#of course I had to add grey wind

[wolfanddragon98]

@dreaming-for-an-escape​

Me: I don’t have a favorite pairing.

Also me: 

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

"You could have warned me!" With Harvey? 💛

Finally trying my hand at writing the doc <3

......

"There are monsters in the volcano that spit fire??? You could have warned me! Had I know you were going to venture there I-!"

"Harvey, honey, it wasn't that bad-"

"Then what's this second degree burn I am treating, hm?" The doctor simply gave you a semi-scolding look as he bandaged your bicep. You got a nasty burn from a mischievous Lava Lurker who caught you by surprise while exploring the volcano dungeon on Ginger Island.

You thought you deflected all of the beast's fireballs, but alas one managed to slip by your defenses and nearly scorch your skin off.

At the time it didn't hurt, although of course when your boyfriend asked if you were okay after leaving the dungeon....it began hurting like a bitch, and he had you rushed back to town to get it fully examined.

It made you feel a little bad, knowing Harvey just wanted to spend a relaxing day at the resort--even though you had to remind him that his worry over people stepping on glass or not applying sunscreen defeated the whole purpose of his "vacation."

You helped ground him, but at the same time became the reason he was gonna get a few extra grey hairs pretty soon. He learned you went to the volcano and found not only Slimes...but more monsters like flying fireballs, living mushrooms, and other creepy creatures.

He doesn't know how you could face any of them. He surely couldn't and wouldn't.

This was the first time you've come to his clinic with burns this severe.

"First the mines, then the skull caverns..and now this?" Harvey shuddered, overlooking your other injuries with profound worry. "And here I was..worried that you'd be coming out with heatstroke. What's in that volcano anyways?"

"A forge to enchant my weapons." You answered, gesturing to your weapon propped against the wall. "The dwarf living there told me all about it. I had to get past all ten floors to access the gate, slay some magma creatures for the guild, use my watering can to make bridges across the lava...oh, and I found a dragon tooth made of iridium among...."

"......"

"Harvey, I know that look..." Sighing, you brushed a hand over the bandages he placed on you, before gazing back at him. "I promise I don't let monsters go after me on purpose."

"[Y/n]. I just...I want you to be safe out there." He wringed his hands together, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. "All these injuries will add up...and they will take a toll on your body. And if it happens when you're in a bad place where I can't help you, then I...I-I just....I don't know what I'll-"

"Harvey."

You rested a hand on his knee, causing your poor boyfriend to jolt out of his ramblings in fright, seeing his wide-eyed stare and hints of tears gathering behind his glasses.

It made you feel all the more guilty for stressing him out this much. You honestly don't mean to.

"I know my limits better now thanks to you, and I always pack life elixirs before going into any monster-infested cave." You gave him a reassuring smile, taking his hands into yours. "I won't let anything bad happen to me, okay?"

"...okay, as long as you're keeping your word, I..I trust you." Harvey shakily returned the smile, his ahoulders relaxing. He was glad you were taking his advice.

Of course, he couldn't convince you to abandon spelunking and monster hunting altogether. He'd feel terrible for even suggesting that when it's been such a strong passion of yours since moving into the valley.

He only hopes that whatever you do in that scary dungeon, you carry it out with extreme caution.

Yoba only knows how devastated he'd be if you winded up in the emergency room again..in worse shape than last time.

[cerastes]

hey drimo, with the RA2 monthly update having dropped I figured it was high time to go build up my Forward Camp a bit for the Warfare monthly maps - do you have any advice on how to create a proper torment nexus in the Forward Camp? 

My first inclination had been to just recreate what I made in RA1 (winding labyrinth with lots of net launchers, gas launchers and a narrow kill lane), but IDK if that will work out and the resource outlay for a properly built up torment nexus IS pretty huge even with all the extra ways to get stuff in RA2

(sent by @the-cornuthaum​)

Recreating an RA1 format base is indeed a good long term goal in my opinion, but as you said, it’s a resource intensive matter, particularly because it takes literal thousands of Stone -- Lighting Ore is really not an issue if you do a lot of Strange Territories -- to make all those ideal Urban Barriers III.

Personally, I would start with making a simple kill lane and building outwards from there, probably with a loop being the next thing after the kill lane. Cover your Campervan with Urbans, then choose a direction and make your lane there, and then stretch to either side of preference and make a basic loop surrounding 3-4 Battlements. This is highly informed by my own preferences and player expression, mind you, because I love radial range units -- Lin, Gnosis, Arturia -- and it tends to be how I start, but, of course, I think you need to adjust your layout to your own preferences.

I know most people don’t share my playstyle -- radial units close up, very long range artillery blasting those tiles while the radials damage/crowd control, like Horn, Firewhistle, Fiammetta, Ray, W -- so instead of a loop, you can do a zigzag funnel with Battlement ‘alcoves’, extending all the way to one of the enemy spawns with a single opening so all enemy spawns have to enter through there. I’m at work so bear with my MS Paint skills here but I think a small visual representation can help:

Basic, low resource kill lane. Greys are Urbans, browns are Battlements. The Battlement directly on the enemy route near the Campervan is intentional because a good kill lane will not have to worry about them reaching there in the first place. You can comfortably put several Battlements on the Battlement side, like rows of 2-3 per line, depending on your needs, and long range bombardment like Fortresses behind them. The straight line Battlement is good for Ifrit/Corroseum, Ray, Fartooth, Schwarz, any straight line killer of your choice. Apply Cursed Mire as needed, but keep in mind a Cursed Mire tile is a tile you don’t get to deploy Melee units on, so leave a gap here and there if you want to put an Ambusher like Manticore here and there. Your straight line Battlement can also be under the entrance, but do mind ranged enemies.

From there, you can extend like this for a funnel, like so,

Do zigzag alcoves like this, 

or make a simple loop like this

Added a red line to show you how the enemy pathing would go; you can add more Battlements to the empty space down there in the loop.

Then, with a few more blocks, you can create this Purple Zone above the loop, which is where I would put all sorts of goodies like Net Launchers or long range artillery Battlements, aimed towards the loop.

This is already a potent set up for a base, you don’t need to occupy all of your space, simply make good use of little space to get started. From here, you really can build absolutely anything you want and start dressing it as you see fit, but as a starter, powerful set up, this is what I recommend.

[xxsycamore]

𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐁𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬. . . Blanc X MC

↬ A rainy afternoon shouldn't get in the way of Blanc's sweet teatime with Alice!

Blanc Lapin x MC (Alice) • rating: G • tags: Fluff; Rain; Tea Parties; Kissing; Magic • wordcount:  1,481•masterlist

a/n: the weather outside provoked me to start off early with the challenge 👉🏻👈🏻 this is for day 8 of Spring Showers Spring Flowers by @aquagirl1978 & @violettduchess - Prompt: Rainy Days (fluff) - special tags for @vivifucksthevillian @viohasgoneintothewoods @katriniac

"Umm, Blanc… are you sure that we should be here?"

Despite the evident concern in her tone, Alice takes another sip from her cup, enjoying her tea. This impromptu tea party came out of nowhere, but she couldn't refuse Blanc's kind offer…

She'd just come to the Civic Center awhile ago to bring Blanc his lunch, seeing as her distracted White Rabbit had forgotten it again at home… She'd made it right on time for his lunch break, but was quite surprised when Blanc asked for her company. Exiting the office in flavor of finding some place more suited for having a meal, Alice's next surprise was seeing him begin to brew tea. And then the feeling grew tenfold as Blanc began climbing the stairs to the rooftop, where the Garden is situated.

"Why yes, we're merely having some tea, I don't see the harm in that. I'd hate to get you in trouble, dear Alice, I merely wanted to enjoy your company in a place that compliments your beauty…"

Blanc stirs his tea, smiling politely and prompting her to taste the food as well. She'd made enough for him to be sated and more, and a shared meal is always a tastier meal… maybe it's because of believing in this philosophy why Alice complies and nods, returning the smile. Oh, it really is tasty!

"The table looks even bigger when the seats are empty, somehow… there's this energy about this place even when we're alone here."

Blanc hums approvingly, gracious even in his chewing. He pats over his mouth with a handkerchief, manners on point as if this really is one of those special meetings of the top officers of the two armies. Their respective flags waver slightly in the wind, standing proud on their tall poles on either side of the table.

"Aren't you feeling calm in my company, Alice?"

The question gets her off-guard, the tea cup trembling for a second in her hands. She takes another sip.

"Uh-huh! I do. Thank you for bringing me here, it's not every day that I get to enjoy tea in such a place!"

While admiring the scenery, Alice notes how the grey clouds overhead add to the beauty of it, instead of ruining it, strange as it is. It's a pretty unique feeling. Gray days are almost never pretty, but from up here it's different. The budding nature enveloping the Garden adds enough color to contrast with the sky, and the temperature is not unpleasantly low at all. It's a typical spring day.

Well, it wouldn't be one without rain. And so the rain arrives.

Plop.

"Ahh, a raindrop fell into my tea… Haha…"

Blanc's beautiful white lashes flutter and show more of the pretty color of his peach-colored eyes behind the lenses of his glasses, as his attention is drawn to the cup, after Alice's comment. He's quick to react, much to Alice's surprise, as he jumps to his feet and opens his coat to reveal a foldable umbrella… so he predicted that this might happen?

"This is no ordinary umbrella, Alice. It's one of Oliver's newest inventions, you see. I think today makes the perfect chance for us to put it to the test."

Alice blinks but is just as curious as Blanc appears to be, scooting closer to his side. Of course Oliver makes poor Blanc his test bunny that is supposed to report obediently afterwards… she can only hope the invention is harmless. Considering how much of Fenrir's infamous guns are created where this umbrella came from…

"We unfold it like this, and the magic crystal in the handle does the rest of the job!"

Blanc explains, giving himself an aura of someone who knows what he's doing. Fortunately, it goes as he says, the crystal starting to shine as the umbrella is unfolded… and it starts to grow?!

The fabric held on the metal rods stretches out until it reaches the size of a sunshade, like the ones that can be seen in one of those cute outdoor cafes in central.

"Are those… balloons?"

The worries about Blanc suddenly having to hold the weight of that large thing start to disappear as Alice observes dozens of detached balloons inflate under the umbrella, making it float graciously in the air.

"Ahh, good, it didn't fly away! Oliver's main concern was that the balloons would either be too few or too many for its mass. As always, his calculations are top notch."

As more raindrops fall, Alice feels the need to snap out of her awe and take refuge under the parasol, along with her tea cup.

"And now, we can resume our tea time."

Blanc looks at Alice and they exchange a sweet smile. The food is finished and put away, and the rain becomes but a soundtrack to the tranquil afternoon.

"Ah, Alice, please come closer. I don't want the rain to get to you, and besides, you must be getting cold."

Blanc is… offering his lap. True, the parasol is large, but Alice really does feel the raindrops hitting her arm occasionally… oh well. Maybe it won't hurt, just this once.

"If you'd excuse me…"

Ah, this is bad. Her heart is going to explode, and her lips are remaining on a thin line as she attempts to drink as if nothing is happening. The lukewarm liquid is touching her mouth but she can't take in anything, fairly sure that she's going to choke the second she does.

Blanc is warm, especially his arm that wraps around her waist. That's why the invention is so clever, leaving him with two free hands… It's convenient for holding her in place, and nothing more of course, the gentleman that he is. Alice tries to concentrate on anything that is not him, in order to keep her sanity.

Nearby, the blossoming trees are standing tall in the spring shower as it starts to fall with more vigor upon them from the skies.

"Aww, I feel bad for the little buds. They're so fragile, and the rain is so strong."

Blanc follows her line of sight, chuckling softly. The sound of his laugher is more prominent when she's that close, and it sounds way more melodic too.

"They're going to be alright. Nature has its ways. Besides, they're just like you."

"?!"

Alice turns to look at Blanc, not realizing how he'd leaned closer to see better. Their faces are millimeters apart.

"Fate gave you strong rains, yet you held your head high and blossomed after each one. You're strong, Alice. And beautiful, too. You bring spring to Cradle."

Each word makes Alice's head spin more as she finds herself lavished with sweet words… she knows Blanc means each one of them deeply, his usual gentlemanly smile looking a tad more serious now. She's going to explode if he doesn't kiss her right this instant.

"Can I kiss you?"

Yes! Yes!

"Please."

Blanc's chuckle is barely audible, but she can feel it as he presses his lips to her. First, the stretch of his mouth in that sweet smile, then the parting of his lips. She eagerly answers, melting into the sweet-tasting kiss.

Blanc's lunch break draws to an end, much to their dismay. Raindrops start to fall seldom from the skies, like spring showers do, and Blanc outstretches an ungloved hand beyond the margins of the parasol to check. He then folds the umbrella, but still hurries inside with Alice, tea set safely collected as he insists he could take care of that.

"Ahh, I still worry about raindrops getting on the frames of my glasses… Do you think I can ask Oliver to create mini-umbrellas for them?"

Alice lets out a snort that grows into audible laugher, imagining how silly it would look like… but if she can find something charming in that, then the inventor surely wouldn't, and it won't go without some rude remarks. But oh well, maybe the kind heart he hides somewhere deep within would dictate the words "Fine, you stupid rabbit, ridicule yourself if you want to, I'll see what I can do."

"Anything that prevents you from taking off your glasses to wipe them and thus leaves you vulnerable is a good idea, Blanc…"

Going down the stairs with Blanc, the record keeper suddenly stops and looks and looks at her.

"I don't mind the rain, if it makes my dear little blossom show her beautiful, true colors."

With a finger behind his lips, a silent gesture to shush her, Blanc joins his colleague Mousse who seems to have used his own lunch break to its fullest, relishing in his favorite pastime of napping. At least that's what the lines on his face tell. Maybe Alice can too use a nap right now, because all that happened this afternoon felt like a dream, and it was one that ended too fast…

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @animeworldsposts @randomanimatedhusbandoseeker @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @tiny-wooden-robot @joy-the-reader @ikemen-writer @tele86 @psychodreamer666 @cilokgoang @moonstruck-writing Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[fuzzkaizer]

Conn - Multi-Vider

"All the way back in 1967, C.G. Conn wanted in on the decidedly nascent effects scene, and they wanted to do so with a bang. The company partnered with Jordan Electronics of Alhambra, CA to release an octave effect for wind instruments. The resulting circuit is a truly interesting piece of gear history. It needs to be said that Conn went into manufacturing, thereby ending its partnership with Jordan (at least according to all the paperwork) and the result was two different MultiViders. The differences on the surface are minute: the first model is grey and looks like a piece of dictation equipment, offering “bright” and “dark” input modes, a top-mounted Sensitivity control, and a plethora of battery gadgets. By contrast, the much cooler-looking model “914” did away with the frequency selector, opting for a switch called Unison and a power supply input.

Both models contain “Soprano,” “Bass” and “Sub Bass” switches, and corresponding volume for each. The 914’s Unison mode is essentially a dry signal control. The “grey box” model is a little more convoluted about it but the job is effectively identical. However, the way these two models go about these identical tasks in different—yet similar—ways.

This original “grey box” model contains a duo of ersatz flip-flop circuits, which the unit relies on for its octave down effects. The circuit utilizes some rather intense gain staging to convert the signal to a crude square wave and then use the flip-flops to divide the frequency in half and then in half again. In the later 914 model, much of this circuit is switched to a CD4013 chip, an all-in-one CMOS device. It’s interesting that the first draft of the MultiVider contains what amounts to a discrete imagining of the CD4013, and what it all adds up to is the first-ever octave effect for an electronic instrument. There’s also a wah inductor on the 914, which is connected to the sub-octave circuit somehow; I dare not remove the board due to extreme rocker switch fragility. I love stuff like this.

For as cool as this whole thing sounds, there are some drawbacks, as one might expect with the first pedal of any type. As previously stated, the MultiVider is a horns-only instrument, as is to be used with Conn’s proprietary woodwind pickup. While the “grey box” model serves up a battery option, the 914 is adapter-only, and it’s a doozy—only a 12-volt eighth-inch style phone plug will do. Thankfully there are workarounds for both; if you can solder, the power situation is a cinch and the microphone issue can be circumnavigated by hitting the MultiVider with a hotter input signal. Even then, a large belt clip on the back of the unit dictates its preferred method of implementation. With all that said, synth players are at an automatic advantage with modernizing the MultiVider.

Of course, the MultiVider was an advanced device for its time, and so it was used by artists that had explored brass instruments to their fullest. In particular, the MultiVider was used by Zappa’s band, the Mothers of Invention. It was also used by Miles Davis on 1970’s The Complete Jack Johnson Sessions. Of course there are others, but with a resume like that, stick to your strengths."

cred: catalinbread.com/blogs/kulas-cabinet/conn-multivider

[muffinsin]

I got a wholesome idea

Cassandra getting injured when she went out to hunt a game to make it into a present for her female s/o, but it suddenly got cold so a Lycan was able to overpower her, her mother went to get her and brought her back injured to the point she couldn’t do anything on her own. Her partner helped her, she fed her, bathe her, changed her and so on. cassnadra though, she was reluctant to accept because she doesn’t want to get babied but she still allowed it because she couldn’t do anything by herself. As it was Cassandra’s bedtime she embarrassedly asks her partner if she could lay on her lap and the partner says of course and she starts playing with Cassandra’s hair while humming her to sleep. (You can decide to add anything else) I hope you don’t mind me being specific again. And thank you for always taking my requests

-Rambunctious anon

I love specific requests! Thank you rambun’! Let’s get into it!😚 relatively long one this time!👀

Masterlist

Cassandra didn’t quite think her plan through. It was the first day of spring, and excitement to be able to hunt again soon had taken her over completely

She hadn’t even considered the possibility of the temperatures dropping again.

A gift was all she looked for, a beautiful one at that. And she was such a skilled huntress, surely the task would be easy for her! She didn’t even bother letting her sisters know she ventured outside and into the forest.

She wandered in the woods for a long time, trying to settle on what to bring her. Her legs hurt after mere moments and forced her to swarm entirely- the forest floor was wet and cold, covered in a layer of snow.

Perhaps a carved out heart from a mighty beast? No, what use could you possibly have for that?

Fur? To keep you warm and healthy. She could skin a varcaloc for you! But then again, you had blankets fluffy and warm already…

A large animal’s head? A boar’s head, maybe! Yes! Surely that would be the perfect gift for you!

Too caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized the temperature dropping until she felt the stringing pain of the cold surrounding her. How long had she been outside?

The sky had turned darker already.

The light breeze was enough to have her bite her lip to stifle her moans of pain.

The tears forming at her eyes at the cold pain burned against her skin- they felt frozen, but she knew they weren’t.

She attempted to swarm, and felt the cold pain pierce her entire body. Out of shock she landed on the ground, screaming as the snow pressed against her through the clothing.

It was so cold!

An inner struggle started out inside of her; calling out to her sisters or not.

She knew her sisters could get Mother or you, who could help her once you two found her. And she really, really wished for nothing more than to be lifted into her mother’s arms, off the cold snow and into warm embrace.

