#grief. sorta.

[ace-malarky]

i played my flute for the first time in

almost a year

and it felt - it did not feel like coming home. it fucking hurt like physically like oh god my back my wrists my fingers and what do you mean I no longer remember how these tunes go

these tunes were my childhood, sort of. They were my teen years, maybe. They were practices with my dad and his band, started for duke of edinburgh and then continued because I never knew how to give anything up. They were evenings playing for dances where it didn't matter if I didn't hit all of the notes because the rest of the band would and the whole was greater than one and besides, they were dancing anyway

and I could not remember them but I could they came creeping back they came note by painstaking note as I remembered their rhythm and their stupid little incidentals and the speed I could never play at, the notes I missed because I had to because these tunes are written for fiddle not flute and the fingering is horrific and I was never very dedicated

and I can't play Mairi's Wedding as fast I used to, or by memory because it has been. over a year. since I played that. and I don't remember my other incidental tunes, really, and I don't - know if I have them written down. If I can bring them back.

I got the waltzes mixed up. I looked at the one and couldn't make it tick and thought "I loved this one" and "it was a bitch and I never could get that run" and "this was the one I always danced with my mum because of that"

I'd leave my flute behind and find her along the side of the hall and we'd swap out which one of us led until I was definitely the taller of us

and I thought - fuck I've forgotten how this goes I can't pick it up I can't

there's three different time signatures, man. It's a ridiculous piece and it didn't sound right and that might just be because I'm a flute on my own, a flute that I haven't played in almost a year

then again - I turn the page - it might also be because I was looking at the wrong goddamned waltz

but also that one wasn't. quite. right. (that run I always stumble over, those high notes that are technically in my range if only I tried harder) and maybe it won't sound quite right until I play with the band again

and maybe it'll never sound quite right again because now if I ever play a ceilidh again, who am I gunna dance it with

there's gonna be two flutes instead

[yeyinde]

infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) | reincarnation AU

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (OG) x Reader | Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (Remake) x Reader

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

MATURE | 18+ —TAGS: AU, canon divergence: reincarnation; fluff; tagging as fem!Reader due to usage of "bonnie" (not a name—Reader is not named), and mentions of a dress but no other descriptive imagery is used —WARNINGS: grief, loss, unhealthy coping mechanisms, existential crisis, allusions to smut; cosmic horror (but??? it's a romance????) —WORD COUNT: 11,9K —NOTES: I like the idea of fated pairs, soul mates, but I can't write this concept without somehow diving into the cosmic horror of something, someone, controlling you from behind the scenes. So. Um. Idk what to call this abomination. It leaks horror but is meant to be quite fluffy. It's romance. It's a love story. But it's also kinda eldritch. Oops.  This was also originally a request I got back in November (I'm so sorry!). I have since lost the request, but Reincarnation Anon, this is for you!!! 🖤

In Greek, there are two words for time: 

Kronos—chronological, the clock: fixed—measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. The world runs on Kronos. On its merciless rigidity, it's apathetic, unending trek forward. It is cruel, sometimes, but it cares little for you, or anyone else who exists inside its unforgiving realm. Time is linear. A steady March. 

And then there is Kairos. In its essence, and in utter simplicity: timelessness. 

It's often found in grief when the world around you shatters and implodes. When it lapses into pain and agony. Into how and why and—

Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters. 

You've never experienced any such loss. Gran, grandad, friends, family—all alive and well. And yet—

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before. 

And then you find him.

Or, rather, he finds you. 

(Over and over and over again—)

It starts in university. 

Start, of course, is an operative word. It's an incipient event: a slow burn in the back of your head that gets hotter and hotter, but you can't quite discern why. You just feel wrong. Shaken. The foundation in which you walk wobbles. Crumbles. 

There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone. You know it's there—are aware of the yawning chasm that wants to swallow you whole, but you don't know where it is. 

And then—

There is no phone call, no blunt condolences for any particular loss, just—

A knock on your door. It's just your flatmate, but the rhythm cuts through your head, right down the middle. 

Agony. The world around you flips, topples off its axis, and just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning—

It hits you with the force of a tsunami. A deluge of biblical proportions that uprooted everything you'd ever know, casting you out into a frothing abyss, ravaged by mountain-tall waves that left you asunder. Awash in a tumultuous sea.

It would make sense, you suppose, had you lost someone, but you haven't. 

The most you've lost was a pet. 

And yet—

You sob, scream, and claw at your chest until your skin is torn and shredded, trying futilely to get to where it hurts the most. It's agonising. Brutal. They sedate you—no choice is given when you're so frantic, so desperate. The world slips away. The pain abated. 

But it doesn't stop it. 

They call it grief, and you don't know why. You haven't lost anyone. Mum, dad, gran, grandad. All alive and well. All there, standing clustered around your hospital bed (admitted when you wouldn't stop screaming) looking quite bewildered by you. By the things you say—missing something, someone, gone, just gone—and the way you're acting. 

And it scares you just as much as it does them, but you can't just push it aside, let it go. There is a gaping hole in your chest, one punched straight through your sternum. It's gangrenous, and rotting; the stench makes you dizzy, makes your head spin. Your heart is necrotising between your ribs and spine, but no one knows why. No one understands the agony you feel because everyone is alive. 

They all say the same: we don't know. Depression, perhaps. You just need time. 

Time does nothing to heal the wound. You can't run from the hurt—it's never-ending—but you get better at hiding it, at dealing with pulpy remains of your still-beating heart that slugs on despite the mouldering wound ripped open in the centre. 

They tell you it's Thursday, now. 

Before you'd throw something, thrash, and scream yourself hoarse because what does it matter when your heart is dying, decaying inside of your chest. 

Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it? 

Time doesn't exist to you anymore. It's just an endless stream of days and nights that get easier to withstand as the foreign clock on the wall ticks down the seconds you don't feel. 

The world is a murky haze of confusion and pain. You move on only because you have to. 

Things—

Well. They don't get better, but they get bearable, and you suppose that's the same thing, isn't it? 

And then you dream. 

They come in flashes. Snippets. Little moments of a place and time that doesn't exist, that isn't real. This life was not one you lived. The taste of elderberry has never graced your lips, but you think of the sweet, tartness like it's an old comfort. 

It makes you ache. 

Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—

—you should… you should sit for this—

Crushing heartache. It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss. 

—i… i can't promise you forever, but i can promise you now—

You dream of a man. Of hands on your body. Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something. 

