#because it was supposed to be a soft sell. a guided tour through the dirt brain so to speak

[dirtbra1n]

it’s about running away and being chased and knowing when to surrender but maybe not how to surrender. it’s about chasing and chasing and chasing until you blink and realize that you went from being the hunter to being the huntee, like a looney tunes bit. except there is no laughing happening, and no punchline, and the anvil and grand piano and cruise ship landing on your head one after the other are simply metaphors. still painful, though. more than enough to send you spinning, or knock you flat, or weigh you down.

—

that is to say, on the topic of weird love:

love that is unconventional, bizarre, lacking rhyme or reason. perhaps off putting, though it isn’t really, or beyond any one name or title.

hanzawa masato hadn’t been expecting any love whatsoever. that it is unconventional (or bizarre, or off putting, or so on) is salt in the wound.

(not that it doesn’t suit him, he knows himself to be someone who is, in more than one manner of speaking, fairly weird. acknowledging this is further salt in an exacerbated wound.)

tangentially: hanzawa masato doesn’t ordinarily have any particular desire to die, but recent circumstances have pushed him to reconsider.

who made you feel like you have to handle things alone? did we teach you shame? do you think we don’t want to look after you anymore?

well, fine, “to die” is something of an extreme. he doesn’t think he actually wishes to die, doesn’t want his heart to stop beating or his neurons to stop firing. it just has to be a violent enough reset, send him back to a youth where he’d wake up every morning and choose to be busy as a fun pastime rather than a survival tactic.

not a snapped neck, but, well. whatever.

—

he’s back at the river. he never has his pant legs rolled up. it’s getting on his nerves.

the current is mild today. he can almost make out his face in the water, not that he wants to spend any time admiring his reflection. the sun’s beating down on him, too-warm on his skin. he inhales heat and regrets it.

his eyes reflected are wide open as they stare up at him. the reflection looks like it’s getting clearer.

masato doesn’t like that.

submerging his head, he figures that it couldn’t be any harder to breathe with water in his lungs than it is without.

—

sometimes, very rarely, when he has time alone with his thoughts, masato forgets how to breathe. becomes over-conscious of it and does it wrong, inhaling without feeling like enough oxygen is getting to his brain. his entire chest will move up and down but it feels like he’s dying.

to be frank, masato feels like he’s dying a lot. running on autopilot, it seems, is better for him in the long run.

but, well. that’s boring.

inhale for elastic muscle activation, exhale for large muscle contraction. draw your arm back, hit the ball.

breathe, won’t you?

leaving tashiro after club is easy. walking to the station to wait for the train is easy. clouds are gathering overhead. he rests his eyes awhile. rookie mistake.

his rib cage is rickety and the joints in his fingers have gone stiff. his neck has hardly any mobility to speak of. images like shadow puppetry are playing on the backs of his eyelids. weird love. mapping intimacy, tashiro drums his fingers on masato’s chest, where the bones of his rib cage jut out. presses down on the joints of each of his fingers until they pop.

stands behind him with his head in his hands and guides it just so until his neck cracks—

masato feels the train’s arrival in his bones. he opens his eyes. he feels geriatric. something about the barometric pressure.

tashiro-kun, do you know any chiropractors?

he squints at his phone, bleary.

with a license, he clarifies, unnecessarily.

—

masato is a little worried that he might have strange tastes.

—

it’s like this: being with tashiro gonzaburou is terribly easy for hanzawa masato when he’s not in love with him and wonderfully difficult when he is. this is an on-off situation. this makes everything worse. riddled with impossibilities—frankly masato’s convinced it’s a sickness. or a curse.

standing against the violent current with his feet planted firmly in the silt, masato ponders the symbolism at play. rivers representing cleansing, rebirth, the beginning of things. he, symbolically, watches a coffin bob apathetically downstream to his right. he, symbolically, wades with great difficulty to catch up with and lie in it. cleansing, rebirth, the beginning of things. destruction, also.

masato’s good with literature—the basis is that you cannot build upon what’s already been built. what existed must be razed to be remade. something must die to facilitate a rebirth. religious undertones abound, though flood myths are universal.

definitely a sickness; he wonders if there was ever any basis for this, before. he doesn’t really want to believe that tashiro was the first. selfishness. sickness. the sort of thing the river’s supposed to cleanse him of. what he should do is get out of the coffin, maybe swim around a little.

he doesn’t.

masato stares up at the sky above him, listens to the wood creaking around him. imagines he’s in a boat instead. a flood so great it threatens even the heavens—the rocking of his “boat” is making him a little, well, sick.

he jolts awake. riddled with impossibilities. weird dreams shouldn’t count.

they do, though.

he has reason to believe that the creaking of the “boat” was actually the creaking of his bones. he feels brittle enough to have earned the spot in that coffin. it might’ve been his all along.

he really doesn’t like that.

—

ah.

masato wants to live.

[fleckcmscott]

Fun and Only

Summary: During a night out, Y/N and Arthur bump into someone from Arthur’s past. Y/N tries to decipher him.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,088

A/N: This was a request from the sweet, kind @imdeaddear2! I hope you like it! Thank you for making the request, because I never would have written this scenario without it. 😀 Special thanks to @arthurflecc for the beautiful intro pic! Also, thanks to @hhandley80​ for reviewing the exchange in the middle section!

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!

"Y/N, it's little league season. Know what that means?"

Needing to finish the paragraph she was reading, Y/N raised a finger. The dense case on her desk was a tough assignment; she'd been toiling at it most of the morning. She liked her new position. Truly. But the pace at which she prepared files was slower than she would have preferred. The particulars of labor laws were, well...laborious. Reviewing evidence types she wasn't familiar with took time. It made her impatient. Anxious to soak up all the information she could get her hands on.

But, she supposed, no longer being plagued by guilt for indirectly supporting the Waynes was worth the learning curve.

Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her ankles, swinging her foot back and forth as she regarded Terry. While he was incredibly friendly, chatting with everyone and anyone, they remained acquaintances. Periodically, she conferred with him over a motion or sought to get his opinion about the upcoming mayoral election. ("I've seen Wayne's legal bullshit. He's not getting my vote.") Those discussions didn't go far. Usually, he tried to bond over parental matters - she and Arthur didn't even have a plant.