But she was Cassandra Dimitrescu!

Surely she would not need anybody’s help! What a weakling she would be if she called for aid!

Cassandra made her way back towards the large castle, her arms wrapped around herself protectively. She shook and hissed at every little breeze.

Using her thin cloak, she wrapped it around herself like a protective layer. But it barely did a thing, instead merely caused flies to drop to the ground, which she carefully picked up and cupped in her gloved hands

Was she able to see herself, Cassandra would see the blue-greyish colour her lips and ears had adapted

The brunette truly hated the cold!

She kept pushing forwards, and forced down tears the moment they dared slip from her eyes when the wind picked up and light, symmetrical snowflakes fell from the sky.

It was so cold.

She saw the castle in the distance, but it seemed so far away. Could she truly get there?

Cassandra yelled and screamed in pain, so loud it scared off a few crows in the trees and deers that had stuck around, when her legs gave in.

Her eyes widened upon seeing her ankle’s and feet’s dark grey, stony colour and texture. She was sure they would break off any moment.

Cassandra felt fear.

She didn’t want to die, not like this, not just then!

She hissed when she attempted to stand and a part of her ankle broke off, sending her back down in the snow. By then not only her ankles, lips and ears, but also her cheek, cleavage and arms had adopted the sickly grey colour.

She threw her head back, screaming loud.

It was an unusual, banshee-like scream she knew her sisters would hear. It was a scream filled with pain and fear that didn’t suit the brunette.

Just when she was about to let out another call, a growl caught her attention.

Golden eyes set on the lycan circling her. She cursed- she was no prey!

And still, she could only crawl helplessly with her sickle in her hand, unable to rise from the snow. Her gloves barely did a thing.

She felt her nimble fingers hardening and worried for a moment they would fall off.

“Stay, mutt!” She cursed. The dog would not listen. It snarled at her.

Cassandra brought down her sickle when it charged.

And still, her sitting position gave her a huge disadvantage. She screamed when teeth dug into where her neck met her shoulders and ripped out a large chunk of meat.

She screamed even louder when the area started crystallising immediately, the cold unforgiving and harsh

She kept bringing her sickle down on the beast, her arms shielding her face as the creature straddled her. Her legs were useless, she was unable to swarm

Cassandra almost laughed bitterly- would this be her end? Brought upon by a measly lycan?

It didn’t seem so, not if Alcina Dimitrescu had a say in it.

Cassandra’s golden eyes widened when the creature launched itself at her yet again, claws extended and grazing her crystallising cheek just before longer, sharper claws dug through the mutt’s middle.

She breathed out a sigh of relief and let go of the breath she didn’t realise she was holding.

“Mother”, she choked out. Her throat was ice cold and ached painfully. Frozen tears stuck to her cheeks.

The matriarch immediately withdrew her claws, tall hands reaching downwards as she gently picked her middle child up.

Cassandra let out an ear piercing scream as a part of her waist came off, flies breaking off and landing in Alcina’s outstretched palm. She felt hot and cold at the same time, and hard, as though her skin was pulling together.

She barely felt her mother brush frozen hair strands out her face, but felt warm lips connect with her forehead.

She didn’t protest when Alcina pulled her impossibly close, the dragon’s grip tight on her child. Cassandra felt too weak to lift her head, instead resting it against her mother’s warm neck.

Her nose brushed against the woman’s throat, silently begging for a taste of the blood beneath. Alcina granted her this, knowing it would warm her near-frozen daughter.

And yet, when Cassandra slowly and with great effort parted her lips and opened her mouth, she felt too weak to push in her sharp teeth and drink the warm fluid below her mother’s thick skin.

Alcina sighed when she felt the younger woman slump against her, tucking her closer and protecting the brunette with all her might; her hat off her head and perched over Cassandra’s unconscious form, hoping to shield her from the merciless wind.

She would be alright, it wasn’t much farther to the castle.

When the brunette awoke again, she felt too many things at once. She coughed uncontrollably, air barely rushing through her lungs.

Warmth and coldness at the same time, claustrophobia from the thick blankets and arms tightly wrapped around her, fear and embarrassment as she recalled what had happened.

She hasn’t realized how heavy her breaths were until she felt your hand on her cold cheeks. Her breathing calmed, you smiled at her.

The brunette’s cheeks were cut and awfully grey, her neck even more so. Cassandra let out a disoriented whimper as she realised the lack of a choker on her. Had Mother abandoned her for her mistake? She reached up to her cold, cracked throat. Tears nearly swelled in her eyes at the lack of her necklace.

As if reading her mind, you took her hands in yours. They were ice cold and cracked at places. She relaxed when she saw the necklace handed to her and held it tightly against her burning chest.

She coughed again.

“We removed it to tend to your neck, sugar”

Your words made sense. They calmed her.

She looked down upon herself, pulling away the warm, heavy blankets. She wore one of your tank tops, her shoulders and arms cracked and bandaged at places, her entire torso full of bandages. In the gaps between them she saw her own, cracked skin. It made her feel nearly sick to see a hole in her body between one of the bandages.

Her legs were hardly any better. She was put in one of your trousers, warm and comfortable, loose around her skin. Leggings, you had called them once, she recalled.

Her feet were covered by thick socks, although they felt better. Her ankles sported many wrappings around them. She tried not to focus on them; it felt as if they would snap in two should she get up. Her legs and thighs were bandaged and cracked, skin grey and stony. She remembered the lycan’s claws slicing through them.

And lastly her hands, cold and cracked, yet intact. She looked at you, unsure of what to say. “How do you feel?”, you asked instead. She shrugged. Her throat felt so sore and painful, she didn’t feel like talking.

She noted your presence in the room; your clothes laid on her floor from when you must’ve changed, canvas and dried paintings laid on her desk and scattered around it.

For how long had she been passed out on the bed?

Cassandra watched quietly as you climbed into the bed, but eagerly pressed her body against yours. You were so warm…

Golden eyes flashed dangerously for a moment when you pulled your hair to the side and tipped your head, presenting your neck to the brunette. She was starving, and you knew that fully well.

“Have a bite, Cassandra”

She wasn’t sure if it was an offer, request or order, but she didn’t think twice. She barely had enough sense left to hold back from mauling you, instead tried her best to be careful as she dug her teeth in you.

She moaned pleasantly at your warm bloody humming when she felt you pull her closer. The blankets were nice, but she preferred you warming her up. Your arms around her, your warm blood down her throat. She felt it ease the pain inside of it, the roughness of her skin caused by the cold.

Cassandra relaxed further when she felt your fingers running through her dark brown hair, untangling it and gently scratching her scalp

You smiled at the silent purrs you received in response. She was so relaxed around you, it filled you with pride.

She pulled away for a moment, panting as your blood ran down her chin. She feared taking too much. She was never good at holding back, never had been, and didn’t want to risk losing you no matter how her body ached for more of your delicious, warm blood.

You didn’t feel dizzy yet, nor a headache. She could drink a little more.

Cassandra felt you guide her head back to the wound, gently pressing against the back of her head. She licked the wound, a small smile pulling at her lips from your whimper. The sadist couldn’t help it, but you loved just that.

Her silence was worrying, although you were glad her throat was given time to heal. Had it not been for her happy whines when you scratched her scalp, you would have feared her vocal cords were damaged severely.

Cassandra’s eyes felt heavy. She pulled away and made sure to clean your wound before eying you again. Golden eyes slipped close as you used your thumb to clean the blood off her chin. She sucked it clean when it was presented to her and whined when she felt your hand withdrawing from her hair.

“Don’t go”, she croaked out when she was lowered back on the bed, voice raspy and shaky. You smiled at her, pressing a small kiss to the corner of her lips, avoiding tasting your blood on her. “I would never, sugar”

In the next couple of days, even weeks, you were coddling Cassandra to no limit. At first, she was amused at this, believing it was a joke. Her amusement lessened in time.

“I’m not a baby!”, she complained a couple of times a day. She felt frustrated with how slowly her body was recovering. The gashes and slashes of the mutt’s claws couldn’t heal fast as long as her skin was recovering from the cold, which it took its sweet time doing.

And the worst of it all? She couldn’t even move properly, too wary of her ankles. They had improved, and yet when the socks and bandages were removed, they still shone grey and were hard as ice.

She was restless, and annoyed. She wanted out of her bed, too.

For what it was worth, Cassandra liked the bath times she received. Albeit she thought it was unnecessary for Alcina to lift her out the bed and put her in the filled tub, she did appreciate the hot water on her cold skin.

Even more she appreciated your skilled hands massaging shampoo in her hair. And even when she whined in protest each time she was lifted out the tub and put back on her bed, sheets changed into fresh ones, she loved the time that followed after her bath.

You always made sure to keep her entertained, starting with a nice back rub and massage in which you warmed her cold limbs with warm massage oil, ever so mindful of the cracks still adorning her beautiful skin.

Cassandra snickered often as you did this, enjoying your blush whenever she asked, knowingly, how come certain regions of her bare body needed more squeezing and massaging and kneading than others.

After this, she was often entertained by watching you paint. You had attempted reading to her, which Cassandra stopped after mere minutes, restless and bored out of her mind.

She liked whenever you brought Cassandra her weapons too, and when sometimes, when a dish was brought to her, she received some of your blood as dessert.

At night, nightmares often plagued her mind, or her wounds made it difficult to sleep. Cassandra dreaded nighttime.

She eyed you as you climbed into bed, ready to fall asleep with her. She couldn’t stand another night of it! She wanted to sleep comfortably for once! The pillows were either too low or too high, too hard or too soft, her back hurt and she couldn’t rest on her side, worried she would move too much in her sleep and end up causing damage to her already healing body.

You tilted your head at her when she just stared at you blankly.

She frowned, then shook her head, then eyed you again. You knew the signs she unknowingly gave whenever she was about to ask for affection, and stayed quiet, allowing the brunette to take her time.

Eventually, her lips parted and a silent request was spoken.

“Can I sleep on your lap tonight?”, she asked. Her voice was still raspy, but her words sounded less painful.

You smiled, stretching your legs and patting them. “Of course, darling”

She blushed at the love she heard so clearly in your voice, her head resting on your legs. She sighed. Not too hard or too soft, not too high or too low. She growled quietly at the back of her throat, smiling when you set your hand on her head and stroked her hair.

More quiet purrs.

Cassandra felt you pull the blanket upwards, until it covered her plenty and its warmth protected her cold limbs.

“Goodnight, Cassandra”

[petalsofyouth]

my girl. pt1. | ran haitani x reader

tw: nothing that really is worth mentioning? alcohol consumption, a bit of violence (nothing graphic) and magical realism (if you squint and understand it) and that's all i think

wc: 9536

a small note before you begin! it was supposed to be a one shot, but then i was writing it and writing and writing and the story never ended so i decided to split it into two parts. i know majority of people prefer when the text is rather on the short side so here you all go. another thing i wanna mention is that this story is impromptu and it might show. i haven't had even a vague idea of the plot or vision or anything when i began to write it and the only thing in my head was ran taking long walks everywhere around Tokyo and then i heard the chime and that's it. this is probably why this story is going to be from ran's pov and a little bit of rindou's (i love him too much to not include him). okay, that's all! thank you for reading & i hope you like it.

~

The blue dim light from street lamps enveloped small grey buildings giving them an alien impression. Neon signs mingling with one another only add to the whole impression and once again Ran felt as if he was on some other planet in another universe. Or that it was very far in the future. As if he somehow found himself in 2808. 

But it was early spring of 2007 when cherry trees hadn't yet bloomed and a chilly wind roamed through Tokyo reminding its habitants of a long cold winter that was now already gone, a small odds and ends of it remaining in the corners of dark alleys. 

Still, this vague rapture between reality and Ran’s mind was pleasant. He had no problem dissociating from his life even for a couple of fleeting moments. Released from a prison not even a month ago - after Izana’s death he hadn’t had time to mourn -  these breaks felt deserving. He needed to rest, to stop what he was doing and for once breath without thinking what awaits him next. 

The situation wasn’t stable in the least. Roppongi was still theirs. It always would be. But there were other new gangs and Ran knew that someday their name won’t be enough. They need to do something - to be someone - to keep the Haitani brand they built well respected. The easiest option, of course, would be joining a gang, but Tenjiku was still alive in his chest and beating. And while there were in fact no S-62 generation anymore, dead and gone into eternity with Izana, it felt like a piercing sword of betrayal between his ribcage, to even think of a possibility to be a part of another formation. 

Yet, there would be another gang. Another defeat and maybe [for sure] a lot of other deaths. Ran knows all this and he knows that the time will come soon. Once South is released. He still has time though. Time to leave his new car in one of the one-way streets and wander around pretending his life is not his. 

A moment of weakness no one would ever know of. 

Today, he is in Nakano. He doesn’t remember the last time he was here which means it was insignificant or that he never stepped here before. The latter is quite impossible though. Ran has been everywhere around Tokyo. Never outside. This huge city  his own perfect golden cage. If he didn’t love luxury and comfort so much he would’ve thought he was trapped. But he doesn’t think this way and so he goes down the street observing people and shops. His mind is resting. 

Everything is okay. 

For a while. 

It’s evening. Somewhere between six and eight. It’s always hard to tell the exact time at these hours. Everything seems blurred and solid and one. The neon lights, street lamps, shops, buildings and people. Him, too. Ran indulges in this euphoric feeling. Hands in pockets of his sweats he looks around trying to pretend as if he is searching for something that waits for him. There should be something that desires to meet with him. He strongly believes in it and when he spots an old wooden sign that seems painfully familiar, he nods to himself that’s it and goes inside through an open door. An invitation or maybe just a coincidence. He closes the door once he is inside and insubstantial tingling of the bell echoes throughout the place. Ran raises his head, tilting it to the left and sees a glass hand painted chime just above him. There’s flowers all around it and he doesn’t need to squint his eyes to see that it’s purple orchids. His chest is warm then and he stares at the chime for a little longer than he should, a strange feeling occupying his chest. Whatever it is that brought him here was kind enough to welcome him. Ran doesn’t think it is a coincidence anymore. 

Inside, the store is bigger than it appears from outside. Long corridor leads to a spacious room and it’s only there that Ran understands that he is in a bookstore. He tries hard to remember when was the last time he picked up a book and the memory that resurfaces is not pleasant. It was back in juvie when he was around fourteen going fifteen. The book was a present from one of their teachers there and Ran to this day couldn’t understand why an old woman chose him out of everyone else. He wasn’t by any means academically bright nor was he showing a special interest in studies. [He dropped out of school the day he was released; he simply never showed up]. Yet, the teacher chose him. She gave him the book and spoke with him a little. What about Ran can’t remember. He barely listened to her back then. The book was a strange useless weight in his hands, but there was something sincere in the way she gifted it to him and that’s why later sitting beside Rindou on the rotten grass in the yard of their facility Ran read it from cover to cover. He liked the book. 

It was Yukio Mishima’s “The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea” and the story grasped him so much it was all he could think of for the next few months. But then they got released and his head was busy with new names in Roppongi and Tenjiku and other gangs and when all of these disappeared in ashes and he went back to juvie for the second time, he remembered the book that was safely stored in his and Rindou’s apartment in the box under his bed. But thinking about it only brought silent blue rage as he suddenly understood the meaning of the book. His eyes wide and empty, Ran wished an old teacher appeared and maybe tried to protect him from his fate again - because he deserved a second chance, didn’t he? everyone does - but no one came to save him and this time Ran left empty-handed with a promise from South as a bitter reminder that there was never an alternative to his fate. 

Met with floor to ceiling bookshelves full of books Ran observes book spines, colourful and not. He reads a few that stand out to him most. All authors and titles unknown to him. He knows he ought to leave. There’s nothing for him to do here and books are certainly the last of his interests. He should go home. Get a take out for him and Rindou, maybe invite Kakucho over and watch some TV or maybe they all should go out to a nice club, get drunk and fuck some pretty girls. 

Yeah, that would be nice. 

That is what he should do and that is exactly what he doesn’t do. 

He goes forward through the paper jungle until he spots a man standing behind the round counter. He is writing something, totally engrossed, his head down as he stands, slouching a little so the paper is right before his face. Ran doesn’t think he made any noise, but the man composes himself and looks up, smiling at him. The smile is warm and welcoming. 

Ran feels seen. 

“Hello. Are you looking for something specific or just browsing?” The man’s voice is calm and confident. He also sounds very kind and Ran is a tiny bit ashamed when he shakes his head an affirmative no which can be clearly translated into i don’t really know what I am doing here. The man laughs. “You can grab whatever catches your eye and read it right here to see if you like it. We have a reading zone right over there. In the next room.” 

When Ran stays where he was too lost to say anything, the man smiles again and this time he comes out from the counter and goes up to Ran. “What was the last thing you’ve read?” 

There’s no need to think much. His last book was his only book. “It was Yukio Mishima.” 

The man is surprised and he doesn’t hide it. He whistles. “The Sound of Waves, I suppose?” 

“No. The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea.” 

“A gruesome one, but reflective. Did you like it?” 

They chat about the book for a good half an hour and by the end of it Ran is pretty much relaxed. His usual passive confidence running through him again. It’s been nice to discuss the book with someone and for a pretty obvious reason, Ran imagines it was his teacher from juvie and not this man, an owner of the bookshop as he finds out during the talk. It’s wrong to pass one kindness shown to him onto another kind person, but it does help him to redeem himself and so he doesn’t argue with his mind much. 

With another book, this time “The Honjin Murders” under his arm, Ran sinks into the couch in the so-called reading room which is not really a room. Rather an extension of the main large one with beige noren in the middle. But  it has two couches, a table and a kettle with five cups and that’s all that it needs. It also has a huge window looking at traditional Japanese garden. The sound of running water in a small pond and green colour of permanent velvety moss is so calming that Ran loses himself in the scenery for the longest time. Book forgotten in his lap. 

He stays in the bookstore until the sky grows dark and silver stars are the only thing that make the vastness of this world bearable. 

“So. What do you think about it?” The sudden intrusion of the man into Ran’s little world doesn’t bother him. It’s calm and peaceful and safe here. And Ran stays Ran. The need to be in another's skin is gone. “Liked it or should I retire as a bookshop owner?” 

There’s a certain prominent playfulness in the man’s words, but Ran misses them, letting them slip into the past. He checks the number of the page he stopped on and making a mental note to remember it, turns to the man. “It’s good. Haven’t read much, but it’s interesting. I want to buy it.” Ran stretches his legs before him and looks around the room, his gaze stopping at the window and as some hours ago he finds himself admiring the raw beauty it carries. Whoever composed it saw the world differently and take it apart all you want, one thing after another, you would never quite understand the meaning behind it. It will always slip away from you. It’s almost like losing a thing you’ve never ever had. But sadder. More melancholic. 

“It’s my wife's last creation.” The man says and for the first time his voice isn’t cheerful. It’s barely there. “For our family, that’s it.” 

