#the orange path border is so old

[mismageus]

some of my acnh path designs ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

[whoyacallinyellow]

Borrowed Time hurt me a lot omg- Now I offer you even more angst.

It's sad that Javier became the very thing in 1911 that he swore to destroy (working as a hitman for a tyrant government) but it would be even sadder if (as a part 2 ig of borrowed time) Javier and his love meet again but this time, he was there to arrest her and bring her to town to hang.

Borrowed Time II

Javier Escuella x F! reader

Spoilers: major RDR1-2 events Content: 18+, low honor Javier, angst, betrayal, loyalty, dramatic, possessive, referenced/implied sex, canon typical events & violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes, google translated Spanish Type: I-II changed to second pov (wc - 4133) / pc: pinterest a/n: i can feel this request in my veins, so here’s my mediocre yapping! live, laugh, angst 

Summary: Following the events of Beaver Hollow and your departure, Javier falls into work with Allende. After your reunion he reflects on his time with you, to only turn you in by nightfall. 

It was a warm day in New Austin, the orange rays blanketing the barren dirt landscape, and not a cloud in the sky. Javier only imagined finding himself wandering these lands again, but yet he returned on what seemed to be borrowed time.

A few years had passed since he last saw you at Beaver Hollow. The man could not bear to show his face, the embarrassment of being wrong about Dutch was an ego check it say the very least. 

Yet your note lived in the far corner of his mind, a small cabin just north of MacFarlane's Ranch from his understanding. 

It did not take the man long to find it, local cowpokes cowered at the sight of the large Mexican outlaw sitting upon an even larger steed, interrogating them about a maiden. It was almost as if the best pieces of you resembled him, immediately reminding the folk of who it was he was searching for. 

Boaz grunted against Javier’s spurs, digging deep into the loose red dirt below. The sunbeams which crept through the dry pine trees created quite the atmosphere, allowing Javier to get lost in his head, even if it were just for a few moments of bliss. 

Despite the directions given to him, Javier hoped you had moved on after all these years, fled somewhere safer, started a new life, perhaps changed your name as well. Somewhere he would never find you. 

Boaz continued to race down the winding path, feeding Javier’s anticipation against the warm breeze. As it gusted past the side of his head, loose strands from his tied hair tickled his ears, merely reminding the man how badly he needed a haircut. 

The starving grass which bordered West Elizabeth held a yellow tinge, the land rolled and waved, flourishing with birds and wildlife. Javier reckoned he has not been to the area before, but you were not lying about how appealing it was— a perfect home for you two. 

Upon whipping around the corner, abruptly revealed a small cabin with songbirds singing to him in the trees. The place was quiet, cozy, and seemingly inhabited, with small smoke stacks exhausting from the brick chimney. 

Bringing Boaz to a halt, there was no sign of you— but sure enough a big black cloud skulked in the nearby pen, following you wherever you wandered like a burden. 

Javier stiffly slid off Boaz, his knees nearly giving out from under him as his boots crunched onto the dirt. The beast was grazing on hay as he approached the fence post 

After whistling and calling your shire a few times, Javier was promptly ignored, perhaps the slow and ominous brute heard the man call him el diablo one too many times. 

He was still a strong believer the only reason the horse broke for you was out of pity— you looked like a child struggling to climb him every endeavor. Maybe the beast had a soft spot for you, just like himself. 

But now the old shire was relieved from his saddle, serenading in the New Austin sun, not bothered to obey the envious man’s command. 

Javier leaned against the corral post, admiring what he could have had with you, the thought of being a family man loomed over his shoulders and displayed no signs of leaving. 

You and Javier ran together prior to joining Dutch, less for money and more for survival. Your past crimes covered bounty boards and train stations as a permanent reminder, never forgetting the wrongs that were written. That price only increased once Mexico inevitably caught wind of all the messy jobs in neighboring lands. 

He drowned and you sank with him, the price of his sins were bricks added to your back. Being his accessory, the government saw you as a pawn, smart and knowledgeable, if caught— Javier would come for you, and they would be ready for him. 

Those days were nearly from another lifetime. 

Now under Allende’s ruling fist, he offered him a twisted plea deal of sorts; protection at the cost of something the man held more dearly than life itself—you. Your capture was not about the money nor status, but simply a test of his loyalty to Allende; if Javier did this job, he’d do anything. 

The poor man’s convoluted loyalty never got him far, proving time and time again, leading him only to dead ends and false hopes. Charismatic attributes and big promises was something Javier foolishly gave everything to with a blind eye, something you always warned him about.  

“Javier?—“ 

Your voice could have made him leap out of his own skin. As he hesitantly turned towards you, his gut twisted into something mean. You were beautiful as ever, after all these years you waited for him— just like you promised. 

“Never thought I’d see you again, especially in the west.” You spoke again in disbelief, rag wiping your hands clean of a job he should have been doing. 

Your voice only lived in his memories, hearing it again nearly whipped Javier back into shape, feeling sick for your puppy love he desperately relied on so long ago. 

“Home sweet home.” The man swallowed dryly, throwing his arms out awkwardly and gesturing towards the open lands around you both. 

Before his thoughts could catch up to the moment, you ran to embrace him, flinging yourself into his arms with a long awaited kiss. Javier grunted softly against your lips, staggering back to support you, the extra attention only reminding him how saddle sore he really was.  

Just for a moment things felt normal, a feeling he was searching for since you split. He had a place in this cruel world once again, everywhere had a price on his head, no place to retreat to besides you— you were home. 

Perhaps he could head tail between his legs back to Allende, saying you disappeared. 

Maybe he could take you to Canada, or a tropical island— oh, anywhere but Guarma. 

We must leave,

Javier’s unsaid words pricked beneath his skin, prodding relentlessly at his deepest desires for redemption. 

“Oh—amor.” 

Was all the man could choke out, the words exiting pitiful and weak, a near cry for help you assumed was just your bittersweet reunion. 

Leaning away you smiled coyly at him, admiring your lost cowboy;

Your time apart was not easy on Javier, his hardened stare and the chip on his shoulder now set in stone. 

The constant blazing sun of Mexico, along with surviving off rationed canned beans really took a toll on the man. His face was dull and lacking the usual pigment he wore so handsomely when Mr. Pearson cooked for everyone. 

Javier’s newfound demeanor only put emphasis on his sharp brows peeking from under his bowler cap brim, residing above dark cunning eyes, ready to match any cowpuncher who dared challenge him. 

Over Javier’s shoulder was where his mount rested, hoove digging into the dirt at the end of the cabin’s path. 

“—and Boaz?” You began after a shared silence, slowly approaching the overworked horse. 

“Still kickin’.” He uttered gently, a large hand scratching the back of his neck. 

Boaz never really liked you, or anyone besides Javier that is. It wasn’t until the gang hunkered down in Colter for the stubborn bastard to take a liking to you. 

The weather and unpredictable circumstances was not easy on the gang, including the horses, causing rations to be small among the mounts. 

You always carried treats in your satchel to gain Boaz’s affection, and your efforts would eventually succeed in Colter. You would secretly slip him sugar cubes every time you left the shack, he must have appreciated the extra attention. Javier barely recognized Boaz trotting up to him in the snow, you mounted on top wearing a proud grin. 

You wore a similar grin now, full of satisfaction and pride that he returned to you— with warmth flowing through him, his heart rapidly thumped in his ears, all the pent up feelings for you were reopening like floodgates. 

“What’a nice feller, huh.” You cooed to the mount after a slow approach. 

Showing no distress Boaz allowed your kind pats and rubs. Tenderly nudging you, the horse’s chops tried sneaking its way into your pockets, searching for the snacks you usually held after a long journey. 

“Ai, fácil!” 

Javier exclaimed, quickly guiding Boaz’s large snout away, the loving gestures nearly toppling you over. 

“Guess I’m glad he still remembers me.” You beamed, tipping your hat lower to shield yourself from the beating sun. 

“Or perhaps your donations, amor.” Javier quipped softly, his eyes wandering meekly. 

Something besides time passing seemed different about him, you could not quite pinpoint it. Javier was always a timid man at first when it came to his lover, maybe your time apart presented this old side of him. 

You knelt slightly, peeking under his sunken head which hung towards the ground. 

“Javier? You don’t look so good.” 

Your soft words managed to dig their way through his ringing ears, the man squinted his eyes tightly before swiping his lids with rough fingers. 

“Uh— maybe you oughta sit for a bit, I think you’re overdressed for this heat.” 

Your words broke through once again, giving a small tug on his poncho, his disoriented vision cluttered with black floating spots as you guided towards the porch. 

As his vision continued to warp, the cabin doubled and skewed while you put him in the shade. 

Javier knew you were speaking, your voice fading in and out irreguarly, piercing his ears every so often. 

The words felt like they were being consumed by the ocean, his head bobbed up and down as if he were drowning. All he could think about was Dutch’s screams over the storm and waves, as he was about to be consumed by the large void. 

But Dutch snagged him before being swept away, yanking him upon the tiny rowboat that threatened to tip from the added stress. Javier’s senses were waterlogged, rejecting the mean salty water from his lungs. As he gasped for air; the only thing he thought of was you. 

“S’alright, son, You’re not dying today!” Was the first thing he heard. He faded in and out of consciousness as Dutch beat the sea water out of him, his ribcage rattling under each and every smack. 

Javier sometimes wonders if Dutch should have just let him die, abandon him and allow the dark waters to engulf him whole, repaying his sins to his maker. Maybe his death would free you of your burdens. 

He felt like his time had withered before Dutch had saved him anyways. Being a prisoner in Guarma is what convinced him that he would never make it back to you, sealing the deal. Your previous words borrowed time scratched at his skin again, yearning to be acknowledged. 

“Ah well, I knew you’d come crawling back, you’re here for a reason.” You would always say to him after a particularly dangerous run with the gang. He would dismiss you with a mumble and a kiss, but always knew he was lucky to be alive as more of his brothers began to fall. 

Sometimes he would catch you talking to a disgruntled Arthur as he packed his horse. 

Upon inquiring about your words, Arthur being a somewhat vague man would shortly grumble; 

“Jus’ focus on the job, and returnin’ to your woman, Javier.” 

—and he always did. Javier knew you did not worry about him much, at least outwardly. But he did notice Arthur’s presence whenever trouble presented itself. 

~

“Javier— some water.” 

Your words along with a canteen dangled in front of him, the prior hallucination of a watery grave was almost enough to empty his stomach. 

Javier stared back towards your shire lounging in his corral, his mind once again wandering back to the life he could have had with you. 

In the midst of his tunneling vision, a lean coyote lingered through his gaze, stalking towards him, icy eyes sending daggers into his before diminishing. 

“Javier. Say something.” Your words were now much clearer to him, breaking through his consciousness, the ringing disappeared from his mind fog. 

“‘M alright.” He muttered, spitting out the bitter taste from his mouth. 

“I reckon you oughta take it easy, being an old man n’ all now.”

Javier frowned at you and blinked a couple times, jaw agape, processing the pun you made at his dismay. 

“Ha— so sorry, chica, ‘suppose I’m no longer the young buck you remember.” 

He replied sarcastically, his voice both bold and hoarse as he raised back to his feet, every step whining for rest. 

“Ride with me?” Javier suddenly asked as if nothing happened. It took you by surprise, he had just arrived after all. 

“Alright.” You obliged shortly after a pause. “Let me grab my belt.” You continued, motioning towards the missing holsters on your frame. 

“No need.” He cut you off quickly, his voice leaving traces of urgency. 

“Boaz is packed.” 

You eyed him up, watching the man shutter under your antagonizing gaze, how he hoped you were not suspicious of his intentions after all this time. But rightfully so, the man was yellow-bellied. 

But you had no reason not to trust him. 

You were not exactly sure where Javier was taking you, but for now his company was enough to keep you satisfied. The ride was eerily quiet, even for his standards, being a man of few words. 

After riding a little down south he brought you to a small mountain that overlooked Mexico. He perched you both on a small flat area, just in time for the sun to sink below the land. 

Javier stared over the horizon, he never really did think about how big the south was, yet how small he felt in comparison. A glimmer caught onto his peripheral, turning towards the shine was the pendent he had given you, when you both first started running with the gang. 

The feeling presented itself again, feeling so small in the world— you were the home he had been searching for since the gang's fallout. It was always you. 

He sank into his memories, a vessel of his former self was all that remained. 

You two were quite away from your newly shared camp, with all the members and leads, the moments you had alone became quite sparse. 

“What do you think, Javi?” Your sudden presence caught him off guard. 

“The gang?—“ he pondered your words, leaning against a shady oak. 

“I suppose they’re family for now, señorita. We’re much safer, and they’re good to us.” Javier replied, a hand brushing over the stubble on his jaw. You smiled gently with a nod, making your uneasiness all too obvious. 

“It’s just temporary, amor, once we have the money to get on our feet— it’ll be the two of us again.” He reassured, a polite arm sliding around your waist. 

Javier remembers the look in your eye, doubtful and full of sorrow, but you still trusted him, knowing he would never lead you astray. The same he thought about Dutch.  

Repositioning himself behind you, he dug a necklace from his pocket, draping it over your chest and clasping it. You fidgeted in surprise against his movements, gazing down at the beautiful silver pendant that glistened off the very same sun. Before you could say a word he planted a kiss on your lips, gentle and quick before mounting Boaz. 

“I promise!” 

He called out. After blowing a kiss to you, he was off to assist the gang. He didn’t have much money at the time, but Javier always knew how to make things work—

Oh how naive of him— bright eyed and lovesick, he wanted to make a woman out of you, settle down. That is, before Dutch’s plan captivated him. Which ultimately led to this mess, but who is he kidding, he never really had a chance anyways. 

Javier thought back with immense regret, wishing he was more romantic with you in a way, officially making you his chica earlier on, instead of prolonging it due to the possibility of death. He always feared that courting would further your heartbreak if something bad were to happen. 

It was his own unaddressed way to cope with the harsh reality of survival and being an outlaw, he always prioritized your safety over intimacy until joining the gang. When he looks back on it, your shared time at Horseshoe Overlook and Clemons Point were some of the best times of his life. 

Around that time of riding with the gang was when your relationship with him really began to evolve. The potential competition of other men drove Javier and his intimacy up a wall— his usual gentle lips ghosting over yours turned into small nips, and purple blotches he would mark on your neck late at night. A tight palm covering your mouth which muffled the moans of his name, words the man would kill to hear in such an uncaged manner. He entertained no confusion of who you belonged to; even if he did not make things official until that night at the lake.  

Javier had nearly forgotten the sun had already set, and he somehow had no recollection of it. He looked down at you, only in a thin shirt as you gazed longingly off the mountain side.

The final sunset you shared was simply a ticking clock for him. 

“Cold?” He whispered, words he could barely choke out. 

“A little.” You replied, big doe-like eyes staring up at him, holding so much love for the man. Love he was not sure he ever deserved. 

Forcing his gaze away quickly he arose, soles of his feet vibrating and pulsing with each step. After approaching Boaz his shaking hands freed his bedroll clasps, attention locked upon his rifle poking out of the saddle. 

His head spun, finally digging himself out of his trance. After returning to you, he draped the cloth over you coyly. 

“You okay?” You suddenly asked, your hush voice startling him, he sighed in despair. 

The words you said to him at Beaver Hollow replayed through his mind,

Leave with me. Let’s run away. 

But he could not get them out, his chest quivered under the constraint of his uneven breaths. 

“Course.” He managed to form the word, you nodded in contentment, fresh air filling your nose. 

His response would have to do for now, you decided to cut him some slack since he returned to you, after all. 

By now you knew him well enough. Some nights he would stay up and collect his thoughts before laying beside you. You always respected his space, he had his demons, like everyone else. Soon enough in your slumber  you would feel his protective arms drape around you, his steady breaths hitting the nape of your neck, tense body encapsulating yours— those were the nights you felt the safest, and knew he was going to manage just fine. 

Other nights Javier would stay up while you were by your lonesome. He always feared something would kill the both of you while asleep, reluctantly you agreed. But the man always let you rest, you needed it more, that is for putting up with him all day round. 

Your memories swam with always being coaxed to sleep, eventually giving into the soft lulls he would sing. A wordless agreement that there was no point for the both of you to be cranky and tired in the morning. 

—But there he sat, only to turn into the monster he swore to protect you from. 

“I love you, Javier.” 

Your words racked his brain, digging and clawing invasively into each one of his bones. Javier thought he imagined them until he looked over to find you staring this entire time. You knew there was something seriously wrong, but surely he would tell you within due time. 

Javier’s voice was lost, swallowing suppressed sobs down his dry throat, he nearly felt like he was drowning once again in the frame he called a body. 

Just like the days he would not say it back while pursuing a lead, with doubts he would not make it back to your arms— but he always did, it was the least he could do. It felt like lifetimes ago to him, how could the man choke out a te amo before sending you in? 

Instead, he planted a kiss on your soft lips, lingering there for a moment, knowing it would be your last. 

Looming below in the shadows, trailing to the border resided monsters he used to protect you from— two Mexican soldiers camped out by the tracks. Their lanterns flickering softly in the distance, patiently waiting for the man to arrive at the agreed meeting spot. 

Javier shivered, feeling like a young boy again. His eyes fixated on the stock of his rifle that Boaz held. 

Your breaths became shallow, harmonizing with the warm night’s breeze as you fell into a slumber. You trusted Javier’s judgment on setting up camp or heading home, you perhaps allowed yourself to get a little too comfortable. 

It all happened so fast for him, and there was no going back. Javier’s mind blurred as he rode, Boaz fussing and fighting under his control. His very own horse feared the  monster he had become, maybe poor Boaz thought he was Javier’s next victim. 

He rode fast— but not fast enough to flee from himself. 

A coyote lurked around the darkness, gazing at Javier from behind the two Mexican soldiers who taunted him, puffing on their big cigars from Uncle Sam.  

The coyote disappeared as Javier reached for his revolver, patiently waiting for the man to shoot him— but he never did. 

The soldier simply laughed, knowing Javier’s bark had no bite. While under Allende’s power, he was simply a coward a soldier would not even match out of pity.  

Soon enough the two men fled into the night, banter that could be heard a mile away through the ravines. Anyone could have mistaken them for sick hyenas. 

He could hear their stallions riding hard in triumph, with a new prize Javier held so close for many years, he watched the soldiers grow smaller and smaller over the uneven land until the darkness swallowed them whole, taking a piece of him along. 

The nighttimes ahead would find Javier in a one horse town saloon, nodding off more times than he could remember. His glass turned from full to empty until his vision doubled. 

Javier was not sure how many days had passed, the whiskey dulling his mind and senses, but the thoughts still ate him alive. 

Did you think he would come for you? Or would you be envious, spilling everything you could before meeting the gallows. 

Javier hid in his palms, knowing he got it all wrong— it should have been him. 

It did not take too long for the man to get kicked out from the saloon due to his drunken stupor, not even the bartender wanted his dirty money. 

Javier took Boaz to what he thought was east, the coyote returned to accompany him, lurking around on the monotone forest floors he traveled. 

The night breeze made Javier reminisce of the times at camp, the very same breeze that whipped through your hair as you would drag him off somewhere secluded, your mischievous grin reflecting off the summer night's moon as you snuck off into the bushes. 

You gave everything to each other— all for nothing it seems.

Javier sank lower into himself before eventually staggering off Boaz. It only took him a few unsteady steps to empty his bowels on the dirt path, elbows hoisting him up on his shaky bent knees. 