Something, something—

You wake up, hand to your splitting chest as the agony rips it into pieces. Heartache, grief. It drapes itself over you like a storm cloud. Looming there, ever-present, and ready to chisel open a deluge of pain so visceral you weep. And weep. And—

Your pillow is wet. Nose stuffed, eyes gritty. You've been crying, sobbing, in your sleep again. 

It's a cycle. Memories flood your head until it's splitting apart at the seams, making room for that life it wants to force you to remember, acknowledge, and pretend exists, and one you're in now. 

It breaks something inside of you. Cracks the levee. In the midst of crumbling concrete, and a roaring deluge, you hear a voice. 

(You stare at the bottles lining the shelves in your vanity, and tell no one.)

—excuse me? You dropped this—

HERE

There is a tavern on High Street. 

It's nothing special on its own. Just a building, just a pub. You pass it twice a day on your commute to work, and it should be background noise. A blur of scenery and objects as you stroll through the streets. A melding of the world around you, an inconsequential smear of cobblestone and brick. 

And yet—

Your eyes keep finding it, seeking it out. It's involuntary. Automatic. You pass the grocer and the pharmacy, head angled down toward the grey stone below, and then, like an unignorable force, a gravitational pull, your head lifts. The fairy lights are strewn around the outside coruscate in the gloom. You nearly trip. 

It's strange. Odd. 

It's just a building. Just a tavern. 

—got some of the best brews in town—

But you remember it. Are familiar with it in a way that makes absolutely no sense. You've never gone inside, never heard anyone speak about it. It's a building on a street of many. Ordinary. Plain. Nothing about this place should stand out to you. It isn't eye-catching or garish. It's—

—cosy little spot—

It's an anomaly. Much like—

Well. Much like everything in your life. 

There is a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, one that's so achingly familiar that your head swims from deja vu that shouldn't exist. It fits inside like an augur. A portant. 

How can the unknown be a comfort to you? How can it blister your heart with such ferocity that you find yourself pawing at your face to stem the deluge of tears that cascade down your cheeks in rivets? 

Whatever it is, it's calamitous and entirely unignorable. 

Your life is asunder, in shambles because of it yet each hiss in your ear addles your thoughts until you become overwhelmed by it all. Until the echoes that tell you to wander down a random side street, sign a lease for an apartment you can't afford, to leave the safety of your home country, and—

On a whim, you packed your things up on the behest of that strange, Eldridge feeling eating you alive that made you cut ties with your old, peaceful life, and book the first plane ticket to Elgin. No plan, no money. 

(You'd call it an afflatus had it not been so drenched in the unknown.)

It's paradoxical: you cry when you see that stupid church in the distance, your feet drag you to places you've never been before, and now. 

Now: 

You can't stop staring at a nondescript pub in a sea of many. 

Ignore it. Leave it. You take another route, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket to keep them from trembling. It'll pass. It'll go away. 

It doesn't. 

It pools in the pit of your stomach, noxious and rotten, until you wake up drenched in sweat, hands grasping for a phantom who no longer exists—

—wanna come with me?—

You break on Saturday. 

—i like when you wear that dress—

You wear it, and hate yourself a little bit for it. It's stupid, and out of place, but you do it, anyway. 

—booth in the back is where i always sit, want to come join me—

The inside of the tavern is just the same as you remembered it—

No. No. 

You've never been here before. 

You smell malt in the air; the same amber that spumes in your veins. You dance in circles between the tables, giggling at the people who smear by in a haze of gold and red. 

A hand reaches, snags your waist. "Where are you going, pretty thing? Wanna come sit with us?"

It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—

"There a problem?" Heat against your bare back. Ironclad arms around your middle. His voice is a rumble. A thunderclap. "She's with me. Go on now. Get."

You pull away from him, smirking, and—

The air is punched from your lungs. Longing sits in your throat, heavy and thick. It aches. God, it aches. A phantom pain that never quite dissipates. A raw wound left to fester; exposed and open to the elements. It never heals. Never scabs. It oozes grief and headache into your bloodstream and makes you feel lost. Dazed. Confused. 

It's silly. 

Stupid. 

The warm blends of burnt umber and gold make you tremble. Everything inside is—familiar, in all the ways it shouldn't be. 

You can't be here. Can't—

Something quivers inside of you. The sting of a guitar being plunked by indelicate hands. It snaps, breaks. You turn, eyes wild, wide—

—hey, where are you—

"...goin'—?"

A chest. Warm. Familiar. 

Your neck aches when you jerk your chin up, hands beaded against the hard, firm flesh of a stranger who feels all too familiar, too—

Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—

"Honey…"

It's out before you can stop it. 

Green and golden widen until they're drowning in a sea of arsenic white. An island of bloom, spring, carved in the middle of a barren, icy land. Lids fall, lashes dust across the shadows of the valley smeared beneath the red seal of his lower lash line. 

Your breath catches when they slide open, a slow crawl over a varicoloured plume of witch elm and wheat. 

—dark eyes, a furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips—

No. No. 

It's different. This isn't the man who haunts your dreams and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. This is not the cut of a man who once curled his fingers over your hips, lips glued to your pulse as he spent himself inside of you—

Heat sears your cheeks. 

His mouth opens, and closes. Opens again. No words spill out. His confusion is an oppressive silence. 

You swallow down the bitter tang of panic that pools on your tongue, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt. 

This isn't that man. 

He just—

"Sorry," you think you say, but it's all a blur. There was a blue ravine in his eyes, one with shallow shores, and crystalline waves that rippled with the breeze. You're sinking in those waters, now. Dragged down to the murky depths of blue, blue, blue that once made you see samsara with just the brush of his lips. Everything sounds distorted. Hollow. 

—you make me crazy. make me want things i shouldn't. Riley thinks i'm whipped. kinda agree with him, but i can't let you go. i can't get you outta my head, and i don't want to—

"Sorry—," you choke, the words a crumpled piece of paper lodged in your throat. Papier-mache seals over your trachea. 

You push away from him, stumbling out of this paroxysm. Flames lick at your heels, carrying you further from the laps of blue that flicker over beige. 

He chases after you. A warm hand around your wrist stops you on the corner outside of a pharmacy. The streets are dusted in white. It trickles from the sky in a thick hail of cosmic dust. 

His breath plumes in front of him when he breathes, pure white tendrils ghosting into the midnight blue silk that covers the town. 