There’s nothing to be said and so Ran doesn’t utter a word and in his silence hides an understanding that is more meaningful than any form of consolation. 

They sit in the room - that in the pure meaning of the word is not really a room, yes, it just has a plain beige noren behind the couch - admiring the view for a little more. Each hanging to the illusion of their own; both no more than small sparkles of short lived joy. 

The silent magic is taken away as sudden as it settled down and then the unceasing garden turns into simply well composed rocks and azaleas. The change is devastating, but it’s not forever, and so it’s okay. Besides, the change is you. It has your eyes, your nose and your voice. 

“Dad, I am good to go. Don’t forget to eat please. I made nikujaga. Okay? I would’ve loved to have dinner together, but I have an assignment to finish and… oh. I am sorry. You aren’t alone. Sorry.” 

It has your lips too. And your smell. Persimmons, nail polish and glossy magazines.

But for now Ran doesn’t know it’s yours. 

For now the only thing he is sure of is that he wants to come here tomorrow and maybe gaze at the garden and read a book and disturb the orchid chime at the door to hear its sweet melody. And maybe see you too, because his want to pretend being someone else somewhere else, is gone. He wants to be Ran Haitani and be accepted as such more than anything. And he burns with curiosity. He burns with longing. 

You don’t exchange a word and Ran leaves the bookstore with a gift from your father and a promise to come by again. It’s really rare to see young people in here and having you here reminds me of me so many years ago, it makes me twenty again, you are twenty, aren’t you. 

That night he also finds out that the family business restaurant down their street makes quite good nikujaga. 

They eat it together with Rindou while reminiscing about those who will never come back.  

*** 

The next day Ran is at the bookstore again.

And the day after that too and after a week or so he is considered a regular. 

He doesn’t see you often and in all honesty he isn’t coming there for you. It’s the whole atmosphere of the place. The garden and the chime and the small talk with your father that draws him back. 

You, a fleeting presence of the bookstore, he only has seen a couple of times. Not more. Once with a pile of cartridge paper of various sizes under your arm you were cursing under your breath trying your best to go down the stairs. And then the next time when you brought two bento boxes to the reading area where he and your dad were talking about your dad’s many voyages of his youth. Ran remembers the conversation particularly because he likes listening to your dad’s stories of the world. Never once in his life was he outside of Tokyo, your father's memories of other lands become his. 

The meal you brought - and made yourself - is quite simple. It contains rice with seaweed, grilled fish and two hard boiled eggs. Along with some fresh sesame spinach salad on the side. It smells delicious and as you set two bento boxes on the table you go back upstairs and this time return with two bright yellow Yebisu cans. 

Sudden kindness is sour to Ran. He freezes in his place, eyes on the bento box, as he listens to the small conversation you make with your dad. Confusion must be evident on his face, because the next second he hears your voice. You are speaking to him. “Do you not like beer, Ran?” 

“No. It’s fine. I do.” His reply is simple and not efficient. It doesn’t make you any less doubtful that everything’s alright. 

So you ask again. “Is it the eel then? Dad has tonkatsu leftovers upstairs. Would you…”

"No. No. It’s fine. Thank you very much. I appreciate it.” 

You nod, shrugging your shoulders. He probably doesn’t sound very convincing to you, but that’s the best he can offer you. Not having anything more to say to him, you say to your dad that you are going home now. You have a project to finish. You wish them both goodnight. 

If your dad noticed Ran stiffness he doesn’t mention it and Ran is very grateful for it, because while he always knows what to say, he finds it very hard to find an easy way to explain how and why this innocent act of compassion, a demonstration of belonging, irritated him. 

He is ugly on the inside and scarred. 

He doesn’t want you to know that. 

[He doesn’t want to remember it either.] 

But today is not the day you will discover it and so he can breathe freely, planting a hope that maybe you won’t ever know him for what he is outside of this place where he kills every bright part of him with a single strike of his baton.

*** 

During the next couple of months Ran comes to the conclusion that he should stop visiting a bookshop. 

It’s not a sudden decision. He has a whole list of reasons ready, but as he goes over them in his head, he finds himself already on the porch in Yokohama. The chime sings and he is once again welcomed by your father to come inside, to have an interesting conversation and maybe help out a little bit if he doesn’t mind [he never does], only to eat a delicious meal you made as a pleasant conclusion to the day. 

Ran is young, but he is no fool and he knows that soon enough he is going to get attached to this place and he simply can not afford it. South is going to get released and then they will form something big and serious and he is going to be involved. The nice little illusion he created here has no place in his world. He should stop coming. 

That’s what he decides when he steps through the door one particularly warm golden evening in spring. It’s unusually quiet. No customers inside and your father isn’t at his regular place behind the till. Ran frowns. His blonde eyebrows coming together in the middle of his forehead. He stops looking in between the shelves. He finds nothing and so he goes behind the noren, to the reading zone. 

“Oh. I thought you won’t come today.” You sit on the chair with your right leg to your chest, a bottle of black nail polish standing on the table in front of you. 

Ran bites back a smile. You painting your toes inside of the bookstore is so out of place, it’s almost comical. “Why would you think that?” 

You don’t answer his question and it seems as if you haven’t heard him at all. He is compelled to repeat it, but instead he sits on the sofa opposite you and watches you doing your nails. The whole task is relaxing. You don’t mess up even once which is pretty much impressive. He whistles and you raise your head, looking at him, confused. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. You are just being really good at it.” 

There’s no reply to this either. You continue painting your nails and he continues watching you. He doesn’t think about anything in particular and rather than moving his eyes along with the brush tip, he remains impassive. If you think he is being weird or creepy you don’t say it. In fact, to Ran it seems as if you have forgotten about him altogether. Your presence is strong to him, but his doesn’t touch you in the slightest.

He is both. Disappointed and glad. 

It is his last time here - or so he thinks - and a premonition stored up in his chest is vibrating. It says to him that if you notice him he won’t be able to escape. [He only hears the second half of the sentence. He only hears what he wants to.] 

Relaxed and focused on your toes he loses his usual alertness so when he finally understands that all your nails are glossy back and you have stopped applying the colour, he raises his eyes. Firstly looking at the closed bottle of polish as if to make sure you are really done and only then at you. 

You are staring. You are noticing. Ran shivers. 

“What’s your height?” You ask. 

He frowns. The question is unexpected and he swears he somehow hears the chime’s sweet melody. But no sound comes after and he knows he is mistaken. 

“I am 1.83.” 

You lick your lips, tilting your head to the side and the smile that graces your future are adorable and terrifying at the same time. “Good. Do you mind helping me out in one of my school projects? I am at Bunka and I have this project coming up where I need to give yukata a modern touch. So I’ve been thinking if you don’t mind that I can use you as my reference? You won’t do much. I will just take your measurements and then based on you create a yukata. What do you think?” 

There’s not just one, but so many reasons as to why he should say no, stand up and leave the bookstore behind him forever. The garden, the chime, the kindness - everything - should become a nice memory. The one he would go back to in the moments of discouragement. In the shameful fall of weakness. 

There’s too many of them and Ran can’t name even one. So he nods at you. Yeah. Sure. Why not? 

“Thank you. I really wanted you to agree. I’ve been thinking about suggesting it to you since I first saw you.” Your fingers graze over your fresh pedicure. To check if it’s dried. You are obviously satisfied, because you pull out twirled napkins from in between your toes and stand up. “Do you like oranges? I am gonna go upstairs and bring some for us.” 

When you are behind the couch he sits on, you stop. 

“But you are peeling them. I hate peeling oranges.” 

It’s not a drastic confession, but Ran feels like he just found out your sweetest secret. 

*** 

Pre-summer breeze carries a faint smell of changes and new times. 

It doesn’t specify when and what it will bring. It doesn’t make it easier and the barbed metal ball in the pit of everyone’s stomach twirls, scratching insides. They bleed; skin torn apart and crimson. 

Everyone acknowledges this lazy slow shift. No one does anything in particular about it, because, well, there’s nothing to be done. What is for you will find you anywhere: on a busy Shibuya crossing meddled between thousands of people, in your sunny apartment where you sleep on the floor after a full day of school or in front of the evergreen garden in a small bookshop in Yokohama. 

There’s no point in trying to escape fate and therefore there’s no point in worrying and stressing out. The only thing Ran does - that he can think of as a succumbing to summer breeze  - is wearing a too thick jacket for the already sunny and warm weather. When Rindou points it out he says he is doing it in the name of fashion. His younger brother grimaces, but leaves it at that. It sounds pretty much like Ran’s usual bullshit. No need to worry. 

And so life goes on and the wind continues to blow.

*** 

His help in your project consists of standing still as you take his measurements. 

That’s all. 

The first time you do it he asks you if he needs to do something else and when you say no he is both, disappointed and relieved. Disappointed because he finds it being your model more boring than he expected and relieved because you don’t need him to do anything and that means only one thing - you won’t have any expectations of him and he won’t fail. In your eyes he will remain as Ran, a twenty years old man, who once in your life used to visit your father’s bookstore for a couple of months and helped you with your fashion school project and then disappeared and you’ve never heard about him after that. 

Becoming your fleeting good memory is what he thinks he wants.

*** 

“I need you to raise your hands and hold them like that for a minute. Okay?” You say patting his shoulder as you emerge from behind him. This is the fourth time you’ve taken his measurements. He doesn’t understand why you need to do that so many times, but he doesn’t ask. You bite your lip - a small habit you have when you think really hard about something - and eye his earring. “Does it match your eye colour? You are so corny.” 

He smirks and watches you wrap tape around his underarms and then chest. Ran only speaks when you sit on the floor near the table and scribble down the numbers. “I like it. Do you not?” 

“You being corny or your earring?” You ask him, your attention on your journal, not him. Some days ago he asked you to show him your sketches of the yukata and you declined, totally exaggerating in his opinion the importance of not a single soul intervening in your creative flow. 

“Both.” 

“Let me think about it.” Your voice decreases its volume as you speak and by the end of the sentence it’s a small whisper. As usual you don’t reply right away and Ran loses his hope of getting the answer, but after a while you close your journal and turn to him. “I don’t mind either. I am guessing they both make you you and so I am okay with that.” 

He thinks you barely know him and he barely knows you, but he believes your words nonetheless. There’s a sheer simplicity in them and that makes him trust you all the more. You might not be very familiar with each other and you are absolutely unaware of what he is doing, what he has done and what he will do in the future. You don’t peer. You don’t ask him unnecessary questions. You have no idea what kind of person he is and yet you still accept him. In Ran eyes this is considered courage and kindness and everything good in this world combined. Everything he doesn’t deserve. Everything he still wants. 

And so the next day when Ran comes into the bookshop and sees you and your father at the till, he makes sure you notice the tattoo on his arm and when your father’s forehead is full of wrinkles, he thinks this is it, he lost this place forever, your father asks if it’s a full body or just an arm? He says, i have a tattoo too, but it’s smaller than yours. 

“It covers the left side of my body. My brother and I got it in juvie.” 

“I think we need tea for this conversation.” Your father answers and when Ran understands that there’s no anger, no resentment, no rejection and only acceptance, he realises that after all he was stupid to believe it would be otherwise. 

The chime and the garden already whispered it to him. He was just too self-centred to notice. 

*** 

The revelation about that certain part of Ran’s life brings obstacles in your work. You tear down your initial sketches and beg Ran to strip his clothes so you can see his tattoo. You plead, saying that it’s really really really important and crucial and you need to see it for you to understand him better. To make his yukata perfect. 

For obvious and understandable [not for you] reasons he rejects. You pout, but all charms you send his way, simply do not work. At last, he lets you turn around his left arm however you want and after the second hour when the left part of his body gets numb and sore he has a suspicion you are doing it on purpose. A little revenge. 

“You know, you are making it difficult for both of us.” You sigh, placing two steaming cup noodles on the table. The bookshop has been closed for an hour or so. It’s quiet, the only noise coming from upstairs where your dad is watching what seems to be MTV Japan. Ran only knows because sounds are familiar. Rindou likes watching MTV too. “I don’t understand why you are being so modest.” 

You hand him metal chopsticks and as he takes them he also grabs your wrist. Somehow, you aren’t confused. You turn to him and the calm expression on your face startles him. He lets you go. 

“Just don’t feel like it.” He says instead, his shoulders going up and down. None of you don’t speak as you eat. If Ran wasn’t as observant as he is, he would've thought you are listening to Masaharu Fukuyama’s song. But he is observant and he knows that you are just pretending to listen to your dad’s TV. He notices you stealing glances of him every now and then and when he catches your eyes with his, you bashfully turn away. It’s too obvious that you want to ask him something and he allows you to do it, but when enough time passes and all opportunities are lost, he places the cup on the table and with elbows on his knees, asks you what the matter is. 

As expected you don’t answer right away. Hiding behind a pink cup you look at the garden illuminated by stone lanterns. “Are you uncomfortable with me?” 

“No.” His response is immediate and you turn to him, surprised. 

“No? Then why?” You scrutinise him, he - a mere subject before you. “Are you by any chance..?” 

The last sentence is unfinished as it blurts out of you so quickly and you stop so abruptly as your eyes widen that Ran already knows what you wanted to say. An amused smile appears on his face. He laughs. “I am not a virgin. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Why would I worry about it?” There’s an offence in your voice and he laughs some more. 

He laughs and laughs and laughs stopping only when your eyes soften and lips form the prettiest smile he has ever seen. “What?” It’s his time to wonder now. 

“Nothing.” You look past him at the clock that hangs on the wall between bookshelves. Even with TV noise Ran can hear them counting the time.  “I am going to head out in twenty minutes.” 

“You don’t live here?” “Oh. No. I live in Shibuya. In my mom’s house.” 

“We are almost neighbours. My little brother and I live in Roppongi.” 

“I suspected just as much.” 

When he laughs again, the sparkle in your eyes reappears, but this time it is familiar [even if it’s too far to be burnt by it yet] so he doesn’t stop.

*** 

In the middle of the summer, on a hot July day, Kakucho asks Ran to help him do his annual shopping. Despite the air feeling like dragon breath and unreasonable early 12pm meeting, Ran agrees. It might be because he adores shopping or because he hasn't seen you in a week and there’s a good chance he might stumble upon you on Cat street. It’s in Shibuya and you’ve mentioned before that you live close to it. That’s of course if his calculation is right and you are already back from your trip to Osaka. 

There is a special nook in Ran’s brain where he holds the memory of you telling him you are going to be away for a couple of weeks. It was the first time he was allowed to be inside of the bookstore's garden. The day was sunny and pleasant in a non-caring manner. Inside of the hugely oversized white t-shirt - that Ran suspected was male - you had sour cherries, carrying them in the pouch of the said t-shirt. It reminded Ran of kangaroos and therefore of Rindou who liked this weird animal when he was little. 

When you sat down on the wooden floor, boards under you squeaking, cherries fell in your lap and Ran stared at them for the longest time. Bloody red on sparkling white. He was no artist, but in that moment he wished he was so he could immortalise this moment forever. Have someone else to see with the same raw emotion he did. If you noticed his hesitation you didn’t say anything. You spoke to him about your best friend, her grandparents and trip to Osaka. Saying you won’t be in Tokyo for two weeks or maybe a bit more. You didn’t know, really. You were excited and happy. 

Sitting inside the garden Ran ate cherries from your laps. Fruit scattered along you seemed sacred. As you were telling him how much more delicious takoyaki was in Osaka than it could ever be in Tokyo, you glanced at him. Your lips pink from cherries tugged in a pretty smile and Ran knew he would eternally miss this very moment; you.  

Wanting to accidentally meet you now was not a surprise to him. 

The yes of course I’d go with you to Kakucho was too said very easily. Much to Rindou’s suspicion. 

Despite his desire to see you he doesn’t search for you and so shopping and hanging out with Kakucho is pleasant. Ran truly loves his company. Kakucho is comfortable to be around and he is too polite and too kind and sometimes Ran catches himself thinking that Kakucho has no business being a criminal. He isn’t like them. He is [almost] innocent. But then Ran remembers the way Kakucho’s eyes light up in a fight. How he lands one blow after another and when his opponent is defeated, sprawling on the ground, and the look full of enthusiasm on Kakucho’s face shatters all illusions Ran might have about him. 

It’s truly peculiar how there’s perhaps two Kakucho that never meet. One that has a kind heart and gentle soul and the other one that is corrupted by anger and rage. Ran has seen both of them. Ran wonders if he is the same. If there’s good in him too. 

He sees you first. You stand outside of a shop with hands full of bags and a cup of an iced coffee. You are wearing a plaid short skirt, a blouse and a beret and while the outfit is perfectly composed it seems too out of season. But by now he knows you quite well to tell that it was intentionally done. He thinks you look beautiful [as you always do] and Ran allows himself to admire you a little bit more, eyes lingering on your face. 

“She’s way out of your league, Haitani. Didn’t think she’s your type. More like Rindou’s.” Attentive to details as usual Kakucho immediately notices Ran’s interest in you. They both stopped under the streetlamp that won’t share its light for some hours yet. 

Ran smirks, he lets out a short laugh and tears his eyes off you, looking at Kakucho. “You think I can’t pull her off?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

The verdict sounds like a challenge. Ran snorts and takes a step in your direction, partially confident, partially pondering if he really can’t make you like him. The thought is cold, but it changes with a rush of excitement that strikes his body when you raise your head and see him. There’s a huge smile on your face and in your eyes when you notice him and he grins back. 

“Ran!” You call him by his first name before you fly across the street and press your body into his as you hug him, your arms snaking their way across his neck. Plastic bags bump onto his back and thawed drops of water from the coffee cup stain his shirt. But he doesn’t mind it. He feels you smiling into his skin and he doesn’t mind it at all. “You won’t believe me, but I had a feeling I would see you today here.” 

“You probably just wanted to see me that much.” He replies in his usual lazy manner and he can feel you smiling wider, but then you pull away from his arms and glare at him acting bothered by his bold words. 

[He knows you enough to say you aren’t.]

“You so wish I was.” Your words are true and he almost admits it - maybe he does it with his eyes gleaming so intensely as he loses himself in your presence, but neither of you notices it, only Kakucho who stands to his left - yet you interrupt him. “What are you doing here?” 

It’s a sudden violent jerk that Kakucho makes that peel your attention from Ran to his friend. You gasp and purse your lips, tilting your head as you take him in. Whatever you are thinking about Kakucho is masked by your so out of character sweet smile [Ran tries to remember if you ever been this friendly with him and miserably fails] and a barely there whisper of your full name.

Ran frowns. The joy from seeing you evolves into slight annoyance. It grows even more when Kakucho, being the sweet guy he is, suggests they walk you home. And that’s how Ran finds himself carrying your bags full of fabrics and buttons - you say so yourself when he asks you why they are so damn heavy - to your mother’s home where you live because you claim it’s closer to school this way and not at all because it’s closer to your mom. 