Peeking out from his jacket cuff was a scar he once wore proudly on his wrist. A scar he earned in some honky tonk town just because another man looked at you wrong. The mere thought of it worsened his nausea.  

All signs pointed to you, and you were gone because of reasons he barely understood himself— He feared he didn’t know what loyalty was anymore. Or what he stood for in fact. 

Your blind love killed you in the end, and it was his cross to bear. 

The sky was dark and dull, which was just as familiar as a bottle and a glass. Not a single star in the sky greeted him, leaving him to fester alone. 

The wind howled violently through the trees, causing the leaves to rustle and sway. A northern was quickly sneaking upon the lands of New Austin. 

His lone coyote joined him on a distant cliffside, coat black as sin, mocking the cowboy who lingered below. 

~

[ashleyfableblack]

Applejack wiped the sweat from her brow. She set the hammer aside and groaned. Her hooves were sore from the day's chores and adding putting up a billboard on top of the list had been a bit more tiring than the middle-aged mare had expected.

Rainbow Dash wrapped a hoof around her wife and appraised her work. With a peck on the neck and a poke in the ribs she gave up a smirk of approval. "Not bad. Not bad. Nice work, hon."

"Heh" Applejack chuckled, rising to her hooves. "Eeyep."

Rainbow Dash joined in her knowing chuckle. "So, what made you finally decide to put it up?"

Applejack gave her partner's hoof a pat, looking over the bright yellow billboard. In white letters, trimmed it black it read "No Hate In Our Holler". She had wanted to be sure it would be in a highly visible place somewhere well-trafficked so she had chosen the Northeastern trail. Dubbed "The Naughty Nor-easter" for it's reputation as a place for young lovers to take romantic walks together, it was a long, broad dirt path which bordered their family orchard closest to Ponyville and facing New Canterlot.

"You 'n me, Dashie. We're, well, celebrities. We're heroes to a whole mess of folkes."

Rainbow Dash grinned, giving AJ a squeeze. "Well, yeah." Rainbow said matter-of-factly "We are pretty awesome."

Applejack's jade eyes trailed to the nearby field. Amid the waves of short green shoots and fluffy patches of clover, their little Filly, R.J. giggled and squealed. The tiny orange pegasus awkwardly stumbled about in circles, playing with the family dog, Winona and one of their family's two on-site security-hoofs, a Changeling they called Blue. Blue usually took the form of a grey-muzzled Blue-heeler hound, as she did now and could often be found by Winona's side. Blue seemed to have a certain fondness for the old border collie which Applejack only understood well enough to understand that she didn't understand.

"We've done a lot to make this world a better place. For all the young'uns. But for her? OUR little R.J.? Is it enough?" She gave her partner's hoof a concerned squeeze. "What if she grows up and falls for one of them Changelin' gals?"

Rainbow Dash's brow furrowed. "Well, we wouldn't care."

"Well of course, we wouldn't. Most folkes wouldn't. Still, there's some ponies out there with their noses in the air and sticks up their backsides who'd be awful to them. The same ones who'd be all rude to you'n me on accounts of us bein' what we are."

"A Pegasus and an Earth Pony?"

Applejack nodded, her nostrils flared and jaw clenched. "Yeahp. And that ain't right, Dashie. That ain't right and that ain't no way to treat a body. And if THAT's the legacy we're leaving for our little R.J. then, elements or not, what kind of mamas are we?"

"Yeah. You know, that last time we all went out to The Lavendar Saddle, Chryssi was telling me that in the Stormlands, some of those creepy jerks would actually even hate on us just for us both being mares?"

Applejack jerked around to glare at her wife in wide-eyed shock. "Say what?"

Rainbow Dash raised a wing, folding a few feathers like fingers in a promisory salute. "Swear to P.W."

"You gotta be kidding me. What kinda stone-age, bass-ackwards tom-foolery is that?"

"I know, right?" The pegasus ruffled her crest of chest fluff with a snort of disdain. "I mean, it's not ALL of them but enough that it's actually a problem for the rest of their kingdom."

"Well, I'll be…" Applejack shook her had and whistled. "I know that us ponies had a problem with that nonsense WAY back in the old days but… Coo-whee."

"Yeah." Rainbow's feathers ruffled, flush with Equestrian patriotism. "But that was, like a THOUSAND years ago, maybe. And even then it was just the stuffy old-money unicorn jerks from up in the richie-rich mountains.

Applejack nodded. "Well, anyhoof, this country that Twi and that bughorse wife a'hers are building, this 'New Equestria', it's gonna be a place for all critters to live together. Ponies 'n Pegasi, Unicorns 'n Yaks, Changelings, Lovebugs, Griffins, Kirins and… well, all folkes. Just a-living and a-loving, together. Nobody fightin'. Nobody feudin'. Nobody looking down on anybody. It's gonna take a lotta work but for our little R.J.? That's a place worth fightin' for, even for old gals like us."

"Hey, don't go calling my wife old, cowgirl." Rainbow mussed her wife's mane with the feather fingers of her wings. "That's the right way to catch these hoofs, you, get me?"

Applejack gave her partner a playful punch in the shoulder and gestured towards the sign. "I recollect an old gal, some of our kin- a loooong ways back, once saying something like "Whenever one pony stands up and says 'Wait a minute, this is wrong’ it helps other ponies do the same."

Rainbow Dash nodded, proudly draping her wings around her wife in a protective embrace. The two mares looked to the horizon as the sounds of their daughter's laughter echoed on the sweet summer breeze. "And who better to stand up and say it but the Sweet Apple Acres Elements of Harmony?"

Inspired by the work of the Concerned Appalachians and everyone who came before to stand up and say "Wait a minute, this is wrong."

[lunarw0rks]

slasher!graves 🩸 in honor of spooky season !!! w/c; 2.7k

warning(s): implied violence/gore, drugging, fem!reader

endless crop fields surrounded the dirt path, crunching under the tires audibly, overbearing the hum of the pickup's old speakers. as soon as you crossed county lines, only the two local stations played: gospel or vintage country. any tuning of the knob, and it was buzzing static.

mellow country music it is. preferable to a pastor lecturing you about the ins and outs of hell. don't worry father, i'm already there. or i've made it halfway to purgatory — east Texas backroads.

though, you don't need the faceless pastor; the decaying signs along the way are enough. hell is real, God bless, repent — every single one rusted, scratched, peeled in some way.

limitless, barren farmland; half-murky swamp the further east you go.

who's feeding the lumps of livestock you see grazing? what about the herding dogs that lay by rickety fences and intently watch your car pass? if it weren't for the occasional passing truck, you'd assume no one inhabited this county at all.

your pupils retract, blinded by the sun glaring off the hood. vibrant hues of orange and yellow, that would otherwise be soothing if you hadn't been in the driver's seat so long. for once, the lack of traffic and straight and narrow is a blessing, otherwise, you surely would've caused a collision.

the blinding sunset fades over time, indicating that you drove through golden hour instead of lying back and enjoying it. though, the thought of pulling over in this area sounded like a painful ordeal.

from straight, unpaved roads to skinny windy ones with taller grass on the border. as the sky darkens, the foliage is surely full of critters, snakes, and spiders that would crawl and tickle your flesh the second you stepped foot. the thought alone makes you shiver against the leather seats.

as the tires climb a particularly steep hill, the engine sputters, as if hacking and choking from the exertion. please don't let it happen here, is all you can think. the vintage pickup creaks and moans the further along you go — but thankfully doesn't let you down. it's any wonder you've made it this far in your trip.

your fingers reach across the seat, peeling back the page of your guide. the map you snagged at the first — and only — rest stop in the area. a few pages, tainted with coffee and grime, aside from hints of its original eggshell stain. the booklet is rough in texture but still partially legible, so you decided to take what you can get.

besides, once you finished up in the bathroom, bought water, and felt the judgment of the locals, you weren't in a position to ask for a clean map. and the geriatric clerk, brandishing a crucifix and eyes so blue they could pass for pearl, staring at you with grief.

for what, you couldn't wager. your unsaved soul?

your unwise decision to stop there? at least you can agree with the latter.

at last, your finger skimmed the section of road you were supposed to be cruising on. a straight one, like you had been on before. not the thin, windy dirt you're nearly stuck in — which doesn't exist on the map. either you're trespassing in some form, or you really have gotten lost in purgatory.

muttering a curse, you twist and turn your heads in hopes of finding an opening. somewhere, anywhere to turn the truck around and get back on your intended route.

once you spot the first opening, you turn into it. the truck travels down the short path, mud squishing underneath the overworked tires.

up ahead, the first residence you've seen that wasn't moldy or collapsed. three floors, milky paneling, original windows older than two of your lifetimes, and steps sure to give you splinters and creaks under the slightest movement.

from the outside, it's... average.

only slightly unsettling at best, which was a major improvement from the rest of town. frankly, it was shocking there wasn't a higher fence around the perimeter. you imagine this property being prime pickings for bandits and adventurous country teens.

after taking in its appearance for a few moments, you begin to reverse, now feeling the most resistance in the entire trip. the harder you push your foot down on the gas pedal, the deeper the back tires go into the thick mud.

the engine sputtered louder, beginning to spit out smoke from under the hood. considering your efforts, all you'd successfully done was splatter mud on the windows and kill the engine, hopefully not permanently.

you slumped forward and lightly smacked your head against the rim of the steering wheel, cursing yourself for literally ending up deeper in the mud.

through the cracked window of the truck, the windchimes sounded, reminding you of your only way out. raising your head, you laid eyes on the white farmhouse again, taking in its mystifying essence. the decor rustled in the gentle breeze, as did the fuzzy white clusters blowing off the cottonwood trees.

against the unforgiving summer elements, the outmoded residence stood still — as if the stoic constant stuck in the middle of a brewing summer storm.

motionless and deathlike; if a tornado dipped down through the dusky clouds, you were mildly convinced the residence would be the only structure left standing.

as it stands, your options are either to sit in the truck and sulk or take a gamble and knock on the old farmer's door. deciding on the latter, you step out, not bothering to shut the car door behind you, in case you're met with a cliché shotgun barrel for trespassing.

the rickety porch creaked under your weight when you stepped up, occupied with examining its every detail. there were the chimes you heard. some were standard, high-pitched jingles — others made from small animal bones were dull clicks — all suspended with twine.

aside from the roadkill and rocking chair, there were few signs of life in terms of decor. through the windowpanes, you were only met with pearly, lace curtains blocking any view inside.

caving, you raise your fist to the door. it's slathered in the same blanched paint as the rest of the exterior, only riddled with indents and scratches from age. three small knocks against the wood, and you're hoping whoever's behind it won't lead with hostility.

the house settles and croaks from inside, its joints as noisy as the deck you’re standing on. eventually, the door opens. behind it, the owner reveals himself; and it’s not the stereotypical image of an old man with overalls and a noisy coonhound at his side.

your prediction couldn’t have been more inaccurate.

“how can i help you, ma'am?” the voice speaks, oozing a subtle regional twang. casually, he leans against one side of the doorway, blue eyes sweeping you up and down.

younger than expected, and clean despite the gritty environment he lives in. his blond locks are carefully groomed and swept, and an aroma of musk and cedarwood permeates from him.

"i don't mean to be a bother," you stammer a bit, then motion behind you. the man's demeanor remains unbothered by the intrusion. "my truck is stuck in the mud, and i was wondering if you could get it... unstuck?"

he hollows his cheeks as if taking a few moments to consider your request.

but Graves already decided the moment he saw you. with a click of his tongue, a rumble rises through his chest, "no bother in askin' for help, is there? why didn't you just say so?" a faction of a smile spreads on his lips, easing the tension in your shoulders.

you return the break in tension with a small chuckle, biting back the urge to start twiddling your thumbs. he glances at the truck, "i'll pull her out for you. keys in the ignition for me?"

you nod, and he steps out of his relaxed pose. "i would really appreciate that. thank you, sir."

but instead of stepping out toward the vehicle, he moves to the side and flicks his head. "don't mind waiting inside, do you? 'sides, young lady like you shouldn't be shivering."

you really were helpless, or at least, that's how it felt.

the desire to reject is futile and forgotten. before you knew it, you stepped inside and followed him. the entryway was quaint with only a coat rack and mat, and open to the kitchen. the gray and white tiles were patterned like a checkerboard, blended with natural wood cabinets that matched the original wood everywhere else.

in the middle, a circular dining table with two chairs, brandishing hack marks — some fresh, some old. with a scrape, he pulled out a chair for you, and you settled on it.

rather than asking first, he went straight to the vintage refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher. he reached into the ice bucket and dropped a handful of cubes into two glasses, then tipped the pitcher and filled them with lemonade.

you stopped watching when he turned, instead setting your attention on the decor. it was as average as the exterior; a country kitchen that was slightly rough around the edges. Graves slid the glass in front of you, then set his own on the opposite side, sitting instead of heading straight outside to deal with the truck.

he sighed when he sat down again, holding onto the glass but not sipping from it. for a few moments, there was silence between you; a studying stare making you feel like you were in a fishbowl. swallowing dryly, you raised the glass and took a sip from it.

lemonade, a partial punch of citrus, coaxed by tons of added sugar. you let out a polite mhm and smiled, hoping to let your courtesy break the silence again.

"gets awful lonesome out here, don't it?" the man finally spoke, and you took another gulp to pass the time. "can't say i mind the company. not a lot of tourists in these parts, i guess."

you nodded in agreement, eyes darting toward the ticking clock behind his head, "i'm sure it does." you really should be back on the road by now.

he must've noticed your eagerness, because he gave his knee a slap and sat up, "here i am, talkin' your ear off again. should only take a few minutes if you don't mind waiting here."

his footsteps retreated back down the hall, leaving you in silence except for the ticking, which now sounded louder. you glanced down at the glass and swirled it around, deciding it best to finish your drink off before you left the man's seemingly good graces.

once the front door opened and closed, you took a better look around at the kitchen. the knickknacks along the wall, and the dusty china in one of the cabinets.

further along, you skimmed past the doors leading to the rest of the home. the l-shaped staircase came down to the kitchen, steep and rickety. adjacent, was a door similar to the one in the foyer.

when curiosity got the better of you, you stood up and crept over. pressing your ear against it, you heard no one behind it; not even the drone of a television.

you wrapped a hand around the knob and twisted it, pushing the door open. it led to a sitting room of sorts, or perhaps the only living room in the farmhouse. an old-fashioned wood fireplace in the corner, a brown couch against the wall facing the back windows, and the box TV posed on an end table.

the windows had the same sheer, white curtains as the kitchen, blowing gently from the breeze outside. custom shelves covered the other wall, filled to the brim with outlandish decor.

you first stepped closer to the window, seeing his figure outside. there was your truck, still in the same position you'd left it; the door still cracked, and its tires were embedded in mud. and the man, a distance away and moving toward the red barn in the distance — a more powerful, agile stride than he'd shown with you.

thinking nothing of it, you occupied your boredom with snooping. the shelves were what caught your attention, so that's where you ended up.

standing in front of them, you scanned through every item, growing more unsettled the longer you ogled. first, it was ancestral photos old enough to be in black and white, eerie but not abnormal. then, on the second shelf, the appeared uncanny.

quaint, mason jars and teeth.

fangs from coyotes and bobcats alike, mixed with bloodied molars that only could be pried from human mouths. the sight was akin to a gnarly car wreck, causing your morbid curiosity to overtake your sense of danger.

you glanced out the window again, seeing the barn door cracked open, indicating he was still occupied. crouching down, you examined the lowest shelf. the only clutter visible was VHS tapes, thick books, and small chests and boxes.

you took the first one that caught your eye, undoing the clasps and opening the velvety chest. newspaper clippings and passages alike, and a mini-Bible lay in the mess of words.

shaking your head, you set it aside and grabbed one of the tiny boxes, taking off the lid. your blood flow went icy, and your fingers trembled as you set the lid aside and continued processing.

possessions; watches, necklaces, wedding bands, and choppy strands of all hair types. when you noticed the hair, you gasped and ejected the box from your grip.

they weren't belongings; they were trophies.

the front door creaks from across the house, then slams shut again. you scramble to put the lids back on and pinch your finger in one of the latches, reflexively dropping it. all its contents clatter against the wood floor, compromising your cover.

"find somethin' you like?"

his voice appears behind you, effectively sending you into a startle. graves glances at the mess below you, still maintaining an eerie stillness about him.

frantically shaking your head, you begin to feel sweat cake your hairline. you ball your fists and go clammy, taking steps back, "this is my fault— i shouldn't have let my curiosity get the better of me." he remains untouched by your apprehensive shift, only worsening your instinct to run.

but he doesn't lunge or creep closer; all he does is linger by the shelves.

despite how dry your throat is, you gather saliva and gulp tensely, "i should get going. long trip ahead." that's hopeless; you know he didn't move the truck. you would've heard an engine. how far could you make it on foot?

your words come out sluggishly as if your brain is working at half speed. you peer down, stepping around every morbid souvenir — though all you do is stumble, rather than make any distance.

"won't be necessary, sweetheart." his voice echoes, stance unchanging while he observes your struggle.

you grasp at one of the walls, lids drooping as your feet drag. the lemonade he never once put his mouth on, laced with some sort of sedative. it all hit you too late; too late to retch it up or bolt down the hall ahead of him.

eventually, he steps closer, watching as you make an 'attempt' to swat him away. all you do is whack your hand at the air, thoroughly wasting more of your dwindling energy. instead of words, all that comes out are slurs or whimpers of intense turmoil.

your view of the doorway tilts and twists, turning blurred and doubled the further you stagger. a swirl of nausea erupts in your stomach, causing your knees to buckle. your head collides with the edge of the coffee table, leaving you stunned.

as the tranquilizer pumps through you, the drowsiness is indomitable. you roll onto your back and cough, lying at his feet. with the last of your remaining lucidity, you tug on his jean leg, as if in one last ditch effort to get to your feet again.

despite his opportunity to kick away your pleas, Graves stands idle, his neck craned down to watch every moment of it, a sick rendition of his favorite hobby. the most noticeable sensation — the tender skin of your temple throbs from the impact, until any and all discomfort fades away.

eyelids weighed with bricks flutter shut, squirming limbs cease, and the heave of your chest slows into gentle waves of slumber.

"atta' girl."

‧˚₊ divider cred. - cafekitsune ‧₊˚⊹

[moutainrusing]

friends

dorlene july event, 604 words, @enbysiriusblack

School was starting. It was Marlene’s first day at Pottermore Primary in her new shoes and chequered blue summer dress, old enough to leave the nursery and start actual school. The September morning was still warm, remnants of August heat dappling the street yellow, the trees tinged orange, the air humid and peach-tinted, the breeze mild and temperate.

Due to the friendly nature of the small, close-knit village, the five-minute walking distance to the school, and the fact that she’d been running about by herself since the moment she was able to, Marlene was making the journey on her own. It was giving her an insane adrenaline rush. She charged down the path, grinning toothily at the neighbours who were wishing her luck.

She turned the corner, saw the park, and, feeling the power of childhood freedom, swerved towards it. Instead of opening the gate like a lifeless adult would, she chose the adventure of climbing over the fence, books and pens rattling in her rucksack as she swung herself onto the grass.

Landing on her feet, after years of practice, she cast a cursory glance over the park as if it were her territory.

On one of the swings, there sat another girl. New shoes, blue dress, but while Marlene had ditched her blazer because they were too restrictive, this girl was wearing a pristinely ironed blazer, buttoned up, school logo shining, collar perfectly straight. And she was reading a book.

Marlene scrunched her nose and walked towards her. “Why are you reading?” She asked bluntly.