"Hey, you alright? Can I—call someone for you, or—"

"No." You gasp, shaking your head so fast, you're nearly sick with it. 

"Hey, hey." His hand moves, perches itself against your cheek, eyes brimming in the flushed lamp overhead. His brow is drenched with concern. With confusion. And anger. Anger—why, why—

"Did someone drug you? Did you drink anythin'?" 

It rips a bark of laughter from your chest. "Drugs? No. I'm just—"

Spiralling. 

You make a vague motion with your wrist, and hope it's enough to convey the absolute travesty of your life. It meets the mark. 

The divot in his forehead softens, eyes creasing in the corners. Full pink lips knot to the side. Something passes his expression that looks a little too much like understanding to ever sit well in the pit of your stomach. 

You swallow down the acrid residuum of panic, and nod. Why—who knows. It just feels appropriate. 

"I need to go—"

"—I like your dress."

The words tumble over each other, barely coherent amid the amalgamated syllables, but ring with distinct clarity in your head. Your dress. Your brows knot, eyes dropping to the stupid little thing you'd picked out in a shop you had no business being inside. Led by the nose. A puppet on strings. 

You scoff. "I hate it."

You don't. You'd have picked it out yourself if you had that funny little thing called freewill; that precious little something you'd left behind in a dorm on a university campus you haven't thought of in years. 

"It's, ahh—," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes skirting toward the bar you fled from. "It's pretty."

Pretty. 

"Oh…," you say, quite intelligently. "You can have it if you want." 

It's only when his brows buoy to his hairline do you realise the innuendo within that. 

The fire inside dies. Doused with the waters of Acheron.

"Sorry—"

"—'dunno if it'd look as good on me as it does you, bonnie."

Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie. 

"What—what did you call me—?"

He blinks. "Oh, it's not—," his hand slides away from his neck, scrubbing over the stubble on his jaw. He looks bashful, almost. The man in your dreams is—

Reserved. Cool waters. A rock. 

"It's just a nickname, it's not—it's not anythin' weird, I promise."

A nickname. You should have known that, you suppose; but like many things, it slips, silken and liquid, through the cracks wrought by paradox. 

"Right." Your nails dig into your palms, cutting the flesh until your fingers puddle with something warm, wet. Tacky. The breath you suck in between clenched teeth is a sharp hiss. "I should go."

"Ah, yeah," his brows tighten again, jaw ticking. He looks uncomfortable, unsure. Concerned. His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. And that—

That is familiar. 

You swallow down mildew and honeysuckle. Heart lurching in your chest, a painful crescendo that echoes to the whispered beat of soft words in your head. 

—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—

"Can I at least make sure you get home safe?"

You can't. You can't—

There is a tavern on High Street that you've been to before in a dream, where you are taken to by a man with a distance in the crook of his smile; a degree of separation that makes you yearn. It pulled you in, gravity and magnetism and that primal something that they often talk about in wordy biology papers you can't understand. 

Maybe it's the chemical slurry in your head—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—all mixing together, and polluting your rationale, but it made a shade of roseate fall over your eyes; veiled like a Magellanic cloud. Through the startling nebulae and cosmic radiation, he loomed. Your fingers reached out, latching on to him, and you pulled him into your orbit. 

The reservations slipped, dulled by the way you fit against him. A missing piece. A complimentary artefact. His edges softened until he looked at you with nothing but warmth, affection. 

And then—

Then:

Three knocks in halted succession. Military precision. Boom, boom, boom. 

A man stood before you, achingly familiar in his mutton chops and hat. The gleam of his metals—chest candy—caught in the setting sun. Ochre, gold. You think of him, and you smile. Was smiling when you peeled back the curtain to greet him. 

It wavers. Your heart aches for that person standing in the doorway; you from a dream. 

It drags in slow motion. He takes his hat off, and cups it on his chest. 

—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—

Then—

"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."

Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you. 

It's your turn to walk away.

And so, you do. 

(He doesn't follow. You don't know why you expected him to.)

—be patient with me, Bonnie. my job is my life. my everything, but you–you're my—

It doesn't rain—a rarity in Elgin—but the scent of wet soil, petrichor, clings to the air. 

It isn't raining, but it feels like it should.

You don't expect to see him again. 

And why would you? There are so many people in Elgin, so many men. The chances of finding him again—shaggy mohawk; kind, amber eyes—were nearly impossible. Infinitesimal, really. 

So, you push him to the far reaches of your mind, and try not to dwell on the stranger that smells so strongly of coumarin that your head still feels dizzy from the scent of golden wheat fields in the spring and sycamore when you breathe in some mornings.

Out of sight, out of mind. 

A familiar stranger in a foreign land.

But you should have known better than to expect anything in this strange purgatory you’ve slipped inside where dreams are sometimes a reality, and you can’t stop comparing a hazy figure in your mind, someone you might have loved in a distant life you have no memory of, to a stranger who slots himself into your path like he was meant to be there all along. 

It starts three days later. 

You tuck a book under your arm, and walk the unfamiliar path to a small cafe you’ve never dreamed of, have no lingering sense of recognition in the small building. 

Safe, you think. 

And then—

Blooming honeysuckle. The heady scent of coumarin. Salt, amber. 

He crashes into your life again, and again, always with the same expression of happy surprise when recognition bleeds into wheat-tinged eyes. 

He offers a wide smile, a little wave, and seems unbothered by a dizzying sense of unease that sweeps through each uncanny meeting, each strange divergence of paths always, always, leading to each other. 

In the produce section of the grocery store halfway across town, he holds an unripened apricot and grins at you over the yellow sign above (30% off!). The colourful anchor in Cooper Park, where he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes listing toward the swans in the background, drifting idly over the dark water. At the counter in a Turkish restaurant, laughing at something the waiter says as he takes his bag of takeout. 

You turn down a random sidestreet, trying to navigate the tight, claustrophobic streets of Elgin, and he's there, suddenly, at the end. Legs thrown over the seat of a sleek motorcycle, fingers toying with the clasp of his helmet. Wander into a shop, and he's already sat at the table. Reach for a carton of eggs in Tesco's and his hand bumps against yours as he tries to grasp the same. 

You hear his voice crackling through the concrete. A whisper in the back of your head. The grit, the cadence, is so different from the man you dreamed about, the hazy spectre who haunts you, that you know, instantly, that it's him. The man whose only resemblance to the ghost latching onto you is his eyes, the hairstyle. The scent. The familiarity blooms in his proximity. Two strangers sharing the same essence of a soul. 