Ran knows first what it’s like to lose parents and all the micro ways to cope with the loss. The colour you bleed is all too familiar to him; to his own. 

The walk to your home is short and soon enough the three of you are standing in front of a nice small two story house. Its grey facade and black roof doesn’t suit you at all. Your house [your mother’s house] is too dull for you, but Ran knows better than to say this outloud. Instead he appreciatively hums as he focuses on some pretty yellow flowers standing in a huge pot next to the entrance. 

“It was really nice to meet you, Kakucho! Never knew Ran has such nice friends.” You say accepting your bags from Ran’s hands. 

“He never mentioned me?” He asks, sounding genuinely offended. “Not even once?” 

The sound of your giggles rises in the air and you shake your head an affirmative ‘no’. “No. He mentioned his little brother a couple of times, though. Actually. I’ve been thinking. Me and my friends are going to “Womb” today to welcome us coming back to Tokyo so if you want to come along, you can. What do you think?” 

It’s Ran who’s been eerily silent all the time that responds. “Yes. Of course. I’ll pick you up.” 

“Great. See you at nine then?” 

“Can’t wait.” 

The words have a slightly ominous feeling to them. Maybe it’s just the tone with which he says them or maybe you both have been struck by the gift of foretelling because when your eyes stay on him a little too longer than usual, there’s no mistake that you know how today will change you both. 

*** 

Inside the bathroom where Ran has been soaking for a good hour the air is heavy. It’s hard to breathe and the voices that slip from the living room to the confinement of white marbled floor and white walls aren’t tangible. Ran catches them again and again and again, but they don’t stay and he finds himself on a rope that leads to the inner world of his very being. Somewhere where he doesn’t want to be. Ever. 

Shadows there are cruel and they bite worse than an angry stray dog. Those gushes never close and Ran knows for a fact that he will have to tend to them till the day he dies. 

“No. Ran never spoke about her.” It’s Rindou’s voice that takes Ran out of the whitish void of nothingness. It’s Rindou’s voice that speaks about you. “Is she pretty?” 

There’s no answer to that from Kakucho. Only laughter from both of them and a whistle from Shion. Ran can only guess what gesture or facial expression his friend made to describe you. 

“Ran type of pretty or my type of pretty?”  

“You think I know what you consider pretty, Madarame? You’ve never even said oh look that girl is pretty. You are always like bet she’d take my dick really well.” 

They laugh again and their laugh is warm and Ran smiles the way he would be as if he was with them now and not inside a bath full of scorching hot water. Yet, he belongs there, with them, and so he allows himself to be a part of conversation about you, about him. 

The outburst of joy follows a content silence which is interrupted by Kakucho's loud sigh. Ran can’t see them, but he can tell that his friend is smiling and he has Rindou’s and Shion’s full attention on him. 

“What is it?” “Nah. You gotta see it for yourself, Rin. I am not going to take the experience away from you.” 

“Honestly? I just hope she is not a stupid bitch.” 

“They all were stupid bitches to you, Rindou.” 

“Were they?” 

“Oh, yeah.” This time it’s Shion. “Even though Yui was pretty much fuckable you still called her a stupid bitch to her face.”

"That's ‘cause she was and Ran never went out with her. They just fucked a couple of times. Anyways, should we…” 

The rest of the conversation gets lost in between splashing water when Ran gets out of the bath. His skin is tingling and red as he wraps his body in the soft towel [Rindou likes prickly ones more]. He wipes the misted mirror with the back of his hand and when he finally sees himself in the reflection he can’t help but wonder from where in his cursed body this sweet tug comes from when he hears his friends talking about you.

And because he has no answer he at least can hope that his younger brother won’t consider you a stupid bitch. It seems really important to him in the box that is the white room. 

*** 

The grey house doesn’t make any impression on Rindou. He can’t understand if you are rich or poor or what your status is or anything related to your character because the house is dull. It’s ordinary and Rindou thinks that even he with his minimalistic approach to life and fashion got to hate it too. 

Maybe, though, he is salty that his older brother urged him away from the front seat of his car the moment the freshly changed tires of Ran’s Honda stopped in front of your house. 

His eyes stop out of the huge pot with flowers - he can’t tell the colour of them though, his poor eyesight being an obstacle - and then drift to the enormously large window where he can spot your dark silhouette. You probably are putting your shoes on. 

Rindou couldn’t care less about you. That though doesn’t stand for his brother. He loves Ran more than he loves anything and when he stares at his brother stealing quick glances at the house he swears he can see through the walls and see you just as well as Ran does. His heart [it’s Ran’s] beats faster and faster and long fingers grip the steering wheel too painfully. Anticipation, excitement, eagerness. 

Rindou feels it all through Ran. He feels what Ran feels for you. 

So when you slide into the passenger seat in your really well put too stylish outfit Rindou is overwhelmed by the moon waves of calmness that strike through his body [Ran’s]. He is burnt when you touch Ran’s arm and side hug him. To Rindou you are like a blazing sun, but for now he feels you through Ran and the intensity of it all swallows him whole. He is barely here. 

Until you turn your face to him and say. “You must be Rindou. You look so different from Ran, but you are the same.” 

“I don’t know what I would’ve done to you if you mistook my little brother for Shion.” Ran laughs a pretty earnest laugh and a huge smile blossoms on your face as you turn to him not waiting for Rindou’s answer. “It’s Shion Madarame, by the way. My friend.” 

“Nice to meet you, Madarame.” You speak as you lazily stretch your hands before yourself. You are wearing opera gloves.  “Nice to meet you too, Rindou.” 

The first name basis specifically for him doesn’t go unnoticed, but Rindou doesn’t say anything. He is perplexed by you and what you are. 

He might not know you at all yet. You might be nothing to him and that dull grey house is so distasteful he swears he doesn’t want to see it ever again. Yet he likes you already. Through Ran he does. And that’s why when your eyes meet his in the rearview mirror and you smile at him he smiles right back at you. 

*** 

“Womb” is the farthest thing from some classy nightclubs in Roppongi that Ran and Rindou like very much.

It’s too spacious, too grand and too flashy. It’s pretentious. And as well as Rindou hates this obnoxious trait in people he hates it with the same passion in the inanimate objects. The whole club and people in it irritates him to the point where it’s borderline rude angriness. Kakucho is the first one to notice it and he - a gentle soul - in an attempt to soothe Rindou throws his arm around his shoulders. Rindou appreciates the gesture, but it doesn’t dissolve an annoying feeling. 

He, for whatever reason it may be, wishes Ran would notice his changed demeanour, but right now it’s too much to ask. Ran is focused on you. Rindou sees the way his brother’s head slightly leans to yours as he attentively listens to whatever it is you are saying to him. You hold Ran by his elbow leading him to wherever your friends are. Shion follows close behind, but he doesn’t participate in the conversation and Rindou understands too well why. 

His chest hurts. 

But he is curious and an unknown eagerness comforts him. 

Every single one of your friends is stylish. Too stylish. Pretentiously stylish. Rindou assumes they also are quite rich or either they have connections. Tons of alcohol and a spacious private booth overlooking the dance floor is what makes him think so. If he was Ran he would also notice designer clothes and bags, but he doesn’t. You introduce them to your friends and one of the girls eyes Ran a bit too much. Too suspicious. But then she relaxes and her eyes go wide in recognition. She exclaims, now I understand why the yukata she makes is so pretty, and instead of looking at Ran who with a half-smile looks at you, you look at the floor. 

When the clock strikes just one after midnight Rindou is more than curious and a tiny bit tipsy. He now knows every single one of your friends - and you - by name. He knows that one of your best friends is in Geidai studying architecture, and the other one studies design in the same school as you. He also understands that one of the boys - your classmate - likes you very much and it’s so painfully obvious, Rindou cringes every single moment he approaches you in his lame attempts to flirt. [Not that Rindou is better at flirting, he just doesn’t hit off with this particular guy or rather it’s the guy who doesn’t like either Rindou, nor Ran or Kakucho or Shion]. And as expected one of the girls sneaks glances at Ran a bit too much and as expected Ran notices it and as expected he doesn’t pay any attention to her at all. 

But both of you don't speak much either and that’s where Rindou’s curiosity lies. 

Just one after midnight you plop on the sofa beside Rindou and set a half-full glass full of gin on the table. You move it away, dragging it across the table, with the back of your left hand. The sound it makes is not pleasant. It sounds tired. 

“So?” You say. 

“So?” He echoes, turning his head to look at you. In the blue disco lights that reflect off your skin you look ethereal.

You whine. Dramatically. And biting a lip you  tilt your head to the side. “I asked first, Ran’s little brother.” 

He gasps then and under the influence of alcohol your words that weren’t said in intention to be playful seem so funny to him, he laughs. You laugh too. 

“Ran’s little brother? Is this how he calls me behind my back?” He asks you, a beautiful teasing smile on his lips. “Have he told you a lot about me?”

You squint your eyes at him and scoot closer, the leather under you squeaking. “Not really.” You move even closer and then you lay your hand on his arm squeezing it. “He said you love music, want to own a club one day, hate McDonalds and that your favourite colour is white.” 

“That’s all he said?” 

“No. Not really. He mentioned that you like DJing. Have a whole setup at home and he hates it when you use it, because it’s too loud, but he lets you do your thing anyway. Oh. And your obsession with the gym.” 

There’s a loud noise coming from the dance floor. It’s a woman screaming. She sounds happy. Music doesn’t stop and she screams some more. No one pays her attention besides you. You turn around and a small smile tugs at your lips. When you shift back you lay your head on Rindou’s shoulder. He doesn’t mind it. 

He doesn’t mind you at all anymore. 

*** 

The night passes quickly as all good pleasant things do.

But as usual there’s a moment of worry. A moment of uncertainty. A threshold to where all the things go wrong. It finds you after four in the morning. 

The music is slowing down and people that have remained are barely a crowd. The club is going to close in an hour or so. The lights are fully on and Rindou is discussing with Kakucho how everyone will get home. Despite you and Ran barely interacting throughout the whole night both boys are sure he would want to take you home. But for now he is still sitting at the table chatting up a cute girl. A friend of yours from the oil painting department of Geidai. The nature of your relationship with Ran is more abstract than ever. Rindou can’t crack it up. 

“Here you are.” The voice is loud so everyone stops talking and turns their attention toward a young obviously very drunk man stepping through the door. “And here I was thinking what club you were whoring yourself out today. With whom are you sleeping these days?! Is it this one? Or this one? Or maybe it’s this one?” 

The man is tall and he is very beautiful and that makes the situation even sadder than it already is. When beautiful things are stained, unfairly so, they become cruel. The ugliness seeping through the holes. 

“Orochi.” It’s you who speak and so it’s you to whom the words were addressed to. “Go away. You are drunk.” 

“Will you come with me?” He asks, extending his hand. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “No. I won’t.” 

"Is it because I am drunk or is it because you have someone else?”

Your best friend snorts. “You say it as if you were ever together. Come on, man. Get the fuck out of here. None of us wants you here. Especially her.”  

His head falls to his chest and he lets out a miserable laugh that reminds Rindou more of a bark. “This is how it is?”

The knife appears from his pocket too quickly, too sudden no one reacts in time. But this Orochi guy is intoxicated a bit too much and so when he flashes it aiming to drag it across your face, it doesn’t even touch you. He tries a second time, cursing at you. Stupid ugly bitch, he spits, the knife slicing the air again. Such a whore. Dumb fucking slut.

“Easy here. Watch how you speak to my girl. One more word and you are not going to end up simply beaten.” Ran voice is steady. It’s venomous. And what everyone perceives as a promise for Rindou is a certain fact. 

“Who the fuck are you?” “I am Ran Haitani and right now we are going to leave, but I will find you a day after tomorrow and you are going to regret every single word you said.” Ran crosses the booth stepping in between you two. His back to the guy. It’s disrespectful. It’s humiliating. It’s very Ran of him. Rindou can’t see from where he stands besides the door, but by the way Ran’s hands rise up, he can assume he is holding your face in his palms. He whispers to you. “You okay? Let’s get you home.” It’s stupid and naive, but it’s expected for Orochi to be hurt and another attempt to poke - this time Ran - with his knife is stopped by Shion who is the closest to where you stand. He hits him in his jaw and the booth suddenly turns red. There’s a tooth laying under the sofa now. 

When Ran turns around. His face is calm. He holds your hand and even with his bad eyesight Rindou catches the tenderness with which he caresses your skin with his thumb. “Don’t overdo it, Shion. I want him to at least show me some resistance when I see him next time.” “Aye, captain. As you wish. Go get your girl home. Me and Kakucho will take care of the rest. Right, Kaku?” 

Kakucho shrugs. There’s nothing really left to say or to take care of. The world is suddenly gloomy and cold. 

*** 

Rindou doesn’t really understand how, but he ends up in your house with a bowl of instant noodles and leftover chicken. 

You and Ran sit opposite him on the couch. Your knees are touching. You speak of cherries. Rindou has no idea what is so amusing about these specific fruits, but he listens anyway. The TV is off and your conversation the only entertainment available. 

“I am actually really sorry you had to witness that.” You sigh, head low. You aimlessly poke your noodles with chopsticks as you speak. “I’ve never had anything with Orochi. He was just a friend of mine and he said I led him on, but I don’t think I’ve ever done something for him to believe I like him or you know…  He just made a move one day and I said no. And that was it. Mizu says he is obsessed.”

“That he is for sure.” Ran takes the bowl away from you. “Good thing he won’t be anymore.” 

“Ran… I don’t want you to… It’s not necessary. It’s too much.” The tone is almost pleading and Rindou knows his brother a bit too much, feels him a little too well to know two things. The first one is that he hates it when people he cares about decline his help. The second one is that he terribly achingly wants to kiss you and it only intensifies when you continue speaking. “It’s not that I am afraid for Orochi, but I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me. It’s like a betrayal and I don’t want to betray you ever.” 

“Hey. Can I use your bathroom for ten minutes?” Both you and Ran snap your attention to Rindou who stands up from the armchair. You furrow. “It’s upstairs. Second room to the left. And you can use it for however long you want. Do you actually both want to stay over tonight? You are probably too tired to drive anyway.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Good. I’ll be back in ten minutes exactly.” 

When Rindou disappears in the blue haze of dawn that slips through the windows of the second floor he hears Ran’s soft laugh and your whispering. It’s probably about him, but then again, he doesn’t mind it.

He doesn’t mind sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in your house for fifteen minutes - just for a good measure - so as to give his brother a chance to slowly kiss your bad night and worries away. To pull the thread of sadness that has been knitted through your face since the episode in the club and all the way till now away. He doesn’t mind it either when he goes back, fake yawning, and sees his brother laying on you, his face in your neck as he draws comfort from your warmth. He fetches you a pillow and a blanket and takes you to your bedroom, leaving you two alone. Ran might pretend he is sleeping, but Rindou knows better. He doesn’t mind this innocent lie. 

He doesn’t mind you and as he lays in your bed he thinks that there was never a single time today where he wanted to call you a stupid bitch just like all girls Ran has been with before. But then was Ran ever with someone before? 

Rindou says no. He says it’s loud and then he remembers how Ran called you his girl. Rindou thinks it suits you a bit too much. Being Ran’s girl and all that it includes. 

He doesn’t know you well and there’s still a long road before he does, but he trusts you and he likes you and before he falls asleep he hears a sweet sound of glass chime. The aroma of orchids fills the house. 

[sillyrabbit81]

The Fallen Wolves Brotherhood - Part Seventeen

Series Summary: Lori "Babycakes" Tate swore she would never date a biker but when her life is in danger, she is put under the protection of a small club known as The Fallen Wolves Brotherhood. She suddenly finds herself attracted to not one, but five bikers.

A reverse harem, biker AU.

Part Seventeen Summary: Lori finds out more about Jake. Walker finds out about the pact.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC, Walter Marshall x OFC, Mike x OFC, Geralt x OFC, August Walker x OFC

Word Count: Approx. 3.4k

Warnings:

Series Warnings: Reverse harem, age gap (OFC 23, ages range from 23 to mid 40s), oral sex (male and female receiving), unprotected p in v sex, anal sex, group sex, masturbation, praise kink, mentions of body fluids, drug use, recreational drinking, sex work, criminal activities, mention of death, violence, use of weapons, mentions of war, mentions of abuse, angst, fluff, probably a lot more that I will add as they come up.

Part Seventeen Warnings: slight angst, violence, mentions of blood, implied smut

Authors Note: Thanks as always to my lovely BBFs (Best Beta's forever) @henryobsessed and @nashibirne .

This chapter is from both Lori and Walker's POVs. I know it's a bit different to how I've been structuring the story, but I felt like it needed to be done this way.

There's more exposition here, but I think that will be all for a while.

Divider made by me. Edited by me, there will be errors.

Masterlist

Parts Masterlist

Part Sixteen Part Eighteen (coming soon)

Lori

“Are you sure you don’t want breakfast first?” Marshall asked as we approached the open door to Walker’s office.

I shook my head. “Let’s get this over with.”

He gave me a brief approving smile before cupping the back of my head and kissing me on the crown.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I took a deep breath to steel myself for what I was about to face and I walked into Walker’s office.

The space was simple enough, basically furnished with a dark, almost black, modern looking desk with a laptop and a number of open files and papers making a mess of the otherwise clean room. There was a matching filing cabinet and a bookshelf, a low modern black leather sofa and four simple chairs pushed against one of the grey walls and the floor was carpeted in a similarly grey rug. The only feature that appeared decorative was an abstract art piece that ran nearly the entire length of the wall.

It immediately caught my eye; it was impossible to ignore. The work was lit by museum style lighting and spread over two canvases. It was mostly white with sometimes wispy, sometimes harsh, feathery slashes of black, grey and brown paint. While there was an obvious darkness to the piece, there was something heartachingly optimistic about it. For some reason I was reminded of being a kid, blowing hard on a dandelion and watching with glee as the pappus floated away on the wind carrying with them the potential for adventure and a new life.

Walker cleared his throat. I glanced at him quickly, he was taking his seat behind the desk and Marshall was carrying over two chairs. I turned back to the painting and tried to reconcile the art with its owner, but couldn’t for the life of me see the connection.

What would a piece like this mean to a man like Walker? If it was simply melancholic and evoked feelings of fear and dread, I could see the attraction for him. However, the undeniable sense of potential hope and happiness born from the darkness had my curiosity piqued. Why would he not only buy it, but give the piece a place of honour, something that no other object in this room seemed to have? It couldn’t have been cheap, the artist was no doubt talented and experienced; it must have cost a fortune.

“Oh,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes. “Of course.”

It was an investment and a way to hide his true net worth from authorities. Granted, it was a high brow, convoluted way of laundering money, but it wasn’t unheard of, especially for international criminal syndicates. It was the only explanation that seemed plausible.

Taking one last look at the painting, I sat down next to Marshall. He pulled out his notebook while Walker selected one of the files scattered over his desk and opened it. He selected a page and showed it to me.