The girl looked up at her with huge umber eyes, and then down at a watch neatly centred on her wrist. It was a cool watch. Like an antique. It was a shade lighter than the dark brown of her skin, with geometric patterns engraved along the border. Marlene found herself thinking that the girl and the watch looked good together. They were both… parts of nature. The wooden watch and the quiet girl.

“I’m reading because school doesn’t start in ten minutes yet,” she tapped her watch.

“Huh,” Marlene acknowledged. “I know better things we can do in that time.”

“Like what?” The girl blinked at her dubiously.

Marlene grinned. “Let’s go over there!” Then she was running, and after a moment, the girl chased after her. Marlene threw a smirk over her shoulder, then slammed on her brakes at the most unexpected time. The girl ran into her, and they both toppled to the ground, Marlene’s chest hurting from how much she was laughing.

“Got you,” she wheezed.

The girl frowned, picked up a spider from the ground, and placed it on Marlene’s hair. Marlene shrieked, got to her feet in panic, and began flailing madly.

“Got you,” the girl echoed smugly, sitting back on her elbows as if she were watching a show.

Marlene narrowed her eyes. She was half-impressed though. This girl wasn’t scared of spiders. Spiders. Even though she might have been a bit of a perfect nerd, she had proper guts. So Marlene smiled and held out a hand. “Well, now that we’ve got each other, I think we have to be friends.”

The girl grinned, taking her hand as she rose back up. “Okay, Marlene. Sounds nice. I’m Dorcas and my watch is called Dakika.” She waved it in Marlene’s face, then walked towards her bag. “Dakika says it’s time for school. Are you coming?”

Marlene darted after her, “How did you know my name? Why have you named your watch? Do you want to play with me after school? Can we sit next to each other in class? And—”

[sacrifices-of-the-literary-demon]

A Web of a Different Sort

Couple of notes:

 

 

“Weirdo” is used as a term of endearment in my family, and thus is intended to be read as such here.

 

 

This is my first written work in a number of years. It was meant to be much shorter but I was having too much fun.It’s not what I thought it was going to be at the beginning, but I hope it scratches that particular itch that spawned the prompt all the same!

 

 

Also! I’m reasonably sure that the term “Drider” comes from a portmanteau of Drow+Spider. Atraxeus isn’t part Drow, although I’m not certain what spider centaurs are called outside of DnD.

 

 

Fluff!Yandere. I mean, it’s so mild I almost can’t really consider it yandere, so be forewarned.

 