He drives past you on his motorcycle, wanders down the same alleyway, boards the same train, and gets off at the same station. 

A living phantom. 

It's always the same, too. His eyes always shift, somehow catching yours. Easily, effortlessly, finding you even in the midst of a crowded shop, a bustling park, or a loud eatery. 

Each time, you run. And keep running. 

And then once, you catch him. 

He leans with his forearm resting on the railing of a mezzanine at dusk. His wrist resting on the iron, fingers gripping the nozzle of a lagger that dangles over the edge. 

Behind him, music spills out from inside the flat. French doors spread wide open, leaking the whisper of a party into the warm air. 

No one joins him. He doesn't look back. 

His chin is pointed up toward the varicoloured sky streaked with lavender and pink and blood orange. Eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. A field of wheat against the midnight blue gloom of an approaching storm. 

It's mesmerising. 

Despite the urge to run, you stop. Can't help yourself, really. Not when your heart cracks at the expression on his face, eyes drawn tight, brows pinched. Full of—

Longing. 

Like a magnet, then, his gaze drops to the ground where you stand, clutching your book so hard, your joints ache. 

His hand lifts, fingers still curled in a loose fist, and he gives you a lazy wave from above, lips pulling back into that same wide, infectious, grin. Happy—for some inexplicable reason—to see you, his own little poltergeist. 

You hesitate for a moment, burning the image of him in your retinas where he'll stay, a permanent scar, in the black puddles for you to see again when you close your eyes, or look into a mirror. Another ghost. 

And then you turn. Run. 

(He doesn't try to stop you. He never does.)

It is almost clockwork.

The same soft hazel eyes creased lightly in the corners. Broad shoulders are hunched as he gazes down at his phone resting on the countertop. His brows are furrowed today. Irritation bleeds in the crevasse. 

Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out. 

(It doesn't surprise you that you can feel the phantom warmth of his finger under your flesh.)

It's strange. All of this is. Paradoxical, really. 

You know him. You don't. You've never met him before. You know he'd taste of honeysuckle. 

There is a war in your mind. A long, drawn-out battle. 

(No victor in the carnage.)

You should walk away, leave, like all the times before when you'd spotted him, and ran, but:

Frozen. Paralysed. 

You can't move. Can't—

—maybe, you're just tired of running—

—maybe, i'm just waiting for you to catch up—

His head lifts, and he catches sight of you before you can run. Hazel flashes in recognition. Spotted, you think; but it doesn't matter, it doesn't. 

He isn't waiting for you—

His chin lifts, a smile crooking on the corner of his mouth. 

—you'll be waiting a long time, Bonnie—

You want to run, but you can't. Can't. All you can do is watch as he slides out of the booth, hands shoved into his pockets, and makes his way to you. Tucked into the corner near the counter, away from everyone, everything, but he still spotted you. Still noticed. Still—

"Hi," he greets, low and cautious, like he's trying his best not to startle you. His eyes crinkle. "Didn't expect t'see you again."

You shouldn't be here. "Yeah," you say, instead, huffing. "I, uh… life is pretty funny that way, isn't it?" 

His brow furrows together at your words, eyes darkening with something you can't place. An unknowable emotion, hidden from your prying eyes. You think of him, then, and see the similarities you tried so desperately to ignore each time you saw him. Each time you ran. 

"Aye, it does." 

You should leave him here. Turn around, flee. Forget this place, this microcosm that blooms, and spreads over parts of Elgin you know so intimately; sure, somehow, that you'll find your fingerprints smeared across the ruins despite never having been there before.

Little pieces of yourself. Shedded skin, hope, dismay, peace. Longing. Laughter. It echoes through the tight webs of cobblestone buildings, bouncing playfully off of the pilasters and balustrades, the wrought iron fences, the fanlights, forever embedded in the grout. 

If you go there now, in that beautiful divisional line between new Georgian and old Baronial, you'll hear it whispering through the alcoves, a tantalising sound that rents the air in two. 

But it shouldn't. Can't. 

You've never been there, or here, or anywhere else that wasn't the winding path from your rented flat to the tavern, and the place you eked out from stone to support the vagary of moving to a whole new place for a dream. A feeling. 

And yet—

You taste malt in the air. Smell the barley, the sickly sweet scent of wet dirt on the slick pavement. 

It's familiar in your olfactory senses. Petrichor. Loam. Humus. It congeals in the slick mortar, clinging to the moss that weaves over the old concrete. 

If you looked down, you'd find a little weed growing through a crack beneath your feet, and so, you fix your eyes up, ahead, and try not to weep when the swooping sense of deja vu nearly knocks you off your feet.

But the only thing ahead of you is him. Expectant, curious. He looks at you like he knows you, like he can peel back the skittish layers that cling to your skin until you're shiny and new again. 

It's too much. Intense. Hazel. 

Your gaze drops, fixed on the rounded points of your shoes. There is no pavement beneath your feet—just scuffed linoleum. 

"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?" 

His voice carries that same heft, that same weight, as the look in his eyes. A strange approximation of wariness and steeled scepticism, blanketed together by intrigue. Curiosity. Concern. 

"No." 

It sounds uncertain. A white lie that crackles in the air between you, nestled amid the sound of chatter muted in the background, as if someone turned the radio on in a different room. Everything seems to contort, and shift around you when he's near. 

A little microcosm eked out inside a cafe you've never been to but know, innately, what you'd order, and what you would recommend. 

"Well," he dips his head like he's trying to catch your eye, and when you lift your chin, the flash of teeth nearly makes your knees buckle. He's softer when he smiles. "How 'bout lettin' me get t'know you then?" 

It's a bad idea etched into the cold marble of a headstone.  

Your mouth opens, but the word that chews through your teeth isn't no, but yes. 

And fuck—

Something in his gaze shifts. Noctilucent eyes widen, staring down at you like he somehow didn't expect a yes at all, and was bracing for the harsh impact of no. 

"Well—" he starts, but the words fall into ash when you duck your head to avoid the crevasse of hazel washed out in flushed gold. "What's your number? I'll call you when m'free next, and we can—"

"Sure," you cut in, hand sliding into your pocket. The cold metal of your phone burns the tips of your fingers when you pull it out. It feels a little bit like a mistake when you hand it over, but he says nothing about the way your hand shakes when he takes it from you. 