It was a grainy and dark photograph of the interior of a nightclub and appeared to have been lifted from security footage. A number of people were in the shot, mostly holding drinks and standing in groups of twos or threes. At first I didn’t grasp the significance of the picture, then I gasped as I recognised the couple in the middle of the frame.

“Jake,” I whispered. 

“Jacob Owen Wright,” Walker corrected.

Barely able to tear my eyes from the photograph, I looked at the two men, “How did you find him? Just from this picture?”

Marshall looked a little sheepish and glanced at Walker who showed no embarrassment. “I had some associates sweep your apartment for fingerprints and DNA.”

“What?” I asked, my voice hard with anger. “You had no right to do that without asking.”

Walker took out another couple of pages and showed me pictures of what I recognised to be Jake’s apartment only by the kitchen cabinets because the rest of the apartment was completely bare.

“We didn’t have a lot of options. The whole place was scrubbed. Not a single piece of usable evidence was found to start an identification. Your apartment was the only other place we knew for sure that he’d been.”

“You could have asked,” I said, only partly paying attention to what I was saying.

My mind was in a whirl and I found it difficult to pin down any single thought. It was clear that Jake had lied to me about who he was and what his interest in forming a relationship with me was, but this along with the tracking device suggested that a bigger conspiracy was at play.

“So, you found something in my apartment?”

“Not a lot, but enough for an ID. A thumbprint was found on the top edge of the headboard of your bed and further examination found the rest of the prints on the back as if it had been grasped and used for purchase,” Walker informed me blankly.

My cheeks heated as I realised how those prints got there. I remembered when it had happened and remembered looking at the athletic cords of his arm muscles stretching and contracting as he used the bed as an anchor to go harder and deeper. I felt like such a fool. In the back of my mind I must have known there was something off about him, which was probably why I never want the relationship to make the transition from casual fuck buddies to something more serious. I don’t know why I ignored that feeling and let myself be drawn in by a man who had nothing to offer but lies and deception just because he had the veneer of civility. Looking up at Marshall, it struck me that while the Brothers appeared to be lawless and crude, they treated me better than any man I had known other than my father, Nate, and Hustle.

“Prints on file mean a criminal record right?” I asked.

Again the two men exchanged glances and again Walker spoke, “Not necessarily. But in this case, yes. One offence in New Mexico as a youth. While he was born in your home town, it appears as though he moved around a lot. His mother, born Louise Anne Huxley, married several times, however Jacob’s birth certificate lists no father and we haven’t been able to find one. Louise changed her name several times, with each marriage and on a few occasions without a marriage. Jacob’s birth name was Jacob Flynt, but he has also been known as Turner, Johnson and now, Wright.”

I peered at the photo of me and Jake again. He never even mentioned that he had been born in my hometown, only saying he had moved there a few months before we met; he hadn’t even said moved back. He hadn’t been open about himself like Marshall or Sy, or even Mike and I never would have asked him to be. I’d known the Brothers less than a week and I knew more about each of them than I did about Jake. Well, except for Walker.

“Anything else?”

Walker shook his head. “We have more leads to run down, I’ll let you know if we find anything more significant.”

“You’ve had some time to think,” Marshall said, “have you thought of anything else, anything at all that could help with the investigation?”

“No. Nothing I haven’t already told you.” My eyes were drawn back to the canvas. “Have you told my brother? Does he know anything about this?”

“I spoke to Hustle—” Walker started.

“I asked about Nate,” I brought my attention back to Walker whose jaw muscles quivered beneath his stubbled cheek. “Have you spoken to him?”

“No.”

I nodded and swallowed down my fear. Nate must be alright; Hustle would have said if he wasn’t and despite everything, I’m sure Walker would tell me if something had happened to him.

“Is that all? Can I go now?” I asked.

Walker gave me a curt dip of his head, so slight it couldn’t be called a nod.

I stood and turned swiftly on my heels as I headed for the door.

Walker

Marshall gave me a flat, unimpressed stare as he followed Lori out of my office.

“Jesus,” I muttered as I placed the papers and photographs back in the manilla folder. What the hell did I do this time to get her so riled up? 

Sighing, I tapped the file on the desk and glanced up to see Marshall lifting Lori’s chin with a crooked finger in a way that suggested a familiarity that was far too inappropriate for my liking. It was a good thing Sy wasn’t here to witness it; no doubt he’d go completely apeshit. A kiss on the cheek was one thing, even Mike’s game yesterday was basically harmless, but the way Marshall was looking at Lori was absolutely not benign. 

I was sure Marshall would pull away before they actually kissed. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to kiss her; the girl was far too attractive for her appeal to be ignored. She was artlessly beautiful and she had a spark of fiery willfulness that always made my cock ache when I imagined seducing her into submission. But this wasn’t about Lori, I didn’t give two shits if Lori stepped out on Sy, it was about Marshall. Marshall wouldn’t betray Sy, he wouldn’t betray a Brother. Surely he wasn’t going to—

“Holy Shit!”

He did it, he actually kissed her.

My blood ran like napalm through my veins, my sight going red as I lept my desk and letting the uncontrolled rage rush through my system along with the burst of adrenaline, I let it all out in one furious punch squarely in the middle of Marshall's face.

A scream and a warm spray of blood slapped me across the face, quickly sobering me. 

Oh fuck, what have I done?

Marshall held his nose, no doubt busted and Lori was pushing me out of the way as she tried to get Marshall to lower his hands so she could see the damage. Marshall wasn’t having it, stepping around her as he confronted me.

“You deserve that, you know you do,” I said, coolly.

“And why the fuck would I?” Marshall said, blood pooled in his mouth which sprayed out as he spoke.

“You think Sy would have gone easier on you? Should I have just let him deal with this?”

“And why the fuck would you care what Sy would do?”

“I’m not going to let a woman break this club up, I don’t care who the fuck she is.” 

“It’s not what you think Walker,” Lori had the hide to say. I turned on Lori, her face was pale with fear, but she held her chin up as if daring me to hit her too. Fuck, she was killing me.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about Walker,” Marshall added.

“What else could I think? You’re kissing his fucking woman. You think he’s going to shrug and get over it? You’ve put the whole club in jeopardy and—”

“Walker!” Geralt entered my office, planting himself firmly between Marshall and me.

“He was kissing Lori,” I said. Jesus, I sounded like a kid trying to obfuscate responsibility after being busted by their dad. I may as well have pointed at Marshall and cried, he started it.

Geralt didn’t react. Not even a tiny twitch of his eye.

“You knew? You knew and you didn’t think to stop it before he came back? He’s going to fucking kill him.”

Geralt sighed and looked at the grey carpet now decorated with a blood splatter that Dexter Morgan would have been proud of.

“Lori, take him to the kitchen and put some ice on his nose.”

Lori gave me a look of disgust that made my guts twist. Fear, I could deal with; disgust was something else entirely. Marshall still had his eyes trained on me, his eyes darkened with murderous ambition. I readied myself for him to attack, but Lori took his hand, with a gentle tug and he let himself be led away.

I turned my attention back to Geralt as Marshall and Lori disappeared into the hallway.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” I said to Geralt, turning back to my desk and sitting in my chair.

Stunned, I sat slack jawed as Geralt explained the situation - the pact the others had made - although it sounded too far fetched to be true. But it made a lot of things fall into place and explained what the others had been whispering amongst themselves over the past few days.

How could I have missed this? How could I not have known what was going on. Jesus, what else was going on in the club that I didn’t know about?

“What happens when the job is over?” I asked when he finished talking.

“Same rules as before, she decides what she wants,” Geralt replied.

“What if she wants to go home? Would you go with her?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Jesus. You’d let the club fall because of the whims of some girl?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“When were you going to tell me? When you were all packed up ready to leave and I’d be stuck here holding my dick,” I seethed through gritted teeth. “I’d expect something like this from Sy, he’s always been a little soft when it comes to women. Or Mike even, he’s a fucking kid. But Marshall? You? No. I thought you knew what we were doing here, what we were working for.”

“I don’t think she will want to leave when this is over, I think she’s found her place here.”

“This is no place for a woman.”

“She knows what she's getting into. She’s not naive.”

Geralt’s nonchalance about this whole situation was doing my head in. There was so much that could go wrong here. We could lose it all because my Brothers couldn’t think with anything but their dicks.

“You don't have to be on the outside looking in,” Geralt said with a sly smirk. “She likes you too, you know.”

I laughed, curling my lip and showing Geralt my teeth. “I saw the look on her face, she’s terrified of me.”

“Not of you, of what you represent.”

“I don't share my toys," I sneered.

Geralt nodded slowly. “It’s your call,” he stood, “I'll go check on Marshall.”

“Tell him…” I ground my teeth, what the fuck do I say?

Geralt paused and waited.

“Nothing.”

I glanced at the painting on my wall. The darkness loomed larger than usual and I turned away again quickly, not daring to hope for some light.

Over the next few days the divide between my Brothers and I widened while the others seemed to draw together as they closed in on Lori. Normally there was a schedule set up for guarding a client, even inside the clubhouse, but Lori didn’t need one; she was never alone. She went from Marshall, to Geralt, to Mike, back to Marshall. I didn’t bother offering to take even an hour of guard duty. I wasn’t asked to anyway.

I dared not ask which of my Brothers she was fucking. Marshall obviously, but had Mike and Geralt gone there too? It didn’t look like it, but I couldn’t be sure. I should have nipped the situation in the bud that first night when I found Sy in bed with her.

Dinners alternated between awkward affairs and actually entertaining. Mike in particular was lively, filling dull moments with jokes and conversation. But usually towards the end of the meal Marshall would look at Lori, and the air in the room became electrified as if statically charged. I would leave the room as soon as possible.

One evening after dinner, I walked into the common room and the four of them were there. Perched on Geralt's knee, it appeared she was playing a card game against Mike and Marshall, a small stack of chips were in front of each of them. Her brows were drawn low in concentration as Geralt whispered in her ear and pointed at her hand.

They all looked up simultaneously. Mike and Marshall dropped their heads back to their cards, Marshall still hadn’t forgiven me for the punch and barely spoke to me during meals. His bruising had faded to a few dark circles under his eyes and he had a small cut on the bridge of his nose. Geralt nodded in greeting but didn’t say anything. 

Lori watched me move around the bar until Mike pulled her attention back to the game.

“It’s your turn Babycakes.”

She peeked over her shoulder at Geralt and pointed at a card. He nodded and grinned. Lori dropped the cards onto the table with a smirk and Mike groaned while Marshall dropped his hand with a disgruntled sigh.

“I won?” Lori asked, grining.

“G won,” Mike grumbled under his breath while Marshall nodded.

She raised her hands into fists above her head and bounced excitedly on Geralt’s knee. I turned my attention to pouring my drink, slamming the glass down angrily on the counter.

“Should we play again?” I heard her ask.

“I’ll deal,” Mike said.

“Walker, do you want in?” Lori asked.

I paused, the bottle of whiskey poised just about to pour.

“On the game,” she added.

Mike snickered.

I started to pour myself a generous amount before raising my head. All four of them were looking expectantly at me. I raised my glass to my lips and had a sip, relishing the sweet burn as it passed my throat and settled in my belly.

“No thanks,” I said, already walking across the room, “some people have to work around here.”

I went back to my office. I didn’t have any work to do, not really. All the leads we had in the investigation into Jake were being handled externally by various contacts who worked for us on occasion and I had decided not to take any more jobs until this one was over. We’d had requests and offers, but after investigating Jake and relaying the information to Hustle, I had a nagging feeling something wasn’t adding up. I think we were going to need everyone on this and Sy’s experience in particular was needed.

I lit a cigar and went to the sofa on the wall. I stared at the painting on the wall as I smoked, and drank, waiting patiently for the heavy buzz that would let me sleep.

I was getting close when the gate alarm went off. I went back to my desk and checked the camera feed and saw Sy rolling the large wire gate shut before riding off to the garage. I sat in the chair and waited.

It wasn’t long before he appeared, bag slung over one shoulder, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Walker,” he said.

“How did it go?”

He placed his helmet carefully on the desk, shrugged then sat. “It was straightforward. No problems. Need a report?”

I shook my head, “Not unless there’s something we should be aware of in future.”

He grimaced, “One or two things, but nothing urgent. I’ll get it to you in a few days.”

“Fine.” 

I expected him to leave but he stayed sitting in the chair. After a few moments he spoke. “How is she?”

“Alive,” I said.

He nodded. Quiet again, he looked all around my office at everything except me then spoke again. “Where is she?”

“I last saw her in the common room with the others. If they aren’t there, then I expect she’s with Marshall,” I paused, trying to figure out what the fuck he was thinking, but he gave nothing away so I added, “Like every other night since we got here.”

He nodded again. Still nothing, his face totally impassive, I couldn’t get a read on him at all.

Sy stood suddenly, “I’ll get that report to you soon.”

I wanted to ask him where he was going to go; his room or Marshall’s? I wanted to ask him why he did it, I wanted to tell him I couldn’t have done what he did, I wanted to punch the shit out of him and tell him he was a fucking idiot. Instead I waited until he left and went back to the sofa and stared at the painting on the wall again until I fell asleep.

[angelpuns]

Official references with colors/age/extra info for Finch in the Window!

This is more or less a master post to keep everything organized!

These are just the rough refs but lined and properly colored, along with one for Splinter that shows him in his suit ( I'll add a ref of him in his naval uniform later ).

Anyway this is gonna be the master post for this au since the comic is coming out soon!

The ROTTMNT rural au is set in 1930s-40s Japan and is essentially just an au about the boys living in the Japanese countryside and dealing with the effects of pre-war ( and then later postwar) Japan. I'm making it in the same vein as Grave of the Fireflies, This Corner of The World and The Wind Rises in that it mostly deals with the effect of the war on citizens and how it upended their lives in the smaller ways ( rationing, losing loved ones, etc )

I'm putting a lot of research into this au, but of course if there as anything that needs to be changed or is wrong please let me know.

Time to ramble about some design choices!

Starting with Splinter: he's totally human in this au, but has much of the same personality as Rise Splinter, save for the movie star thing. He's a lot more contemplative, I think. His first outfit is a simple suit - Japan in the 1920s and 30s was starting to introduce more westernized fashion, at least for the men. Many women still wore kimonos, even in the cities. Since Splinter is a decently high ranked officer as well as moving from the city to the countryside, he would definitely have a suit. I also think that color wise, he has a more subtle blue-grey palette than everyone else. Because I just thought it looked nice. Later on in the au, as he settles into country life, he typically wears a yukata around the house. He also has another outfit, which is essentially just an old naval uniform that er wears to work in the garden. He's 30 at the beginning of the au, in 1932, but since that's when we see him the most I haven't added his later looks just yet.

Raph: so Raph is kind of the main character in this au. He's the eldest and originally he's the only one who really knows what's going on. In my original design he was a bit shorter, but realistically he's probably a lot bigger than all his brothers. Design choices! So, when they were kids Raph typically didn't wear a shirt at all, though sometimes when they went to the village he would wear a yukata and some simple monpe pants. He prefers just wearing an undershirt and the monpe pants, since he's ripped a lot of yukatas with his spikes. He also tends to roll his pants up because he doesn't like when they touch his ankles.

Donnie: so Donnie is the older twin to me always. He's a little taller than Leo, too, but it's barely noticeable. He has super thick glasses that Splinter had to really work to find when he was young , thankfully the prescription was good enough. Nowadays there's a yokai doctor in the village that can help with that stuff. He gets cold easily and tends to bundle up with a more traditional yukata, except he ties the sleeves up to keep them out of the way. He also typically wears monpe pants to do the housework. He does most of the household chores along with Mikey. They're really close due to spending so much time together. He also sucks at sewing.

Leo: Leo is hard of hearing, but usually only has trouble when someone speaks too quietly or there is too much stimuli, like the rain or thunder or things like that. He also has a tendency to wander around their farm at night and frequently falls asleep on the roof. He wears a combination of undershirt + monpe pants and a regular yukata. Typically its the undershirt and pants combo, even when he goes to the village. He also gets cold easily and has a bad immune system, but he still helps Raph with most of the outside labor. Mostly cause he's reckless. He has a long-standing friendship/rivalry with Usagi Yuichi, who I have left out of this post for now since we won't really see him in the comic til later. Leo is great at sewing and has made most of their clothes/patched them up.

Mikey: baby of the group, and spoilt rotten by EVERYONE. Mikey wears mostly a yukata with monpe pants that he rolls waaaaaaay up. Leo keeps telling him to just wear shorts, but Mikey is stubborn asf. He does a lot of the cooking, since Donnie taught him. He is also the closest with their father, if only because he used to spend the most time with him. Yoshi gave him his hat for safekeeping and Mikey has barely taken it off since. His favorite food is watermelon! Mikey is very interested in humans and likes to sneak away to the nearby human village. He also likes to go into the yokai village with Leo when he can.

So that's just me rambling about design choices, clothing things, stuff like that. If anyone has questions I'd be so willing to answer! Keep an eye out for announcements about the comic within the next week or so!

EDIT: here's some helpful links for this au

Finch in the Window comic

Apples Leosagi fanfic

FITW Comic (social media version)

[randomwriteronline]

Ko-Wahi was a short variety of generally not necessarily pleasant things: it was desolate, cold, harsh, and - when the winds didn't rush after one another through the icy peaks with low howling shrieks, cutting through the frigid aether like claws of an enormous Rahi reaching out to grasp any wayward Matoran foolish enough to dare wander in its territory - it was abnormally quiet.

So it reasoned that if Kopaka, Toa of Ice and Hating Being Around People, was not found anywhere else, he had to have secluded himself to a place that at the very least resembled the environment he had first felt at home in.

He didn't even flinch at the rush of air that accompanied the stomps which suddenly stopped by his side.

"You're late," he only commented.

The jovial jab Pohatu had ready for him froze in his throat, and he tilted his head slightly in genuine confusion: "Late?" he repeated.

"I expected you to be here five minutes ago," Kopaka replied.

"You were expecting... Me?"

"Of course I was," the other replied matter-of-factly: "If there's something I can depend on, it's the fact you'll chase me down to the ends of the silver sea just because."

The Toa of Stone blinked quickly a few times, eventually smirking back: "And if there's something I can depend on, it's that I'll always find you somewhere snowy and deserted."

He then leaned a little closer and proceeded to add, in a goofier tone: "Like your heart."

The gentle elbow punted in his side made him snicker as he successfully evaded it the first time; he cackled a bit louder when the second jab actually hit.

His friend did not dignify his amusement with any verbal response. Instead, he extended his finger.

Pohatu followed where it was pointing, staring at the same vast expanse of white he had just sped through (luckily without having to skid through any frozen snow - perhaps one of the very few things he certainly did not miss about the island of Mata Nui), and found nothing.

At first.

