Day 8 - Blog Posts
Day 8- Past
Laika and Pomme on the Angel Nest.
The setting for The Old Frontier is the reclamation of ruins on the planet's surface by the survivors of a utopian space colony following a disaster known as the StOS (surface to orbital strike)
Two Characters I made for the setting are Laika and Pomme, fiances who met before the disaster on the ring shaped space station (Angel Nest) and survived to find each other on the surface. One of their favorite date spots was an orchard with a fixed planet facing window, looking at a world they never expected to visit and sharing a piece of fruit.
Angsty Kuron/Pidge - Part 2 (Warning! Slightly NSFW)
Pidge Ship Week: Bonus Day 8 - Free Day
Which means that I gotta do some good ole fashioned Smutty Angst.
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He knew he shouldn’t be doing this.
He knew he shouldn’t be this close to her. His mind screamed at him to stop. Begged him to not do anything stupid.
Anything like this.
Anything that consisted of holding Pidge in his arms. HIS arms that is, not Shiro’s, where she THOUGHT she was. Anything that included pressing their lips together. Or following her to her room. But it was easy to do these things to her.
Heartbreakingly easily.
She let him in her heart with little resistance. So trusting, it made him sick and, at the same time, dizzy with glee. But…the hard part was convincing HIMSELF that the one she wanted was HIM, not the man he looked like.
That she wanted him, Kuron.
That the one who was supposed to feel the thin legs wrapped around his waist was actually HIM and not Shiro. The one who she wanted in her bed was HIM. HE was the one Pidge loved.
Not Shiro.
It was cruel to think otherwise. So Kuron chose to lose himself in her, in his lies. To lose himself in the way they dove down on her bed. In the way they moved together.
In the way the little woman before him peeled off her baggy shirt. Pale, freckled skin bare for him to see. Smiling against the vibrant blush on her face. Gold eyes shimmering in such a way that seemed to beg him to touch her.
He had to lie to himself then, that she loved him as he ran his hands along her skin. But God…did he love HER.
“Pidge.” Was all he could pant out as he rocked against her wet warmth. Hours, maybe minutes later. Naked in every way except the truth. His head buried in her hair. His voice practically BREAKING with need. Hands holding onto her like dying life.
“Oh God…Please…” Let him drown in her. Let him forget. Let him break and crumble underneath her gentle touch.
Let him be real in Pidge’s arms.
Let him fool himself in thinking that the one she was so eager to have between her legs was HIM. Let him lie to himself and say that the one she wanted in her bed was HIM. That the hands she wanted touching her chest were HIS.
Not Shiro’s.
She cried out, blunt nails scraping down his back. Catching on fabricated scars. Legs tightening around him. Shuddering and sobbing. And he tried not to think about how he deserved so much more pain for the lies he told her. For what they were doing right now.
She clung to him.
Kissed him.
Moved with him.
He didn’t last much longer after that. And, for once, he wasn’t riddled with guilt. Everything was just bliss. White-hot and gold. Everything was just her.
Pidge.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.” Even his whimpers were broken as he pressed kisses onto her neck, bare chest, and soft lips. Secretly, Kuron was happy. Ecstatic.
She was HIS now.
Not Shiro’s. Not Lotor’s. HIS. He finally had something to his name, something he could hold on to…
She smiled at him.
Skin slick with sweat. Glowing brighter than a candle. Bangs clumping against a damp forehead. She was a mess in his arms.
She was the most beautiful thing he ever saw.
“I love you to.” There, that look in her golden eyes. That’s what broke him. With her hands on his face, its what made him dive down to claim her lips once more.
It’s what made him forget.
Forget who he was. What they just did. He felt real. He felt like a normal, actual human wrapped in the arms of the woman he loved. God, if there even WAS one, let him stay like this. With her. With her love in his artificial heart. Let him be human with her. Their lips slotted together, messy and lazy.
Happy.
“Shiro…” Pidge breathed softly as her hands rubbed the red welts she left on his scar-riddled back. He stilled. Something vital draining out of him.
He broke.
Make no mistake, Kuron didn’t facially react. He just stared at the small, smiling woman below him. With the golden eyes soft with love. With the honey-hued hair sprawled all around her pillow. He traced the line of her bare shoulder.
His heart bleeding.
He should’ve known. Should’ve recognized that he could never be happy. Not when Shiro was all Pidge could see. Not when he wasn’t human in the way that mattered. Who was he kidding? She could never want HIM. She could never belong to HIM, despite what they just did.
Shiro still in her heart.
But for a second, a moment that will always haunt him, he had believed she had loved HIM, wanted HIM. Kuron looked down at the woman he loved. Who didn’t love him, not truly.
Not knowing whether to kiss her or kill her.
Corruptober Day 8: Smile
@zrex-utau
He was happy. There were few things that could make him smile. But the sight, the smell, the taste of fresh blood? That always did it. And so he was happy.
VIII. Crystal
<- previous
Turned out having breakfast with Harry Potter also meant having dinner with him.
The bastard eased Draco into it. “I’m making curry tonight, you want some?”
Spiraling out of his control, Draco went from rarely seeing Potter to twice a day. Potter’s cooking being just as good at night as it was in the morning was the only upside.
The rising daylight was accompanied by, what Draco regrets to acknowledge, was amiable silence as they prepared for the arduous days ahead of them. The nighttime was accompanied by actual conversations. It start menially: a bunch of “how was your day?”s and “who do you think will win Quidditch?”. Then Potter would bring up a memory from their eight year and Draco would start gossiping about their old classmates.
On it went, from polite chatter to affable talk then friendly banter—or from an outside perspective: verbal war.
“You almost murdered me once,” followed by: “Like you wouldn’t’ve.”
“You were a prick in school,” proceeded by: “You weren’t?”
One night they finished eating and Potter asked, “You want a drink?”
Draco, exhausted and always susceptible to alcoholic bribes, said yes.
Potter took out firewhisky from the liquor cabinet and poured it into two matching crystal cups.
Their conversations reached their inevitable climax: quasi-flirtation. Perhaps it was the heat from the liquor—the heat radiating off of Potter—but the air felt tight-knit with tension. It might have been Draco’s imagination warping the way Potter smirked around his glass. The light from the room refracted off the crystal somehow made his green eyes shine even brighter.
“Draco,” his name coming out of Potter’s lips sounded indecent, like intruding on a tender moment. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Draco pretended he said it with sober fondness and not drunken impulse. He allowed himself this one thing.
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