She could tell this was going to be another attempt. "You're doing a fundraiser and I should buy chocolate bars?" she asked.

"Even better." Digging into his too-tight pants pocket, he retrieved a checkbook-sized pamphlet. "The Gotham Squires are selling these to charter a bus for the All-Stars tournament. They're the number two team in the state!" He shoved a photo of his kid at her.

She murmured a polite, "He's all grown-up." He spoke of the team's new uniforms and his nine-year-old's batting average. Half-listening, she flipped through the booklet. It was a coupon collection, mostly two-for-one sales at various restaurants and vouchers for discounted movie tickets, good on weekdays only. They were quite pricey at fifteen dollars apiece. But she was inclined to buy one. The savings might help Arthur practice letting go of his wallet. Allow him to stop worrying about money and indulge a little, the way he deserved.

What made the cash fly from her purse to Terry's palm was the certificate in the back: a half-off deal for Amusement Mile. Satisfaction was written all over her face as she studied the yellow cardstock's terms and conditions, the outline of a circus tent, the faded ink encouraging her to "Enjoy the Ride!" Coming from a rural area, she'd never gone to an amusement park. One had been four or so hours east, but her father had preferred to stay close to home, fearing he might be needed in an emergency.

The annual county fair had been a must. Everyone had worn his or her Sunday Best, the occasional breeze kicking up dirt as they toured the fairground. The rides had been creaky, unsound, and should have been reported to the local safety commission. She'd gone on the Tilt-A-Whirl and the giant slide, waving at her parents and hanging onto her burlap sack. One year, Mabel had screamed and cried until Y/N grabbed her hand and led them out of the house of mirrors.

Swinging the mallet as hard as he could, her father had impressed her mother with the strongman game. The puck wouldn't hit the bell. Doily and needlework competitions had been her mother's purview, crafts Y/N had practiced but quickly tired of. She'd preferred the pie contest. Her mouth had watered, hankering for a taste of the first-place winner. The agricultural exhibits had been the largest section, with its prized horses, pigs, and chickens. She'd broken the rules and stuck her fingers in the rabbit cages to feel their soft fur; she'd been bitten once.

Wistfulness wasn't the only reason the theme park appealed to her. There was Arthur's history with it. He kept a postcard of the Ferris wheel pinned to the divider in his writing nook. And he'd described some of the odd jobs he'd done. Carrying boxes of merchandise, filling in for other clowns, picking up litter (and keeping the returnables). It hadn't been steady, merely hours offered to him if he'd inquired. But it'd given him pocket change. Enough to buy cigarettes and keep the utilities on for another month.

The week had been warm up till now, and the good weather was expected to continue. He loved taking her to new corners of the city, had ever since their first date. Introducing her to his old stomping ground wouldn't take a lot of convincing.

When she got home, he was perched on the sofa, clad in a thermal shirt and a pair of her too-short pajama bottoms. (A funny combination that meant their laundry was in the machine.) Elbows on his knees, journal on the coffee table, and pen at the ready, his concentration was plain to see. The discipline he had to pursue his dreams, the way he studied comedy specials on TV was admirable. She got a glass of water and smiled at his ill-timed laughter. That he didn't understand the host's humor was logical. Roasts were usually unkind. While Arthur's jokes weren't always funny, they weren't mean-spirited.

She crouched next to him, peppered kisses along his shoulder. His damp curls brushed her cheek, and she breathed in the zesty musk of his shampoo. "I wouldn't waste too much effort on this guy," she said. Her caress followed the freckles on his bare forearm, feeling the muscle flutter under her fingertips. "He's kind of an asshole."

"The audience helps me figure out the timing." He muted the television, lips quirking. "You like some of his songs."

"He makes a better singer than comedian," she rebutted with a peck.

They went over their respective days, how his earlier appointment went, the paperwork she'd done. Tuna casserole was their choice for dinner, and Arthur put on an LP while they cooked. Once the dish was in the oven, she hugged him close. "I have an idea for Thursday night." She went over the Amusement Mile discount, enthused about his expertise, reveled in how her praise softened his features and brightened his eyes. "I'd love it if you took me around. Taught me all the magic behind the scenes. And I'm dying to see where you do your street performances." She massaged the nape of his neck. "Maybe I'll stop by and give you a tip."