 

~~~

 

 

When your aunt passed on earlier in the year, it was a sad but expected result of time catching up to the older, eccentric lady you’d loved in your childhood. Life caused you and her to have lost contact for some time so it was mildly surprising to learn she’d left her run-down abode to you. Your cousin lived deeper in the town her little home almost bordered, and upon you reaching out he’d made it abundantly clear he had no issue with his mother’s decision.

 

 

“What do I need with another house? Mom left me the few mementos I wanted, and if she wanted to help you start your life I’m not going to be the one to argue with her. She’d probably rise up from the grave just to slap me for being a greedy bastard, and I’d have no room to complain.” he finished with a laugh.

 

 

You moved your belongings in during the late fall, the forest on the left side of the house a riotous mix of yellows, oranges and reds making the trees look like torches flowing far beyond what you could see. The ever cooling weather made you aware of every nook and cranny that needed patching, the sharp wind discovering two new ones for every one you filled.  

 

 

Despite the steady trickle of repairs that came with owning an older house, it was at least close enough that a short walk to the bus station gave you access to the town proper. Best of all, there was a well-stocked craft store that was quite popular with almost everyone- your heart in particular was won over completely upon seeing the rows and rows of specialty yarn skeins in any shade imaginable. You were watching the clock as it grew later and later yet, but it was a new store to you and there was always something else that caught your eye and away you eagerly went.

 

 

Four overflowing bags and an indeterminable amount of time later (you knew how long you spent in there, you just weren't going to admit it) found you at the bus stop once again but unfortunately just shy of catching the last bus. Calling your cousin after all the help he’d already given with repairs to the house and rides out of town was out of the question. And the house itself wasn’t that far from town, and yarn didn’t weigh all that much, so…

 

 

Looking at the map on your phone, following the road would take you an hour and some getting back home but you were walking, and by cutting through the forest you’d shave off at least 20 minutes, maybe more.

 

 

Fortune favored you for once; there was a clear path through the trees and frequently checking your phone made sure you never strayed from the path leading to your home. But even in the twilight (perhaps especially in the twilight) the forest was beautiful, and you began to rest more and more often to give your arms a break from the unaccustomed exercise, enjoying the sounds of the rustling branches as the nocturnal residents began their unseen rounds.

 

 

The sight of your back door was a welcomed one, giving you a burst of energy that got you in the house and your bags slung haphazardly onto the couch, causing several skeins of yarn to tumble to the floor. With a tired groan, instead of slumping into the tattered old loveseat like you’d wanted you began to retrieve your purchases from where they had fallen.

 

 

It was exciting though. Picking through your chosen colors and textures, mentally assigning them to each project you were planning. An orange to red ombré that would become a fall-themed couch cover, a similar patterned skein in a sparkling white to blue that would be perfect for winter-themed covers, alongside a much softer white that shined even under the bright lights of the store that would make for perfect snuggling pillows…

 

 

Okay…

 

 

You knew you had picked up at least four of those incredibly soft skeins because you had the idea wrapped up inside your head of building what could almost be called a freaking nest of pillows with them that would be simply heavenly once winter hit properly. But crawling around, disturbing the dust bunnies under the couch and tables didn’t reveal more than two. You had plenty more colors and varieties for your many, many planned upcoming projects for the house, so while it was disappointing you supposed you could wait to purchase more until you were actually ready to start on those. After all, you knew you were going to need a lot more than four for what you were planning, it was just unfortunate that you’d had been limited to what you could carry and the colors you’d already chosen by the time you’d come across these.

 

 

Invigorated anew by the sight (and smell, burying your nose into an armful of brand-new yarn and taking a deep, satisfying sniff, you weirdo) you plucked your hooks from the basket next to the couch, turned your music app on and happily began your first project.

 

 

~

 

 

The morning brought you a little gift of luck, finding one of your missing skeins slightly unraveled on the back porch. You figured you’d dropped it in your haste to get inside and there was a good chance the other one was also dropped somewhere on your way home, most likely on the path when you stopped to rest. The skein was surprisingly clean for having been left outside, another bout of good fortune.

 

 

Over the past several nights, you’d been curling up in the back bay window crocheting to your heart’s content. Being quite the recluse caused your daytime job of answering phones as part of an outsourced support team grate badly on your nerves, but it was by and far better than any other job that required you to interact with people directly (with the added benefit that you could still sometimes work on your craft as no one could actually see you do so). And as with any project done with love, you were quite proficient at it. You had started the couch cover, made a simple runner for the kitchen table, and was currently working on some matching curtains. As a little reward for yourself, you decided to head back to the craft store to pick through their offerings once more despite having plenty of skeins yet to use.

 

 

You paused at the door; it wasn’t too long of a walk into town using the pathway you took last time, right? It would be good exercise, and you wouldn’t have to wait a half hour for the bus or sit in the tin can of a vehicle squished up against strangers you tried valiantly to pretend didn’t exist. You may even find your missing yarn, although the elements by now surely would have rendered it useless to you.

 

 

The walk during the day was different, but the forest was no less enchanting than it was under moonlight. It was quicker than you had remembered, most likely due to not being weighed down by baggage.  

 

 

You spent a good portion of the day around town, stopping in a few shops but never buying anything until your last stop at the craft store. You spent quite a bit of time thumbing through findings and beads and such, but keeping in mind your walk home you decided to pick up another seven skeins of soft white yarn alongside a long bar and hooks for the curtains you were nearly done with.

 

 

The walk back home was brisk and refreshing, the trees blocking much of the cooler fall wind. Some of the trees along the path had faint shimmers along the bark, and you were admiring whatever caused the effect when you stumbled over something on the path. You were fortunate enough to not be pitched to the ground, but your bags were not so lucky. Faint whispers of something tickled your face and arms, and you swiped your hands through the air around you, feeling light strings around your head, almost like spider silk.

 

 

“Huh.”

 

 

You swiped around your body to make sure there was nothing clinging to you before picking your bags back up. This time you counted your purchases, rifling through the bags to make sure nothing was left behind, completely missing the glinting eyes far into the trees as they watched you proceed once more on your short journey home.

 

 

The following week saw you flitting into town bee-lining directly for the hobby shop. You were in desperate need of a “didn’t cuss a customer out despite completely deserving it” reward and while the brisk walk into town helped with the stress, skimming your hand along the rows of brightly colored skeins helped to push the rest of your anxiety away, awash in the thoughts of projects to come.

 

 

This time your purchases were carried in a fisherman’s net bag with a drawstring close, the product of an hour spent in your cozy little nest and a set of free patterns you’d found online. So this time when you inevitably stumbled along the chain of webbing crossing over your path, you managed to keep hold of your purchases. And when not even a step later you felt a soft net-like web fall from the foliage above, dropping your bag in startelement to swipe at the strands criss-crossing your face and torso, your belongings stayed safe. Pulling at the strands did not break the filament despite its deceptively fragile appearance. But the threads were chained in a manner that almost seemed similar to your own, and all it took was a clear head to find a spot in the webbing, unraveling a section large enough to step through within moments. Bending towards the ground to retrieve your bag, you could see it really was kind of similar to a pattern that now hung from the kitchen window rods. You giggled a little bit when your imagination played out an image of an itsy-bitsy spider with an itsy-bitsy set of crochet hooks.  

 

 

A rustling off to your side, yards away, startled you out of your mirth. When it was accompanied by what sounded like a frustrated growl you decided perhaps you should carry on your way before whatever nocturnal animal out there decided to take its bad night out on whatever unsuspecting creature got in its way. Specifically, you.

 

 

~

 

 

You’d grown to love the treks back and forth through the woods, and several times now you’d seen the glistening strings stretching across your path. It was fascinating, really- some of the webbing looked almost like different lacing patterns, again calling to mind some of your own work hung in the windows of your little home. You wondered briefly at the size of the spider (spiders?) that could make such a large web to stretch so far, but you’d seen some pretty impressive natural structures in your youth come from some of the tiniest creatures and so really thought nothing of it. You tried your best to avoid damaging the delicate-looking lacework, stooping and walking through various holes, unraveling the fewest strands necessary- you’d be quite upset if someone came along and ruined your hard work by haphazardly stomping through it. And really, some of the patterns were getting quite impressive for a little arachnid and you could only wonder at the time it took them to spin such increasingly intricate webs.

 

 

By the middle of winter you had two couch covers, three sets of curtains, one blanket, and three of your coveted cuddle pillows made amongst various other items you had crocheted for online orders that provided a little bit of extra cash. You were right- the pillows were almost orgasmic to pile up and snuggle into, but you hadn’t made nearly enough of them as you’d paused on your pillow sets to make the aforementioned blanket. You had a proper little nest in the window now, and even on the few nights you put the hooks down for a book or to watch a movie on your phone you were snuggled up in comfort despite the ever increasing chill coming from the window pane.  

 

 

Obviously there were no more webs during the colder winter months, but nearer to the end of spring you found yourself once again coming across silken webbing laced around the path. The first one of the year was also the first one you’d found on your way into town, and you’d stepped back to admire it in shock and awe as it was also one of the largest, most intricate you’d seen yet.  

 

 

“Oh, wow, that is just so amazing!” You gushed out loud, reaching out to run a finger across the patterns. A lacey chain of snowflakes spiraled out from the center, progressively growing bigger in size, the biggest snowflakes on the edges spanning further than your hand could spread. Interspersed between them were delicate swirls and loops of chain, the lattice-like structure now stretching to cover the path completely between the two trees it was anchored to.

 

 

Following the threads, you could see in the waning daylight more chains and swirls continued their patterns above your head, and tracing the path of webbing with your eyes found the designs stretching and looping around, almost seeming to form a tunnel off the beaten path to lead down into the woods.

 

 

All these months you have been smart enough to stay on the well-worn trail. You knew better than to risk wandering off into the forest- knowing your luck, you’d get lost within hours, starve to death, then have to explain to your auntie’s ghost why your corpse was now feeding the wild coyotes (or whatever was in here) and not taking care of her house.

 

 

But.

 

 

The tapestry of web-work was absolutely enchanting. It must have been the work of an enormous cluster of spiders to achieve such awe-inspiring displays of weaving, but not even the thought of encountering what had to be hundreds of spiders could dissuade you from wanting to see more. Thousands upon thousands of threads made the shimmering web almost glow in spots, more and more chains slowly being recognized. Ohmigosh, that’s just like the pattern I used for the table runner! Each pattern delicately bled into another, and so fascinated by the complexities of the work you barely recognized that you had stepped off the path until you bent your head down to pull out your phone for a flashlight. The sight of the weave beneath your feet instead of dirt gave you pause for a moment. Looking up, even with your (admittedly small) light the end of the tunnel couldn’t be seen, and a cautious backwards glance showed you had only gone a few steps off the path so far.

 

 

You could go back around the other side of the path, round the trees and be on your way as you have so many times before. But you just couldn’t keep your eyes from eagerly following the meticulously woven threads in shimmering designs as they swooped and swirled farther into the darkening woods. How dangerous could it be to look further? Would you ever get a chance to see something this unique again? The wall of webbing looked delicate enough, but pushing on the side only stretched the threads, bouncing back upon drawing your hand away. It would be almost impossible to get lost- the tunnel led straight back and you could merely turn around and follow the passage back to the trail once your curiosity had been sated.

 

 

The ceiling stretched a few feet above your head and if you walked down the middle of this new pathway, you would not be able to touch the walls either so claustrophobia wasn’t even a thought. Besides, the way the intricate shimmering swirls danced into one another, surrounding you as the webbing swirled deeper yet into the forest left no room in you for anything other than fascination. It was unfortunate that you couldn’t snap pictures while your phone used the flashlight- and there was no telling when whatever animals that roamed the woods during the daytime would ruin such a rare sight so you had to commit to your memory now whatever you could.

 

 

A slight ache in your legs was the only clue you had to how far you had walked, mesmerized as you were. A sigh left your lips; you were understandably caught up in being so fortuitous having the chance to examine such a rare sight for so long that night had to have fallen by now, which meant your trip into town was no longer an option. Not that you were complaining. But it was high time to begin your reluctant trek back home.

 

 

Just as the thought brushed your mind the web-formed tunnel gave way to an open cavern. The glistening threads still swirled and chained its way across the floor, but the walls and ceiling were suddenly dark grayish rock speckled here and there with different varieties of moss clinging to the crevices that split along the surface.

 

 

The webbing on the floor began to change, forming something that looked a little more like a spider’s web closer to the center of the rocky room, but not quite- and again, it was something that was familiar to you the closer you peered. Your curiosity and admiration were slowly being outweighed by caution- you were clearly in a cave, how far had you walked? You didn’t want your once-in-a-lifetime experience to become your final experience because you were eaten by a cave bear.

 

 

A skittering noise coming from the space between you and the tunnel entrance had your heart immediately in your throat and your feet rapidly taking you backwards further into the room, hands fumbling with your phone. Your light was a tiny beacon in the dark, a neon sign showing predators where to find you and your trembling hands took three tries to turn it off. You kept moving backwards, not wanting to stay still while your eyes adjusted to the dark the best they could, but you found your feet suddenly pulled out from under you and you only had seconds to brace yourself for the impact of your skull and back hitting the unforgiving stone floor.

 

 

However, instead of meeting the floor in a burst of pain, your backwards momentum was suddenly arrested and your body was abruptly pulled into the air. Your shriek of fear and surprise echoed off the walls and it took you more than a few moments to get your bearings. Your body was suspended, swinging in the air, the cording around you forcing you into somewhat of a fetal position. Your hands scrambled to find purchase, grasping onto the net-like bag that held you while you tried hard not to get sick from the dizzying sway.

 

 

“Little Spinner! You don’t know how happy I am to see you have survived the freeze!”

 

 

Your eyes widened in shock. A human voice was the last thing you expected in the middle of the night, in a dark cave carved out in the woods. And now that you put it that way, this was such a bad idea. What were you thinking?

 

 

Obviously, you weren’t.

 

 

“Uh, I- I’m sorry, I think I need some…help?” Struggling against your bonds you managed to get a hand above you just out of the snare-like net that held you captive who-knows-how-high up. Blind fumbling of your fingers encountered the rim, feeling the thicker loops of stitching just above you, and as your eyes began adjusting to the dimness around you a thick pair of strings could just barely be seen, gradually leading from the net that held you captive to the ceiling of the cave.

 

 

And the edging on the rim of the snare was too familiar to not recognize.

 

 

After all, you used your little drawstring bag entirely too often on your many trips to town to not recognize those chains by now.

 

 

Further scuff and scuttling noises drew closer to you, but the voice from the darkness below you interrupted the mounting fear of the unknown.

 

 

“And you have no idea how pleased I am to see my work is finally good enough to impress you! You’ve no idea the amount of spinning I’ve done to get it just right.” the voice laughed as it continued to move below you, then sounding from the side of the cave wall. “Well, perhaps you do. I’m sure it took you quite a while to master your craft as you have.”

 

 

Confused with the direction of the conversation, you fought the fear of having to rely on an unknown stranger who sounded much too happy for the situation you were in. “I don’t, I really don’t understand what's going on here? And I’m getting scared?” It came out as a question not because you didn’t recognize the feelings coursing through your veins was terror-fueled adrenaline, but because you were uncertain if you should admit it to a faceless stranger.

 

 

The voice continued as though you hadn’t responded at all. “But there are no complaints from me. Months and months of nearly spinning myself dry were worth it to hear your exclamations of joy, dearest one.” There was a shift in the air beside you and large barely seen hands took hold of the net that held you, stopping the swaying motion. “Oh, great Neith, I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but do allow me this moment of gushing. I’ve waited so long to properly meet you! And I’ve worked my spinnerets off to prove it, don’t you think?”  

 

 

A pale face-a pale upside down face- with paler hair hanging down like a curtain appeared between the hands holding the netting. A wide grin flashed teeth but there was something wrong there and coal black eyes glinted back, with a few smaller black dots edged around each eye and in the dimness of the cave did they blink are those dots scars or eye- wait wait wait

 

 

Your own eyes grew wide and you slapped your hands over your mouth, converting a terrified scream into something more manageable. Or at least, muffled. The strings holding the snare to the dome of the cave stretched thin and the net bobbed down as if a more significant amount of weight had been added.  

 

 

“Hello, little mate! Atraxeus is what I am called, and I have been admittedly a bit impatient to meet you but now that you’re here…” he giggled, “I’m just too excited to decide what to show you first!”

 

 

There was too much and too little information being thrown at you at the same time, and if you could just get free of this snare you were sure you could calm down enough to ask the right questions and possibly make it through this night intact.

 

 

One pale hand left the side of the shimmering net to strike a match, your eyes following the tiny flame as it fell to the floor below you and gosh that was a lot further down than you realized before the pinprick of light suddenly swelled into a sea of flames dancing across the floor for a brief moment, before crawling up the walls into cleverly hidden cracks throughout the cavern, settling in and burning brightly across the room. The intricate webbing surprisingly still held fast to the floor, appearing to have been untouched, and the gentled flames flickering between the sheets of rock interspersed with the rich green of the moss was admittedly breathtaking, the light now sufficient enough for you to be able to take in your surroundings.

 

 

Your gaze went from the walls to the man hanging beside you, trailing up his bare chest oh god he better not be naked that would just- and for a moment you couldn’t make sense of what your eyes were telling you. Because where his waist ended blended into a dark plate-like carapace and-

 

 

An undignified shriek trying to escape your throat had you once again clapping your hands across your mouth, falling into unhinged laughter. Eight long, spindly, legs held onto the line suspending you above the floor, a muted black abdomen easily twice your size with slight hints of lavender and gray glinting in the light behind them.

 

 

Your wide eyes met his, still struggling with unhinged laughter. Three smaller eyes curved around each of his two more human-like ones. “Man..spider..spider-man, wait, no, no-not right, not right ohmigod-” The not-man not-spiderman cocked his head to the side in question, not being able to understand you as your hands were still covering your mouth.  

 

 

“Atraxeus, sweetling, but I understand it can be a bit of a mouthful. You can call me Atrax if you wish, but I’m also eager to hear the terms of endearment you prefer to use.” He frowned for a moment, looking pensive. “Except honey, or honeybear, or anything of the sort. Had a nasty run in with some bees a few years ago and can’t say I’ve had a taste for it since.” He refocused on you. “Let’s get you down from here, I know it’s a great view of the room, but there’s a little more to show you!” The line holding you suspended went slack momentarily before his hands and first two sets of legs caught you. “I’ve cleaned up and decorated in anticipation of bringing you home, but don’t worry! I’ve left more than enough room for you to display your own darling webs, dearest!”

 

 

He transferred you to his arms once the two of you reached the floor to allow his spider appendages to touch down first, the back two releasing his thread from the larger of the two sets of spinnerets. Your renewed struggles were rewarded with your head popping free of the net-like bag but casual hands merely readjusted you in his hold, curling you up into his chest with the remnants of the snare trapping your arms against you.

 

 

You looked up at him, pale skin and paler white hair that fell to his mid back. His gait was even and unhurried- quite the contrast to his exuberant, talkative personality. He caught your gaze from the corner of his eye(s) and gave you a sparkling grin that showed off an impressive set of fangs.

 

 

You closed your eyes and shuddered. “I don’t want to be eaten alive, oh god, that’s gotta be the worst way to go…” Atraxeus laughed and gave you a reassuring squeeze. “Oh, my, neither do I! Yet another thing we have in common!” He carried you through a short tunnel of rock sloping down before opening into what was a much more impressively sized cavern, although you couldn’t see the size properly as it was covered in sheet after sheet after sheet of webbing floors with silken tunnels interspersed throughout the space. He never paused, a slight hop taking him onto the glittering canvases, his legs navigating the maze unerringly. Despite yourself, you were overwhelmingly impressed at the silken architecture stretching around you. “In fact, I had quite despaired of ever finding a mate to share my life with- apparently I’m one of those “strange arachnaes” that want to actually enjoy my life with my partner, thank-you-very-much, not “‘Thank you for the babies’ then ‘thank you for the meal’”. This was said with a roll of all eight eyes, and you got the feeling it was something he’d been told a few too many times for his liking.  

 

 

A smaller webbed tunnel led to a curiously warm room, the floor once more decorated in crocheted paisley-like swirls. A large web hung almost horizontally across the space, unique in its construction; criss-crossed with enough webbing layered that it was thicker than your hand, sparkling in an opaque off white color. There were natural openings formed around the edge with one large hole near the bottom, acting as the entrance Atraxeus carried you through.  

 

 

Looking ahead, your sudden outrage pushed aside all the disjointed thoughts and fear that was flooding your mind. “Is that my blanket?!? Did you steal my blanket?” Said blanket was in the center of what you thought was another level of the room but now you assumed this must be his bed, surrounded by pillows of different sizes. The webbing barely moved as he walked forward- a testament to its sturdy construction- and upon closer look you realized this particular afghan was much larger than the one you had hooked yourself. Atraxeus’ chest vibrated beneath you as he let out a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment, little Spinner of mine. As prolific as you are with your webbing, I feared you would complete your work before I could learn the pattern.”

 

 

He set you down upon the middle of the blanket, his forelegs cocooning the edges snugly around you before settling his great arachnid body beside your own, propping his head upon his hands to gaze upon you with a little sigh of contentment.

 

 

It was awkward for you, though, and still terrifying pinned down as you were with and of course an annoying strand of hair was tickling your cheek but that wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. “So…” you began. “I’m getting the idea you probably don’t want to eat me…even though I look like a giant bug trapped in-” you trailed off; you probably shouldn’t give him any ideas. “I’m very glad! You don’t want to be eaten, and I don’t want to be eaten, and- um, you were saying something about, uh,” you could feel the blush forming on your face and you couldn’t look him in the eyes for the embarrassment “Mates…partners…you can see that I’m not a, ah, spider-person, right?”

 

 

You looked back at him when he giggled. “Trust me, it’s part of your charm. Although watching you night after night weaving your webs, it would not be surprising to find you might have Arachnaes in your bloodline somewhere.”

 

 

“It’s not weaving webs, it’s- wait, night after night? You were stalking me?”

 

 

“Well of course. How else was I supposed to learn about you?” He reached a hand out to gently move the wayward strand of hair behind your ear.  

 

 

And this right here is why you really should have made an effort to try to connect with other people, other humans, because the mild shiver such a gentle move provoked in you should have been fear or revulsion. Especially paired with his unabashed admission of stalking. But in your defense, the people you tried to reach out and form relationships with, be it romantically inclined or a fulfilling camaraderie had left you with enough apprehension that you were almost serious about waiting for the inevitable robot revolution and trying your hand at courting one of them instead.

 

 

You’ve gone down some serious rabbit holes in your depressed internet searches, so sue you.

 

 

Atraxeus’ hands now perched beside you, his face much closer to yours than before. A rakish grin and sharpened gaze said he missed nothing when it came to your reactions. No, no, you were not so desperate for affection and acceptance that a mythical creature- ok, no, that was unwarranted meanness as he was definitely a person of some sort- but while he apparently knew enough about you to be entirely enthralled you had had your whole world-view set upon its head with just his existence alone. A person that had nothing but gushing compliments for you, something you’d never encountered with anyone else. And he was admittedly attractive, once you got accustomed to the multiple sets of eyes, and you never really had an issue before with picking up and relocating the little arachnids that made their way into your home.

 

 

What were you doing? Were you really going to talk yourself into a relationship with a person from another species?

 

 

Looking up at his adoring gaze centered on you, a small part in the back of your mind responded “YES PLEASE”.

 

 

You told that small part to shut up before it got you into trouble.

 

 

“Can…can you let me out of this, please?” You wiggled your shoulders slightly, the only movement the snug covering allowed. “I just think we can have a much more productive conversation as adults if one of us isn’t a literal captive audience, don’t you think?”

 

 

His smile grew wide before suddenly nuzzling his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, and you felt it when he took a deep breath of your scent. “We have plenty of time for talking later, sweetheart. I’ve worked so very hard throughout the night and into the day that I haven’t even been able to renovate the nest to accommodate for your disability, you know. I am in dire need of some rest and I fear you would wander off and get hurt, and it would just devastate me to see you harmed.”

 

 

“What do you mean by disability?” you asked warily.

 

 

He sighed and leaned back slightly, cupping your face in his hands and steadily holding your gaze with his own. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this but, my love,…you only have two legs.”

 

 

You gave him a deadpan stare.

 

 

“Yes I knew that Atraxeus, I’m human, and a majority of us are naturally born with two legs.”

 

 

He laughed again, his smile bright as a thrill ran through him at hearing you say his name for the first time, and you cracked a small grin yourself. “Seriously though,” you wiggled a bit once more “there’s no need to chain me up-”

 

 

He cocked his head questioningly. “Is my webbing so rough against your skin?” He ran his fingers across the blanket at your shoulder.

 

 

“No, it’s, well, really quite soft, but-”

 

 

His hand came back across to gently tug at the material wrapped around your chest. “You can breathe alright?”

 

 

“Well, yeah, it’s just-”

 

 

“Then let us rest, just for a little while my love. Our conversation will keep ‘til morning.” He tucked his head back to nuzzle once more against your neck, an arm and three arachnid legs looping around you. Maybe it didn’t bother you the way you thought it should because you were so tired. Maybe he had a point, that you would be better prepared to argue your points with him once you were more well rested yourself.

 

 

Maybe in the morning you’d find he had some valid points himself.

 

 

Maybe. We’ll see.

 

 

~

 

 

Omake:

 

 

You cradled the swaddled egg; being only about half the size of a large watermelon she fit perfectly in your arms. Atrax had said time and the right set of humidity was all she needed to grow, but you were too eager to meet your soon-to-be-hatched daughter and were constantly swathing her in different baby blankets, rocking her and humming lullabies. Between the two of you, she had enough mini afghans of both yarn and spider-silk to make her own proper little nest and you almost always scooped her up upon the final stitch to see what she looked like in your latest creation.

 

 

Atrax could roll his eyes and playfully mock you all he wanted- he knew damn well he did the same exact thing more often than he let on.

 

 

The Arachnae in question had just entered your shared room, and upon seeing you awake and alert, tried unsuccessfully to hide his newest baby blanket behind his back, but aborted the attempt upon your pointed, playful look.

 

 

He sighed with a soft smile. “Ok, I know we keep saying she has enough blankies, but in my defense, I was scrolling on your phone and found the most adorable Halloween patterns, and really! How could I resist? Look at this!!! It is too cute to be legal I tell you!” A flick of his wrists had the silken square presented so you could clearly see the design. A ring of dancing jumping spiders holding hands spiraled out of the center to fill the entire block. It was a highly intricate design and probably took him longer than normal with the amount of smaller chains, but you had to admit he was right. You probably would have done the same thing.

 

 

Conveniently forgetting all the other times you in fact did do the exact same thing.

 

 

You tried to hold in your laugh but it sputtered out anyways. “I’m not complaining one bit. You’re right, it is too cute to be legal.” You passed her over to her daddy, who swept her up and swaddled her in the soft white blanket, her tiny shadowed form barely seen through the light greenish gray of the membrane.

 

 

He cradled her in the crook of his arm, cooing at her. “Oh, you’re going to be so beautiful when you hatch. Mommy and Daddy can’t wait to meet you little one. You’re going to be just as gorgeous as Mommy- you’re going to have to bite the heads off of all the other little ones to stop them from flirting with you.”

 

 

“Atraxeus no! We are not going to encourage our little girl to be a cannibal!” You were both horrified and sputtering with laughter as you gave him a playful poke to his ribs, then reached out to retrieve her but he spun around and put his abdomen between you two.

 

 

“Lucindae, yes! You’re going to be our innocent little spiderling for ever and ever and you’re going to nom on all the other little spiderlings that try to date you! Nom nom nom nom nom.”

 

 

You were crying with laughter as he waxed on and on, and when you clambered up onto his abdomen he merely turned and swept you up in his other arm to hold the both of you close.

 

 

You sighed happily. Nobody would ever try to claim it was the most conventional of pairings, Atraxeus and you, but for you, it was perfect.

 

 

 *This was a half remembered prompt from somewhere, all I can recall is the blog author received some requests they loved but didn't have time for? I think? There was a reason they didn't fulfill it so posted for others so they could. I will credit you when I find you!

[underthecrazy20]

Layla ~ Sim Jake

Genre: Fluff, college!au, meet cute.

Warnings: None.

W/c: 810

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The orange and red leaves gently fell from trees as you walked through the park, you were on your way to a café to study a topic for a paper you had to write for school. Not a lot of people were in the park which was unfortunate because it was a beautiful day in the cloudy morning. You made it to a small black bridge that was in the middle of the park where a small pond of water flowed in the ground. Looking down at the leaves floating, in the deep mirror of the water, the reflection of the fall trees made you smile softly. Fall was your favorite season; it was always a fun thing to experience. New changes in trees and weather and like a familiar friend stopping by for the year, coming to say hello never got old to you. 

You had not known how long you stayed standing on the bridge in thought, but a distant voice calling someone broke your deep focus causing you to turn your head to the right where you had walked previously. A smile broke out on your lips as you saw a boy around your age chasing a cream-colored border collie as it made its great escape to the desired adventure. The boy looked as if he had been running for quite some distance before coming to the park. It was amusing to say the least to watch the dog slow down by a tree or bench and be distracted for a second before running away from its owner. It looked small enough to be female.

"Come here!" he ordered out. The border collie ran a few feet in front of him laying her paws down on the leaf covered ground with her behind up, tail wagging in a teasing way. The boy sighed, placing his hands on his hips looking at the mischief pup. A little giggle escaped your mouth at the funny scene unfolding before you. The boy stepped closer to the dog and leaped forward but was too slow as the dog escaped once again. 

So as soon as the dog saw you on the bridge, you bent down clapping your hands together speaking sweetly to her. Of course, the collie was super excited to receive an invitation of love. When she came up to you and stopped by your feet, letting you pet her head while she began wagging her beautiful tail. You then took the red leash that was hooked onto her collar so she wouldn't run off again. Peeking at the tag you were pleased to find out she was a girl. Layla was her name. Soon the boy who was the owner came up out of breath.

"I am so sorry, I don't know what has gotten into her today," he managed to speak out. He had a thick Australian accent when he spoke. His hair was brown, and he was taller than you, he also wore a white shirt with a flannel over it and black pants and black shoes. You grinned, giving Layla a gentle rub on her ear. 

"That's alright, I don't mind," you answered, then looked up to him and handed him the leash. He took the leash with a relieved expression, but a bright smile came upon his face after he got Layla comfortable at his side. You smiled in return. 

"I was on my way to a café, would you like to join me?" you offered, kindly. The boy looked surprised, but then nodded at the offer. 

"Um sure, but I'm buying, it's the least I can do for you helping me," he bargained. 

"Deal," you replied, turning around to walk off the bridge to head onto the café that awaited you two. But you stopped on the path to wait for the new friend you made.

"I'm Jake, by the way," he introduced himself as he caught up with you. 

"Y/n," you greeted back. Layla let out a bark at the two of you as she stood in the middle looking up at you both.

"And you have met Layla," Jake laughed, looking down at the jealous collie. You reached down to pet her again. 

"And I am very glad to have met her, both of you." you said, looking up at Jake after you spoke. He smiled brightly at your words. Under the fall trees a new change to the two acquainted lives began to turn into a bright future for them. 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[disproportionatelysculpting]

An Evening It Was

I am lying on my bed, I don't know how long it has been maybe an hour maybe just 10 mins. The ceiling is white, plain, dull, it has no border designs, unlike back at my parents house, the one I left. Its just plane, square with a fan a little left from the center, probably those who lived before me had their bed right below it. There is a hook in center, where the fan was actually supposed to be, maybe it was for light bulb, who knows. Things fit in as one wishes, not the other way around. I have watched this countless time and thought same things. The fan is old and has dust settled on it, it hasn't been clean for last few months, nor been used much for last few weeks. There are also some spider webs, but no spider at sight, they left their home too. I hope they reached a good place, maybe they died on the way, or maybe they are alive at some better place than this hobbit's habitat. There is a big crack on the right wall, I have followed its path so many times, it looks like lighting, parting the sky but the walls are yellow not blue or grey, the crack is dark, not shining at all. The crack makes it's way to the window, opening up this box to the world, acting as a portal with white translucent curtains. Every morning the sun seeps in through them waking me up, somedays burning my soul, somedays healing my bones. The window is the only source of light in the room right now, it looks like sun will set sooner or later, the sky is in a fresh coat of purple hue with clouds orange, white and blue, in contrast to which the room is a muddy brownish blue. The clouds are slowly floating away to some far lands, they will lose their existence in form of rain soon, making some land feel alive again. Time is floating away too with the clouds, I wonder who was the first person who started calculating it. Why did they do so? What must have been so important for them to start quantization of time out of all things, trying to conquer something so unknown. It flows different for different things, how did they manage to make it acceptable to everyone? Within each breath I take, thousands or millions or more microbes must have been born and die let alone on my body, and then all on other humans body or that lake or the forests and literally every place, their flow of time is different than me. The clouds have passed the sky has been abandoned too, its now getting darker, a familiar shade of blue. The room is getting darker, the yellow walls looks muted into an unknown shade. The sun has set, left this side of earth to become still, calm, cold. There are yellow lights switching on, in houses outside of my room, windows lit, showing signs of existence one by one, forming a constellation on surface, while the sky turns darker, there are people alive and warm, people I don't know. There are no stars in the sky today, but the grey clouds hoarding around, it will rain, at least. There are crickets and insects who started chirping outside, toads and frogs are making a tune. Birds of night are playing in the sky, or maybe finding a shelter from the upcoming rain. Its dark outside, and so my room is now purely blue, with silhouettes of furniture, its growing colder. There is a distant noise of car honks and music, maybe someone is celebrating their joy. Its raining, the voices are dying, all I can hear is the rain getting louder and louder. The world is silent, the sky is crying. My hands are blue, my heart is quite, my breath is contained. The world has grown colder and I am cold with it too. So much time has passed. All i know is I am still lying on my bed.

[fleckcmscott]

Tiny Sparks

Summary: On a beautiful night in Gotham, Arthur and Y/N enjoy a long awaited date.

Words: 3,441

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: @sweet-nothings04 requested a story that covered the date night mentioned in Ch. 5 of Way Back Home. Never had I thought that writing something relatively simple would be such a challenge! 😂 Thank you so much for the request! I hope you all enjoy. 😊 Much appreciation to @forever-fleck​ for allowing me to use one of her lovely edits for the intro-pic.

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The refrigerator's glow beckoned like a distant star.

A salad packed for Y/N's lunch tomorrow. One inch of Five Alive orange juice in a plastic pitcher. An open can of Heinz baked beans sealed with plastic wrap. No, no, no. He scanned the door. Universal Foods ketchup, poppy seed dressing, mustard that dated back to 1982...

"Ah ha." Arthur ripped the jar of green olives from the shelf, twisted the lid with the urgency of a man opening a bottle of nitroglycerin. He shoved a spoon into the jar, shoved it in his mouth. The night out would delay dinner by three hours. By quarter past seven, his stomach had gotten loud enough to be picked up by a microphone.

Tummy tided over, he went to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. Though summer, a cold front had rolled in, settled over the city since Tuesday, a refreshing sixty-two degrees. He slid a short-sleeve dress shirt up his arms. Slipped a navy sweater off a wooden hanger, the cardigan with red, yellow, and pink stripes along the placket. A sheer knit out of one of Mabel's catalogs, perfect for layering, according to his sister-in-law. And the splashes of color fit the image he wanted to present tonight.

This would be his first performance since Y/N's and his return from Missouri. He'd written and rewritten, practiced his stance and body language, studied his facial expressions and showbiz grin. Done everything he could to make his material work. Whether it was confidence that spiraled upward or the urgent need to get onstage, he couldn't tell. But he had an inkling it'd all go swimmingly. Would've bet his last dollar on it.

As he folded back the sweater's cuffs, Y/N breezed through the doorway. She swooped to snag a pair of sandals from the closet floor and sat in the corner chair.

"Don't forget to tuck in your shirt," she said. Ankle crossed over knee, she secured a beige strap around her heel.

His movements slowed while he observed her. Since coming home, their emotional connection had deepened to a depth that rivaled the Mariana Trench. She'd seemed to strike an accord, both with him and herself. Revealed an openness she'd hidden behind a disarming smile whenever dodging the rare inquiry about her former life.

Now when she shared recollections, her face brightened more than it darkened. They browsed her photo album a couple times a week, getting through a few pages here and there. Some days only one. There were moments she'd cut herself off, maintain the border she'd built within her heart to banish the bad.

"Old habits are hard to break," she'd say, front teeth shoved into bottom lip, the pressure turning it waxy. But more and more, she pushed forward. Gave space and voice to her experiences. Interlinked their pasts and paths, the roads crisscrossing between them.

In therapy, he'd talked about their trip, what Y/N had told him. Disclosed what was sufficient for Dr. Ludlow to get the drift. "It's hard for Y/N," he said. "I wanna be there for her. I don't want her to be sad anymore." Fourteen years of sadness had been enough.

"I think it's wonderful you want to help her. That many years of caregiving takes a toll. But she loved her father deeply, and sadness is a typical reaction to those types experiences. Let me ask you: if something happened to Y/N, what would your response be?"

His heart became a cannonball that plummeted to his stomach. "I'd die."

"No," Dr. Ludlow said, uncrossing her legs. "You would not die. You'd come to my office, and we'd work through it together. My point - we come back to this a lot - is that no emotion is negative. It's what you do with your feelings that matters. Sadness isn't a bad feeling. Unpleasant, yes, but necessary. It's a wave we all ride, just like happiness or anger. Let her ride those waves and be her lifejacket when she needs it. You'll know. Trust yourself to know."

He'd followed that guidance to the letter. The other night, they'd gone to bed at the usual hour, lain in the mottled blackness of their room. Soft snoring was the usual lullaby that sung him to sleep, but her repeated sighs continued well past midnight. He'd turned to find her on stomach, forearms shoved beneath her pillow. He'd pressed a kiss to the velvety valley between her shoulders. Placed a protective palm on her side.

She'd rolled onto her back. Spoke with a smile and wet eyes. "You give me a lot of strength by letting me be weak."

The inclination to argue had twisted his tongue. He'd gnawed the tip to stop himself. There was no way he'd say what he wanted at half-past lights out, anyway. Plus, he understood what she meant. Weakness was a hard-won refuge, third nature and allowed only with him. Still. During the decades they'd spend together, her characterization would be one they'd never agree on. It went right on the list alongside the greatness of Gotham and the entertainment value of Milton Berle.

Adjusting her champagne dress's petal sleeves, she swished past him to pluck gold earrings from her jewelry box and stepped to the vanity on the opposite side of the bed. She stuck a post through her left earlobe and screwed on the backing. "Mabel wants a tape of your set."

His great inkling suddenly shrunk to a pinpoint. "Why?" Recordings and he had a sordid history.

"She's dying to hear your material. That's a direct quote."

"Well... Would she accept a picture? I can write a joke on the back."

"How about this. I'll bring my recorder, and if you're happy with your performance, we'll send a copy. A lot of comedians record their sets."

"Oh yeah? A lot of comedians who? How do you know?"

"I've been to a show or two by now." She lined her eyes in the usual sable. "It might be good to hear the audience's reactions without the pressure of being on stage. What worked and what didn't."

"But that's why I have you," he said. When she smoothed a thin layer of silky rose shadow on her eyelids, he slinked up behind her. Traced a line down her bare arm and murmured in her ear. "You don't need all that."

"Uh huh. You don't say that when I'm wearing lace." The applicator dabbed his nose, leaving a pale circle in its wake.

Chuckling, he wiped the powder into his sleeve. "Okay. We can tape it. I think I'll be all right. I practiced a lot."

"You'll be more than all right." She spun to wrap her arms about his waist. "Just trust yourself."

A familiar directive, an encouraging echo. Her chin rested on his shoulder, warm breath on his neck. Tender hands followed the curve of her back, the zippered seam of her dress. His wedding ring gleamed in the mirror's reflection. "I will," he promised.

