooth. There was also red sticking to his temple staining the white of skin as much as the white of his hair there; the penetrant color all the way down those long strands dripping from the ends. He had done this to himself. Allowed it to happen. Provoked it. This had been his sole desire. To indulge in physical pain rather than ending up mental. No, the broken man didn’t tell her. What would she think of him then if he did. How could he admit another of his mistakes done willingly with him very well aware how this would end up. A shaking exhale and the head sank further as the man closed in, step for step getting rid of the little of space between them left to sink his bloodied chin onto her shoulder. Staining those expensive clothes with dripping red and salt water. He’d compensate.Shoulders slumped in defeat. She always felt so soft when they touched. Did she no matter who would? He wondered how many else were lucky to get close to her like that. Past all the blood and stinking iron he could catch a faint fragment of her scent. Immediately eyelids lowered as his body relaxed, making him lean more against her. How desperate he looked.

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" forgive me father for my sins are many and they are great. " who was she to ask for forgiveness when her hands were soiled by the blood of so many. for she was going to continue to do harm. " pray for me for i cannot pray for myself. "
It was unusual for anyone to join him at this late hour. Not that it was a given thing that anyone thought of joining him outside of every morning with him ministering, or other prayers he urged people to partake in. Nothing the Priest did complain about with every mass usually full to the brim only showing that repentance was stronger than ignorance.
He should know better than to look surprised at the sound of such a sweet voice singing to him about finding no absolution and sins; he should know better than question himself how someone so delicate could be involved with all of life’s ugliness as the towering male turned to grant all of his attention only to find not one of his lambs but a woman he could not remember seeing before — a woman with hair so black and beautiful it stole his breath.
If only for a second.
In his black robe he turned to finally face her fully, holding the garnet rosary he had previously prayed still in one hand and the twelfth decade waiting in his head.
No, she was not from here. He would remember if she was. Yet what was it she had done that she did seek refuge in this cathedral? What gruesome things could this woman have done that she thought her voice alone would not bring her the Lord’s forgiveness that she thought it necessary for him to do so instead? Had she not like many acted with a reason, which in his eyes was good enough to grant absolution if there was remorse.
Silent both hands rose, then intertwined as though preparing for a prayer with the rosary trapped inbetween long, thin fingers. Of course he could do as he was told. However somehow he thought it more helpful and rewarding for her if she would join in.
“ Let us pray together. “
" it’s so rare that we’re actually given the opportunity to be honest about everything. we might as well try it once and see if we like it. "
critical role sentence starters
Had this sofa always been this comfortable he wonders, sitting in the livingroom of her apartment with a beer bottle in hand. He didn’t even like beer but couldn’t stop himself downing it nevertheless. It always left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Did she mind him resting his boots on her carpet in front of- and underneath the furniture he settled down on. Perhaps he should have asked her if she preferred him taking those off when he had walked through the door. When was the last time he had been here, anyway. He couldn’t remember. Not that it had been many times anyway. Maybe once. Maybe twice.
The man’s focus was not on the woman even as she spoke. There was just something about looking at her that made him so riled up inside Hœnirknew it’d make him fuck up eventually. Which he really did not wish to do. At least not after just sitting down.
He did listen to her voice nevertheless. Found himself remaining silent after she was done in silent hoping there were one or two words she would add afterwards. Just enough to make him hear her once more, even if only for a second. Her voice…
How many times had he hallucinated hearing it sing in his ear when he had been outside and on his way, when she hadn’t even been with him. Unexpectedly at first, making him turn on his heel in the middle of the sidewalk or the street thinking she was right behind him. Him growing desperate as time went on, with them not seeing nor speaking with each other and the voice slowly dying down. The thought alone made him take another sip.
Hœnirknew honesty was a rate thing given his career, where he always had to make sure not to say the wrong thing — not to say the right thing and be too open about him and his personal life. Which didn’t particularly bother him. The singer was not much of a talker anyway and knew exactly how to pretend. Being honest was a luxury he did not have.
—and even if he trusted her enough to not go about and tell the public what he had told her there was something keeping him from being honest even to her. Uncertainty mostly. Rejection secondly. Being honest always brought a risk the musician was not willing to take. No matter how much he would like saying what was on his mind, try telling how he felt. He would always decide to stay silen, if only he could get to hear her voice a little longer.
Small hands reach out, taking hold of the taller man's face. Gentle, she reminds herself, gentle. Her fingertips rest upon moon pale skin. Warm. So very warm. Her lips part to form a small smile. "You are dear to me." A confession.
How he has to hold back not to reach up and grab her; how he has to refrain from pressing her slender frame against his own into more than a gentle embrace knowing very well it would break her. How his jaw clenches under her fingers as the Wolf swallows and tries his best to remain still when he really does not want to. How could he.
There she was, in front of him. The Lady Assassin. Gone so long and now here plunging that smile past ribs into his heart, teasing him with how gentle she was herself when he stood there wishing she wouldnot be. Wanted her to smack and scratch him — pull at the silver strands of his hair or wrap delicate fingers around his throat showing him his place and allow him to feel more of her than he felt now.
Because it was not enough what she now gave him. Had not been before and surely was not now. He misses her collar around his neck. So selfishly the tallest Watcher wants all her attention on him. Wants her to feed him with all the pain she could cause him. Physically, so it would dull the constant aching of his lonely soul.