Crooked tooth peeking out, he nodded. Then he grasped the counter on either side of her hips and pressed his forehead to hers. "That sounds great."

~~~~~

A small memorial flowerbed, filled with alternating swirls of white gardenias, purple pansies, and yellow daffodils, was situated just beyond the park's main entrance. The marble fountain bubbling in the center reminded Y/N of a bird bath. It was modest, from a bygone era in which the wealthy hadn't dared to flaunt their fortunes for fear of strikes. The bronze plaque declared the city's thanks to Benjamin Wayne for funding Amusement Mile's construction during the height of Gotham's industrial boom. Before most of the factories had fled. Before times had become tough for the majority Gothamites. It was annoying, how the Waynes had their fingers in everything. She hoped not one nickel of what they spent tonight went into their bank accounts.

Arthur paid it no mind. His head was tipped back a degree or two, his clear green eyes darting from attraction to attraction. Smoking was one of his habits she disapproved of. But she couldn't dispute how attractive he was, puffing the cigarette dangling from his puckered lips. The chestnut tones of his brown hair were brought to the fore by the grounds' multi-color lighting, and a lock or two fell over his temples. The loose curls at his neck bounced with each step, a boyish buoyancy to his gait.

Her stomach growled as soon as the aroma of fair food hit her. They picked a booth that claimed it sold Gotham's original franks. He asked to order for her. She let him, watching as his grin widened and he stated, "Four hot dogs for my girlfriend and me, please. With relish and mustard." Then they shared a candy apple, taking turns nibbling at the fruit's hard, sugary shell. Its juice dribbled onto her pale pink top, staining the embroidered neckline. Her groan of disapproval became giggling as he stole chaste kisses, wiping her off as she chewed.

His palm at the small of her back, guiding her as they walked down the midway, fanned a glow in her heart. He'd made headway when it came to displaying his affection in public, though he still tended towards timidity. Early on, she'd concluded his reticence had nothing to do with her - he never pulled away if she grabbed at him. He was simply a gentleman.

Most examples he followed were from an older era, one lost to the bluntness of the eighties. Those moments he'd let himself go, when he'd make it clear they were a couple, lifted her spirit. Not only due to the pride she felt at being on his arm, but also because it meant he was finding his own way. Arthur wasn't a shy suitor or a contemporary romantic hero. Rather, he was somewhere in the middle. Old fashioned, through and through, with threads of modernity woven into his fibers.

As they strolled, they stumbled onto a black and white photo booth. She sat on its cracked wooden stool and tried to tug him inside. But he wanted a picture of her, he said. To put in his wallet. To look at if he was having a bad day and wasn't at home. Her response was to snag his collar and yank him to her lips. Snorting, he shut the nylon curtain. At the clink of quarters in the coin slot, she straightened her puffed, cap sleeves and fixed her hair in the scratched featherweight mirror. The camera's flashes blinded her, but she thought she'd managed to smile naturally enough.

Before she had a chance to stand, he whipped open the drape and showed her the strip of portraits. "I knew I was dating the prettiest woman in the city. Maybe even the sweetest."

She cupped his cheeks as she stepped out. Rubbed the tip of her nose to his. He was unfailingly generous. Too generous. While she was fine with her appearance, she wouldn't win a beauty pageant. Hell, she wouldn't even be a runner-up. Or a contestant. And sweet was one of the last words she'd use to describe herself. But she wasn't going to correct him. "And I found the handsomest, funniest man." His stare was wide-eyed. After releasing a stuttering breath, he pulled her along.

Upon entering the gaming area, he slung his arm around her waist. Mischief laced his whisper as he spilled secrets. The darts for the balloon pop were dull, the balloons underinflated. He advised her to stay clear of the baseball and milk bottle stand, saying, "The bottom bottles have lead in them. You'll never knock them over."

Then he warned her off the ring toss, saying the rings were too small to win the best prizes. She decided to take her chances, regardless, and paid the attendant. Arthur tutted gently as she gave him the last ring, having already wasted four.  A step to the side, then he paused to line up his throw. A short clap announced his victory. The prize options included a dinky toy car and a rubber snake. She picked a plastic, red keychain, embossed with "I was Amused in 1982" and the silhouette of a coaster. It was an improvement over her old car dealership tag. "I'll think of tonight whenever I see it."

Gaze fixed on her mouth, he sighed happily. He began to reach towards her, his arm raised ever so slightly-

"Art!" a rich baritone called. "Hey, Art!"

Arthur flinched. She moved to peer behind him. The approaching man was tall, his balding head half a foot higher than Arthur's. A blue and red flannel shirt with gray trousers covered his portly physique. Confidence oozed from him with every stride, a pleasantly surprised smirk on his round face.

Y/N's interest was piqued. Unless it was someone who remembered Arthur from Live! with Murray Franklin, no one ever approached him on the street. And she hadn't heard him be referred to by anything other than his proper name (besides Penny's terrible "Happy.").

But his reactions concerned her. Arthur's back tensed as the man closed in, stopping a yard away. "Hi, Randall."

"How's my boy been?" Randall asked jovially, hands at his sides. "Gary told us about your mom. Could you use a little cheering up?"

Arthur blinked faster than usual. "No. She's okay. And I feel a lot better now."

"Oh. Well, good for you," Randall said.

Going back and forth between them, she tried to puzzle out their dynamic. Their familiarity was obvious. Randall seemed caring enough, although she found it odd he'd referred to her thirty-five-year-old partner as "boy." Arthur had mentioned Gary was a former colleague. It would make sense Randall was, too.

He threw her a glance. "Hey, you have family visiting. Is this your cousin?"

She brushed off the assumption and extended her hand. "I'm Y/N L/N. His girlfriend."

"Oh, yeah. The paralegal." He shook it firmly before addressing Arthur again. "Gary said you finally got a date."

The pat to Arthur's bicep was a little too hard, jolting his stiff frame. The set of his jaw and flaring of his nostrils betrayed a turmoil she hadn't initially picked up on. She touched his hand but he shoved it in his pocket.

All right. She had to get to the bottom of this. It was hard to ascertain if his current reaction was due to his social challenges (which could cause discomfort) or Randall's words. She didn't want to jump to conclusions. After all, she and Patricia teased each other whenever they met for lunch or chatted on the phone. A good ribbing was needed every once in a while.

Starting a cross-examination in front of Arthur would contribute to his unease. After a moment's deliberation, she nudged him. It took a couple of tries to get his attention. "Would you please get us a large lemonade?" His brows rose, anxiety in the wrinkles of his forehead. She stretched to kiss his temple. His eyes narrowed but he got the hint, scuffing his shoe and glowering at Randall as he walked off.

When Arthur rounded a corner by the water pistol race, she lounged on one of the booth's metal poles. "Have you known Arthur long?"

Randall nodded in the direction Arthur had gone. "We worked at HaHa's. I'm a clown, too. We did parties, the children's hospital, store openings."

"Arthur loved that job." She crossed her arms over her chest. "It's too bad the slow season hit. But he's doing pretty well on his own."

Confusion crossed the big man's visage. "Uh, yeah. The slow season." He chuckled, then. "Anyway, you and Art, huh?"

Smiling broadly, she folded her arms over her chest. "Yes, me and Art."

"Pretty serious, huh?"

If he wanted gossip to bring back to the workplace, she'd gladly give him some. Especially if it reflected well on Arthur. "We live together. It's been great."

"No kidding." With a sardonic grin, he shook his head. "A woman like you. I didn't know he had it in him. It was always just him and his mom. Talked about stand-up sometimes. Mostly kept to himself, though. Never really talked much." Randall shrugged lightly. "But we liked him. He did all the shitty jobs no one wanted and never complained."

Arching a brow, Y/N felt her suspicions grow. While Arthur was learning to disagree and contradict her without hesitation, he nevertheless had the inclination to go along. It was plausible he hadn't argued about gigs. Had they taken his preferences into account?

Then Randall confirmed her skepticism, saying in a jokey tone, "That laugh really got everyone going, too. And his laminated cards. We had a pool on whether it was part of his act. I mean, him being in Arkham and all, who knows what the fuck he could have come up with?"

Deciphering what kind of man stood in front of her was suddenly uncomplicated. She'd run into his type all too often. They lurked in garages and offices. Diners and restaurants. Courtrooms on both sides of the bench. People with no real power who walked on others. Persons who threw their weight around to feel in charge. Bullies who hid behind a veneer of kindness.

She understood why he'd called Arthur "boy."

What she said had to be chosen carefully. Randall and Arthur worked in the same field, likely competed for clients. If her big mouth came back on Arthur, she wouldn't forgive herself. She straightened, squared her shoulders, and forced her voice to stay professional. "If you liked him, wouldn't you have split the less desirable jobs with him? I'm sure he didn't like being taken advantage of."

His looked at her in disbelief. "Hey, he was paid fair and square, like all of us."

"And he understands how to speak to a 'woman like me' more than you ever will." A sharp exhale as her cheeks burned. "From what Arthur has said, you could learn a lot from Gary. Please tell him hello from us and have a good evening." With that, she headed off to find Arthur, ignoring Randall's lame attempts to call her back.

Arthur was in line when she spotted him. He stepped forward and pointed to the menu. As she approached, she noticed how he fidgeted with his cigarette, tapping it repeatedly though there was no ash. The subtle tremble in his knee. If he continued to carry himself so tightly, his muscles would cramp.

Clearing her throat, she slipped behind him and hugged his back. "Did you have to deal with that insufferable know-it-all every day?"

He grabbed the proffered cup from the clerk and headed to a nearby table. Plunked himself down and took a drag off his smoke. Stress poured off him, clear in every flex of his fingers. His palm went to his stomach as he practiced controlling his breathing. "What- What did he tell you? That everyone thought I was a freak? How much I fucked up?" His voice lowered then, barely above a whisper. She could tell he was talking to himself. "The hospital?"

"Enough to know he was a jerk. I'm glad you're not there anymore." She put her chin on his shoulder. Watched him take a sip of lemonade. "Nothing he said matters, but I told him how important you are to me." She tucked a hair behind his ear, and he leaned into her touch. Their gazes met, his shining in the dim light. The evening had been fantastic so far. She wasn't going to let some asshole ruin it. "Come on," she urged, jutting her hip towards him. "We still have half the park to explore."