~~~~~

When Arthur had told her he'd signed up for an open mic at a new joint, Y/N had assumed it'd be the usual smoky nightclub, the kind frequented by couples who ordered one too many drinks. She was overdressed for a casual dining restaurant. And what were these kids doing here at this time of night? She would've tucked her nephews and nieces in by eight on the dot.

The microphone stood in the corner, a lone figure lit by the same recessed, sixty-five-watt bulbs as the tables. Behind it was a man in a faded purple t-shirt and rainbow suspenders, telling jokes about the shapes of jars. The ukulele he strummed was missing a fourth string. It struck Y/N that he was the perfect lead-in for Arthur's newest material. Family friendly and a little left footed.

No spotlight was in sight, so Y/N claimed the nearest two-top to be Arthur's spotlight. She retrieved her cassette recorder from her purse, set it in the center of the table, and scanned the crowd.

A man with lush, brunette hair picked his nose. Studied what he'd found while the woman next to him rolled her eyes and cried Oh, Harold. He stuck the golden nugget in a handkerchief. A grandmother wiped spaghetti sauce from her granddaughter's hands and asked for a doggy bag. One pair, in their fifties and looking as fish out of water as Y/N, shared a pitcher of cloudy beer.

Without a drink list on offer, Y/N had to forgo a Tequila Sunrise. She ordered plain seltzer for Arthur and a diet cola. After the show, they'd have Mai Tais at Traffic Light. Enact the plan they'd made surrounded by sunlight and strawberries.

Their vacation remained fresh in her mind, persistent as water flows shaping sandstone. What she'd assumed would be a search for reconnection and amends had turned into the mirror she'd avoided. The parts of herself she'd shielded Arthur from, the wounds she'd submerged in her marrow had flooded outward. A fountain of broken dreams and regrets, deep enough to drown in.

Her husband was a good, kind man. He'd been the first man she'd dated who'd lived her plight. The first chance to share what eight years of caregiving had done to her. Yet, she'd denied herself that comfort, convinced doing so would dismay him. And make her soul hurt all the worse.

And it had. Sometimes it still did. She'd spent too long trying to move on from it all. Yearning to forget. But the haven of Arthur's heart (and not a little prodding) allowed her to let go. Opening herself to him lightened her load, lessened her fear. The moments she felt small, protected by love and acceptance, brought an unexpected bliss. Turned the Shit She Refused to Talk About into the Shit She Could Talk About on Good Days.

Despite her relief, she'd had trouble sleeping when they'd returned. He'd made her chamomile, brought her along to the fire escape. Pulled her to his lap and guided head to his shoulder. Gently, he'd teased that it was nice to have company that late at night.

Puffing a cigarette, he'd shared past mistakes. A sampling of his notions after Penny had had her stroke, the ones that'd made him question if he was a bad person. If he had the capacity to love within him. He'd adopted the formal posture of a licensed therapist. "The doctor says we all them. Those thoughts. It's okay that you've had them, too."

Revealing his shadow self, the trust he granted her even after her confession, fertilized the seed of grace he'd planted at the cowboy bar. Vine by vine it grew, winding itself through each rib, weaving between her collarbones, wrapping around the facets of her neck. Every touch, every glance was an imprint of a promise. That no matter what had happened, no matter what would happen, he would love her.

He was helping her paste her dreams back together.

Rainbow Suspenders ducked out. Arthur emerged from the restroom alcove to the right. Diners seated along the wall offered a smattering of applause, breaking her out of her reverie and into a wide smile.

Nervous sweat shined his forehead, slender fingers played with one cuff. He began with a long breath and exaggerated bow. A trick he'd developed to hide that he was gauging his condition, the likelihood of ill-timed laughter. Once he'd straightened and caught her eye, he gave a little nod, more of a chin bob. She winked and pressed Record on the tape deck.

"Hello," he said, the start of his typical introduction. "I'm Arthur. It's good to be here. You know, growing up in Gotham was like staying in one place. There's a lot to do, but when you're a poor person it's hard to pay attention."

A cackle from the rear, a hearty guffaw to her left. The din of cutlery and conversation lowered. The press of everyone's attention turned to center stage.

With a flourish, Arthur took his journal from his pocket, presented it as a prop instead of an aid. He thumbed through its pages and leaned into the mic conspiratorially. "I've heard it's not nice to talk about someone behind their back. But what if you've talked to their front, and they want to walk all over you?"

~~~~~

Traffic Light was one of Gotham's best deals. Four dollars for an overflowing mound of Thai delicacies, one self-service plate stacked as high as GCR's Twin Towers. Available after nine o'clock Tuesdays and Thursdays. No sharing, please. Avoid waste and take plenty of napkins.

Just beyond the glass entryway, a praying Buddha statue greeted them, the tip of its ushnisha taller than a stupa. Golden elephants marched along sequined tapestries, plastic greenery hung from the ceiling, cradled in beige macrame. Behind the register, floral garlands topped royal family portraits. And facing the bar was a spirit house the size of a fax machine, where green tea and coconuts were offered for protection. Warm, woody incense merged with the pungent smell of curry to make Y/N's mouth water.

Arthur's long strides beat her to the buffet. He grabbed a scalloped plate, held it parallel to his chest. Drummed the bottom while he studied the unfamiliar cuisine. Grinning, she stepped forward to be his guide.

Chicken satay and steamed jasmine rice found an immediate home on his dish, peanut sauce cuddled up to dependable crispy wings. Scallion pancakes were deep friend, making him an instant fan. On her advice, he added a scoop of vegetable tempura, just to get a vitamin or two in his system. When he poked a squid's suckers, his expression was a mask of alarm. The seafood stir fry was a firm pass. Y/N ordered the yellow curry - two star spicy this time.

They settled on brown wicker bar chairs at the counter, which ran along the front window, facing the street. People hustling to work, to a relaxing night of dozing in an easy chair before the television, to fluttery first dates.

"So." Arthur dipped sliced carrot in her curry sauce, speaking and sipping his cocktail. "What did you think? I couldn't really hear the crowd. I was too nervous."

"No one could tell. You were a real professional out there." She nibbled the last vestiges of meat from a chicken bone. Wiped her fingers and pulled a folded tissue from her purse. "I just had a couple ideas."

"You took notes?"

"You can compare them to the tape later."

His set had started off strong and ended on a high note, bridging a lull that'd sagged the middle. He'd only been a beat off at times, a pause post-setup a split second too long. "The crowd got quiet about halfway through," she said.

"Maybe they were listening?" he asked. She didn't have to look to know he was somewhere between a squint and a grin. His tender tone held a challenge.

"It's possible. But I think they anticipated your shtick, the 'why' and 'what do you get' format of your jokes." Her fingertip followed the points on her paper. "Instead of asking, 'Why is marriage like fine wine?' you could deliver the whole joke as a sentence or two. What about, 'Marriage is like fine wine. The more it ages, the rarer it is.' And than make it personal by mentioning your favorite."

"Like, 'My wife and I are a fine Moscato?'"

"Merlot ages better."

Crossing his arms over his chest, he swiveled on his stool in mock offense. "Well, it is my joke." A truth and a tease.

She popped the last bite of spring roll between his lips, followed the gesture with a peck. He caught her jaw and brought her back for another. Head hazy, she dropped her lashes. Leaned into the warm palm cradling her cheek.

He wasn't the funniest comedian she'd ever heard. But he was the one she loved the most.

Just as he dug out his wallet, a couple halted on the sidewalk, breaking their stride directly in front of them. The man wore a pastel, plaid sportscoat, the woman a blue sweater embroidered with a white Scottish terrier. Y/N recognized them as the older pair from the restaurant, kindred guppies in need of a pond.

Plaid Jacket pointed through the window, waved the wave of the overexcited, and darted through the door.

He wiped his meaty hand on his trousers and extended it to Arthur. "Hey, weren't you that guy at Laughs Lots?" His breath stank of shitty casual dining beer.

"Yes," Arthur said, taking the offered hand. His smile started off disbelieving but then crinkled his entire face. "Yeah! That was me."

"Well, I'll be. Always wanted to do an open mic night, never had the guts, though. I play harmonica. I'm Bob."

The woman on his arm gave a swift nod. "Bob's real good, too. He's got 'The Entertainer' down pat."

That wasn't the first tune Y/N associated with a harmonica. But Arthur's style of jokes wasn't what she expected out of comedy, either.

"And that must be the little lady," Bob continued, nudging Arthur's arm. Then his eyes popped. "I've gotta take a leak." On that note, he jogged towards the back of the restaurant, fists at his side like he was running a race.

Y/N snorted and patted her handbag. She hushed her voice and leaned towards Arthur, upper arm brushing his bicep. "See? You can mail that tape tomorrow."

~~~~~

With the brisk night air and clear, velvet skies, they decided to skip the train and walk home. They threaded around trash bags, hopped over sidewalk cracks, ran the last block to Sheldon Park. It'd closed an hour after sunset, but the iron gate's chain remained unlatched, either as an oversight or because the lock was broken. Likely the latter.

Y/N glanced over both shoulders. Pushed the gate ajar and slipped through the opening. Squeezed Arthur's hand and pulled him to follow.

Camping tents were set off from main entrance, tucked behind a dirt trail. Four or five, a number likely to grow given Gotham's continued stagnation. Flames licked the edges of a metal barrel, where men in ragged jackets warmed their fingers. Along the main path, two teenagers sat with a boombox, blasting the latest Run D.M.C. hit Arthur hadn't heard. Their sunglasses must've been to protect their retinas from their sneakers. Their shoes were so white they glowed. The two clinked Tab bottles and swigged.

Cinching the belt of her spring coat, she continued towards the center of the park. For being smack dab in the middle of the urban landscape, it was surprisingly quiet. No horse hooves clacked, no skateboards whizzed past. Hip hop was out of earshot now. About a minute later, he recognized where they were headed.

Ducks busied themselves on the rear side of the pond, chit chatting and grooming one another. Others slept with beaks buried under their feathers. The nearby bench was a recent addition, grass hadn't yet sprouted around its legs. Y/N sped ahead of him and took a seat. Leaned against the backrest and looked up.

It was six seconds before she spoke. "See that?" she asked and pointed at the sky. "That's the North Star."

"It's the bright one, right?" He settled next to her on the edge of the bench.

"In the tail of the little dipper. My father taught me where it was in case I ever got lost." A light laugh left her. "He tried to show me other constellations, but I was terrible at finding them. But on clear nights, we made our own. The Kite. The Tablespoon. The Stethoscope - though I think that's Orion's club or something." She folded her hands together in her lap. "The stars are hard to see here, with all the skyscrapers and lights. They're the one thing I miss from back home."

Arthur studied her face, all the details he'd memorized. Her brows remained relaxed, her eyes dry, cheeks flushed a subtle pink. He laced his fingers through hers. "I'm sorry you can't see them here."

"Don't be." Her gaze locked with his, eased into a smile. "You're the brightest star of all."

Happy roiling whirled his stomach, his pulse skipped a beat. He felt a sudden, indefinable feeling of rightness. He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissed them and kissed her mouth. She tasted like curry and coconut milk.

Scooting away, adjusting as he went, he reclined to rest his head on her shoulder. Look towards the stars and dream.

"Which one's The Kite?"

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @ithinkimaperson @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @another-day-in-chuckletown @hhandley80 @jokerownsmysoul @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics @iartsometimes @fleckficgirl

[hitmyheadagainstthewall]

The light covering everything in yellow, orange and red

Summary:

Dazai himself was there beneath the dim light from the sign, leaned against the doorframe, his partner was wearing a hospital gown—looking recklessly pathetic.

“Hey," Chuuya acknowledged.

“Hey,” Dazai responded.

-

or, Dazai got captured and Chuuya takes care of him on the aftermath.

In less than an hour the stool where he was sat was left empty, and Bar Lupin was ten-yens in debt. He never liked sake, anyway.

For weeks, or months, perhaps—long enough for Chuuya not be able to say with the tip of his tongue and quick thinking—, his colleagues in Port Mafia were not able to organise a reunion, or just talk with each other outside of a bloody mission, the heavy weight of lives over their shoulders, the aroma of madness, and grief.

Somewhere inside Chuuya, deep in his guts, at the bottom of his mind, he missed it.

The warmth that domained his chest when he was around his people, familiar faces everywhere he gazed, he missed it; the heat of the alcohol sliding down his throat and sitting wrong into his stomach, as his organs had shifted placement, however it was mixed with himself amid of his drinking companions—felt like home.

(One day, in his forsaken life, he will outgrow it. He will find comfort at his own singularity, and trust no-one but himself, because nobody is worth it. There , he was sixteen, and he was human.)

God knows that he had not been able to enjoy it for at least a year. He doesn’t have the time.

Dazai. Dazai Osamu.

The contradictions of his partner made him capable of appearing in the rushen encounter of his friends at the Bar Lupin, in the first place.

Dazai had become a enduring partner, not only because of the boss orders, where neither of them had the whim to disobey, but because Chuuya started to understand the person fighting at his side better than his own skin—and it was not the easiest—, and he was determined to learn even more of Dazai’s depth, as well the weight of his mind.

It had maintained him occupied.

They had been tossed back and forth, mission after mission; days, weeks, closer to months, where they had the misfortune to spend together with no outside communication, stuck with each other in hideouts scattered everywhere, and locked inside cells into enemy’s territory. Just so Mori would give them a tap on their shoulders (or a punishment—even though he never received much of those, and he was not as stupid as Dazai liked to pretend he is.)

Chuuya hated him.

His partner; annoying at the best, with his talking and with his gestures, just altogether provocative. They could (and would) wrestle for days, non-stop. Nevertheless, Chuuya had seen Dazai build brick-by-brick of a new wall of his facet towards foreign people, but keep the old, chipped on the borders ones towards him—all masks made from clay, sagging within the heavy gravity.

(He will understand, in the future, that he had mined on dead soil. Nevermind Chuuya gave Dazai his truth, and his soul, Chuuya never gave Dazai purpose.

How selfish can it be? Expect compassion from the inhuman. Fortunately, he expected nothing at all.)

Chuuya was not the most academically gifted person to wonder the Port Mafia’s paths, no matter how much it hurts him to admit; he, as well, struggled to understand the simpler of schoolarity subjects, biology, quimics, mathematics—he understood physics, nonetheless, or at least the most important slice of it.

“Osmosys,” Dazai had humbled for Chuuya once. His provocative tone falling into a soft sigh, more thoughtful, “is the easiest way to learn about anything on this planet.”

Himself, was the gravity pull, and he comprehended easily, with the littlest complies, as he fell into Dazai Osamu’s orbit. Albeit, every object with mass has the urge to fall.

He needed a fucking break.

Their operation—the one that Dazai commanded from afar, and Chuuya obeyed because in some point between trying to crack his partner’s cranium open against the wall but also preparing hot cocoa for their sore throats during nights neither of them were going to sleep, he gave Dazai his life—was a success, at least for their superiors.

His partner gave the command to evacuate their man, despite Chuuya’s angered barks towards the enemy’s base (how antagonic to say, considering what he is). That day, Dazai muttered towards him, “Take control of the mission— don’t question it at least, alright? Be back here when I give you the sign.” He might have added a “Good dog!” he doesn’t remember.

The mission was for the recovery of leaked confidential files; it took weeks, and yet Chuuya was not aware of what those files contained. Leaked, a formal way to say the papers were transferred from the underground by a traitor, unknown, that was able to come out clean.

Dazai was able to track down those documents into a building disguised as a Nonprofit Organisation amid the crowded urban centre. Chuuya knew that attacking a “light-hearted” business was not close to being one of the cruellest things the mafia could do to protect its own interests.

But they did not.

They did not, and Dazai disappeared for a weekend after that short command.

The sign came as a phone call. An exchange: his partner’s life or the precious documents he knew nothing about.

Chuuya and his men were at the building’s entrance not an hour after, and he invaded with nothing more than a knife on his left hand.