His brows draw together in a childish concentration as he taps away at the screen. The artificial light, dimmed as low as possible, brightens the craggy ravines that cut across an emerald tinged boscage; sunlight splitting a lush valley of yellow and green. His puckered lips, the flash of a deep red tongue swiping across his sun-chapped mouth, seems designed to appeal to your baser desires. The one that knows how he'd taste if you pressed you let your tongue grace the tip of his, and can feel the weight of his hands on your flesh. 

He'd hold your hips like he was anchoring you to the earth: tight, warm, and a little bit desperate as he devoured you whole. 

You shiver, and try to ignore the way his pupils bloom into pits of black eclipsing lightened hazel when his gaze settles, hot and heavy, at the brief brush of skin when you reach for your phone. 

"I'll call you," he says, low and strained, like he was choking on the words he wanted to say. "I'll call you as soon as I can, bonnie." 

You nod. It's all you can offer with your heart scrambling up your throat, pulsing furiously against your trachea. 

His nails scrape the skin of your palm when he curls his fingers into a fist, and pulls away. 

"I'll see you around." 

It's not a choice, you want to say. You nod instead. Choke out an equally strained, yeah, and fight the urge to follow him when he finally pulls away. 

"Are you ready to order?" 

The world bursts back into sound, colour. You blink rapidly against the light that seems harsher now than that it did when he was blocking out the sun. 

"Uh, yeah—"

The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds. 

You order tea instead. 

(It tastes like defeat.)

You only stop running when you can't anymore. When the murmuration in your head turns into screams, and the white-hot agony of grief, of yearning, threatens to make your knees buckle and your bruised heart give. 

You stop, letting him finally catch up. 

(Somehow, somehow, you feel lost and found at the same time.)

His name is Johnny MacTavish. He tells you this over dinner at some upscale restaurant that feels out of place on the old side of Elgin where the walls bleed history, and stink of old bones, and funeral dirt. 

Over a steaming dish of shrimp scampi and burgundy wine that makes your head spin and belly churn, you wonder why it doesn't feel new to you when he murmurs it. 

(A bit late, you find, since you've been texting rather infrequently since you gave him your number three days ago.)

Names never mentioned. Somehow, they didn't have to be. Until now. Until there was emptiness at the end of his question when he posed it, hazel eyes bright and blooming under the hushed yellow glare of the coruscating chandelier hanging above your heads. 

It feels a touch too late when you share your names over dinner despite already knowing he's in the military—opinions clenched between aching teeth and a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes—and that he normally adorns a Mohawk when he's on missions, but grows it out, rather haphazardly, when he's home. 

Everything between you and him seems to happen in reverse: fears, wants, and worries are known before his given name; the touch of his skin on yours, the taste of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the weight of his palms holding your hips as he buries himself as deep as he can go in a haunting sequence of memories that bare their teeth at the starkness of reality holding them at bay. All of this before you've ever even touched him with your bare hands. 

There's a strange listlessness that envelopes you—a tangled web that spools around you, trapping you in this realm of hypnagogia. The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe. 

It's not meant to be this way, you think, watching as he feigns not knowing the name that slips between your numbed lips in the same manner you had only moments ago. Traps surprise in the tilt of his chin, but the display is largely done out of some unspoken agreement that this paradox does exist, and the emotion is fleeting. Temporal. He cloves it down the middle, and discards the excess as soon as you look away. 

(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)

He knows more than he lets on, but you don't begrudge him his secrets—not when you have to turn your gaze back to the curled shrimp on your plate to avoid reminding him he prefers fish over crustaceans when he makes a face at the steamed scallops, and should have ordered the Maple Crusted Salmon instead. 

Like he didn't before, in a life you've never lived. In a place that mirrors this world. 

(It isn't something you should know, but you do. You do.)

You know more than that, too: whispers late at night when he couldn't sleep—internal clock still stuck halfway around the world—and urges you into playing a dangerous game of asking questions of each other when pieces of truth buoy in the dark like bobbing for poisoned apples in a barrel. 

You have to erase the words when you type them out, preemptively answering questions he'd never asked yet, and filling in the blanks to ones you posed yourself. 

Odd, you think. Strange, and weird, and macabre in that way that only deja vu gnarling between the broken crevasse of your grey matter can imbue. 

People don't just—

Know each other. 

And yet—

"They call me—"

"Soap." 

Your eyes snap up. A misstep. A grievous one. You've both been content to ignore this paradoxical magnetism that draws you together like eager poles, unable to stay away (not by choice or freewill, but some design that has no place in rigid structures of reality), and you broke it. Trampled over the unspoken rule left to linger in the foreground while you navigated around it like some misshapen elephant in the way. 

He tries to hide the suspicion, the surprise, but it falls between the empty space of his plate (food he only ordered because he's never been here before despite the familiarity that bleeds from the walls like condensation in June) and the ledge. A proverbial precipice that you leaped down; the steep incline filled with detritus and broken shale sharp enough to carve skin, muscles, from shattered bone. 

You want to swallow the words down, but they sit—innocuous and damning—between the salt and pepper shakers where his hand twitches, curls into a tight fist, knuckles bleaching under the strain of reeling himself in. Joints, cartilage, bulging through translucent skin. Reddened around the angry peaks of distrust and wariness; a summit you're not sure how to descend from now that you've crossed the arching tops. 

(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)

"How—" his voice is gravel, lavascape. Jagged rocks. Lakes of sulphuric acid. "How did you know that?" 

His accent thickens when he's angry. You wonder if he knows that. 

"I—" 

Excuses float like moots in front of you. You reach out, grasping for one, but it dances away in the turbulent wake you leave behind. You bite your tongue until it tastes of oxidised pennies, and then shrug. Nonchalant. Indifferent. Fear curls in your gut. Military, right. You wonder what you'll say if they arrest you for treachery. That you dreamed about him? Stupid. Stupid.  

"You told me," you murmur, eyes downcast and heavy, fixed on the bloody cup of wine you don't like, and trying to find solace in your downfall. "I think. I just remembered it from somewhere." 

It makes no sense, and the weak explanation would crumple like damp papier-mâché if he pressed, even just slightly, against it. A single touch, and the house of cards you built from the ground up on nonsensical lies will come crashing down around you. 

He shouldn't entertain it. Shouldn't let it go. 

"Yeah." But he does. "I must'a, huh?"

When you look up, you catch keen hazel eyes, sharp and pointed like the curved talons of a hawk. Johnny MacTavish is many things, you learn, but stupid, guileful, naïve is none of them. 