His pinprick pupils, so used to the desert sun, struggled a little more, trying to tighten even harder or widen ever so slightly: even with the clouds shielding his eyes from the sunbeams turned blinding as they were reflected on the candid coat of snow, the uniformity of the colors confused and unified all that supposedly existed before him with only few exceptions. There was snow, snow, snow, more snow, a leftover Visorak web, even more snow, another patch of snow, something looking vaguely disgusting half covered in snow, some more snow, a lance of light reflected from a point just outside the clouds' range, a vast amount of snow, a smaller amount of snow, snow, snow, and one last puff of snow over there. Riveting!

But Kopaka seldom pointed at nothing at all just to stretch out his finger; and once he truly focused on the exact location he was indicating, Pohatu saw.

He saw a jagged thing, sharp end splintered and jutting towards the sky like a blade, ever so slightly greyer than the pallor surrounding it; he saw its missing half laying mournfully among the powdery ground, defeated, cracked, open wide.

He saw its entrails, eroded by the weather, far too small to properly distinguish one object from the other from this distance - still they glittered grey and blue in the lack of color as if to remind in silent screams of their existence, once, as tools and furniture and inventions of scholars, before they'd found themselves abandoned in the wake of their master's leave as strange crystalline gore only partially hidden away in the haste of a half hearted burial.

He saw dozens of the jagged corpse's kind - once pillars, columns, immense bastions, now nothing more than ruins. Enormous animals frozen in place, never to thaw awake once more.

He saw frail, beautiful exoskeletons awaiting with such tiredness to be crushed, replaced by larvae in the bowels of which knowledge would thrive.

The wind passed between them without strength, not even lifting a snowflake.

"Breath-taking, isn't it," Kopaka murmured.

Pohatu nodded in silence.

They simply stood there for a long time, side by side, looking upon the carcasses of Ko-Metru's knowledge towers.

Looking upon what was left of a city of legends.

There had never been a Matoran called Kopaka, in the Turaga's tales.

He had never competed with Ehrye as they rushed to run errands for the seers in the hopes of one day being allowed to stand beside them at the top of those magnificent crystal constructions, spending days pondering and reading stars, uncovering the secrets of the future to the point of turning the very idea of tomorrow into such a mundane thing; he had never known Nuju, never looked at him with awe, or respect, or burning envy. He had never walked those streets, or skied down those slopes, or travelled to the Colosseum inside of a protodermis chute.

And yet he had found his chest aching as he had listened to those descriptions, from a nostalgia that wasn't his own. As though Vakama and his stories had handed him a coal that had long singed the Turaga's hand, still weakly sizzling, that now burned his palm in turn.

Mata Nui had been all he'd ever known as far as he was concerned. There had been nothing before; and if there had been, it wasn't the land the Matoran had been forced away from.

Yet despite knowing as much, despite the attempts to soothe the dull pain that had no place in his logical mind, in the long last hours he'd gotten to spend on the chiling peaks surrounding Mount Ihu the Toa of Ice had been unable to keep himself from wandering away from the material world into absentminded daydreams, trying to construct a memory that had never been there, a life he had never lived.

He had imagined Ko-Metru many times. He had imagined Metru Nui as a whole many times, the orderly archives, the silvery canals, the smoky furnaces, the dangling cables, the unmoving statues - a world for smaller eyes (like his never had been) to see. He had imagined the Colosseum, its inner mechanisms, even the Vahki guards, despite their presence being nothing but an annoyance at best and a source of uneasiness and dread and outright danger at worst. He had imagined himself getting in trouble with them often - who would they have been, to tell him what to do? What made them any different from a Bohrok?

He had imagined them often, but he had never seen them. Never whole. Never alive.

As he stared at what remained of a city of seers, he ached to have been there. Maybe he would have understood better. Maybe it would have hurt more. Maybe it would have felt more like home.

But would he have noticed? Any of the beauty, the lack of strife? Would he have liked a life such as this, spent either pondering on who knows what, or reading pages of history before they were even written, or running around tirelessly for people who did both former and latter? Would this sight have stirred something deep in him now, or would his amnesia have kept his feelings at a distance?

His chest hurt. Something inside it ached terribly, pushing hard against his muscle and metal, like a fish suddenly rushing to break the still frozen surface of a lake in a bout of claustrophobia.

He felt strange, uncomfortable.

Like something misplaced.

Kopaka's eyes wandered over the crystal towers, suddenly overwhelmed. He let out a shuddering, watery breath, as quiet as he could.

He needed not worry about being heard.

Pohatu was too enthralled by the sight before them to notice his momentary frailty.

He gazed on, unable to tear his his eyes from what his brother regarded as an enormous grave he could not mourn properly, and beheld only a thing of beauty.

It was not the vast expanse of Po-Wahi's desert, nor the infinite lushness of Le-Wahi's jungles, the burnt forests of Ta-Wahi, the Ga-Wahi reefs, the cavernous labyrinths of Onu-Wahi - it could not even compare to the frigid landscape of Ko-Wahi despite all their similarities, and he could tell from a first glance.

Ko-Metru and its siblings could have never been what the Koro of Mata Nui had been - they were not a breathing nook interwoven in the world around them: they were carefully constructed bubbles, encased, entrapped within themselves, the wild nature that once had run through it tamed carefully only to cry out despite its weakened form once the binds upon it had been snapped to pieces and left to rot.

It was not beautiful in the way he knew a land to be; it was not open and grand to the point of being frightening. It was shut on itself, broken, a pale imitation of what it had been.

And yet he found it all so gorgeous.

It had embarrassed him at first - not feeling. Remaining still and unfazed as the Turaga had longingly described what the Toa of Stone should have regarded as home, a field of statues tirelessly carved by artisans of his people. He had struggled to imagine it properly, managing only hazy scorches of some undefined place, like a mirage in the desert; and hearing his brothers and sisters wonder aloud, so curious, of how they would have expected their Metru to be, he'd been all but mortified at his own lackluster enthusiasm.

Had he really grown so self centered? All the world seemed to feel as though it had only started existing with his birth upon that fateful shore.

A city of legends on the other side of the sea... He could not have ever pictured it.

But now he was there, walking upon its streets, traveling across its lands, and it looked nothing like it had been described: it looked shattered and lost, and broken, and rusted, and standing still where it had once stood so proud and shining only to spite the cruelty of time that wanted it to bend and turn leveled.

Pohatu had lost himself between scattered remains of monumental statues, details sanded down until unrecognizable, or filled with what little life could make its home in such a crevice. He has searched between the broken Kanohi nobody had ever melted down again, seeing his and his siblings' likenesses over and over and over and over, he had followed broken cables back to the towers from which they had once served a purpose, raced along empty canals to make a sense of them, peeked into tunnels the roofs of which had been torn open like dissected anthills.

Metru Nui had never been whole, not for him.

It had always been this gorgeous wreck, this beautiful ruined landscape. He could not imagine it as anything less; he could not see it as anything mournful, or dead, or ugly.

Each toppled building was where it should have been. Each destroyed spire was exactly as the Great Spirit had intended it to be.

Such a frail, stubborn, lovely, wild thing.

A tragedy and a celebration.

Glowing brighter than the twin suns with every ounce of its incomplete, breath-taking beauty.

Kopaka felt something tug very gently at his arm. When he turned, he noticed Pohatu still hadn't taken his eyes away from the shimmering remains of the towers.

"Did you want to show me this?" the Toa asked, quietly, quietly.

His friend looked back to the sight before them and swallowed a heavy knot in his throat: "I did," he replied.

The grip on his limb tightened ever so slightly.

Comfortingly.

"Thank you." Pohatu whispered.

Kopaka did not answer.

They looked on.

[alphaflyer]

Last Line Meme

@inkvoices tagged me in a meme to post the last lines of the last ten things I've posted. Like her, I've done the first lines meme before, which disclosed that I really like starting with bits of dialogue. This should be interesting, I thought! And then I discovered that my last lines are virtually meaningless, unless you've read the story that precedes them... So instead of using the "last ten" stories, I thought I'd take my "ten most read" stories, which means there is a bit more of a chance that people have actually read them...

Also, I added a couple of lines as necessary, to give a wee bit of context - because it's never just about the very last line, is it, but the ending?

If I'm to take anything away from the experiment, it seems that my endings (except in #3, which is a collection of mini-fics) tend to circle back to the title, trying to make it make sense. What do you think?

Second Mouse:

“My next target.”   

Bond looks at the picture, and back at Clint.  A small smile curls his lips, gradually develops into a chuckle and finally into a full-fledged guffaw.  He raises his glass in a toast, for good luck, or whatever.

“Second mouse.”

2. The Skies Over Manhattan

“Looks like that storm’s here,” Clint says. 

Coulson lifts his eyes to the grey and heavy Manhattan sky, to that spot above Stark Tower, from which not so very long ago an alien army poured forth in the name of the God of Lies. 

“Could be worse,” he shrugs dismissively, even as the drops start to splatter on the formica table top. 

Clint follows his former handler’s gaze, squinting a little to keep the water out of his eyes. 

“Yep,” he says, “it sure could.”  

He breaks into a small, slow grin.  

“Could be snowing.”

3. Moments

"Anything in particular you’d like to practice?"

"Catch and release? 😎"

"I’ll repurpose my observation equipment.…"

4. In the Service: Three Times Hawkeye Questions His Orders (And One Time He Doesn't)

Clint closes his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee.  It’s black and strong, the way he likes it.  For a moment he considers whether he should add some milk, what with the shawarma churning in his gut, but ultimately decides against it. 

It’s good to have the choice, though.

5. Locust Wind

Eve returns to her desk, where Bond’s mission report is waiting under a box of Dead Sea salts. ... [He] must have written the thing on the plane; he usually never provides more than bullets. This one’s positively ponderous though, full of ruminations about Jordan and … biblical plagues?  Seriously? 

And so it comes to pass, as she flips through the barely legible notes, that Eve finds herself wondering whether there had been sightings of locusts in Lemuria before it sank.

6. Silver Bells

Somewhere, Natasha thinks that she can hear the sound of a bell tinkling, and she almost laughs out loud at the sheer audacity of the thing.  It’s purely a figment of her imagination, of course.  

But all things considered, that in itself counts as a win.

7. Highway of Diamonds

But more often than not, they just sit in silence, side by side, watching the sun setting over the sea and the falling dark.  The night before she leaves there’s a chill in the air; he puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close when she starts to shiver, and she allows herself to fall back against his warmth. 

Neither of them comments on the endless ribbon of stars that blazes in a velvet-black sky. 

8. Going to Ground

But there are two new truths in their own private canon:  One, they will never use the names “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” for cover again; and Two, they will both remember Long Island pretty much exactly the same.

9. Safe House

When she goes to check, Maria finds that he has stripped his bed for the next person Nick Fury or Rogers will send her way. That she will have another guest in her spare room soon is not in doubt.

She pops a capsule into the coffee maker, inhaling the rich, nutty scent, and allows herself a small smile. The network is growing, getting stronger.

10. Five Times SHIELD Tries to Recruit Clint Barton (And One Time He Said Yes)

“All the scum you care to kill.” 

She drains her glass and stalks out of the bar to the sound of his laughter.

Tagging @cassiesinsanity, @poppypickle, @quidnunc-life and anyone else who'd like to play!

[ll-bowman]

Thalassophile Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Masterlist

WC:1.7k

CW: feelings of being an outcast, feminine descriptions, boats and deep sea imagery, horrendous flirting

Every few weeks you sail back to a nearby island to restock and try to socialise with more things besides orca vocalisations. The sky is cloudy and the cold wind rushes onto your cheeks making them feel numb and prickly. The seagulls mew as the sound of ships loading and unloading their catch and loading other goods is abundant. The wood dock transitions onto grey cement that leads towards the bustling port town. 

A few locals smile at you and you smile back, a slow familiarity building from your routine stays in town. When you make your way up to the checkout after getting your usual groceries you see the warm smile of an older lady that is always kind to you when you come in.

“Hello dearie, back on land for a few days?” She smiles, her skin creasing along her mouth as she moves your items along as you put them in your bags.

“Yep, I need some interaction that isn’t books and whale sounds.” You laugh politely 

“Maybe you’ll find yourself a companion.” She says laughing as she hands your receipt.

“Maybe, has to love the sea just as much as I do.” 

Her lips quirk up, a look of mischievous glee evident. “Those strong dock workers like the sea quite a lot dearie, look good too.” You smile and give a nod before taking your groceries and leaving.

 As you walk towards your boat to drop off your goods, what Ms.Goodfry mentioned pops into your head. Making your head turn as you watch the crews of various ships now winding down as the sky turns dark. Groups of men and women walking into town to have a drink after a long day.

Your heart aches a bit at the sight. Wishing you had the ability to create those bonds, feel like you fit with other people and not just critters in the ocean. Adjusting your bag you clear your throat and walk back to the boat. Putting your canned goods and produce away as you tidy the cabin up. Deciding to at least be around others you pack your sketchbook and head to the pub in town. Even if you couldn’t have those connections for yourself you could fake it by observing. 

 The pub is bustling for a friday night, which is to be expected you suppose. The air is thick with laughter and the clinking of dishes. The interior is full of stained wood accents and warm light. You walk to the bar island, sitting on a chair you pull your sketchbook and pens out while you wait to order. 

  The time passes quickly as you trace the pencil lines and add shading to the scientific sketches. 

 Eventually a man behind the high top comes across from you, wiping his hands on a towel. He's tall and broad shouldered, shirt hugging his chest with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Arms covered in blonde hair and veins tensing as he moves about. Sunned skin with mutton chops decorate his face. Even just looking at him makes you feel warm and intensely aware of your body.

“Ello Luv, what can I get for yeh?” He asks, voice a deep British accent. It makes you shiver.

“Oh um can I just get whatever is on tap and do you guys have food here?”

He smiles and reaches down, grabbing a laminated menu and handing it to you. While you take a look at the menu he begins filling a tall glass with the dark foamy liquid. Your eyes skirt across the options and decide on what you want. Gods know you haven’t had one in a while. Can’t exactly make a good burger out at sea.

“Finding anythin to yer liking?” His baritone voice questions.

“Hmm yeah can I get the house burger and fries?” 

“Of course, that one's really good, ere's your beer.” 

You take it from his hand,fingertips lightly touching as you do. You suddenly feel intensely cold, like someone opened a window or a door. Goosebumps and hair standing up on your arms. Before you can look around to see if someone did let in a chill, it's gone. You feel normal again. Weird

You look up at the bartender, his eyes are curious and he looks down at your arms, now covered in goosebumps. 

“You alright there, Dove?” 

“Oh um yeah just felt like there was a breeze or something.” You smile politely as you take a sip of your beer. It's odd you've never had so many terms of endearment let alone from someone you just met. Maybe that's just how he is.

His eyes search yours before offering a small smile back.

“Names John by the way, are yah new to town or just visiting?”

That's a nice name.

“A bit of both I'd suppose. I live out on the water most of the time, marine biology keeps me busy. I come back every couple weeks to spend some time around others.” You say, more relaxed in his presence.

“A real sea lady then? What's your speciality?” He asks, eyes warm and kind.

The question gives you a bit of a start. No one has asked about your interests since college and even then it was from others in your field. Your shoulders ease down a feeling of relaxation that you haven't felt around many others overtakes your nerves.

You talk for a while, time slipping like sand through your fingers. Your food comes and between other customers John comes by many times, checking in. You talk about your work, where you grew up. He tells you he used to be in the British Air Service until he got honourably discharged due to some kind of injury. The food is incredible, truly something that warms you and admittedly makes you want to just bottle that feeling up. But you think the best part is watching John, his frame moving quickly from person to person. His hearty laugh rings out when a patron he knows says something. It seems he’s relatively close with the other workers as well, a collection of certainly different men working beside him in the busy location. As you finish your beer you think to yourself, Maybe I could have something here, something besides the ocean.

The pub is still incredibly busy as you gather your things. A part of you wishes you hadn’t already paid so you could say goodbye to John without seeming odd. You idle there for what feels like minutes, rocking from foot to foot, hand clenched on your bag. You decide he must be busy and you’ll come in another time. You sigh a little resided but still very content from talking for so long with him. The cold chill fills your bones once again as you step outside the warm interior of the pub. It’s peaceful here, the streets are full of warm streetlights and lit windows in family homes. It feels like you could make a home here, enough moving around from job to job. Your daydreaming is interrupted by someone calling your name from behind you. You turn around seeing John lightly jogging towards you.You smile and walk towards him before he closes the space between you. 

“Luv you forgot this.” He says raising his hand out to you. You look down to see your sketchbook in his large hand. Damn is he just large everywhere?

“Oh jeez I can’t believe I left that!” You exclaim while taking the book gently from his hand. 

His smile is big, cheeks bunched under his beard and eyes crinkled at the edges, hands tucked into his jean pockets. You feel shy under his gaze, like when you had a crush on an older boy in school. Even if you’re now in your 30s.

Your body feels warm, in contrast to the chilly night air. Truly it feels like you’re still inside the pub. Cheeks now feel like they’re burning up.

“Thank you for coming after me, you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve come in the morning to pick it up.”

“It’s no problem, we aren’t open til later in the day and I didn’t get to say goodbye.” Even in the dim light his eyes are warm, gentle. Like a warm spot you find in the cold ocean.

“I didn’t want to take up your time, Fridays are busy.” Lie, you wanted to spend forever talking to him.

A silence consumes the air, the distant sound of laughing from distant parties making their way home is the only thing that breaks the stillness between you. It isn’t awkward in the slightest, it's like you don’t need words. You hope he feels what you feel. The anxious excitement in the back of your throat begging to come up and show how much you already like him.

You clear your throat. “Thank you for speaking and keeping me company John. I really appreciate it.”

“It was my pleasure, dove. To be able to talk with such an intelligent beautiful woman was an honour.” He says while reaching a hand to your face. Skating a warm palm against your cheek, taking his finger and sweeping a loose hair strand behind your ear. The action makes you swoon like a teen and you swear your heart misses a beat.

“Could I walk you home?” His hand retreating as he tilts his head in question.

“Only if you don’t mind.” And with that you turn together and walk to the dock, to your anchored boat to say farewell.

You stand next to the cabin door and smile softly at John, cheeks flushed and warm. 

“I’m off tomorrow night, would you like to go out for dinner with me?” Your heart freezes then restarts again

You feel like you can’t speak for what feels like minutes but what is only a few seconds.

“I would love that, John.” You laugh nervously, unused to someone actively pursuing you.

His cheeks scrunch again, smile wide as you exchange numbers. Waving shyly as he walks back up the doc as you cup your own warm cheek, absolutely giddy at the thought of tomorrow night.

You get ready for bed dazed and fall into bed, smiling as you fall asleep.

[southfarthing]

Maedhros tries.

The guilt, the overwhelming debt of it all, weighs down on him as he turns from Fingon to his uncle, Fingolfin. It pushes him to his knees as he pleads for forgiveness despite the whispers behind him. But he lifts his chin and looks Fingolfin in the eye, and this time it is Maedhros’s turn to word his oaths.

‘Do you think you will ever regret it?’ Fingon asks later.

