#(leggo)

Cinder was finding herself enjoying her meal. It was just a bunch or tourists no one would miss them. She bit into the heart savoring the flavor. The siren paused when she noticed another prescence. Eyes glinted as she noticed the new person.

"Want some?"

And now, in a moment of fractured self control, Yang for once tried to grip for her own future, in her own selfishness. Just this once. Should the stars be kind enough for this.

Boots crunched through the fire gardens, despite the light snow fall, ignoring the cold for the time being. Previous physical training and exertion keeping the blood running hot, chasing the chill of the evening air. Everything had been desperate to burn out the anxiousness and weight settling harder and harder into her chest with each passing day. But now it had finally snapped. The Shirai Ryu grounds illuminated by warm light within buildings. Many turning in for the time being, so it would be now or never. Entering one of the warmer halls after removing the well worn combat boots. Keep the nerve. It was like her energy was pulled into a tight knot inside her own soul. Every single sign had been here, the barest hints of too close of moments, the tenderness between friendly conversation and touches, deep philosophical discussions that lasted longer than ever needed, but felt like achievement all the same. The connection was there, and so familiar, it had been impossible too ignore.

Figure stood outside the Grandmaster’s Hasashi’s room, debating on how to approach this for the briefest moment. But Yang, Talia Jones, had ever been true too herself. Even if she’s denied herself and her heart for so long, it would always be open one way or another. And so, one gloved hand lifted to softly knock upon the sliding door. “Hanzo, might I have a private conversation with you?”

Random Inbox Shenanigan || @yetremains || always accepting!

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || There may be wounds that never show on Hanzo’s body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds; since Harumi and Satoshi have been gone, nothing has ever been the same, lest he no longer expressively and viscerally grieves in agonizing affliction, looking more half-washed away by excruciating pain and despair. The hands of the world that touch him now feel weak upon his skin. The winter breeze still blows with its gelid, bone-seeping intensity, but it has never been gentle and mellow as it’s ever been. For the proverbial sun shines through his being, perpetually permeating his once scorched, blackened heart and soul. 

It may coalesce into the darkness of his entirety, for Hanzo Hasashi is nothing, but an enigmatic duality of light and dark, compassion and apathy, beauty and wickedness, tenderness and viciousness. But he did somehow learn to slip away from his tenebrous shadows and abysmal void of his demons, to feast upon his tender heart, and drink the elixir of his thoughts. He may occasionally rest in the shadows of forgotten poems, through the swirling ectoplasm of incense burning in his chamber, as he would pay respects not only to his ancestors, but to his lost family who deserved everything, and all the more. And Hanzo will then drift away in the soothing melody of a winter’s dream, as the gentle descent of the snowflakes accumulated and remained unperturbed beneath the settled silence of the Shirai Ryu Fire Gardens. 

In the throes of his firestorm thoughts, Hanzo Hasashi so desperately craves the delicate touch of her fingers, as they dance across his skin; the softness of her lush lips, as they whisper sweetly among the comforting silence. He can no longer see Harumi Hasashi’s face; not that he has forgotten her looks, he could never forget her entirety however he tried. But he knew, the overall love in his darkening eyes when he was with Talia Jones, and how she looked at him as if he had been the only star in her galaxy when they were secluded in intimate solitary. It all comes back to her eyes; for they have always been so expressive, and by expressive, Hanzo means pained. Her mask may hide a lot, but even through the veneer of her abundant and genuine hope, there lied enough throes of pain and suffering to know what they mean. Beyond the simple loss and inevitable death, there was a mad passionate love. A love unforgettable which sets any hearts on fire. Hanzo can still feel it living inside him burning through everything, as he had been a lost lover hellbent on finding his way back again to achieve greatness, however he fell short and failed in the process of his reborn, revivified, and resurrected solemnity and sacredness. 

In his meditative vision, Hanzo Hasashi finds himself fading in and out again as if he had been hypnotized. He can see his stature, unbreakable reflection in the mirror, but where are his eyes, his nose, his hands? Why is his jaw sharpened, why are his arms blurred? Why is imaginary blood streaming down his clavicles and down the autopsy lines, as if his chest had been sawed open? Why is he shaking? All these sensations give him a sense of emptiness and longing, and he finds himself ramrod straight, stiff, and uncomfortable with his surroundings, as thickened disquietude etches a deep furrow on his forehead.