~~~~~

About a third of the way through their ride on the Mad Hatter, Amusement Mile's famous coaster, Y/N realized eating had been a mistake. A big one. Thrown to a fro in the sharp curves, she could nearly taste the bile in the throat. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, willing her nausea to pass. For his part, Arthur appeared exhilarated, laughing with every peak and valley. Seeing that happiness was a gift, one that gratified and partially distracted from her queasiness.

Fortunately, the enclosed cabins on the Ferris wheel were a respite. They waited an extra turn to board the outer wheel, which rotated at a leisurely pace and allowed her stomach to settle. The view from the top was beautiful, Gotham Cathedral's lit spires and the Westward Bridge prominent against the night sky. Wayne Tower was also visible, but she did her best to ignore the high-rise and its gaudy "W." He pointed in the direction of Burnley and said, "There's our home." She was unexpectedly moved. Then he kissed her soundly, which quickly advanced to mild necking when the wheel paused.

The carousel was antique, according to the sign. The only original attraction left in the park. A massive wooden structure with a mirrored center, it had three rows of horses, broken up by the occasional bench. He stepped onto the gray platform and picked one, painted red and yellow, roses etched along its back. But she climbed a nearby leaping horse instead, its black mane and tan body faded by years of sunlight.

He quirked a dark brow until she beckoned him with a nod. Cheeks pink, countenance tender in the lingering blinks of the incandescent bulbs, he followed suit. "Hang onto me," she instructed. As the calliope's whistles began their jaunty tune, he cupped her hips and pressed into her. A flutter tickled her stomach. She reclined against him, let her eyes fall shut as his warmth surrounded her. Round and round they went, chuckling airily. Not at any jokes or amusements, but at the joy of one another.

Arthur picked the last ride, an old mill called Romantic River Caves. She had to stop herself from snickering at the idea of a middle-aged woman and her nearly-middle-aged boyfriend cruising along in something built for teenagers. But he delighted in cliches and corniness, a preference she attributed to his inexperience and kind nature. Though such gestures hadn't thrilled her since she was a girl, she appreciated them with him.

The boats were short and narrow, just wide enough for the two of them to sit side-by-side. Curved backrests encouraged cuddling. Off-key versions of old standards played through tinny speakers. Myriad displays were inside, a mix of plaster dioramas and paintings. Two swans swimming, their beaks touching. A couple on a picnic under a tree. Bouquets and hearts galore. There were five or so seconds of darkness between each one. He took advantage of those breaks, kissing her again and again until she was breathless.

She scanned the starry painting above them, the comets' trails stretched across the tunnel's ceiling. "It's been a long time since I've done anything like this. Twenty-five? Thirty years?"

"Me, too. I snuck in when I was a kid. To see the circus and the merry-go-round." He smoothed his hair back, pressed his legs tighter together. "When I moonlighted here, I could've gone on the rides and to the shows. I- I didn't want to alone."

He paused and she put her palm on his thigh. Gave him an encouraging squeeze. "That postcard I have?" he said. "By my desk? It was in my locker at HaHa's." His fingers covered hers, tips tracing her knuckles. "It's good to have a person to have fun with. To have you."

She beamed at that sentiment, for she felt it, too. Yes, she'd been complete on her own. No, she hadn't been lonely. But he added to her existence. Introduced her to activities and experiences she hadn't previously considered or realized she'd needed. Going to a comedy club. Dancing despite her lack of skill. Or enjoying vulnerability during quiet conversations in their bedroom rather than fearing it. He'd broadened her life in ways she was still discovering. And he regularly told her she'd bettered his. "You're my favorite ride," she said.

A sharp snort left him, followed by a bashful chuckle. He shook his head. "You're crazy."

"I didn't mean that." She batted his chest playfully. Tried to cross her legs under the safety bar. "This relationship we've started." Light appeared at the end of the tunnel, the shallow pool's grimy floor coming into view as the water level fell. Soon they'd be amongst the crowd. "Remember when I said we'd never be perfect? I like our imperfections. They fit. Like..." She contemplated. "A pen and paper. They're good on their own but they're best together." Cringing, she covered her face. "God, that didn't even make sense. A pen needs paper."