They are at the edge of the hall at Mithrim, sat by the gasping remains of the fire. Maedhros runs his fingers along his wounded arm, stopping abruptly short of the cloth where his hand should be.

The pain is sharp, but worse is the loss itself.

‘Will you regret saving my life?’ he asks quietly.

The crown he had never touched. His sword-hand, though, was his pride. His shame.

‘Of course not.’

At the other end of the hall, through the low light, he sees the grave faces of brothers who believed him dead: who left him for dead and now, only days after seeing him alive once more, scorn him for the title he has left untouched.

It was Fingon who found him. Fingon who saved him, despite the burning of boats and bonds and honour.

‘I wish there had been a better way to do it,’ Fingon adds in a slow, sure voice. ‘But I would rather you were alive than dead.’

Maedhros is glad to hear the firmness of Fingon’s voice once again. The cries and broken song at Thangorodrim he wants to forget.

He lets his hand fall to his side. ‘And I would rather be alive among my kin than a king chained.’

Fingon looks at him, and Maedhros wonders if he, too, is thinking of the way in which they left the shores of Aman. Shores that bled horrors into the sea.

Fingon followed him down into damnation, and still he sought him beyond hope. Perhaps it is Maedhros’s turn to follow Fingon’s lead, now.

-

Maedhros tries.

Snow brushes his face, hot with wrath and exertion, as he stands tall among the limp foes at his feet. His sword drips steaming blood behind him as he strides forward.

He didn’t think he could ever wield a blade again, and yet it swings from his left hand as naturally as it did his right, if not more so. There is a fire within him, a fire that he never thought he would inherit from his father.

But like Fëanor was robbed of his Silmarils, Maedhros, too, has been robbed. And for every day he hung from those cruel rocks, he will stain the land with another of Morgoth’s mockeries.

He won’t swear to it, but the thought burns in his mind, licking at the corners of his conscience until his sword pierces orc-flesh.

His words to Fingon, too, echo in his head – he is alive, unchained, unhindered. And he is not alone.

Ahead, he sees the banners of Fingolfin swaying in the wind.

-

Maedhros tries.

He tries so, so hard. He brings peoples, kings, armies together. And after the fury and deceptive hope, all that’s left is death.

He doesn’t know where Fingon’s body is, if a body remains. He watches as Turgon’s host retreats, slinks back to Gondolin. Maedhros is too numb to do anything, say anything.

The fire hasn’t been fully stomped out, but what’s left among the bruised embers turns against him.

-

He doesn’t want to keep trying, but he has slain kin once. He does it again.

The oath keeps him steadfast, though steadfastness is not a word he would choose as he looks around the decimated throne room. His brothers lay dead; the young king lays dead. And the one thing that could justify such brutality is gone.

The girl ran, they say, or she died. She cannot be found. And what of the other two children? The two little boys, the ones that reminded him of Amrod and Amras?

Maedhros rushes from the silent caves and into the woods, Maglor at his heels. They search in silence, and a voice in Maedhros’s head, one that sounds uncomfortably like Fingon’s, tells him that his search for the boys rather than for the Silmaril shows he isn’t utterly lost, even though the blood on his blade hasn’t yet dried.

But they never find the boys, and Maedhros looks at Maglor in the grey-green shadows.

-

These boys will live, Maedhros thinks. Maglor will see to it.

The fight has left him. The Silmaril is gone. Between Morgoth and the sea he can never cross, he lingers. In the early mornings, he wonders if it would have been better if he had died long ago, in some valiant struggle against evil.

The sun rises weakly, and Maedhros closes his eyes.

-

He can stop. He can turn back, Maglor says. Beg for redemption, try for forgiveness.

That’s the word – try. Maedhros has done nothing but try. Try to grab a hold of the noose pulling him on, reign it in, lead it himself. But the two remaining Silmarils are there, and Morgoth is gone. A fate he never believed he would see, once the initial fire of the oath had dampened on the shores of Middle Earth.

The end to his torment, the reward for his toil, within his grasp.

No. He cannot turn back from this. It ends here, in victory or in death. He makes one last effort and closes his hand around the Silmaril.

-

(though here at journey's end I lie - crossposted to ao3)

[joaquinwhorres]

Tis the Damn Season | The Lucky One (Jake Seresin x Reader)

Chapter 1: The Lucky One (aka. Dorothea)

SUMMARY ››››› The holidays have a way of dragging people back into places they swore they’d left forever. For you, it’s your small town of Coolidge, Texas and the arms of its golden boy: Jake “Hangman” Seresin.

PAIRING ››››› Jake Seresin x F!Reader (Nickname: Birdie)

WORD COUNT ››››› 5,322

WARNINGS ››››› None

MASTERLIST ››››› Here

A/N ››››› I am so excited to share this story that I’ve been planning out since July. These two are near and dear to me as is the playlist, so I hope you take the time to listen to the Taylor Swift songs even if she’s not your thing.

There wasn’t much special about Coolidge, Texas. Anyone who’d been literally anywhere else could see that. 

Of course, none of the people born and bred in Coolidge had ever been more than fifteen miles over the town line, and the only reason they wandered that far was on account of the Walmart being in the next town over and Travers’ limiting the amount of ammo a person could buy at any one time.

People by and large tended to stay in Coolidge. 

And it wasn’t because the town was quaint or picturesque or any of the other idyllic words your producers used to paint your hometown. The reason was far more tragic than that. People breathed their first and last in Coolidge simply because they got stuck here. Whether it was the mediocre schools, generational poverty, or perverse sense of loyalty to traditional American values, staying in Coolidge was more of a default than a choice.

So in many ways, winding up back here was an inevitability. At least your return was on your own terms to some extent.

You had needed to get away, and your sister’s annual argument for spending Christmas in Coolidge had been particularly compelling this year in light of that desperation. Add to that her point that she’d be leaving Coolidge at the end of the year, and it would be your family’s last chance at a Christmas together, and you were suckered into the second worst decision of your life.

Because absolutely nothing had changed about your hometown. 

You were still desperate to get out of the house. Still stealing the keys to the truck and letting the screen door slam behind you as you raced down the front yard. Still listening to your mother’s shouting as it followed you all the way to the truck, only growing quiet once you safely shut yourself inside the cab. 

You sighed, leaning your forehead onto the steering wheel and allowing yourself to bask in the brief moment of blissful silence. You should have stayed in LA.

With another sigh, you pulled yourself back up straight, flipping the mirror down to run your fingers through your hair and check to make sure all evidence of your own rage was indiscernible to the town’s eye. Satisfied, you shut the mirror back up, shifted the truck into drive, and pulled away from your family farm to head off into town. 

The fields of the surrounding farms and ranches passed by, blurring together into the dull beiges of your childhood, so different from the glittering golds, and deep blues and rich purples that you’d grown used to. No trees or mountains or buildings cut against the grey-ish white skyline, leaving you with the distinct empty feeling that only Coolidge could.

When you reached town, it wasn’t much better. Sure there were maybe a few more “Closed” signs than had been there when you left six years ago, but the staples remained: Mel’s Diner with the constant flow of patrons, the town square with statues of questionable historical figures, and Danbury’s Grocery with its sign of perpetually peeling green paint. 

You parked your truck in front of the grocer’s and climbed out, checking again in the rearview mirror that you were presentable, before turning and pushing inside. 

Danbury’s was still comprised of a mere four aisles, and yet, it was still impossible to actually find anything. 

You remembered perusing each of the long rows of shelves in high school, finding Oreos next to the pasta and bottles of Diet Coke on the same shelf as peanut butter. Back then, you’d blamed the disorganization on Evan Danbury’s apathy, illiteracy, and stash. Now you weren’t sure if the shelves were purposefully stocked in such a way to keep customers trapped between the rows, as close to an Ikea maze as you’d get out here. 

As a result, it took almost forty-five minutes to find the ingredients your mother claimed you’d wasted by baking (and subsequently burning) a few batches of Christmas cookies with your sister. Not that staying out of the house until your mother had time to get over herself was necessarily a bad thing. It was just a little pathetic even by Coolidge’s standards that you were spending that time in a grocery store.

You warned back up the second aisle to the cash register, setting the basket on the counter and greeting the older woman with a polite, “Good afternoon, Ms. Connie." 

The woman paused midway through setting down her book, her brow furrowing just a bit as she tried to place your face. You could see recognition hit her as her eyes widened, mouth hung, and hands moved straight to her hips, the book jutting out to the side. 

"That can’t be you, Birdie." 

There’s something almost discordant about the way your nickname sounded coming from her. 

You’d grown used to hearing the other contestants calling you Birdie during your time in the house, and a few people here and there on the street calling out to you in recognition as well. But the distinct twang of the word coming from Ms. Connie was something left behind in Coolidge when you made your escape. 

"Yes, ma'am,” you smiled widely, making sure to show just enough of your pearly whites to seem touched that she remembered you and not like a complete psychopath.  

“Look at you!” Ms. Connie grinned, giving you an up and down. She seemed to approve of what she saw, even if she was shaking her head. “Even more pretty than you were on TV." 

Your hand moved through the motion of smoothing back a piece of hair behind your ear, even though it was a pointless gesture. There was no hair out of place. "That’s kind of you.”

The cashier dismissed the modesty with a wave of her book-hand. “I’m just statin’ the facts,” she said, placing the book on the counter and turning to unload your basket. “So are you back home for the holidays?" 

"Yes’m,” you nodded, watching her lift the flour and pass it across the scanner with a satisfying beep. She seemed to notice that she’d forgotten to get a bag out to load your groceries into and bent down, searching for one. 

“I’m sure your parents are happy about that. I know they must have missed you somethin’ fierce,” she shouted up over the counter, finally procuring a brown paper bag and shaking it open. 

It’s a testament to having a camera on you 24/7 for a little over a month that your smile doesn’t even so much as flicker. “I think Mini’s even happier,” you deflect.

“She must feel so lucky to have you as her older sister,” Ms. Connie nodded, placing the flour inside of the bag. 

“I’m the lucky one,” you said, shaking your head. And you meant it. Because Mini was maybe the only genuinely good person left in the world. She was the one who saved up all of her money to buy her own cell phone just so she could FaceTime you. She was the one who reminded you not to read the comment section but used her own extensive collection of Finstas to fight and report trolls. She was the one who didn’t mind that everyone still called her Mini even though she was so entirely her own person the nickname didn’t even make sense anymore. 

“Hard to argue that,” Ms. Connie agreed, sending the brown sugar across the scanner. “But I always knew you were going to do big things. You can ask Evan. I used to tell him all the time." 

"How is Evan?” the question came more out of hope to stop the rambling monologue about you than an a genuine interest in the affairs of your classmates who nearly ruined your junior homecoming float with his stupid lighter.

“He’s working over at the Kurten’s ranch for now since him and Dana just had their second." 

"Oh,” the word comes out coo-ing, effectively masking your surprise that Evan Danbury was not only the father of two but also married to the girl with the highest math grades in your entire class. “Congratulations! Boy or girl?" 

"A girl,” Ms. Connie announced, beaming, sending the last of your items across the scanner and placing it into the bag. “It’s so nice to finally have a granddaughter I can spoil." 

You laughed conspiratorially, despite your firm belief that no woman in their late 40’s could use the word "finally” when talking about being a grandma.

“Looks like it’s gonna be $14.71 today,” Ms. Connie said, reading out the total.

You nodded, passing over a $20 which Ms. Connie took, punching the amount into the old-fashioned cash register so the drawer popped open.

“What about you? Any boys out there in California? You seemed pretty close to that TJ boy on the show." 

"No, ma'am, no boys,” you shook your head. “DJ and I are just friends. ‘Sides, if he’s not an Aggie’s fan, he’s not for me." 

"Atta girl,” Ms. Connie said, reaching across the counter to poke you approvingly in the shoulder. She turned back to the cash register, counting out the change. “You know, there’s still a few homegrown boys 'round here. Maybe you can reconnect with one while you’re in town.”

“Sounds like you and my mother have been talking,” you dodged with a gentle laugh. Ms. Connie smiled as she handed over your change. 

“All mothers in Coolidge just want the same thing for their daughters." 

It was devastatingly true.

You pocketed the change, grabbing the bag from the counter and receipt from her outstretched hand. "Best be getting home with these,” you said to excuse your quick exit, and Ms. Connie nodded. 

“It was good seeing you again, Birdie. Make sure you tell your folks I said hello." 

"I will,” you nodded, pushing towards the door.

“And so you know,” she called out, causing you to pause before pushing through. “I had Evan help me vote for you on his phone. Such a shame you didn’t win. Woulda been nice to see our Miss Coolidge win another crown." 

"I appreciate you,” you said with a nod and a glittering smile. 

Which slid from your face the moment you were out the store and turned away. 

God you hated it here.

You took a deep breath, looking at your truck and then further off into town, wondering if there was anything there that’d keep you both out of the house and out of small talk. Your eyes fell on the bar, a tempting option. Although, 3 pm was a little early even for you, and the inevitable scandal of the former homecoming queen getting day-drunk by herself was hardly worth the brief moment of peace.

You tore your gaze from the bar and back up the other side of the street, gaze going from garland-wrapped streetlight to garland-wrapped light, like the string of lights hung from the storefronts. 

It was the door of the farm supply store opening that pulled your attention back to the moment and away from the Christmas decorations. A blonde man about your age walked out with two bags of feed over his shoulder. He matched the town’s “Very Country Christmas” aesthetic, red and white checkered shirt tucked into blue jeans too dark and stiff to be anything but brand new.

A smirk crossed your lips at the sight. 

But it vanished the minute he dumped the bags into the bed of the truck and turned in your direction. An involuntary gasp left you. 

You’d known he’d probably be in town. Your sister had made a point of keeping you updated over the past few years of all his visits to Coolidge. She’d also “casually asked” the night you arrived if you had plans to meet up with him while you were here. When you said you didn’t even know if he’d be in town because you didn’t have his number anymore, she informed you that he hadn’t missed a Christmas yet. And yet, over the past three days, no word of Coolidge’s Golden Boy returning home had spread which could only mean he wasn’t here. Because if there was one thing your town loved to do, it was stick Jake Seresin on a pedestal.

“Jacob Seresin,” you called out, stopping the blonde mid-step on his way around the truck. His head snapped in your direction, eyes squinting to see who had called out to him. You started towards him, not even bothering to drop the groceries off in the truck. 

It was clear the minute he recognized you, because he shook his head and moved quickly across the street to meet you. 

“Heard you were in town,” he said by way of greeting, hands tucked in his pockets lazily. 

“You asking about me?” you smirked, enjoying the amusement reflected back at you in his own smirk. 

“Only in your dreams,” he quipped. You snorted out a laugh as he nodded to you. “Mom made sure to let me know that Coolidge’s very own TV star was in town.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Didn’t have the heart to tell her that The Network isn’t a real TV show." 

If you hadn’t grown up running in the same circles as Jake Seresin, the jibe might have gotten under your skin, or at least stung a little. Instead, it landed on you like an annoying fly. An irritating presence there one second and gone the next.

"My paycheck was pretty real. How’s the Navy treating you?” you asked, voice light and breezy.

"They treat the top 1% of their Naval Aviators pretty damn well, actually. I'm sure you'd understand if you hadn't finished, what, 4th?"

“Third,” you corrected. “Of 15. You know, a number small enough where there is no top 1%. Unless of course, you need me to explain the math to you.”

The wide smile broke across his face. “It’s good to see you Birdie.”

“Of course it is,” you answered, moving forward to wrap the arm not holding your groceries around Jake’s shoulders in a hug. Instead of the quick “tap and go” hugs you were used to greeting friends in LA, Jake wrapped his arms around you, folding you into a real hug. The hug wasn’t long enough to be awkward or uncomfortable or fodder for the Coolidge whisper machine, but it was enough time for you to appreciate that in your absence, Jake had grown even more solid than he was back in high school. He’d always been strong and athletic, but there was almost an immovability to him now. You wondered if he could feel that the opposite had happened to you. 

You stepped back out of his grasp, sticking a smile on for good measure. Jake’s hands returned to his pockets. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you around here again. What brought you back?" 

"Mini,” you answered, readjusting your grip on the groceries. “She gave a pretty impressive guilt trip about how this was her last Christmas in Coolidge, and all she wanted was for me to come home." 

"All she wanted for Christmas was you?” The teasing undertone was evident in his voice as he lifted an eyebrow. 

You nodded. “And who am I to deprive the less fortunate?" 

Jake snorted, shaking his head at you. "How long are you staying?" 

"Just through New Years. "You?" 

He tilted his head in a manner that looked far more like a shrug than it maybe should have. "Hopefully the same. Depends if I get called back early." 

You hummed, eyeing him up. "So you’re saying that I’m going to have to hear my mother go on about how you’re the real golden child of Coolidge for the entirety of my stay." 

"Sorry,” he shrugged. He did not look the faintest bit sorry. In fact, his back seemed to straighten a little more. 

You scoffed. “And I bet she won’t talk about your missing accent." 

"What missin’ accent?” he drawled perfectly, and you flipped him off as he laughed. “Come on, Birdie. You and I both know I’ve always been the real golden child. Think about it. I’ve had a float in the homecoming parade the past seven years. How many have you had?” he asked, holding up two fingers as if you needed to be clued in to the answer. 

“That’s 'cause my ego won’t shatter if people don’t make a big deal of telling me how important I am four times a year." 

He raised an eyebrow. "Big talk from the influencer." 

”Ohmygoodness.“ 

Both you and Jake swung around to see two middle-school aged girls with round eyes looking up at you. Jake slid on a winning smile, his posture stiffening just a little. You eyed him with the analysis of a publicist, impressed at how this man who wasn’t media-trained seemed to shift effortlessly into the confident and charming character he was known for here. Then again, media training was nothing compared to living with the Coolidge spotlight on you.

Still, it was tempting to lean over and pinch the back of his arm the way you used to back when he was talking to girls practically falling over themselves to fawn over him. ”I figured you needed to release all that hot air somehow,“ you’d remark, and he’d always glare even as he reigned his ego back in.

"You’re Birdie,” the shorter of the two girls said.

You could feel more than see Jake deflate some next to you. It was what made your own smile grow a bit more. 

“Yep,” you nodded, good naturedly. 

The girls continued to stare at you blankly in either awe or panic, you weren’t sure. 

“Y'all doing some Christmas shopping?"  you asked, pointing at the bags on their arms. They seemed surprised to find themselves carrying things, and the taller one shook her head. 

"We’re having a party in our English class." 

The answer seemed incomplete, but even Jake had the good grace not to do much more than give a light snort. 

"You were so good on The Network,” the shorter one complimented, and the other nodded in agreement.

“You were my favorite. And not just because you’re from Coolidge,” the other said, hurrying to tag on the clarifier as if she’d be deemed a fake fan for liking you because you had something in common.

“'Preciate it,” you nodded, smiling. 

Another awkward silence overtook the four of you as the girls looked at each other, making wide-eyed insistent faces back and forth before finally the short one asked, “We were wondering if we could take a picture with you for our Instagrams?”