"Yeah," you echo hollowly, and give another shrug. "Guess so. It's, ah, an interesting nickname."

The clumsy barb seems to break the surmounting tension, and the pieces fall around you like poisoned raindrops, staining your skin. 

A reminder, then, when it crawls down your throat, that this balancing act can't last forever. That, eventually, your excuses will run dry. Empty. They'll be picked at and poked until they burst like a waterlogged, bloated corpse drifting aimlessly down the Nile. 

"Not the only thing that's interesting about me, bonnie," he says in a way that bleeds boyish charm, but his grin is wide, wild, and untamed. White teeth, sharp canines. You think of a wily fox on the prowl, and reach, reflexively, for the glass of wine, swallowing it down like a lifeline. "But I'm beginnin' t'think y'know that already, don't ye?"

It's a threat. A warning. 

You stare down in the half-empty glass of burgundy, the same colour red as the papercut on your index finger, and try to read the beads of crimson that run down the glass in a bloodied rivulet as if the answer could be found somewhere in the liquid. 

(Crystal Ball. Crystal glass. It's all the same, isn't it?)

"Not really," is what you eventually settle for, hedging through the murk that swims before you, an unsettling fen of unknowns and praeternatural happenings that you no longer than chalk up to happenstance. 

Kismet. 

Horror. 

Some cosmic merging of the two. 

It's all—

Absurd. 

And when you politely whisper to him that he should have gotten the salmon, you can't help but notice the ravines in his eyes widen slightly, the chasm growing and gaping, and taking on new shapes in the boscage that blooms like a familiar friend. 

(Kismet, indeed.)

He tries to pretend he doesn't know what the maple salmon tastes like, but slips up when the waiter passes by, and says it was good the last time. 

You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth. 

He stands with his hands in his pocket, rocking back and forth. The uncertainty in his brow is swallowed by the tendrils of pleased excitement that knot over his expression, unable to hide his glee when the hazel of his eyes glow brighter than the sun. 

Isn't this strange, you ache to say, words painted with the aftertaste of brine—sea, salt, and sand that are so uniquely him—but they, too, are swallowed down. 

The urge to lacerate the bubbles of complacency, feigned normalcy, are eclipsed by the raw shock of seeing him happy. Of wanting to make him happy. This stranger in a strange land. 

So, you offer some facsimile of a smile when he asks, words pushed out through a wide grin; infectious, if you had a good time. 

"Yeah," you say, and know that this word, this blase affirmative is quickly becoming your faultline through this mess. The thread keeping you sane, keeping you steady. 

It's at the curve of the word when everything else in the world is devoured by the shadow cast under his magnetic glow. The bright yawn of the sun in shades of white teeth catching on some ephemeral magic still dancing within the aether. Atoms spark. 

You try to run from it, ignore it, but your core teeters on the edge of instability. You think of neurons. Protons. Criticality. Something inside of you heats to almost half of the degree of the sun, sweltering and unrelenting. Pulsing, blue-hot. 

"That's good," he husks, eyes lidded and heavy. "I did, too. Whaddya think about doin' it again w'me?" 

It blooms. A great, scorching mushroom cloud plumes in midnight black in the milky white of your eyes.

You shuffle through the darkness, the artificial, comic night, and try to pat at the walls until you find something familiar in terror, the gnawing sense of loss that permeates through your pericardium, thrumming like a mourning toll. 

Sightless, you nod. "I'd love to."

And you mean it, too.

(Damn you. Damn you—)

Despite that tangled web that snakes around your jugular, twinning threads between the two of you, Johnny MacTavish is relentless in his pursuit. 

Where someone else might have shivered at the ghosts that brim in the tenebrous of your pupils, lurking in the untouched corners where your fingerprints stain the sediment, he lingers. Stays. Fixes himself in your path, and refuses to acquiesce to the whims of the world that keep stringing you along like reluctant puppets to some unseen, unknown marionette. 

It's almost charming in its own right, and really—when has a man fought so hard just to simply coexist in the space you deign yours? When has he torn nails from their beds, clawing at the walls that stand tall and proud, a protective tower of ashlar and dread around you until it starts to give. Until the stone crumbles away under his bloodied fingers. 

But as potent as his statement is, it gnarls inside your stomach like a poisoned seed. 

Bending to the demands of whatever this paradoxical realm goes against every fibre of your common sense that you recoil, almost, for just allowing him the scant space he occupies in your proximity. 

It's a deranged pantomime with some unseen force at the helm, conducting the madness with fingers drenched in whimsy and fate. Notched between its knuckles is the mockery of freewill and choice as it pulls you around a soundstage set in a place you've never been. It makes you dance. Amused god, eldritch horror. It takes pleasure in your discomfort, and glee in your fickle humanity. Weaving webs of tangled kismet until the silken threads are pulled taut and there is no more room, not a single atom, between your body and his. 

A nameless, faceless playwright with you as its shining star. 

Hapless leads stuck in an unending beat, a cantastoria, waiting for the shoe, the curtain, or anagnorisis to drop. 

You want to run again, but your feet are glued to the floor. Tangled in webs, threads of abstract concepts your mind threatens to come undone at the mere thought of. A cosmic sense of surrealism: crushing helplessness. 

This is horrific and terrific in equal measure, but the ache, the agony, of distance hurts more. And so, you stay. Watch as the curtain shudders over his eyes. As the etchings of complacency seem to gnarl in the tussock that line the expansive valley. He looks at you and doesn't see the awful truth nestled in the scant distance between your flesh, unable to be apart for too long. He sees you, somehow, and for him, that's enough. Enough. 

Johnny smiles at you, seemingly unbothered by the precariousness of this dance you're caught inside. In this strange equinox where you can answer questions he hasn't asked, and know things he hasn't said. Where you catch yourself leaning closer, starved for a touch you haven't forgotten despite never experiencing yourself. 

He's content, then, chasing the whims of a ghost, reaching for a fantastical dream in the head of another. 

But as content as he is, Johnny MacTavish is a hard man to catch, you think, noting the distance in his eyes, the arm's length of space he keeps between the version of him not haunted by the wants of ghosts, but such an easy man to love. To fall for. 

He balms the panic—that world-ending sense of uncertainty that nips at your heels—and makes you forget, sometimes, that there is more to him, and more to you, than anyone else could ever know. 

He's kind. Charming. 

