#wileds

unscripted asks     /     always accepting.

ksenija hated crowds. there was no overstating that, they amplified her nervous nature and she spent most of the time in them overly conscious of everyone around her, of not bumping into people and eyes constantly averting in case someone thought she was looking at them wrong or something. her overly cautious nature tended to make her stop when others continued on though and when that happened with love she felt her muscles tense and lock up as she tried searching for her cousin. this was a worst case scenario in her mind, being separated from the one person she recognized and was comfortable with in the setting- did he realize they’d been separated ? would he just keep going and leave her behind unintentionally ? she could always reach him by scroll but what if they still couldn’t find each other ?

before panic could completely set in though there was enough of an opening between the groups of people that she as able to spot love waiting patiently, looking in her direction. relief washed through the jackal and as soon as there was enough of an opening to where she didn’t cut anyone off or run the risk of bumping into someone she trotted over to her cousin offering a somewhat sheepish bow of her head, ears having drooped forward the slightest bit. they easily righted themselves once more as her cousin took her by the hand and they started off once more, ksenija falling into place beside him.

        when the grimm dust clears you dart to his side, mute with blaring terror.  you saw him take the hit and enter into a frenzy you’ve never seen before, fighting through the deep gash on his stomach.  the sand around him is splattered with red.  he’s still climbing so hard on his blood affinity that you have to cast your bow aside and wrestle him down.  it takes all of your strength pitted against that empowerment to get him flat and even then you’re grunting with exertion, your body moving with his thrashing.

        thoughts of gentling flee from your mind.  you can’t reach up to cup his face.  you can’t even properly get both palms down to hold the wound together control the bleeding or start any other treatment.  it oozes thick under your shaking fingers... you feel... you feel... hand slipping on gore the hot slick of something soft and vital outside that shouldn’t be there and.

        and you won’t be able to hold him down for long.

        “Fuck.”  you finally speak a coarse, bitten out word.  the mute horror breaks.  “Love?  Love?  Love, baby, please.  Need to take care of you.  Need you to stop moving—”  the sentence ends through gritted teeth.  thin hope for obedience turns to ash on your tongue.  he’s past recognition.  beyond any dissociation you’ve seen from him before, when he turns fluttery quiet and inward with it, barely able to register his surroundings.  this is... “Fuck.”

        if his aura fully depletes, if his semblance stops giving him all that extra power, what happens then?  this isn’t small.  you’ve seen this shit before.  this is a bleed-out-and-die type of wound if it doesn’t get help.  he must not’ve been aura shielding?  he said he does that sometimes to escalate his semblance but you didn’t, it didn’t strike you how all or nothing that could be until now.  could he even pass out like a normal person?  normal people subside with pain, seek comfort, want to do anything to ease it.  were you just going to be stuck here struggling, listening to his wild noises until he...?  no, no, no.