It was the scent of blood, and the loose track of footsteps that led Chuuya towards Dazai; the gravitational pull, where he keeps falling, falling, falling, all the downsteps from that mouldy staircase, and guides him towards the centre.

Albeit, Dazai is almost unrecognisable. He found Dazai inside of an interrogation cell, lacking his coat, and his tie. Dazai stayed, as still as a marble statue, handcuffed to a metal chair.

All he could think was: “This fucking idiot…”

No self-destructive behaviour of his would condicionante him to be tortured from own whim—but, again, Dazai was just something else, with an impressive lack of surviving skills.

The door crinkled with his gravity, dented as a soda can within his hands. He was not capable of seeing the cell’s depth—he could only curse towards the walls he couldn’t gaze, and hoped the dim red-light from his ability was enough to guide him frontwards, and it was, until it flickled.

His right foot stepped over a wet, sticky puddle.

Chuuya was comfortably familiar with the No Longer Human. Chuuya could explain the feeling as sinking, misstepping, or just jumping and never finding the floor, Dazai had explained to Chuuya his ability was as bugs crawling beneath thin skin. He felt the urge to call his partner dramatic, however he couldn’t, not when Dazai looked at him like he was gazing himself through Chuuya’s eyes.

It was impossible for him to not shiver, the couple of seconds after he realised he had sunk his feet is partner’s lake of blood; the chair in the middle of the puddle like the centre of a spectacle.

“Dazai,” he begged. Chuuya’s hands drew his companion’s head upwards, who had lolled back and exposed neck; and he jumped, heart dropped into the bottom of his stomach (falling, falling, falling), and the distant whir from No Longer Human, as he accidently gaze directly on Dazai’s open eyes, no bandage around his useless eye, as looking towards the bottom of burnt caramel. “Snap out of it!”

The absent mist covering Dazai’s eyes cleared as he shook his partner's head back and forth—he did not want to think how terrifying it was, the body heavy within his hands, looking lifeless, his partner.

Dazai blinked, slow, and Chuuya could almost see the boom of his pupils, enlarged unnaturally, it almost hid the bursted capillaries from his sclera, through the murky cell.

Dazai grinned. “It took you enough time.” Dry blood that had flowed from his nose flaked.

“I should leave you here.” Chuuya leered.

He did not. The tramble of his hands proved it as he moved towards the handcuffs, winced as his knees sank on the bloody mess, just to figure both thumbs were dislocated, and the metal slided down his nude wrists.

As soon as Dazai could move, he stood, rapidly, and stumbled a few steps towards the door before stilling. 

“Hell, you must be out of your mind,” Chuuya mumbled and straightened his legs.

His hands drew towards Dazai’s back right away; he felt the body slightly swing against the palm of his hands, as how buildings wobbled during wind storms. “Oi!” he said, and Chuuya snapped his fingers in front of Dazai’s nose, anxious to clean the dissociated gaze that worked as a cloud, it had prinprinks of light that he could recognise on the same eyes when Dazai drunk cheap whiskey after three days without eating nothing more than chips and peanut.

Before he could think—Dazai’s eyelids, looking so heavy, sluggishly closed—, his partner’s body slumped.

He seized Dazai’s both arms and dragged the limp body towards his chest, fixing his sprawled limbs on his hold, the elbow pierced his shoulder (he ignored, for his own sake, as his hand ran towards the neck, as his breath hitched before he could find the constant beat from the heart, and he swallowed the lump of panic stuck on his throat, because Dazai felt dead. Dazai collapsed as he had his strings cut, and he felt so, so scared.)

“Fucking bastard Dazai,” Chuuya swore, whining. Dazai’s weight firm against his back, lanky arms wrapped on his neck, and Chuuya pretended not to eye the nails chewed to non-existence, as he climbed the staircase, the warmth of hot blood spilled on his jacket as wine was able to make him wince, but all he felt was too lazy, too slow rise and fall from his partner’s breathing.

Mori appeared, like he always seemed to do to leer Dazai at his worst, and most vulnerable parts, however it only made Chuuya sick on the stomach rather than confidence that his companion would be safe within his boss’s gloves.

Beneath the moonlight, accompanied by the stars, he could hear the distant whir of sirens from vehicles he was so used to the sound, Mori hoisted Dazai from his hold as someone picking a feral, stray cat, and tapped his shoulder two times—Chuuya blamed the burnt to his aching limbs, and not because the touch from his boss was so foreign to him, and the presence was so hefty, that he was terrified of the superior gaze.

“You did a good job, Chuuya-kun,” Mori sang. “I think you deserve a break, don’t you think? How about a commemoration?”

The Bar Lupin was filled with known faces, nonetheless the stool he commonly sat was empty. He soon became familiar with the side-looks he received, no matter how much liquor he had drank. One small talk with a group of friends he engaged with was enough for him to realise he knew none of these people—and the heat from the partnership was only the burning throat from a quick shot he took to ignore how he felt misplaced.

“The warmth that domained his chest when he was around his people, familiar faces everywhere he gaze, he missed it”— and, yet, all he was capable of thinking was Dazai Osamu.

Leave the stool as more of an easy decision than he wanted it to be. He wanted to struggle with it for a while, he wanted the urge of following his partner to hell and back to be difficult, a pin in the back of his head; nevertheless before he could think straight, his legs were wandering the Underground paths, where he knew his partner would be awaiting for him.

Chuuya had called himself independent—he never bent under superior’s wishes without bickering, without fighting back. His partner’s contradictions conditioned him, in some way, to not give up his will, and never give people the force to fold his power. Yet, his loyalty was never something he could work with, carved on stone and his flesh as the burning swirl pattern from Arahabaki, both Dazai and him knew that outstandingly well.

Wind blew and tousled his knotted hair, and he still wrinkled his nose with the smell of salt poured on his face; he dwelled in Yokohama’s pathways since the first thread of his memories, snuggling with homeless, pathetic kids to expel the deadly cold from their small bodies, and he lived exclusively for the city, for those people, however he never got used to the sour whiff streaming in the air, too familiar, almost nostalgic, even that he never left.

The way his veins ran inside his body are the same from the streets that contrived the nerves of his home town, and he had ranged those dropping-drunk, bled out, with blind eyes—he arrived just in time.

When his face got lighted with more than the thin veil from the moonlight and now with the neon sign from a foreign clinic, it being the only enlightened structure into the whole street, he was already shivering. The dry blood from Dazai on his back created a cold crust on his jacket that sent shivers down his spine.

And Dazai himself was there, which made him release a chuckle, beneath the dim light from the sign, leaned against the doorframe, his partner was wearing a hospital gown— looking recklessly pathetic.

Dazai’s skin was ashen, and the bandage around his face was loosely back but not on his arms—Dazai was a mosaic of scar, stained glass teared until it returned to sand—then he scraped the harsh skin until it drew blood—suddenly it wasn’t as funny. He looked lanky without them, sprawled limbs and joints pointed out from the muscles.

“Hey,” Chuuya acknowledged.

He noticed the black and blue bruises, fingerprints and memorable sore from punches that gave Dazai life, nevermind how unbelievable it may have sounded.

“Hey,” Dazai responded.

His voice was rough on the edges, like the burnt ledge from a paper, and weary. Chuuya strode towards Dazai and cupped his corned hands—he ignored the constant quivering, since he knew Dazai, when Chuuya weared such a thin jumper he could see the skin beneath the cloth, his hands were the only organs he could not control, always gesticulating and shaking…

“Huh,” Chuuya breathed. “I expected for you to look more–”

Dazai sneered. “Fuck up?”

A nose tugged on his scalp, the faint blow of his partner’s inhale made his guts wiggle with joy, something as stepping over hot sand with bare feet, and something like pride, because he knew Chuuya was the only that Dazai started contact with; Chuuya was the one who Dazai talked about nightmares, and Chuuya was the one who Dazai snuggled when he was sick—not Ango , not Mori.

(Not Odasaku—it would be a lie.)

He tightened his hold on the hands, and Dazai rested his cheek above his tousled velvet hair, just breathing. “Yes, jackass.”

Dazai hummed, “They’re more into waterboarding, you know?” he drawled, “and a little bit of carving, but they’re so, so bad at it, Chuuya, and too talkative, as well–”

“Carved?” He interrupted his partner’s humbleness.

“Oh,” Dazai breathed. Swiftly, he withdrew—Dazai’s nose wrinkled after the light itch from his hair, and he absolutely, utterly, abnormally hated how his heart stuttered, too fond and with beyond care—, then moved way slightly the fabric from the gown and showed bandages that balled from his chest to his stomach: scattered slashes of blood leaked from the white bandages, distant from each other, but still near for Chuuya to understand a pattern.

It remembered him a little excessively like Mori…

He leisurely brought the tip of his finger towards the woven cotton, but stopped himself as Dazai winced.

Dazai must have, too, Chuuya wondered. He was not the one to miss irony when he saw it.

Dazai’s right hand attempted to escape his loose grip, going towards his free arm, however Chuuya stopped him by clutching the fingers.

“Ouch,” Dazai verbalised, suddenly remembering Chuuya from the dislocated thumbs from earlier that night. “I can’t believe you just did this to me, Chibikko–” Chuuya growled. “Hurting me like this. When I’m already miserable. When at the verge of death.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Chuuya groaned, “you can’t shut up. You just can’t.”

They kept humbling at each other, insutes and words they can barely hear, or understand leaving their mouths. Nevertheless, at every moment, at every bastard mackerel, petite mafioso, fucking wimp, shorty slug they leaned more and more against each other, until the point where he sustained the slim body from his partner with his own, and dug his heels onto the paved street.

In some minutes, or hours, perhaps, it was going to sunrise, and the last thing he wanted was to be standing on a random pavement in front of a clandestine hospital clinic Mori must had built with the money he gathered from a million others clinics, scattered through all Yokohama, with the limp body of his partner, and Chuuya was tired.

He was tired— tired from the investigation that endured days alone, from the sleepless weekend, from seeing Dazai teared as a ragdoll, and of sitting on a stool thinking about his partner. He got tired from the feeling of home Dazai had brought, of thinking of him, and talking about him, and the lack on his heart where his idependency used to live, of a past where he did not knew Dazai; he missed it, whole-heartedly missed it, but could not bring himself to live like that again.

Chuuya, then, lazily kicked Dazai’s left leg, and he fell hitting his shoulder onto Chuuya’s chest, as his leg shook and bent. Dazai whimpered, loudly and childish, and Chuuya rolled his eyes even though he was only fifty days apart in age.

Inhaled, they still smelled like blood, like madness, and grief. Exhaled, the sky became pink in front of his eyes, a ray of sunshine, light piercing the heavy clouds and the injustice from the silent nights.

“I waited for you,” Chuuya said.

“I know,” Dazay muttered, “me too.”

The trip towards the apartament had them panting—Dazai puked once, and Chuuya had to stop merely three times to not do the same due pure and unfiltered exhaustion, his limbs costing all his energy to simply lift. They sat against each other as the lifter climbed through ten floors, and Chuuya did not even live in the penthouse.

As they arrived the sun was glowing outside, the sunrays covering everything in yellow, orange and red like oil paint, leaking through the gaps underneath doors and narrow windows.

Dazai looked as ashen as he did before, eyes closed and leaned against the wall from the hallway as Chuuya attempted to open the lock from his own apartment, and he could see the veins that contrived beneath the eyelids, as well the rapid back and forth spasms from his pupils; oily hair clung on his forehead and pale lips like white marble—it made Chuuya wonder how much of a good idea was bringing Dazai from a hospital to his house.

Sleeping while standing up was not something that fitted well on Dazai, it appeared too vulnerable, and weak, for a mafioso with a nickname as cruel as Demon Prodigy, or a fame of a heartless, inhuman death-machine, and his partner would be contorting if anyone could see him in this state, but not with him— there, the pride again, warmer and more colourful than the sunrise.

“C’mon,” Chuuya mumbled after unlocking his door—on the third key, as well. His brain felt like cotton, or milk inside his scalp. “Get in, Mackerel, I’m not carrying you inside.”

He did.

They did not take off the shoes, nor his carmesin-covered jacket, then uneven footprints scattered over the carpet, of mud and dirt. “Heavy mother-fucker,” Chuuya lied, his partner was concerningly light, on thin ice for him to him to feel the ribcage. He carried his companion by the armpits, then Chuuya pushed Dazai onto the sofa, the body collapsed, slouched on the leather.

“You’re a meanie,” Dazai whined. “I’m very high,” Dazai added, for no particular reason, half-lidded eyes staring towards the dim yellow lights.

“Are you, really?” Chuuya arched an eyebrow. Dazai nodded. “Good, so I don’t need to waste proper medication on you.”

“Chibi–” Dazai’s hands moved towards his both bare arms—it was a habit that could not vanish, Chuuya was sceptical it ever would—, he firmly moved the hands away. “I’m itchy.”

“So put on some pyjamas, and go to sleep,” he growled.

“You know that’s not how it works, petite.

“You need to stop callin’ me that,” Chuuya humbled, finally, finally, removed the tight shoes from his feet, waggling his toes. He felt so relieved he pretended to not hear the giggles from when he lost balance and was close to stumble over Dazai. “I am growing, on my way to tower over you, I just need time!”

“Hum,” Dazai closed his eyes, “I bet your motorcycle that it’s not true.”

Chuuya removed his jacket, the blood flaked away, tearing over the fabric like clay. His face reddened, heated with familiar anger—more familiar than those people, than the Yokohama streets, a different kind of warmth from enragement only Dazai could have brought. “That’s not how bets work, dipshit.”

I am home, he felt, I don’t want it to end.  

“Where are you going?” Dazai asked after Chuuya rubbed his feet on the carpet, grounding himself, and dragged his weary body forward in the living room.

“I’m gonna’ shower, what do you think I’m doing?” Chuuya stopped with a hand seizing his wrist.

“No, that won’t do,” Dazai hummed. He opened his eyes, poodles of burnt caramel, or toffee apple, and Chuuya got distracted by it— for some forsaken second he was lost within them, for a split second…—, swiftly he was being pulled over Dazai’s damaged body. “Now, sh, sh, sh, sh, calm down, dog.”

“What the fuck?” Chuuya yells, his head resting beneath his partner’s chin, he felt as much as he heard the heart beats constantly, and the rise and fall from his chest—the chin tugged on his hair, then Chuuya held his breath for merely seconds, exhaling accompanied with the soft breath from his partner. Tangled legs and sprawled arms, Dazai’s hand kept clutching his wrist, and other hand lolled outside the sofa. “Dazai, let me be, I’m disgusting.”

“I don’t remember you from havin’ such low self-esteem.” Dazai sighed. “Just go to sleep, Chuuya, we can resolve everything tomorrow.”

Gravitational pull: everything with mass has its own orbit, and everything with mass is attracted towards its force— it was the law of Physics, raw and bare, when Chuuya snuggled closer to Dazai, arms wrapping firmly on his back and Dazai did not flinch.

“‘Solve everything tomorrow’ isn’t just you being lazy until the problem is over?”

They breathed with one another. One soul from two bodies. He can feel every every flapped from his eyelashes, or every gasp from the narrow gap on the mouth, and the snorts, and the uneven pace from the heart—and it was not as overwhelming as it was supposed to be, it felt as a continuation of his body, it recorded him Dazai was alive beneath him.

“You know me very well! Now, sleep.”

The lights were on, and Chuuya spended the next ten minutes thinking about the stool, he thought if the people were already with their heads resting over the pillows, if there were family waiting from them wild awake. He thought about the blood from that cell, whether it was blown up, vanishing without remains, or whether it was cleaned new.

Dazai rested a lazy hand over his curls, and the thoughts suddenly didn’t matter.

“Good night, Mackerel.”

Dazai did not respond, because he was already asleep.

[hessdalen-globe]

The Cazkanian Wall

You might have noticed me mention this topic once or twice before. It's a term I came up with to describe Cazkania's near-impenetrable borders. There isn't an actual wall surrounding the entirety of the mega-state, but instead (with the exception of one) it’s made up of extreme natural barriers that form the perfect defensive perimeter for the paranoid totalitarian state.

Here, I'll go over the sections of the wall, those being the natural features that act as barriers, and also some of the "gates", meaning the passable weak spots that allow entry into the Cazkanian sphere of influence.

Sections of the wall

Red: Cazkania or Cazkanian Satellite State

Blue: Trans-Continental Alliance Member State

Orange: Ivrensian Satellite State

Akessnean Hills (Cazkania-Ecosiar): An expanse of steep highlands covered in dense, untouched taiga. The region is also littered with bogs in the lowlands.

Rhobor River (Transrhobor-Ecosiar: Hessdalen's longest river is very wide at the point of contact between the vassal of Transrhobor and Ecosiar, making it impractical to cross in an invasion.

Illira (Transrhobor-Soaratia): "No one attacks Illira, and Illira attacks no one." An old saying leftover from the days of the Knights of Troidon. Illira was seen as the home of the Troidonites, and if any nation touched it, all of the clans around the world would rise up to defend it. The fear of such a disaster kept all nations from attacking Illira, and this unspoken rule remains in the modern age. So the Cazkanians use the country as a buffer with Soaratia.

Pelgriece Canyon & River (Transrhobor, Mohvesto, South Aspenia-Roloughnia, Aspenia): The deep and wide chasm that is the Pelgriece Canyon cuts through the Inpent Desert. Since the early age it has been common knowledge that the Pelgriece is impossible to cross except at one point, the Arch of Turrice.

Cethok Mountains (South Aspenia, Syrum-Montethé): A mountain range home to Hessdalen's tallest peaks. These jagged mountains often poke above the clouds.

Rhobor River (Cazkania-Gurngeshia): The Rhobor makes up another section of the wall in the East, this time with Gurngeshia. Though much narrower than in the West, it still serves as a clear divider that has proven difficult to cross. Gurngeshia and Lokanse make up Cazkania's points of contact with its chief enemy, the Ivrensian Empire.

Virio Marshlands (Cazkania-Lokanse): Lokanse, literally meaning Lake Lands, is a swampy area full of hundreds of bodies of water. Large vehicles cannot pass through the border region easily and would sink into the muck if they tried.

Some of the Gates

These weak points are heavily fortified by the Cazkanian army, ensuring that nothing can get through.

Arch of Turrice: The only crossing point of the Pelgriece Canyon. A natural bridge that joins the two halves of the desert, the Arch of Turrice has always been an import trade corridor. Now it is devoid of all traffic as it has been closed by the Cazkanians. It is suspected that they have laid explosives across its length in case of an attack.

Soaratian-Transrhoborian direct border: The only point where Transrhobor and Soaratia are not separated by Illira. While a short border, it would be easy to send an invading force across as there are no natural defences.

Mégathamur Pass: Numerous paths lead through the Cethoks, but they are dangerous and not suitable for tanks. However, Mégethamur Pass is the only opening in the mountains that large vehicles could move through.

Dirt and largely unserviced roads lead through the Akessnean Hills in the direction of Cazkania, but can quickly become unreliable in unfavorable weather.

Much of the border with Gurngeshia is non-dramatic hills that are easily passable. Military activity in this area is high, for both Cazkania and Ivranse.

[nonadhesiveness]

Seven or Eight Things I Know About Her

(A writing exercise based on 7 or 8 Things I Know About Her (A Stolen Biography) by Michael Ondaatje.)

The Father’s Guns

After their parents died, she and her brother unlocked the cabinet in the basement, lifted down their father’s hunting guns—three Remington 700s and two 12 gauge shotguns—trudged into the forest that hugged the southern border of the horse farm, and unloaded every last round into the trunk of the old oak tree where they’d learned to climb as children.