You nodded. “Of course. Jake would you mind?" 

"Sure for five bucks.”

The girls scrambled into their pockets as you hit him on the arm. “He’s just jokin’; y'all don’t need to pay.”

“Oh.” The two laughed nervously before one offered up her pastel pink case over to him. You placed your groceries on the ground by his feet, wrapping an arm around each girl as they came up on either side of you.

Posing for promotional photos, perfecting your posts, parading around pageants, and years of cheer had honed you into something purely photogenic. You didn’t even feel the need to see the phone as Jake handed it back to the girl. 

“Well, I hope y'all have a nice party and a Merry Christmas,” you said, waving goodbye and hoping they caught on to your dismissal. They did, scurrying away, heads together as they looked over the pictures as they went. You caught pieces of their conversation, the words “pretty” and “lucky” making an appearance as they always seemed to whenever people were talking about you.

Jake picked up your groceries and offered them back to you. You accepted, eyes catching onto your truck. 

“I should probably head home with these before my mother’s head explodes,” you sighed. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“You going to the Campbell’s party tomorrow?” he asked. 

Your brow furrowed and you shook your head. “Danny Campbell’s?”

Jake nodded. “He and Rebecca have a Christmas party every year at their place for everyone who’s back in town.”

As if anybody had ever left town besides you and Jake. You didn’t voice the snark though, instead trying to figure out which of your former classmates would exactly be there. “Rebecca like Rebecca Tunstall?”

“Hickey,” Jake corrected, shaking his head at you. “You didn’t keep track of anyone did you?”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on ever coming back." 

"And yet, you’re here,” he pointed out, the statement settling between you. It seemed to grow in the space between you, the silence pushing out and making itself known. Jake was the one to break it. “I’ll pick you up if you want, and we can go together. Unless you think you’re better than the little people." 

You snorted, pulling yourself back together and out of all thoughts about what had put you on a plane back to Coolidge. "I’m perfectly capable of taking myself,” you said, starting to walk backwards towards your own truck. “And for the record, I know you think you’re better than the little people too." 

He laughed at this, the sound following you to your truck and bringing the first genuine smile to your face since you’d come to town.

You looked…out of place.

Granted, you had always looked out of place in Coolidge, even as far back as the first time he remembered seeing you filing into the pew behind your parents. You’d spent the whole of Sunday service swinging your legs, shiny red boots catching the light and his attention. There had always been a vibrancy to you compared to the rest of Coolidge. Like a piece of Oz that had found itself swept away into this taupe little town.

But seeing you now, looking like a California goddess as you climbed into the muddy old pick up with a busted ull bar just seemed wrong. You belonged with palm trees and neon cars and golden roads. Not here.

Jake sighed, pulling his attention back to his truck. He needed to head home too. HIs "quick trip to Travers” had turned into what was essentially a greeting line for all of the old vets hanging around the farm supply store. Each man seemed more eager than the last to relive his glory days either through recounting a long and winding story about his time in the service or living vicariously through Jake as they grilled him on his Naval career. 

It was exhausting and less of an honor the men probably thought their attention and approval was. Because sharing the highlights of his successes hardly meant anything when his audience couldn’t grasp just how impressive he really was. 

Thankfully, the drive home was quick, and it took even less time to unload the truck than it did to put everything in now that he wasn’t being stopped in between each bag to greet someone new.

Still, by the time he walked into the kitchen, his mother had already started supper, frying something in a cast iron skillet on the stove. Rather than helping, Melissa and Hannah sat at the table, deep into a game of cards.

“What took you so long?” Hannah demanded before he even had the time to take off his boots. His mother turned from her task to cast a scolding look at her youngest who, for her part, completely ignored it as she discarded the four of clubs.

“The senior center took a field trip down to Travers, so I had to relive World War II with the fossils." 

Hannah burst into laughter as his mother admonished him with a sharp "Jacob!” She brandished her spatula at him. “Those men fought for you. The least you can do is pay them some respect." 

"Sorry, Ma,” Jake apologized, rounding the kitchen table so he could wrap an arm around his mother and kiss her on the cheek. “I’m just tired.”

She hummed and patted the side of his head which he took as forgiveness.

“Did you run into anyone else?” his older sister asked, drawing a card from the stack in front of her.

Sometimes Jake swore that she could read his mind. It had always been unnerving and inconvenient because it wasn’t like he could lie or even skirt around it. The Seresin women were practically bloodhounds when it came to finding out the truth, able to sniff out any small fib immediately. 

He nodded. “Birdie was out doing some shopping." 

Both his mother and his little sister swiveled to face him, their separate tasks completely forgotten.

"How is she?” his mother asked, trying (and failing spectacularly) to keep the excitement from her face.

“Good,” he answered with a shrug. “Still herself.”

“So you’re still in love with her?” Hannah asked.

Jake ignored his younger sister, walking back to Melissa’s side and staring at her hand. Across from him, Hannah smirked. “That’s a yes." 

Jake moved three cards around in his older sister’s shand, and she smiled up at him. "I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite." 

Hannah’s face scrunched in confusion, the look quickly shifting to shock as Melissa lay her cards down on the table. "That’s not fair!” Hannah gaped. 

“Neither’s life,” Jake retorted, and Hannah flipped him off behind her cards, out of their mother’s view.

“How long is Birdie in town for?” his mother asked, bringing the subject back around as she flipped the sausage in the pan. 

“Just the holidays,” he answered, looking up at her from the remnants of his sister’s game. 

“That gives you, what? Two weeks of Mom trying to convince you to marry her?” Melissa asked, gathering all of the cards into her hand. Hannah passed hers over, sliding them onto the top of the deck.

Their mother sucked her teeth, and turned her gaze back to the pan. “I was going to say that you should invite her over to dinner, but if I’m just going to get accused of meddling, I won’t,” she huffed.

Her guilt trips had lost their power over the years. After facing down enemy pilots and having the lives of other pilots with families placed on his shoulders, he’d learned the threat of real guilt. But he’d be damned if he didn’t let his mother think she still had a hold over him. 

“I’ll think about it,” he said, starting to exit the kitchen. “Even if this is exactly what you did to Beth and Nate." 

His sisters laughed at the reference to their oldest sister and her husband, even as his mother made a noise of protest. And with that, he was out of the room and heading up to his bedroom.

His mom wouldn’t be able to pull the same trick with him and Birdie though, because he had already decided six years ago that he wouldn’t marry her.

"What are you still doing here?”

Birdie looked up from her phone, eyes wide only for the briefest of seconds as Jake made his way towards her from the side door. 

He watched as she relaxed a bit, placing her phone next to the plastic tiara that rested beside her. 

“Pissing off my mom, I imagine,” she said with a shrug. 

He didn’t ask. Not after word of the Float Incident with Birdie’s mother made its way around the school.

“Pretty sad way to piss off your mom, just sitting on a bench in front of the school,” he remarked, coming to a stop in front of her. “Could at least be at a party. I think Brian Thomas is having one at his barn.”

She offered a slow half-smile. “Not really up to being homecoming queen right now.”

He was quiet, eyes running over her as if there’d be any sign as to what led her here or what he should do. She seemed to feel the weight of his gaze, sighing and running a hand over her silvery dress. “I’m ok. I’m just gonna sit here a bit.”

She was not ok. When Birdie was ok she was up and moving and positively shining. This was not it.

Jake shook his head, hoisting his duffle bag up on his shoulder. “Meet me under the bleachers in five minutes.”

“Bleachers?” She repeated, eyebrows raised.

“Ambiance,” He smirked, before pointing up. “And there are cameras out here." 

She followed the direction his finger pointed, eyes locating the cameras.

"And the five minute wait?” She asked, a genuine smile teasing at her lips. 

“Anticipation,” he offered, before walking backwards towards the parking lot. “And I gotta run to my truck.”

She was waiting for him under the home bleachers looking more breathtaking than any girl with a large rip up the side of her dress had any right to be.

“Get in a fight while I was gone?” he asked, eyeing the torn fabric.

“Stupid thing snagged on a bolt or something,” she dismissed, annoyance still coating her words. Her eyes caught on the bottle hanging from his right hand, lighting up for the first time since he’d caught sight of her on the bench. “Whatcha bring me?”

“Only the finest for royalty,” he answered, lifting the bottle of Tennessee Honey up for her approval. She grinned reading for it.

“An excellent celebration of our coronation indeed,” she agreed, unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink from the bottle. “Hallelujah.”

Jake laughed, reaching for it and setting himself down on the ground before taking a swig. Even with the bottle blocking his view, he could see Birdie sit down across from him, crossing her legs so the long dress rode up a bit.

They chatted, passing the bottle back and forth. Birdie teased him about his fuckup that got him sacked and he mocked her teary acceptance of the crown. They laughed and carried on for over an hour, the golden liquor falling lower and lower in the bottle. It was late when they grew quiet, the pauses of companionable silence stretching longer.

“You ever feel like you were meant for more than Coolidge?” Birdie asked out of this silence.

Jake smirked, reaching for the bottle. “Every damn day.”

She nodded, silently passing over the whiskey into his waiting hand. She was quiet even as he drank, watching him take a pull of the liquor and wipe his lips off with the back of his hand. 

“I don’t think I’m meant for this. Ranching and marriage and always being Miss Coolidge all the time,” she mused.“I’ve decided I’m leaving after graduation.” Her voice was firm even if the volume was softer than normal. 

His eyebrows shot up. “Gonna be a college girl?”

She snorted, plucking the bottle from his hands. “You and I both know I don’t have the money for that or the grades for a scholarship. No,” She looked over his shoulder, her gaze away. “The day after graduation, I’m packing a bag and moving to LA. I don’t know what I’m going to do but it’s gotta be better than sticking around here”

Jake was quiet for a moment, taking her in. Her shining eyes and the glittering tiara in her hair and the ripped silvery blue homecoming dress. “You’re gonna miss my graduation party.”

She set the bottle of whiskey down behind her, and then surged forwards, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. Her lips moved over his with a frenzy that accompanied all Birdie did, like she had to make the most of a fleeting moment. And maybe the moment was more rare than he would have liked to admit. Because it struck him that for once in his life he had said the exactly right thing and the exactly right time. 

And because lightning never strikes twice, he kept his mouth on hers and didn’t say another word. 

[azmenka]

@caointeag says ❝ i can stand here all night if i must. ❞ ( x )

" BY ALL MEANS , FEEL FREE TO - " he would heave a sigh , feels it build up in his lungs already , but opts , instead , for briefly rubbing the bridge of his nose . expanding his chest in any type of form , he knows , might just stretch the already bleeding wound just below his collarbone even more and once that happens , he stands without defenses against that stubborn would - be - maester of a Northerner currently camped outside the door of his cabin .

he had half hoped to slip back in without her noticing the darkened stain on his tunic , or the grimace he's been trying to hide ever since boarding the ship again , but his luck , it appears , has thrown itself overboard the moment she had set foot on it . not that women aboard generally were bad luck ( a myth , spread by lesser man , obviously ) but this one in particular is doing his head in . of course she had to drop the lingering fear of boats , the sea , and anything to do with it right this moment when he actually , for once , doesn't want her attention .

it is no fatal wound , he knows that . fuck's sake it's not even grave ; a cut , deep enough it might require stitches , yes , but surely nothing that would keep him bedbound . just to make a point , he deliberately avoids the four - poster - bed at the far end of his cabin to , instead , slump down into a chair at the desk and fill a horn with ale . to the brim . it perhaps strains him a little , not to groan when he eventually lifts the horn to his lips .

something like static in the air has him pause . listen . for a moment , he's almost tempted to tentatively call out and see if she's still out there , but then fears it may be an invitation for her to barge in after all . so for another moment he , instead , glares at the door as if daring it to open magically , before he downs the entire horn and , with a low hiss , carefully peels himself out of his vest . the dark grey shirt underneath is clinging to his skin already . caution may have been a smart call here but , just like reason , it is tossed into the wind and Maron , this time failing to stop a pained snarl coming out , rips the sticking fabric off the wound in one single move , and , using the momentum of movement and pain , manages to pull the shirt over his head and hurl it into a corner . more ale then , and a careful look down at the cut . another scar in the making , no doubt , that he could gladly add to the collection already decorating his body . . .

[emonemogoblin]

Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, I present to you... Why I think this song sounds like Dazai :D

I hold this song dear to my heart so I mainly made this post to get more people to listen to it, but I also wanted to yap about Dazai, so I guess I'm killing two birds with one stone here??? Anyways, I shall explain my point :D

(warning : this is based off my very personal interpretation of the music)

So, this sing opens on a mild-paced, steady guitar rythm accompanied by a lighter, airy guitar melody and some eerie chimings in the background. When I listen to it, two images pop up to mind

The first one is that of a sailboat in the middle of the ocean sailing against the waves. This is because of the steady rythm coupled with the melody, which creates this impression of a boat going up and down the waves as it crashes against them. Meanwhile, the chiming sounds give this feeling of large, empty space, which gave me the idea of the boat being stranded in the middle of the sea. If you can visualise this, then you should probably also see that the skies are covered and that the ocean seems pretty dull, almost grey — in other terms, this is a very bleak setting, right? Now, what would you feel if you were in the place of that poor sailor? Despair? Loneliness? Perhaps, a semblance of peace? It's hard to tell, right? This is how I feel about Dazai's character. Let's say that we, as the audience, are people on the land and that Dazai is the sailor stranded in the middle of the sea. Admitting we had a pretty good eyesight, all we would see is the boat floating in the faraway distance, and the storm looming over it. Of course, we would instinctually think "Oh, what a poor man, he must be lonely and terrified out there," but in truth, we have no way of knowing. Anyways, I'm going off tangent here ^^

The second image is that of a lonely person strolling through a crowd. For pretty much the same reasons as the previous image, the steady rythm gives the impression of walking while the melody, which is syncopated with the rythm, makes it seem like the person who's walking is having a hard time with it, as if they're stumbling or getting hit by other passers-by, which means they don't care that much about the person or don't even notice him. And the chimings once again create this feeling of a large space, so the person must be walking in a crowd. I thought that this image was reminiscent of how most characters in BSD simply pass by the character Dazai Osamu without ever caring much for him or trying to get close.

Anyways, this section was the most important as it sets the tone for the rest of the song.

Now, passing the first verses and moving directly onto the chorus section, I'd like to point out one thing : the addition of a synth. I find that it adds a little something to our picture, whether it's the boat one or the crowd one, which I'm letting you guess. Found it? No? Well, the answer was : tension. See, tension is an important part in music in order to tell a story, or to bring a picture to life (which is more the case here). So here, the tension manifests under the form of a force going up against our protagonist, a small element that disrupts their journey. In the case of the boat, it could a strong wind, which almost tips it over, and the case of the crowd, it could be strong person who pushes the person by inadvertence and sends them rolling on the ground. In either case, it leaves our character pretty shaken, but as the music continues, they also have to get up and move on. Now, what's interesting is that the lyrics here say "Parfois on regarde les choses telles qu'elles sont en se demandant pourquoi, parfois on les regarde telles qu'elles pourraient être en se disant pourquoi pas," which basically translates to "Sometimes we look at things the way they are and ask ourselves why, sometimes we look at things the way they could have been and think, why not after all." It's such a simple sentence, and yet, it holds so much beauty and meaning. I won't go into more details here, but I think this section overall perfectly reflects Dazai's resolution to join the good side and his efforts to change after Oda's death.

Once more, I'm skipping the second verse to directly talk about the second chorus. One of the many aspects of this song that I really love is how it keeps on adding more instruments as it goes on, and here, the new addition is an oboe. If listen carefully, you can notice that it plays a melody that goes downward, as if adding more to the conflict. Whether it be the growing despair of the sailor as he can't find his way back to the land or the panic of the person as they keep getting pushed around in the crowd, the main feeling here is that nothing is fine anymore. Coincidentally, the voice of the singer seems a bit more tired, a bit more desperate as she repeats the chorus. I like to think of this part as spiraling into despair as things seem more hopeless. This part is followed by a beautiful yet short intrumental break where trumpets join the mix, playing a melody reminiscent of blues, which adds on more to this feeling of hopelessness. When it finally transitions into the third verse, you can notice that all the instruments are gone, leaving only the steady guitar rythm from the beginning to accompany the singer who's now whispering. Oddly enough, this part feels very quiet, almost fragile, as if the singer is exposing her vulnerability as despair wins over her. So, the chorus followed by the instrumental break then the third verse give off this impression of falling into despair, which can be linked to Dazai's worsening depression as he spent more time in the Port Mafia, or maybe his overall mental state. Dazai is a very mysterious character after all, and there's no real way of knowing what's going on in his head.

After that, the instruments come back for the next verse before going into the third and final chorus, which is similar to the second one. However, the section that interests me here is the outro, which is the exact same as the intro (except for the addition of a melody played on the oboe in the background). After all this journey, we're back to our starting point, and yet, everything feels heavier after everything we've gone through. After taking a few more steps, or drifting for a little longer if we're still on the boat, the journey abruptly comes to an end. The ambiguous ending of the song leaves room for many interpretations, but my favorite is that the our protagonist simply... disappeared. After going through a short-lived experience, it was decided that their time was up, and that they had to leave the stage. So maybe the person disappeared into the crowd, never to be seen again. Maybe the sailor drifted into the horizon, and found himself a new home. Maybe he starved to death on the boat. Maybe he got caught in the storm and drowned. The possibilities are endless, so I shall let you come to your own conclusion :) I thought that it was a very poetic ending for someone like Dazai, to vanish into thin air and be forgotten by the world, just as he wished.

Anywaysss, this was my interpretation on the song "Il y a" by Vanessa Paradis and how I thought it fit Dazai. I hope you enjoyed it :D Also, here are the translated lyrics if you are interested :

There's a painting over there

Of birds, their wingspreads

That struggle against the wind

There are edges over there

The distances, your pace

When you're walking right ahead

There are cracks over there

Sealed, the locks

Like kites, taken off

There's literature over there

The lack of momentum

Inertia, movement

Sometimes we look at things

The way they are

Asking ourselves why

Sometimes, we look at them

The way they could have been

Telling ourselves, why not?

There is over there

If we take the time

If we take the time

There's literature over there

The lack of momentum

Inertia, movement

Sometimes we look at things

The way they are

Asking ourselves why

Sometimes, we look at them

The way they could have been

Telling ourselves, why not?

There are the mysteries over there,

The silence under the sea

That fight against time

There are edges over there

The distances, your pace

When you're walking right ahead

There's the whispering

A sigh, an adventure

Just as tangled kites

There's literature over there

The lack of momentum

Inertia, movement

Sometimes we look at things

The way they are

Asking ourselves why

Sometimes, we look at them

The way they could have been

Telling ourselves, why not?

Sometimes we look at things

The way they are

Asking ourselves why

Sometimes, we look at them

The way they could have been

Telling ourselves, why not?