"Didn't you say you needed me?" he teased, pulling her hand from her brow to place it on his sternum. "I don't mind being your paper." Blushing, Y/N turned to him when he cupped her jaw. Ran his thumbs over her cheeks. She joined him in ignoring the attendant's instruction to disembark. Arthur kissed her, a delicate graze to her mouth before he drew her bottom lip between his. "You're the best ride, too."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @howdylilflower​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @64-crayon​

[middleinthenight21]

Damirae week 2020- Day 7

Rivals to Lovers

Lover: Apartner in a romantic or physical relationship

Once upon a time there was a very handsome and competent witch hunter. His ancestors had been dedicated to liberating the world from evil for decades, therefore, it is also his task; He toured the forests and towns of the continent, protecting the innocent of the world from evil magic.

When he reaches a town, the local’s approach, scandalized, recognizing the witch hunter. The town is dedicated to agricultural activity; therefore, the crops are extensive, and the hunter appreciates the cows grazing in the meadows. Everything is quiet.

If it weren't for the scared locals, he might have overlooked that locality.

"The witch cursed my crops!"

The hunter raises an eyebrow "how? "

A witch in this town? The hunter had visited many villages tormented by a witch, or a coven, none so orderly and peaceful, they had no fields, many died as a result of the curses, sometimes he saw how paranoia reached the locals to unthinkable extremes.

The town is made up of a rocky path, which is concentrated around a fountain and there is a functioning market, where merchants and peasants sell their products, it seems to come out of a fairy tale. Local fairs are not held in witch towns, but there can always be exceptions.

"That girl looked at me wrong!" A woman shouted. The lady was holding a little boy in her arms, waving a toy and not interested in the conversation. "Then my butter melted in my hands. "

The women scream in horror. He is surprised by the similarity of women's clothing, her hair is hidden by a white cap with small frills on top, dresses made from patterned fabrics and aprons around their waists.

"Did she look at you wrong?"

She nods "Besides, she spends her time in that library reading those dusty books, I'm sure she's learning spells!" There are nods. The hunter frowns. "Wears black dresses" they report.

He is confused.

"The witch cursed my crops!" A farmer exclaims again.

"She speaks to the toads."

"She has a cabin in a remote area," another accuses. "She doesn't let anyone visit her. My son says he spied on her through the window and she was stirring a cauldron, a cauldron! "

"Enough!" The hunter stops them. "Where's the witch? "

"I can guide him to you, but she is very powerful." I'll leave you nearby" a farmer stepped forward. He watches his hand, his lips tighten, and he looks up. "We trust you, hunter. "

***

The hunter walked through the forest. The farmer had accompanied him to the outskirts of town, pointed out a stone path and advised him to follow it until he found a cabin.

When he found the cabin, it is hidden around some trees; and there is a small pond full of small toads, the animals croak and jump between the leaves of water lilies, an orchard and a rose garden that rises up to one of the windows. It doesn't look like a witch's lair.

He hides behind a tree guiding his hand to his sword, ready to defeat this witch, but something stops him.

The door of the cabin opens revealing a young girl, she is small and she is dressed in a simple black dress, which is folded to reveal her bare feet, a stained apron on her waist and there is a scarf in her dark hair, probably so that it is not a nuisance in housework.

He notes that she is light, she moves generating sounds, it is as if she will float. There is delicacy in her movements, a light illuminates her walk and he cannot take his eyes off her.

Then, she begins to hum a soft melody and approaches the pond, she takes out a bag made of cloth; amphibians leap from their lily pads and congregate around her. He thinks that it is an enchantment, that her voice had affected him like the toads, he has to get rid of this witch.

The witch gives off something like a laugh when she sees the toads and it’s sweet and playful. She deposits the cloth bag, kneels without caring to get dirty and opens the cloth bag revealing small dry insects, there are dragonflies, worms, spiders and a large number of snails, she is feeding them.

"Here you go, friend." He offers a snail to a toad and it wraps its tongue around the insect, disappearing in seconds. The witch laughs. "They must eat, because their reproductive stage is approaching, and we need healthy tadpoles."

Her voice is jovial, it is as silent as her steps and everything in her screams softly. Her appearance doesn't fit the descriptions and acts the locals said she did, but there is something quirky surrounding this young woman, something that pushes him to keep watching.

The witch lets the toads feed, walks through her garden taking care of her plants, digs the ground in search of vegetables, and tends the roses. Nothing makes him raise his eyebrows; There are no red flags around this girl.

Then, the young woman decides to sit on the porch of her cabin and read a book, while she bites a juicy peach, the liquid slides down her chin, she wipes it with the back of the dress. There is nothing peculiar about her.

The hunter decides to return to the village.

***

"How are you leaving ?!"

The hunter snorts "I have to continue my eternal crusade. I don't have time for gossipy superstitious farmer speculations. "

He got his backpack ready.

"Wait! " The farmer cuts him off. "We'll pay you double if you get rid of the witch! "

Snorts "There are no witches here. "

"How do you explain the melted butter?"

The hunter looks at the woman "Rays of the sun."

"Please stay a few days. Verify with your eyes that this young woman is a witch" he is stopped by a farmer. "I will give you free accommodation. Maybe she knows about your arrival and who you are, that's why she didn't show her evil, " he supposes. "We all have to treat you as an equal, give you a name and acceptance in the locality, then she will see the same."

"Okay, but it will be a few days."

***

The hunter was given the name Dami and a story was created as the farmer's nephew, who came from the city to spend a few days and the whole town paid too much attention to him. The first days the witch did not appear by the town and they justified it saying that even the witches had to worry about their crops.

On the fifth day he accompanied the farmer to the fair, since his wife had to sell the jams made from the ripened fruit and the weight of the jars would break the elders' backs.

The lady had a stand where they offered their jams and fruits, he discovered her legendary rivalry with the neighbor, since they were dedicated to the same thing. The hunter was not involved in unnecessary fights, he devoted himself to carving a piece of wood sitting on a bench.

"Don't look," the farmer approached him. If he was trying to be cautious, it wasn't working because he stood still, but not under his voice. "The witch appeared."

He looked anyway.

