Title; The Weaver and the Man
Author; Devious Destruction
Pairing; D/Leon
Warnings; Yaoi, lemon, angst, drama, violence, and I guess a little gore too.
Disclaimer; Unfortunately. I do own any of these characters or Petshop of Horrors. Though, I wish, I wish, I wish I did.
I know, my chapters are horribly short, but I don't like to write more than a few paragraphs in one day. If I do, then my writing becomes haste and a lot grammar and spelling errors are made, and I tend to cut out a lot of detail. ^.^ I'm sorry, its so short! **bows in forgiveness**
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
It had been a dull day, slow and pointless in its existence. The time ticked away seconds that felt like hours, and hours that felt like days, an eternity of ticking. A sky now blanketed in gray darkened the streets as a ghastly wind accompanied the chilled air of the autumn night that crept closer with each lingering tick. Rain would soon follow, and then a crack of thunder, bringing about the beginnings of a storm.
A man with tied back blonde hair, seemingly oblivious to the cold, stood poised outside in the horrid weather, loitering the entrance of an oriental shop. His hands were shoved deep inside his jacket's pockets, brows knitted together in frustrated thought. Another death, another dance, another mystery. This endless cycle of merciless slaughters with the anonymous slayers that persistently perplexed this man, past these heavy wooden doors and down within the depths of the gloomy shop, there awaited the weaver.
A weaver of fates and cloak-and-dagger justices molded into a Chinese man with dark hair and mismatched irises, authoring the destiny of others in front of their very eyes. He allotted to his costumers a second chance at a dimming life and packaged it in the form of an animal, along with a very special contract. All knowing, the weaver would scrutinize the signing hand and smile as a future was set into his doing. Perfect and elegant in all that he does; a mystery shrouded in darkness; besieged around lies; both redeemer and destroyer.
With a sudden eruption of booming thunder, the blonde man found he had pushed the door open and was staring down into the darkness of the pet shop. Another second, another tick later, and he had taken a step down. Heart racing, palms sweating. Step after step he made his way down into that darkness, until he reached the second set of double oriental doors. This was it. Inside the weaver lay hidden.
The shop's interior was plush, eerie, and forbidding; a den of secrecy with an antique coffee table and velvet furnishings, while strong incense hung in the air and overwhelmed the senses. Whispering, taunting, and mocking, he was drawn inside. Low lighting instigated shadows to swallow objects whole, and if not for the rabid beating of the man's own heart, the room was hauntingly still in its silence. Wary, he treaded in further, feet sinking into thick carpet with every step he ventured.
In his vocation, the corpse of a young man had been discovered eaten, bloodied, and dead. Clawed and inhumanly disfigured. His limbs torn off and gnawed clean to the very bone. The body had been deprived of it's intestines, which were found shortly after in the bedroom, a tangled mass of gore. Blood and guts had littered over everything, still wet and sticky from the killing. It was said that the victim had not accumulated any enemies in his few years, and was proven to have been alone that terrifying night, with the exception of a pet. A pet purchased from a pet store in Chinatown.
Tea was already laid out, arranged neatly and set to serve for two.
Never did this story conclude to a finish; always twisting and plotting, finding new ways to torture and destroy its cowering prey. A callous righteousness. A sympathetic discrimination. The weaver had chronically twined the two together and manipulated with it potential salvation or damnation once again, did it only this time result is death. Yet, the man fathomed the weaver's purpose, so be it tonight that he would not allow himself to be fooled by a false smile or sultry voice, because in all revolting honesty, this man had grown quite stale of this malevolent dance.
"Good evening, Detective."
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Again, I'm sorry.
**bow, bow, bow, forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness**
Ba-chu!
Matsui Toshiko