A little space inside of your head is eked out just for him, and you find yourself hating that person for falling for some version of him first. Loathe them just a little bit more with each effortless grin he sends your way for tainting the experience of knowing him yourself. 

But you wonder, when he turns away, hiding the shadows in his eyes, and the pinch in his brow, if you really, truly know him. 

Or if the face he's wearing belongs to a phantom.

The dance continues. 

Your feet move to a soundless beat, steps preordained in a sequence lived world's ago. Nothing can feel surprising when you know a man so intimately without more than a touch, when you feel the burn of winter's chill in the middle of summer, and long so desperately for someone you just met. 

Nothing is new, and yet everything is novice. A paradox awakening with each gravitational pull to him, this man who looks only vaguely like the phantom who lives in your head, and tastes of longevity between your teeth. 

An arranged romance. Possession by ghosts who want to drive your bodies until they can live again, and love in tandem, vicariously through your living flesh. 

It makes sense to you, then, to call for an exorcism. 

(It just surprises you that Johnny does it first.)

Johnny has his secrets, just like you have yours. A small morsel of agency after autonomy has been stripped from the bone. 

You see the shadows of those hidden things etched in the topography of his valley-filled gaze, crevasses and canyons that pitch themselves in the tenebrous, uncrossable to even you. 

He reaches for you through the murk, fingers threading through your own, hands trembling with the shock, the electric current that sizzles through your blood at the brush of bare skin against quivering flesh. His hands are rough—worker's hands—and chock full of callouses and cuts, multitudes of scar tissue packed tight on top of each other, a thick layer of a life you will never know. Don't want to know. 

He seems settled when you touch, finally, thumb brushing your skittish pulse point as if he could somehow calm the acrid panic in your chest. 

(And damn him, damn this, he does. He does—)

Magnets fixed together, locked tight. You feel like a conduit to his frenzy, his hidden mania, and feed your own through the line, the red string that ensnares you both in a tangled web, until it's buzzing with shared panic and serenity and joy and helplessness. A feedback loop of emotions too extreme, too flighty, to catch. They run in droves along the lines, weaving into your skin, your chest, your head, and then pulling away to do the same to him. 

His eyes are heavier than steel when he gazes at you, expression caught between relief and longing and fear and—

Something, something. You can't pick it apart. Can't undo the tight knot until it spools, open and known, in the palm of your hands. Some unseen distance. It feels like standing at the highest peak of the valley and trying to make sense of the men in the tussock who look like mere ants from this high above. 

Is it happiness, you wonder. 

(Or maybe it's the same reluctance that wraps it's boney, gnarled fingers around your neck—)

It becomes too much. Too soon, too sudden. In the back of your head, you see images and flashes of a life not yet lived, a world still taking shape. You see him and you and a clock above some blue, broken bed. You see his smile, wide and elated, caught on the dawning sun spilling from the open curtains before it disappears under the covers, taking your laughter with it, stuck between his teeth. 

You see the past, the present. 

And your future. 

Cold. Barren. Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle.

Future. There's no future. 

Your chest twists. You let go of his hand and find bloody crescent moons embedded in a ring along his flesh, knuckles whitening under your harsh grip. He said nothing about the pain. The flicker of worry across his face is genuine, you think. Real. Current. 

You smell funeral dirt in your nose. The mud is called under your nails. 

You pull away. He lets you go. 

"I, uh," he breaks off into a soft huff, injured hand lifting to scratch at the back of his shorn nape. His eyes slide away from yours, listing seaward. Avoidance undercuts the arch in his brow, the sheepishness in his mien. It's his turn to run, you realise. 

"Glad I met you," he says instead, and it's a confession and a curse. 

A bonfire burns in the river that runs through the valleys in his eyes. It's pitched on the sandy shore: an ochre flicker in the cobalt hue that saturates the land. You see the dark peaks of the rolling hills in the distance, black shapes in draped blue. 

The river is calm. The fire burns a smear of orange across the tranquil surface, meeting the milky white glow of the moon. 

It makes you think of those nights in the zenith of summer, the ones that feel neverending. Timeless. A piece of your history etched in balmy melancholy. Alone in the great expanse with nothing but the trill of cicadas, and the echoing chirp of the crickets hidden in the lush grass below. 

The sky shifts. His eyes plume with lavender-tinged stratocumulus. 

"I really like you, bonnie." It's whispered in your ear, and you wish, oh, how you wish, you couldn't hear it. That you could block the words, and the world, out so that it never reaches you again. 

Sweet longing. Beautiful agony. 

Your heart races, and you wonder how an empty space can beat at all. Can feel anything when it's just a hollow chasm. 

A heat blooms under your skin, desperate and aching. This, this, is everything you've been looking for since your heart split free from its fleshy prison, and ran away to find him, tucking itself in the boscage that glows in the flame on the shores. It's hidden somewhere. The palpitations sound like a song. You could follow it, you think, and find its lovelorn shell nestled amongst the grass that sways to its beat, and tuck it back into your empty chest where it belongs. 

(But it belongs to him, now.)

And you—

You hesitate. 

The words well on your tongue, but you think of fate, of choice, and swallow them down. 

The flames in the distance flicker, growing dimmer and darker as the moments stretch on, unbroken and barren until it's snuffed out. Gone. 

What can you say? What could you say? 

Instead, you say nothing at all. 

Johnny leaves a piece of himself on the table when he walks away. 

(You don't pick it up.)

Johnny doesn't say anything at all when he brings you home, when he stands outside of the archway to your flat, eyes lidded and pensive. A smile snakes across his face, but it's brittle and full of uncertainty, and your fingers ache to smooth the rugged lines in his brow, in the stress in his shoulders. You push it down. Smile for him instead. 

"I'll see you later," you say, and wish the ghosts wailing in your head would drop dead. 

The valley is drenched in ink when he nods, catching your gaze. 

All black, black, black. 

No sounds escape. 

"Sure, bonnie." 

You dream, and when you dream, it's of him. 

He stands at the top of a hill, and when he smiles it's full of starlight so bright it could eclipse the sun. 

In his hand, you see a pair of shears. Your mouth opens, but no sound escapes.  

He says just one word—your name—and then he lifts his hand, and cuts the rope. The sutures knit your bodies together, the string that holds him to this mortal plane, falls in swaths of golden thread to the ground where they're devoured by the earth, dissolved into nothing. Gone, forever. 

There's distance now, and separation. Nothing ties you to him except space. 