The young woman walked through the fair observing the products with a critical eye, carrying a straw basket, probably made by herself, where a piece of meat wrapped in paper, leaves that gave off a pungent aroma, and a small portion of vegetables stood out. In her path, the inhabitants avoid her and flee from her gaze, as if she were plagued and wonders what it is like to live in a place where everyone repels you.

She doesn't seem to mind.

That morning he looks cooler, the dirt is free of his clothes and he has some shoes. She believes that there are no insects in her apron or humming, it is more she looks alert, as if waiting for a signal to run away, but even with all this she walks with her chin up and shoulders straight and, proud.

"If she approaches, they must attend to her," he orders.

The lady opens her eyes and shakes her head "No, no. Mister Hunter, she can curse us or cast a spell on my jams. "

These people…

"I have to know how she treats others." He doesn't look up from his carving. His knife makes a cut in the wood, and the doll no longer has a head; The lady gulps and nods nervously. "You must treat her well."

The woman wipes her sweaty palms on her dress and trembles as the witch approaches. The young woman inspects the jams with a glance, her hands remain on her basket squeezing hard, contained so as not to touch anything and reads the labels.

The hunter analyzes her closely. There are no rotten teeth, her skin is smooth and free of blemishes, there is only pale skin and her hair is clean, it is dark in tone, she catches the light in a bluish glow. There are no rotten nails, there are no warts, the typical pointy nose or red eyes, but they are purple in color; it is the only sign.

She fulfills only one requirement: unusual eyes, but it is not enough. She can also wear this young woman's skin as a costume.

"Good morning, young lady"

She suppresses a chill and looks at the woman in amazement. No one had ever spoken to her, ever.

She nods.

He feigns interest in his carving but is paying attention to her every move. The young woman continues to read the labels on the jams, is bent over the smaller jars, and seems calm.

She is not yet that young woman who observed feeding the toads and taking care of her garden, here she is cautious, as if she had calculated each of her actions.

The elderly couple debate in silence, they are very nervous. Noticeable.

"Are you going to buy?" He says.

The witch watches him for the first time. He thinks that she will not answer him, since she only observes him static, like a rock.

"My coins are gone," she answers quietly. He refuses to be surprised because she's speaking to him, it goes through his head that it's because she hasn't seen him around here, but he's still cautious. "Sorry if I it bothered you" he's pulling away.

He stands up, picks up a jar of a reddish jam, and offers it to her "It's a gift for being our first customer. "

She steps back when he offers her the jam, frightened. She freezes, exchanges a look between the hunter and the owners of the premises, who shake heads and remain silent.

"Do not bother. "

"Don't take it that way, miss." The hunter watches the elders. "They are happy that a young woman like you sets her eyes on the jams, isn't it, guys? " The farmers nod.

For a minute he thinks she won't accept it and will run away, but she takes the jam gently and thanks the farmers.

When she leaves, the lady drops onto the bench and runs a hand over her face.

The hunter looks at the young woman, who is walking with her head down and looks at the jam in her basket.

"Mister hunter, are we cursed now?"

He rolled his eyes "No. I still believe she is not a witch. "

"Did you see how she observed the jam?" They say at the rival jam stand. "You shouldn't buy there" they advise a customer.

***

The hunter had offered to repair the roof of the farmers' house, as they complained of a leak that was bothering them and had heard that the rains were approaching. It is a favor for another.

He has been here for a week and a half; he has seen the young woman for only one day. He had sent a letter to his family so that they would provide more information on witches, especially those who do not look like one.

"Hello," a small voice interrupts him. He leans over to see the witch at the entrance to the house, she appeared out of nowhere, if he were more superstitious, he would have thought she appeared out of nowhere, but he knew about her stealth. "I came to drop this by" She seems nervous. She raises her basket for him to see. "My chickens just laid eggs and I thought I could thank them for this with the jam", she explains.

The hunter analyzes the eggs in detail, they do not seem cursed, although from a distance he could not see well.

"I will come down and receive you."

He entered the house through the attic window. When he is in the living room, he sees the scared couple of farmers, they hide behind a sofa and watch the girl from the window.

He rolled your eyes and open the door.

The girl is dressed much like the first time he saw her. The scarf exposes her face, realizing that she is attractive to the naked eye, unlike the witches he had murdered in other towns.

"Sorry to interrupt your work, Mr. Dami." She doesn't look him in the eye. Her foot rubs over the other, showing embarrassment. "Please accept the eggs for the jam."

Hearing about the eggs, the lady makes herself fit and looks at the gift with emotion.

"Oh, darling. Thank you."

The hunter grimaces when he sees the women so interested and changed aptitude and begins to tell a story about why they can't have chickens on the farm justifying it with age, she lengthens it more than necessary and the young woman stays in silence, just listening.

He is left alone to see how she behaves, she looks uncomfortable, but she does not interrupt the old woman, she nods and is silent at the right moments, she seems almost excited that someone is telling her about their life. When she leaves, the old woman says goodbye with enthusiasm, making comments about how sweet and pretty she seemed.

Her husband does not seem so convinced.

"Maybe the eggs are cursed."

The hunter takes one of the eggs and crashes it on the ground; there is a yolk and a white "These eggs are fine. If they were cursed, they would be completely black inside, they would be rotten. They can eat without worry."

The old woman applauds "I'll finally eat fried eggs! "

***

When the information came from the city there is nothing he can do, the signs and characteristics were clear, and the young woman does not comply with any. You can't blame someone for witchcraft if the evidence doesn't point to it, as much as some see him as a murderer, he wouldn't kill an innocent, this girl has done nothing.

"I promise you she's a witch."

The hunter rolls his eyes "You say it only to keep me in this town. There are towns that are really being cursed by witches. These people do not understand that because someone is different doesn’t mean that they are capable of hurting entire fields."

The farmers are angry, they had hired him for something else.

"You can pay me as many coins as you want, I won't stay."

"If you don't make the witch go, we will kill her."

A dagger slides through his hand, he is ready to fight these people, but someone hits him in the head and the hunter falls to the ground, unconscious.

***

When he opens his eyes, he is sore and lying on a pile of cloth, in a makeshift bed.

It is in a cabin; the roof is wooden, and it is hot. There is a smell of spices, a warm cloth on his forehead and he was stripped of his usual clothing to wear a shirt and pants made of soft fabric.

"Don't move," a voice advises him.