The Bird

Boarding school. Senior year. At 7:30 each morning, a bird would land on the ledge outside her bedroom window. Cobalt head and wings, fiery orange breast. After the third day that it appeared, she took to pocketing a crusty bread roll from the cafeteria at breakfast and secreting it into her room, where she’d tear it into chunks and crumbs and leave the offering scattered on the cold grey stone. Then she’d wait and watch the bird through the glass. Its eye, glossy and black, lingering on her was the only time she felt truly seen.

The Toast

The first time she spent the night at my apartment, she woke early, slipped out from the warmth of the bed and crept through to the kitchenette to make me breakfast, because she thought that’s what a girlfriend was supposed to do. At 6:57 a.m., the blare of the smoke alarm jolted me to consciousness and my nostrils stung with the acrid stench of char black toast. I made the breakfast—and the lunch, and the dinner—from then on.

First Criticism

One minute old, still flushed and screaming, arms and legs flailing. A doctor leant over her cot and began his assessment: appearance, pulse, grimace, activity, respiration. Meanwhile, a nurse stepped out of the delivery room and found the father pacing back and forth along the line of chairs in the waiting room. At the nurse’s entrance, he stopped. “Congratulations,” the nurse said, “you have a daughter.” Her father’s anxious expression paled into disappointment. “It’s a girl?”

Listening In

Overheard her beyond the pushed-to door of our bedroom, talking on the phone to her colleague—ex-colleague, the one who accepted the job she felt compelled to turn down because of me. “I am happy… I will be happy. It was the right decision, I know it was. I just… I- I feel so lost.”

Self-Criticism

“I’m a realist and a pragmatist, and that makes me good at my job. But it also makes me less moral than you believe me to be and expect me to be, and I fear one day you’re going to find out and you won’t be able to accept me for who I really am.”

Fantasies

Many. But mainly that everything will work out in the end. Every bad decision, every failing, every colleague/loved one she lost, every time she lost herself, they will all have meaning, the edges of those pains and struggles and heartbreaks softened by the gauzy light of hindsight as she gazes back and sees that they were necessary steps on the path to her happily ever after.

Reprise

She wanders into the forest that hugs the southern border of the property and stops in front of an old oak tree. Its rough scales of bark have been shed, leaving smooth wood showing, and its branches are barren, many springs having passed without the return of its once majestic leaves. She runs her fingertips over the dead wood, studded with bullets, then stills a minute. A bluebird alights on one of the upper branches and whistles a low-pitched tu-a-wee. She turns to me. “I think we should buy it,” she says. The property will take a lot of work, but there’s life in it—in us—yet. “So do I,” I say.

[fanfoolishness]

threads (TLOU 2)

Spoilers for The Last of Us Part 1 and Part 2. On the journey to Seattle, Ellie thinks on what she's lost, and what she's found. [Please no spoilers for TLOU 2 endgame if you comment - I'm only halfway through it.] ~781 words.

-

There are threads that bind, back and back and back.

Sometimes Ellie thinks of names for them.  Chains, their links strong and unbreakable.  DNA strands, the source of life itself.  

And… Mycelium, yeah, that comes to mind.  She remembers stumbling, fascinated, on a biology book in the Boston QZ: chapters all about the fungal life-cycle.  It’d been written in a dispassionate clinical voice, the words of a scientist who’d never dreamed that cordyceps would find another home.  They talked of the nervous system of the forest, the links between trees and plants and animals, mighty fungus bridging it all.

She doesn’t like that analogy much.  Remembers the flare and burn of infection in her arm, the terror, the confusion, when it didn’t… end… the way it should’ve.  Remembers the promise in her scar, what might’ve been for her… for everyone.

What might’ve been never happened.

She gets it.  Old maybes and could-have-beens.  It makes some fucking sense, the way it links.  Connections forming through mistakes, through fucking tragedy, through all the shit that’s happened.  She feels it stirring within her, threads, chains, whatever you want to call it.  She scribbles in her journal and wishes it came out meaning anything.

-

Some nights by the firelight, after Dina’s gone to sleep, she pulls out Joel’s watch from her pack.  She weighs it in her hands and watches the way it catches the firelight, red-orange flames glinting in the cracks of its face.

Sarah fixed the watch for him.  It broke on Joel’s wrist when she died.  Now it’s Ellie’s, its weight heavy in her hand.

It hasn’t kept time in twenty-odd years.  

That’s… it’s fair, Ellie thinks.  It doesn’t have to worry about the time anymore.  Who does?  There’s infected on Jackson’s borders, patrols set by the sunrise and sunset.  Who gives a shit about 2:15 PM on a Tuesday?  She doesn’t need it to keep the time.  It keeps something else.

She grips it hard in her hand, the metal and glass pressing hard into the calluses of her palm and fingertips.  Bow and blade and gun have shaped her hands, and the watch fits there too, in a landscape violence-carved.  It’s the way it has to be.  The watch nestles in the ridges and the gaps, safe amongst the scars.

It keeps something sharp and bright and beautiful.  It’s a prism refracting light; it’s the pride in Joel’s voice when he said Sarah would have liked her.

It’s the way he held her, safe and sound.

The ways they saved each other, more than once.

It’s the cracks in their foundation… the ways they’d fucked things up, but still kept trying.

She cries over it sometimes, but not as much as she maybe thinks she should.  Only when Dina can’t see.  She flicks her switchblade in the dark, and moves the watch from her pack to her pocket when she feels low, low, low.

They rest in the forests of Oregon, Seattle still an ominous goal on the horizon.  Interpretative signs along some of the paths sing of Sitka spruce, Douglas fir, Western redcedar.  The forest swells around them.  They can hardly get a fire here, it’s so moist, and Shimmer roots in the old-growth loam for something to eat.

They lean against a Sitka spruce in the growing night, gnats and midges rousing around them.  Ellie’s quiet in the face of the small fire they’ve managed.  There’s work to be done, vengeance to be had: an echo of the man he was, the thrum of the person he taught her to be.  Owls call in the thick night around them, deep and questioning, and Ellie wonders.

Should I be here?

How could I fucking not?

She shivers in the damp spring night.

But then there’s Dina, warm and soft beside her.  She curls up against Ellie, and the knots inside her unfurl.  Just a little.

Dina smiles at her in the weak firelight.  She gently places one hand over Ellie’s, fingertips resting against the splintered watch face.  “We could fix it, you know.”

Ellie rests her head against Dina’s shoulder.  She presses a kiss to her cheek, marvels at her soft skin beneath her lips.  She feels so good.  Fuck.  

“I know we could fix it,” says Ellie haltingly.  “But… it’s okay, this way.  Makes me think of him, you know?” 

“I know.”

The fire sputters.  It’s soft and small against the living dark.  Ellie slips the watch back into her pocket, and it rests against her hip, as familiar as her blade and pistol.  She clasps her hand in Dina’s, and that’s familiar too.  

The threads twine between them, and they bind, on and on and on.

[abovethissilentworld]

The long, distant breath of a summoning city falls to rest outside its last neighborhood, hovering graciously over the frozen, bulldozed mud. The natural border of a land so flat allows the expression of every direction to intersect at the point of its perception. As suburbia folds inward towards the pulsating core of this sprawling metropolis, one can only look outward to an unexplored emptiness. Between the hedonic rushes of caffeine-fuelled adolescence and the irreverent chatter that serenades the deepened evening, there’s this inescapable sense of isolation that continuously distracts from the social frenzy. Like this hill we all stood at wasn’t just for laughing or talking or racing on toboggans, it was the amplitude of an introspective dilation being stretched beyond the quiet nocturne and into forever. You quietly wonder if this city would ever tire of expanding, and leave this barren wasteland preserved in its quiet, unfettered state.

Oh, how that laughter escapes me. This memory is so old, I can’t even hear it anymore. Yet, I still can’t help but adore the resultant human bonding that embraces imminent destruction without acknowledging it. That together, we’ll all awaken to the next day, bleary-eyed and stuffed full of headache, and still feel as though it was all worth it. Indeed, once the night finally prevailed victorious over our mortal selves, that seizure of temporary youth collapsed with fatigue. We all dispersed, quietly trickling away from each other in separate directions, at separate times, all longing for the same idyllic dreamscape before it begins eroding with age. I spent the long journey back across the city drifting in and out of microsleeps, allowing the streetlights’ orange blur to enmesh with my starts of the lid. The tires on the asphalt were remarkably quiet, as though the very act of driving at such an hour was instantly rewarded with a subtle sonic purity. The illusory veil of camaraderie, excitement and juvenile wonder had blown through the skies running on the fuel of candy and soda, just to atomize completely in this night of inescapable loneliness. Temporary and eternity are not opposites, they’re merely reference points for what the other isn’t. The path towards starlight will always come crashing down unless you are the star itself.

On the first time I ever heard Road by Nick Drake, December 10th, 2011, Calgary, Alberta, Age 15.

[zletros-creations]

Castle on the Cliff: pt. 1

It was a bright, sunny morning in the midst of Summer. A light breeze whistled through the trees. A forking dirt path lay in thick woodlands, neglected. Tufts of grass had broken through the packed dirt. Walls of shrubbery bordered it off from the dense forest beyond, and oftentimes obscured the path all together. The left path led down hill, towards a rocky beach churned by rough, incessant waves. The other, uphill, towards the only landmark to be seen above the treeline, an old, dilapidated keep. A keep, which was the objective of the sole traveler of that dirt path. 

A knight, or perhaps just a soldier, with a dark brown hood shrouding the top of his head and a long, white beard covering the bottom. His plate armor was dented and scratched. He wore a large metal kite shield on his left arm, the emblem in the middle was, intentionally or not, entirely scraped off, leaving only three thin, blue, ribbon-like ink strokes to be seen flowing towards the bottom. On his back was a bastard sword with a nicked blade, a cracked cross guard, a stained grip and half a pommel. Around his waist was a canteen, along with a pouch that jingled lightly with coin, and finally a steel dagger in relatively good condition with no obvious damage.

The old warrior stopped when he reached the fork, and decided to rest on a log while figuring out which path led to his goal. To his right he heard crashing waves, and on his left, the scurrying and calls of woodland creatures. He guessed heading deeper into the woods would lead him closer to the castle. And so he stood with a grunt and turned to his left, down the right path. 

A little while after, a young maiden stumbled onto the path, tripping over the bordering shrubbery. As she came to her feet she flipped her blonde hair, darkened by dirt, leafy twigs, and sweat, out of her face, pulling aside strands with her dirty and calloused hands. Two hazel eyes shone with a fire of either hatred or revenge, or both. Her face was mostly red and crossed with small cuts, her button nose burning from sniffling and rubbing; her thin lips were chapped and her mouth was dry. The sleeves of her dress were torn to the shoulders, and her arms were cut up, bruised and riddled with insect bites. Her peach colored dress covered her loosely from shoulder to ankle, with a torn up bottom, exposing only her old, worn leather shoes which threatened to drop their soles at any moment, as well as her upper chest, which suffered from a mild rash, reaching up past her collar bone.

She stumbled onto the path not far from the fork and sighed in relief. She stuttered over to the fork and let herself fall onto the same log the old man had rested on. It was the first time she'd stopped in awhile and her legs had begun to ache. In order to take her mind off it she decided to listen in on either side of her and eventually she detected the sound of the crashing waves. Instinctually she licked her dry lips, but it did nothing to soothe them, in fact, it only tore at the arid skin, drawing some blood. Eventually she willed herself to her feet and continued down the left path with some renewed vitality. 

By mid-day the old man had reached the clearing which led up to the crumbling castle. He looked upon the stronghold which was strong no more. The entire side of the circular wall which faced the woods was gone, and the rest was soon to follow, arching up towards the only standing tower. Three gray bricks fell to the ground just as the man approached, as if his mere presence was enough to topple the fort. The courtyard was entirely overgrown with grass and weeds. Inside the wall, torn and tarnished tapestries flowed in the breeze. They appeared to originally be orange and red, now stained by rain and dirt; many were singed, suggesting a rather bloody end to the once inhabitants of the fort. Just past the courtyard, where bricks began to show through the grass, the remnants of three rooms still remain distinctly shaped with wooden ceilings intact. The leftmost one, with old sawed boards strewn about, the man assumed was once a storage room. The next, had broken and busted down bed frames and was filled with ripped sheets and loose hay and wool. And finally on the opposite side of the base of the tower was a large room with an almost as large busted table and a large scorch mark on the back wall between four pieces of tanned leather pinned to the wall. 

The Knight squinted at the leather and approached. The edges of the four pieces were singed. He took off one of his gauntlets and felt a piece, it was firm and still a little dusty. His eyes stayed narrowed as he felt the scorch mark and some ash came off on his fingers. He wiped it off on his pouch and slipped his gauntlet back on. Whatever had burned the wall may still be around, but the soldier decided to continue exploring the remaining fort. Next he looked to the arch leading into the tower, the stonework was particularly impressive in this arch compared to the rest of the crumbling fort. The arch stones were a glazed marble with swirls and prairie grass carved into it. At the pinnacle of the arch, the man assumed, was once written a name, as the stones there were indescribably scratched. He entered the arch…

The young woman exited the woods onto a beach of rounded stones weathered by the rain and crashing waves. The ocean spray was refreshing and revitalizing as it gently landed on the maiden. Her lips catching the much needed moisture, she licked the water off and immediately the taste of salt filled her mouth. Despite her desire for water, she knew that the salty ocean waves would do more harm than good. The young maiden walked down the beach, hoping to find some kind of shelter, and believing that traveling alongside the shore would somehow help her hydration. 

She looked at the jagged cliffside in awe. As she was admiring the environment, something caught her eye, a black bulbous object hit the cliff several times with a series of loud bangs and clangs. The young woman squinted and made out the object as a large pot. Her eyes widened and she ran to where it was falling. It hit the ground just before she reached it and picked it up, it was in shockingly good condition and could clearly still hold water. She looked up at where it came from but the cliff was such that she could not see the source of the fallen object. As her eyes trailed back down, she noticed a crack in the wall that seemed big enough for her to slip into and maybe spend the night. 

Inside the tower of the fort, no debris was strewn about, not so much as a cobweb in the corners, just a pristine set of wooden stairs directly to the left of the entry arch. The soldier took one step on the first board and not so much as a creak. The warrior looked back out of the arch and saw the same old, dilapidated courtyard. He hummed nonchalantly before continuing up the stairs. Whatever force kept the base of the tower perfect had already lost its power even before the second floor. The steps began to squeak with each foot fall and the wood began to appear worn and rotted. The old man took each step cautiously and didn't spend any more time on a stair than necessary. The floorboards of the second floor didn't seem so decrepit as to deny passage, but a few broken parts warned to tread carefully, and so the knight did. The second set of steps were in no better condition than the first, and so the warrior continued upward. 

The maiden filled the pot with water and brought it to the cave entrance, the small opening led to a comfortably sized cave. She set the pot in the middle of the small cave and sat down. The woman put her hands over the pot of water and they began to glow. The light reached toward the water before stopping altogether and the girl saw visions of lit torches and pitchforks, hearing angry screams urging for her head. She came to with her hands on her chest heaving, she took a few deep breaths and outstretched her hands once again, she had to push the awful memories away. The light again surrounded her hands and reached for the water, this time making it to its destination and filling the pot itself with the glow. After a few minutes of concentration the glow stopped and the girl dipped her finger in and licked it. The water was still a little salty, but safe to drink. She drank handful after handful until she began to feel sick. 

She rested against the back wall. The maiden could see a flock of birds flying over the water in the distance. Their travels were cut short as the woman watched a great sea beast leap from the water and take the whole flock in its mouth. Her stomach began to growl, but she decided to wait for nightfall to search for food. 

The soldier passed several rooms that held nothing of interest; broken beds, wardrobes, and tables. Finally he reached the penultimate room and paused. The room was filled with old pink drapes: on the walls, obscuring the remains of the bed, hanging over a broken mirror in the corner like an upside down rainbow. He took a step in,  not concerned with the state of the floorboards, luckily they were mostly sound. He took one of the flowing clothes in his hand. He remembered a young woman, with shining black hair and glimmering red eyes with a brilliant smile. She always loved this shade… a tear came to his eye as an image of her lifeless body laying in his trembling arms arose. He shook himself out of the memory as something else caught his attention. Behind one of the curtains was a hole in the tower that faced out to the water. He made his way over and looked out, accidentally kicking a small iron pot he hadn’t noticed and it went flying out and falling down the cliff. He watched it fall for a moment before looking out at the ocean. For several minutes he allowed himself to be absorbed by the crashing of waves and the flapping of distant sea birds. Until a distant flock got gobbled up by a colossal Leaping Whale. The sight of it made the warrior queasy, and left a pit in his stomach. 

The knight turned and made his way back to the ruined courtyard to make a small fire and prepare his few rations.

The young woman fell asleep waiting for the moon to rise. 

Under the light of the full moon, the knight sat by a small fire, his sword and shield both pushed deep into the earth so as to keep them both standing. The warrior heard a harmony of distant howls. 

The maiden awoke suddenly to the growling of wolves, their silhouettes could be seen blocking the entrance to the cave and she froze in fear. One wolf approached her slowly and she pressed herself against the wall until the wolf was staring her in the eye. It sniffed her face before slowly backing away and turning to leave. The young woman watched it do so, thanking the gods for this one kindness. 

The old soldier was brought out from his meditations by the presence of three wolves. He looked at the lead wolf, which snarled at him. The warrior lowered his hood and revealed his soft brown eyes to the moonlight. He and the wolf held the other’s gaze for several moments before the wolves turned and left. 

The young lady was stuck breathing heavily for several minutes, recovering from the near death experience. Just as she had regrouped to go out foraging, the shadows of three familiar forms once again filled the cave entrance. The maiden's heart sank, then she heard something hit the ground, something the wolf had dropped before nudging it her way. The young woman raised an inquisitive eyebrow and used her powers to light up the cavern and see that the wolves had brought several wild vegetables and roots, including cabbage, carrots, and beets. The head wolf, whom the girl could now see had Scars covering its face, and a particularly nasty gash over its right eye, sniffed at the pot, and deemed the water well enough for a stew, and sat, as if that alone would tell the maiden its intentions. The young woman did pick up on the inclination, looking between the wolf, the vegetables, and the pot; she used a collection of twigs, dried moss, and some magic to start a small fire. She began loading the veggies into the pot, wishing silently for some meat, such as rabbit or fox, but her growling stomach reminded her that she was in no position to be picky. 

Almost thirty minutes after the wolves left the knight to his meditations, two returned and he saw that they were carrying something in their mouths, they approached confidently and dropped the contents of their maws; that being the carcasses of a rabbit and small fox. A pit formed in the warrior's stomach, he looked back at the main wolf; who was sniffing at the smoldering campfire and the warrior knew what it was trying to suggest. He started the fire back up and found a particularly smooth rock. He brought the stone over to the fire and threw the rabbit onto it. He pulled out his dagger and steadied himself. The wolves both sat and watched him with anticipation, but he felt as though he were being judged by them. 

As the maiden waited for the soup to boil, she observed her other two unlikely guests, the second wolf to enter let out a low growl and went to lay on the opposite end of the cavern from the young lady, looking away from her, it had a large gash on its side as if it had been run right through between two of its ribs. The third had its tongue hanging out its mouth and sat directly in the doorway facing inwardly, its left eye dangling out of its socket by red sinews. The woman felt sympathy for the beasts, as she knew all too well what it is to be battered and mistreated. The wolves each glanced occasionally from the fire to the pot as if knowing, and anticipating the outcome. The young lady figured, after all she'd seen of them, that it was reasonable they were each intelligent enough to come to such a conclusion. 