Then, he looks at the young woman who is mixing herbs in the cauldron and the liquid is thick with a yellowish tone. His instincts kicked in, he recalled the rumor that she was seen brewing a potion in a cauldron, perhaps he was wrong.

"How did you find me?"

She looks up "I found you in the woods. Don't move, they gave you a good blow to the head. "

He looks himself.

How did she know?

"I brought you to my cabin. You've been unconscious for five hours” she informs him. "Keep stirring. I guess you already know about me."

He frowns.

"You're a witch? "

She rolls her eyes "Everyone believes that. "

He stands up with difficulty, he staggers, and the weapon continues in his hand. He keeps it hidden, the young woman has not confirmed anything, however, she can still be dangerous. He looks at her and thinks that at any moment she can remove her skin to reveal a horrible being, the type of witch he fights with.

He’s approaching "Are you or not? "

Each of his footstep’s echoes on the hardwood floor, she stands up leaving the cauldron boiling aside and watches him. When they get close, everything pulls him towards this girl, she is like a magnet and he thinks he prefers to see what is under her dress.

The girl approaches, everything is light, delicate and she is bathed in light, as if she were glowing. He wants to run his hands through her hair, feel her skin and kiss her. He had never felt this way for any woman; he does not care about the danger or threats that he would receive. Perhaps she has bewitched him.

"Mr. Dami."

Their gazes meet, jade and amethyst.

He pulls her in a kiss, there is a gasp of surprise and for a few seconds she does not respond, but one of her hands wraps around his neck and she stands on tiptoes wanting to deepen the kiss, he is faster and wraps his arm in her waist, raising her. Now they are at the same height, he feels her hand go up to his hair stroking.

She tilts her head, her teeth brushing his lower lip, and she pinches his hand, but she's laughing, and they have to part.

Raven is laughing so loud that she hears Maps yelling cut through her megaphone. The boys who roll their eyes knowing that they would have to repeat the whole scene from the beginning, and he just wants to finish all this, it is bad to have to kiss like this in public WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND in a play that tells a story that could be printed in an erotic book.

He remembers that this is for an extra credit, although he does not understand how the story written by Maps was decided to be presented.

 "Raven, you're ruining it!"

His girlfriend bit her lips holding a laugh "It’s just that… Do I really have to say ´Mr. Dami´ with a sigh? " she laughed. She cites the dialogue, even in rehearsals they had mocked this phrase and the meaningless story. "Do you want to present this in front of the parents? "

Maps rises "It's a beautiful story about a hunter and witch who fall in love!" There is some laughter. "They are rivals to lovers! "

Damian rolls his eyes "We could do a parody. "

"Shut up, Wayne!"

The girl is proud of her work and would not exchange it, even if other ideas were suggested. Damian had thought that there was nothing original, with the script he had all the time with an eyebrow raised, thinking about the gaps, inconsistencies and absurd things in the plot.

Was there a need for the hunter and the witch to kiss each other? NO, Maps did it to annoy him? SURE, also the name she chose the hunter is very similar to his.

"The premise is simple: Once upon a time there was a hunter and a witch who fell in love, but their story did not have a happy ending" she points them out. Raven is struggling to remove her heels and rest her feet after two hours of rehearsals. "You guys should understand the complexities of your characters! "

Is his character complex? Doesn't he fit in with the typical male lead in novels?

"Wait, isn't that line from Daughter of Smoke and Bone?"

Maps roll your eyes.

"No! "

Trials continue.

***

"What do you think the witch and the hunter are called?"

Damian looks up from the book he is reading. They're both on the sofa in the library, they were having a lazy afternoon, they had tea in porcelain cups, while Raven lays her head on her boyfriend's legs, Titus sleeps on the carpet and Alfred the cat is curled up on his stomach, pinching the fabric and knead his skin looking for the best sleeping position.

"I don't care," he goes back to his book.

She does not take it personally, he is not happy with the direction of the work and has complaints. Raven treated him with grace, but Damian cannot help but point out mistakes.

"I think the witch can be called Violet."

He frowned.

"Why?"

She thinks about it "She has Violet's face. "

Damian lowers his book, looks her in the eye and strokes her hair, exposing her face. His hands are calloused, he smells of ink, lotion and soap, there is a scar on his palm, which is a sensitive spot and still makes a chill run down her body when his green eyes are looking at her, his hands touch her and turn her into a whimsical girl who wants more. They are not a sentimental couple, he is a tough and distant person, she is lonely and direct with her opinions, but when they are together it is different.

"You cannot be guided by that alone, my darling."

The ´Darling´ had been one of the few nicknames that had implemented their vocabulary, it appeared at certain times. After sex when they are tired and happy about to sleep, when it appeared at dawn when finishing an exhausting patrol, it used to be present when they drink tea or when they feel affectionate, after the missions left them exhausted and only wished they were close.

A smile glides across his face "Am I not the intuitive one here? "

Raven kisses the palm of his hand, and he smiles. "You are."

"AWWWW," Dick squeals. Her brothers enter the library and are mixed with emotions. "AREN’T THEY PRETTY? "

(It’s sad to end Damirae week 2020. Is my first time that I participate, I loved it. 

The community is incredible. 

I planned a lot of things for fanfics. 

Excuse my bad English, I'm working on it.

Thank you, @ravenfan1242 You’re wonderful! 

P.S: DAMIAN IS A  SOFT BABY) 

[quill-ink-parchment]

Day 11: Bath

I realised I’d never written much about Bath, and truth be told most of the details have long faded, so I thought I’d better get that down before anything else slips my mind.

I got to Bath on a train and I think this was the one I had trouble on - I had to switch trains at a station - to one that was on the opposite platform, but I misheard and I ran alllll the way to another platform only to find out that I was actually supposed to head just opposite, so I had to run allll the way back again. Geez, what a waste of time and breath.

When I finally reached Bath, I exited the station, and then slowly walked my way towards town. I don’t think I’d bought the bus pass for this one. I remember walking down this alley, and then coming across a small sweet shop selling fudge. Went in shameless for a free sample, and then found myself in the very busy square. I remember standing there wonderingly, recalling how I was there almost four years ago, and how much I loved the bustling activity and wishing I had more time there (we’d covered Windsor that morning, and did the Roman Baths in the early afternoon, and still had to rush off to Stonehenge before heading back to London). It was pretty surreal being back again. I then walked to this pie shop which was apparently really famous? I got some apple sort of pie with meat and then started my walk towards the Prior Park Landscaping Garden, which had the bridge that made me want to visit Bath to begin with.