The soldier knew how to prepare an animal carcass, it was a crucial part of his guard training as a young man, but even then, the idea disturbed him. He brought the blade to the belly of the rabbit and slipped it between the skin and underlying meat. His lack of practice was apparent to even the wolves which watched his work closely, growling gently when he would leave a patch or cut too deep into the flesh. Each time they did so the guard would correct his mistakes, and he would begin to question the true nature of the beasts. 

Within the cave the smell of stew filled the stale air. And the same sounds of bubbling which had lulled the maiden into a meditation had grown violent enough to draw her out from it. The smell had told her the soup was ready. She snuffed out parts of the flame and realized she had nothing to serve the soup with. Just then, the third wolf, the one with the dangling eye began to gag and convulse violently. The young woman lit up the room to get a clear view and went to help. Just as she reached the animal it coughed up a shiny silver ladle, it then sat back in its position panting happily. This all but confirmed for the young lady that these wolves were not natural, but likely the familiars of an old mage that had most assuredly passed quite some time ago, judging by their lasting injuries and scars. She grabbed the slimy ladle and focused her light into it, cleaning the ooze from it and leaving it only a little grimy. At least the smell was gone. 

The warrior finished preparing the rabbit and stuck it over the fire with splintered wood from a destroyed box and began working on the fox. His apparent disgust in the acts were not lost on the wolves, the leader of which would lay his head on the lap of the working soldier. This led to a pause in the knight's work, after a moment he went to pet the creature but was sent back to work by a low growl. He finished skinning the fox and put it over the fire as well. He grabbed the rabbit and offered it to the wolves who each turned their snouts. Exasperated, the warrior shook the rabbit in their direction. The lead wolf nudged the rabbit back towards the soldier, who's stomach growled due to the smell. After some deliberation, the knight begrudgingly took a bite out of the roasted meat. The earthy taste was palatable, and his hunger was enough to distract him from the act. After eating a chunk of the rabbit, he gave the rest to the wolves, who now accepted it happily. 

The young woman ladled out some of the soup and went to give some to the first wolf. It nudged her hand up towards her mouth. She accepted the gesture and drank some; ignoring the questionable utensil used, the stew itself was about as good as it could be, and it filled her with a warmth she hadn’t felt in weeks, maybe longer. She gulped down the rest of the spoonful and went for a second as well as a third before giving the wolves their share. The first lapped his up slowly and deliberately, giving the spoon a few extra licks at the end for good measure. The second took the whole spoon in its mouth and nearly took it away from the maiden as it went back to its corner. The third ate sloppily, losing several large drops as it cleaned out the spoon. After eating their share, the leader and gloomy wolves left the cave, with the third remaining at the young woman's side. They fell asleep shortly after. 

After splitting the fox, the knight and wolves stayed awake for a while longer. Watching the moon pass over the land with full bellies before falling peacefully asleep. 

Early the next morning the maiden awoke to the sound of fluttering wings and sprinkling dust. As she opened her eyes she saw a floating ball of light with delicate transparent pink wings. The young lady perked up with subtle excitement, waking the snoring wolf in her lap. The wolf looked at the pixie, watched the woman stand slowly and went back to sleep. The woman went to clasp her hands around the gleaming creature who deftly avoided capture. She tried again and the pixie fled from the cave. With childlike wonder, and the fullest belly she'd had in weeks, she gave chase to the pixie, following it out into the morning glow. She chased it all down the beach, into the woods, down the other path and into the thicket. She followed it into a clearing where it flew in front of a large stone. The maiden pounced on it, her hands colliding with the stone and the pixie fluttering away. The young lady looked in her hands with excitement, which turned to disappointment when she saw nothing in them. Suddenly the stones began to move, and the woman could now see the ovular shape with deep circular ridges and her heart sank. As the stony skinned humanoid stood up and rubbed it's head it looked down at the woman with menacing gray eyes. The woman let out a shriek and began running in the direction of the castle. 

Awoken by an ear piercing scream the knight grabbed his sword and shield and his canine companions took point. When a deep roar followed, the wolves eased up, to the surprise of the warrior, and ran off, leaving him to fend for himself. He ignored them and turned to the way the scream came from inside the woods. The soldier stood stalwart waiting in silence. Suddenly, a thump could be heard, and the screaming picked back up. Another Thump louder, and another, and another, and eventually the ground began to shake and the woman's cries were completely audible. The knight saw the peach colored dress of the woman in the woods and he began running towards her. Moments later he saw the huge shadowy figure chasing her and recognized it instantly. He pulled into a full sprint and was halfway through the clearing when the woman broke out of the forest. The giant not far behind.

The woman saw the armored man and cried out for help, begging him to help her. She got a quarter through the clearing before she stepped into a burrow and tripped. She turned and saw the giant about to crush her with a massive stone club; she closed her eyes and saw her life flash before her. She saw her pa, holding her tiny glowing hand in his. She held a wounded deer and cured its infected wound. She saw her ma, sick and dying. She saw fire and smoke and heard coughing. She saw the village that was sick when she got there. She purified their water and they grew healthy and their crops became bountiful. She felt the hand of the man who betrayed her.. the man she could have loved if given just a little more time. She saw pitchforks and torches, heard angry voices and accusations. She ran, and  ran, and ran, and now, she couldn't run anymore. She opened her eyes and saw nothing but dust. 

The warrior watched in slow motion as the ground beneath the maiden's feet collapsed, she stumbled and fell to her knees. The knight breathed in deep and exhaled before the ribbons drawn on his shield glew gently and he bolted over the fallen young woman in a flash and raised his shield over her. The force of the resulting strike caused the old warrior's knees to buckle and the loose dirt beneath his feet created a light brown cloud around the three of them.

As the dust settled the young lady saw the knight shaking under the weight of the beast's weapon as his shield seemed as though it would shatter any moment. The old man grunted and with a roar flung the stone club out of the giant's hand off to the side. The monster lifted its hulking arm high and brought it down in an attempt to crush the knight who dodged it and in one motion drew his sword and slashed the giant's shins open, his blade breaking the process. The giant let out a pained wail and fled into the wilderness. The maiden looked at the man who'd saved her life and a guilty fear took hold. When the man turned to look at her her fear grew until he removed his hood and his gentle brown eyes vanquished her fear in an instant. 

“Are you alright?” He asked her with a gruftness resulting from weeks of not having anyone to speak to.

“I-I think so.” Her voice too, was rough from lack of use.

“Here.” He offered his hand. She took it. He looked her over for a moment. “I think I saw a tub big enough for a bath in the tower. I can start a fire for one.”

“A bath?” She asked.

“Here, come with me.” He led her back to the ruined keep which to the knight seemed slightly more whole than it had the night before. 

[axiro]

Through the Dragon's Eyes || Talon AU Hanzo Shimada

Chapter Two - Perception

An offer is made.

Chapter Master List || AO3

Any underlined text signifies background music/ambiance is linked. :)

A gentle stream churns alongside him as he walks, boots softly disturbing the forest floor below. Starlight has begun to fade, trading places with a peaking orange glow on the horizon. He follows the stream for a good while until he reaches it's source; a small cliffside face pouring soft ribbons of cool water into a shallow pool below. Rounding the perimeter, he shuffles behind the falls to set his weaponry down against the mossy stone. Disrobing, he places his clothing nicely next to his bow and releases his hair from it's tie to let it flow. Stepping forward, he's careful to not slip on the wet surface as he reaches his left arm out to the falls, water splashing his hand and tracking down the underside of his forearm. It's colder than the basin at home, yet he's used to it. The discovery of this small spring has led it to become a staple for him, especially in the Summer months.

Cautiously, he leads the rest of his body to follow, stepping into the pool. The cold liquid envelopes his legs, rising to his waist. The waterfall taps upon his shoulder, caressing down his torso, flowing over every curve. He moves to the side a little more so it hits the back of his neck, saturating skin with it's chill. Tilting his head back, hair becomes heavy with moisture. Running both hands through his raven locks, his gaze pierces the sky. Clouds slowly inch along overhead, carrying the colors of the sunrise with them. He takes his time, running palms over his robust form to wash the sweat from his pores. Closing his eyes, he lets the water flow down his face for a moment before pulling back to exhale, droplets flying from his lips.

Once finished, he trudges back to land, sliding a fist down his hair, droplets splashing at his feet before tossing the wet lump over his shoulder to stick to his back. Sitting against the wall, he wipes and flicks a good portion of the moisture off, allowing his body to mostly air dry for a while, aided by a slight morning breeze as he watches the sunrise creep through the trees. He meditates as a good half hour passes before he deems himself dry enough to dress. He replaces the clothing upon his body as before, same with the quiver and bow, putting his hair back up despite it still holding some wetness. Hopping out from behind the waterfall to continue on, he traverses the uneven terrain, following an invisible path that only exists in his memory.

For a few good miles, it's just forest. Greenery sprouting as far as the eye can see. There's an occasional crunch of dry leaves under his feet, the orange, red and yellow shades beautifully shuffling down as the breeze snaps them from their branches above. He jogs when he has the stamina, not wanting to spend too much time reaching the destination. Time passes quickly as the scenery in the distance just a few paces ahead becomes void of trees, swallowed by the sky. Coming to a slow, he finds himself standing high ground looking down to a city below.

Hanamura.

Metal and glass buildings tower, glittering in the sunlight, flying cars hovering about unspecified roads between the structures. Within the mist, he can see a large traditional estate situated well within it's borders. The Shimada ancestral home. He safely makes his way down, and soon enough, is surrounded by the familiar atmosphere. Large holographic advertisements, chatter and bustling activity of the residents within, vents in the street alleyways hissing vapor.

A monorail train hums overhead, track glowing white as it hovers by. He turns down a pathway of shops, eyeing one specific entry to his left. He places his hand on the door, pushing it open to be greeted by a bell jingling above his head. Upon shelves and tables, there's household appliances, both old and new upon the wall, some neon light signs and other décor. Stepping inside, his eyes tack onto some of the newer products. The prices are crazy, yet, things like that wouldn't have been an issue a mere decade ago.

As he walks through the place, making his way to the front, a photo on the wall next to one of the neon signs pulls his gaze. Within it's metal frame, there's two individuals. A man and woman, locked arm in arm. The woman is in a form fitting dress, white with black trim, holding a small ribboned bouquet in her free hand. The man dons a white suit and black tie. Both are smiling widely.

There's some shuffling coming through the open archway to a back room behind the front desk. He turns to face it. Mere seconds later, an older gentleman emerges. He's the spitting image of the man in the photo, yet, much older now. He has a small frame, white hair upon his head with a large bald spot on the top and black frame glasses upon his face. He lights up once he sees Hanzo, a welcoming exclamation in his voice as he rounds the desk to approach him.

"Taka! How are you?" He asks, his voice soft and kind.

Taka. The name Hanzo has taken for himself to keep a low profile. He's gotten so used to it, his actual name sometimes eludes his immediate memory, leaving him with a sense of peace for the moments that lasts for.

He softly smiles back to the man, giving a small bow in greeting.

"Yoshida-san."

He feels a gentle hand upon his shoulder and rises.

"I have been well." Hanzo replies. "Very busy."

The older man, deemed Mr. Yoshida, pats his shoulder before removing his hand with a small chuckle.

"I suppose so, I have not seen you for weeks. What can I do for you?"

Hanzo hums to himself for a moment before replying.

"A generator fuse."

Yoshida nods lightly with a small, "ahh." He then holds a finger up, signaling to wait a moment. He fades into the back room where he came from for a minute before re-emerging with an item in hand.

"Well, at least the last one lasted longer than the previous, hm?"

Hanzo nods, pulling out his phone. "How much do I owe you?"

The other man shakes his head, placing a palm up to face him.

"Do not worry about that. This one I kept from a recent repair in Kanezaka. It's the same model as yours just a bit newer. This should last you much longer."

He reaches out to Hanzo's other hand, lifting it and placing the palm sized fuse in his grasp. A 'bit' newer is a 'bit' of an understatement. The fuse is definitely much more modern. The archer's jaw loosens a bit as he begins to speak.

"I..."

A pause. He wants to argue that Yoshida take at least something for it. This man works two jobs to support his granddaughter and has been nothing but kind to him. He even offered Hanzo stay with them at one point, which was declined. He cannot risk staying within the city, or bringing any possible danger with him if anyone found out who he is. He exhales with a soft expression, looking up to the older gentleman, knowing where the 'argument' would end.

"Thank you."

Yoshida nods proudly, then sighs.

"I still do not know why you stay out there. It would be more comfortable here. Yet... I respect your path. Now," he pauses, "at least visit more often."

He turns, shifting behind the front desk to begin working with his computer. Hanzo bows to him again before turning to leave, placing the fuse in his hip bag. Yoshida smiles at him as he leaves, looking back down to his work once the bell jingles once more, signaling his departure.

Returning out to the city walkways, he dips past clumps of humans and Omnics alike, gaining some looks here and there. Some interested, some judgmental, yet none truly knowing. He knows this city like the back of his hand, almost. Part of his preparation to be the clan leader involved being familiar with the city's layout, knowing the Shimada territory opposed to others. This was detrimental, and still proves useful to this day, as he knows where to avoid.

Given he still has drive to have his clan rise once again, he pays attention to the city's dynamics when he's here. His training provides a sharp ear and eye at all times. He's been waiting for the right time. Yet, it's difficult when he is simply one man against an entire collection of people who will try to kill him. His skills are among the best, yet being outnumbered is not a situation he needs to be in.

After these past few years, his goal has seemed further and further away, feeling as if he's now grasping at the string of a balloon that's already taken flight. He's running out of time. Part of the reason he stayed as long as he has this time is to start planning how to handle this himself. Connections are out of the question. He doesn't want anyone else involved in this, nor trust anyone else in the first place. No one but himself.

He takes a turn down another alleyway, a familiar path he's often traversed to quickly cut through the city. He jogs through it, eyes straight ahead on the exit at the other side, light fading behind the buildings overhead, leaving him to pass through a bout of shadow. There's a quick sound of air swirling, tearing his attention to a fork in the path on the side, leading to a small dead end. A clawed metal hand shoots towards him, causing him to kick off to the side to avoid it.

This fails.

He exclaims as the gauntlet manages to grab his shirt, a powerful yank swinging him around the corner out of sight. His back comes into harsh contact with the wall, eliciting a deep grunt from him, the hand quickly switches to the arm it's attached to slamming into his throat to pin him. There were no footsteps, no disturbances, nothing but the gust of air this assailant came from. They just simply appeared from the darkness with no warning.

"You might not want to struggle too much if you value being able to breathe."

The attacker speaks, a deep voice peppered with gravel. The sunlight seeps down from the buildings reflections, providing a dim view of the rest of the other man's body. A long black coat with the hood up, the metal gauntlets and a mask like an owl holds mere inches away from Hanzo's face.

Hanzo tries to kick his feet up to push him back, yet the pressure placed upon his neck increases, as well as the attempt being simply side stepped. He lets out a frustrated whimper as he starts to feel lightheaded, hands grasping at the arm crushing his trachea.

"I'd prefer you be able to talk but I have no issue dealing with you mute. Shimada."

Hanzo's eyes widen, locking onto the dark recesses of the masks eyes. He's released, falling to the ground, heaving a strong cough. He takes the opportunity to roll, slipping his bow from his torso, grabbing an arrow and quickly knocking it into place. He comes out of the roll on one knee, about to raise his weapon, but he is now face to face with the barrel of a large black shotgun, held in one hand by the masked figure who chuckles deeply.

"It would be best if you just sat there and listened, I don't want to waste my time here."

Hanzo's brow furrows, a harsh glare in reply.

"Good. Now," The other pauses, gesturing with the gun for him to stand. He does not. The man just sighs.

"Have it your way, then. You're going to listen, regardless."

He takes a few steps closer, keeping the gun positioned as it is.

"You want your clan back. But you can't do it alone. So here's my offer. You join our organization. We help you rebuild, in exchange for services on your end."

"You-" Hanzo spits, yet he's unable to finish his retaliation due to still recovering his breath, just leading him to cough again, inhaling deeply. This is insulting. How dare this stranger think he can demand anything from him?

"We own that place."

Hanzo gives a small head twitch of confusion.

"You ever notice that something was different on your last little fly by in the estate? Maybe how the men didn't look like just any rag-tag group of criminal wannabes?"

Memory starts to play back to the last visit to honor his brother, seeing if anything matches his words. Honestly, it's always different. Most, if not all, are exactly what the assailant said. Criminal wannabes. He usually has had to clear unwanted guests who's origins altered each time, that wasn't abnormal. He did it without a second thought, no matter who it was. There are many who want a share of the damn place ever since it was shut down, years ago. Plus, whats left of his clan has been fighting to resurface by any means nneccessary, so they've been making connections left and right.

He does, however, remember the soldiers he saw. Black uniforms with black and red helmets. The symbol upon their uniforms was familiar, he can say that much. He's seen it before when they had come to meet with his father quite some time ago when he was still alive, just like many other organizations.

This one is Talon.

"Those were ours. Lost a good handful of men that night." The assailant growls.

So, this guy is a member of Talon. Hanzo can't help his expression dropping to mildly unamused. Part of him even wants to laugh. Last he remembers, they were not very prevalent in this area. They backed off after his father refused to work with them. So, this must be a rather recent development.

Hanzo simply scoffs at the other's comment, yet it really starts to process as he thinks about what he's saying. So, Talon owns the Shimada estate. The Shimada clan, even weakened as they are now, wouldn't just relinquish the estate to some random organization, connections or not.

Unless... they weren't allowed a say, somehow.

He bears his teeth in a threatening sneer, finally rising to his feet, grip tightening on his bow.

"Thanks to someone who knew the ins and outs of the place, we cleared it pretty easily." The hooded man says, the gravel of his voice echoing with proudness in this fact.

They had an insider. But who? It had to have been someone who wanted to gut what's left of the estate, too, regardless of clan, group or whatever they were part of. Hanzo would be lying if he said his plan wasn't to do just that, himself, but this damn organization got to it before he did.

You have got to be fucking kidding.

The wraith stares at him, amused by the archers visible discomfort and anger.

"You don't really have a choice, amigo. If you want it back, we'll give it to you. But not without something in it for us."

Reaching in his coat, he pulls out a small metal disk, tossing it to Hanzo with a careless flick of his wrist. The Shimada doesn't even bother to reach for it as it clatters to the ground at his feet. He simply glances down at it before his gaze glares back up at the other as they speak again.

"Use that when you're ready to discuss your options."

With that, the ghostly man steps back into the darkness, lowering his gun, air shifting as his body swirls back into the black cloud he emerged from. Hanzo quickly snaps his bow up, pulling and loosing the arrow towards them. It phases through, just tearing through mist. Nothing physical remains standing in the man's place. The arrow smacks against the stone wall, bouncing off and sending it clattering to the ground.

He's left in silence, struggling to comprehend what just happened.

There's no way they control this much of the situation. They can't. That man has to be bluffing just to get under his skin. Yet, he knew who Hanzo is. Threatened him, even. He's trapped between a rock and a hard place. He's been unable to make any progress on his own, and now he's paying the price. They want to use him. This much he knows. But they cannot control him. There's two sides to this coin.

Bending down, he grabs his arrow, gripping the shaft harder with every second that passes. His eyes are dark as they stare down to the metal disk at his feet. With a huff, its left behind on the ground.