The walk was longer than I’d expected. I had to walk by a residential area and finished the pie long before I’d gotten out of that housing estate. And then I had to plod up a steep slope - which meant perspiring and panting and generally glaring with envy at people who were tripping down carelessly. When I got to the top, I realised with a start that I had to pay to get in. Who knew?! I thought it was like a public park. But no, they needed funds to restore the park to its former glory. And I’d climbed too high to stinge over 7 quid, so there’s that. I handed over the money and asked for an extra map to keep, and got in.

The park was very very charming. A family entered the park right after I did, several adults with some children. I was hoping they’d move fast but as with most families with children, they were slow. So I set off quickly, not wanting to waste too much time, and when I came to a house which was meant for visitors that had a creaky door, I stepped in (like, literally stepped in, without moving far from the door), and then ducked back out into the welcome sunshine within 10 seconds.

I made my way through a path and came to the top, where there was a lovely breathtaking gorgeous view of the city below, and behind me was a posh-looking building which turned out to be the Prior Park College. I spent way too much time taking pictures of the view and taking selfies, because I’m just super unphotogenic that way. I did feel abashed and stopped when a couple of oldies showed up, having walked up the slope from below, and sat on a nearby bench.

And then I continued down the path, only to double back to see the ruins of some temple (which was nothing much). Then I headed onwards, dropping my selfie-stick in the dirt to my dismay. I came across a reconstructed lodge of sorts and explored a little, and thank goodness it was a day with strong sunlight because if not, being all alone in such a heavily wooded area could have been a little scary.

Anyway, I went on to the next viewpoint and snapped many a lovely shot. Then headed downhill, and at the bottom of the hill and park was the quaint bridge that I saw in the Google pic that moved my heart and made me decide that going to Bath was more important than returning to the Harry Potter Warner Brothers studios. It was just as charming in real life, and I also took many shots.

I also saw the ruins of an ice house, and basically there were many signs in the park stating that they were hoping to reconstruct all these old buildings some day (because after the original owner who built it up so nicely and invited loads of folks over for parties had passed on, the place had fallen into disrepair). And then I walked one round around the lake, past this really disgusting place with a heck lot of flies, and past a dispense with some kind of feed for the swans I think, which some woman had bought and was feeding the swans, and then I snapped still more pictures of the bridge again. I went on the bridge, and saw evidence that people in the 1800s loved stating that they were at a certain place as much as the modern person graffities “so and so was here”.

Anyway, then I headed out of the park but passed by this small shop, and so I bought a tiny hedgehog soft toy cos it was cute! I made some small talk with the elderly shop owner cos I was terribly thirsty and was gulping down some water, and then he took out a massive bottle to show me that he too was hydrating himself well, haha.

I walked out of the park and I remember an old man also left about the same time as me. I reached the town centre much more quickly, passing by some really nice private houses.

Then I ate at the number one cheap eatery in Bath, which wasn’t even English food HAHA. It was called Chai Walla and it sold Indian street food. I got some sort of a spicy chicken in a wrap, and while eating it I wandered into the nearby Tesco’s (or was it Sainsbury’s or even Waitrose?) and then proceeded to sit at a bench near the square. But then I realised I was wasting valuable time just sitting at a random spot when I could have been exploring more, so I walked to Pulteney Bridge, where I took a leisurely stroll around the water and sat at one of the benches under the trees, just at peace with the world.

And then I wasted quite a lot of time dithering over what to do next. I went to Sally Lunn’s shop and museum, and I went to the museum below (which was really just a woman at a counter with a small fridge full of jars of spreads, and boxes and boxes of the Lunn buns, plus a set-up of an old-time bakery and some leaflets to explain the history of this place. It was interesting. I bought a bun and a spread which was probably some kind of a cocoa butter spread, thinking I could share it with Stephers the next morning (which I did, on Cambridge day).

After Sally Lunn’s shop, I headed to the Fudge factory, where I watched them make fudge from scratch on the marble slab. The fudge was being done by a female staff who apparently got the job just a mere 7 days ago, and her superiors were super chill about her doing everything on her own. I ate many many free sample and they all made my throat hurt, so I didn’t get them haha.

Then I went to the Bath souvenir shop and got a book on the Roman baths, as well as a coin set again (this time for my brother). And then I kept wondering whether I should head to the Royal Crescent or go to the Roman baths. I’d set off for the Royal Crescent when I finally changed my mind and paid to go into the baths for the second time.

The second time was as good as the first time - and I say that because I can’t remember anything about the first time. I’d had an audio guide previously, too, but somehow I’d clean forgot anything I’d learnt. I joined the guided tour as well at 4pm sharp, if I recall correctly, and the guide was rather informative. After the tour, I stayed behind and listened to practically all the audio guide numbers, and also took selfies with the people working there dressed as Romans from the past. I also tried the sulphuric water from the running tap which they’d installed, and it was warm and smelly.

I didn’t get to see everything, but they chased me out at the closing time. Then I rannnnn all the way to the Circus, where i snapped pictures of the trees in the middle of the roundabout, and ran still some more to the Royal Crescent, which was somehow a lot less impressive than I’d remembered (I’d first passed by it 4 years ago on a tour bus). There was a field in front of the Crescent and there were many people chilling there, lucky folks. As for me, once I’d snapped a selfie at the Crescent (if anything, just to prove that I did go there again), I sprinted back to the station, praying that I wouldn’t miss the train. I remember reaching there with plenty of time and wanting to get a Starbucks which was on the same level as the platform - so weird, right? I mean, who sets up a cafe in a place limiting itself to a certain type of customers (in this case, customers who are waiting for the train) - and I queued, but then I think I saw the barrista sneeze and I felt grossed out, so I just gave up and waited for the train.

After reaching London, I decided to walk to Goldmine because it was the last time I could have that (somehow less delicious than I’d remembered) duck rice before leaving. I reached it, and I do believe that I was reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time when I was eating my rice.

And then I took a selfie with a red telephone box while on my way to Bayswater station, and I went back to Steph’s place!