You wake up with the ghost of a scream on your lips, and the feeling of silken threads dragging over your flesh. You reach for them, and catch nothing but air. 

Palm pressed to your chest, you feel the rapid pulse under your fingertips, and know that it's back. Back where it belongs. 

Belongs, but doesn't want to be. 

You think of Johnny. 

And you weep. 

He sends a text message, and for the first time since you've met him, it surprises you. Nothing should shock you with him, anymore. You know everything, anything, about him. 

Gonna be away for a bit. Should talk when I get back. 

You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands. 

You don't dance, and you don't dream. 

You wander down the streets of Elgin, and for the first time since you woke up screaming in your bed with ghosts wailing in agony inside of your head, you get lost. 

Johnny comes back a week later, eyes heavier than you'd ever seen them, and shoulders drawn tight together as he asks you why—

"Why'd'ya keep runnin'?" He asks, words pitched and heavy with something lour and aching, a phantom pain you know all too well. There's desperation in his eyes, a low keen settling in the depth of his throat, echoing with the clamour of his despair. "If you don't want this—;" don't want me: "—then just say so, bonnie, 'cause I ain't forcin' ya t'be w'me, I ain't gonna make you stay. You wanna leave, you can just go—"

Can't. Can't. 

"Johnny—"

"No, none o'that, now. You make up your mind, 'cause I ain't makin' it for ya. I ain't makin' ya do somethin' you don't want to, and I ain't—"

He's pleading, you think. Begging—

For this, this strange thing. This awful, broken calamity, this abomination in the face of free will and autonomy. Despite the rage that hums in your veins at the idea of being controlled, manipulated, he finds something worth chasing. Worth running for. 

Why?

And what?

And—

It comes in flashes, snippets. Fragmented pieces of bright eyes—brighter, maybe, than the sun—and warmth, one hot enough to burn but it doesn't, it won't, it soothes instead. Eases coiled muscles, and absorbs the lactic acid that leaks from shredded, knotted fibres. Hands on your body, on your skin: the press of rough fingertips over prickling flesh. A whisper of curiosity, the slow descent into affection, adoration. Plush lips pillowing sharp teeth, too reverent to ever leave a mark behind—part in fear of marring fragile skin, and—

Letting the ghost of permanence fester, take root, inside his chest where his heart beats—

Jus' f'r you, bonnie. Jus' you.

For once, the phantom touching your body isn't a dream, a half-lived fantasy in another world where a man-made you whole and then ripped you into pieces, letting the scattered fragments blow with the sharp winds howling through the highlands. You know the touch, remember it. Felt it. New, and tangible. A touch that never lingered, too afraid of letting something, something, stick. 

For once—

The snaps flashing, blindingly, through your synapses are not made of dream dust and kismet. 

And—

All at once, it shatters.

—you know, i never thought i'd say this before, but i—

(You were lost in Elgin, but when you see his face, you feel found—)

THERE—

There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish. 

Good things—kind, dedicated, driven—and bad things—bold, stoic, dogmatic—but one thing neither have in common is tardiness. Broken promises. 

So, when Johnny calls you in some distant land you've never heard of, and says: 

Things got bad. I might not—I might not be coming home.

You believe him. 

But the thing is: there's a difference between believing the words being said to you, and understanding their meaning. Your mind is not equipped to latch onto devastating blows with the same swiftness you do ignorant bliss. 

So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner. 

(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)

And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe. 

"Okay, Johnny," you say, and those words will come back to haunt you three days from now, when John Price shows up at your goddamn door, stupid bucket hat tucked tight to his chest, and rips your heart into pieces. 

But for as much as you are blissfully ignorant, your mind still understands nuance. They used to call it foresight, a sixth sense; hindsight. 

You add, softer than you've ever said the words: "I love you." 

His breath stutters through the line in response. A brief pause. And then—

"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."

It knocks something loose inside of you. Some primaeval thing that nestled in the safety of your ribs, moulting along your moon-white bones and glueing to the soft tissue that pulsed around it. It's shaken. Dislodged. 

It feels a little bit like your soul is being scraped off of bone. 

"Johnny—"

"—gotta go. We haven't heard from Roach or Riley in a while. I probably won't call tonight. So, don't wait for me, bonnie." 

The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.

You hate Johnny a little bit for this. For digging his roots deep into the soft chambers of your heart where it gnarled around your pericardium. A perfect little knot. A bow tied nice and pretty just for him. 

It makes it so much harder to bare when John fucking Price knocks on your door, stupid fucking bucket hat tucked tight against his chest, ghosts in his eyes, blood on his hands, and rips your heart into pieces until nothing but the rotten, dying roots remain. 

"I hate you so much right now," you hiss at the tombstone—the only thing you have left of him. "I hate you and I miss you and I wish you were here so I could—"

John finds you with your forehead pressed against the brass plaque, cheeks raw from the rivulets of tears that feel endless—a baptism in grief; in your tear ducts, Noah battles the biblical flood, and loses. 

Eyes that can't see past a shimmering hinterland of death and abject dismay are fixed, broken, against speckled granite. 

It's agony. The kind that makes it feel as if the marrow in your bones turned into a corrosive liquid, molten and devastating, and burst through brittle, hollow bone. 

Price, you've come to realise, seems to know things beyond what you tell him. Always picking up the shedded skin that falls from the people around him. Little pieces of them that he shoves in his pocket to ruminate on when he's trying to put together the puzzle of who they are. 

Words won't penetrate through the haze in your head. It filters in like water through a rhyne, back out to the open sea. 

(He knows this, of course, because you've been shedding pieces of yourself around him for years.)

It doesn't surprise you, then, when he says nothing. When he just falls to his aching knees in the soft humus, resting beside you as your world crumbles into ash and heartache. 

You sit in numbed silence until the sun is swallowed by the dusk that creeps across the sky. The moon itself seems to mourn along with you, hiding her eyes behind a nebulous veil of gunmetal. 

Price, without a word, helps you stand when the gravekeeper comes and ushers you out. He shepherds you into his Jeep and brings you back to the place that reeks of loneliness and dinners for one. A place that still carries the ghost of his presence around every corner, tucked away in each alcove and nook.

He might be gone, but his shadow still lives and breathes the dank, funeral air that clings to your sallow skin. A miasma of loss that tangles itself in every atom around you. 

Price seems hesitant to step inside, but you'd rather sleep on the patio with the chirping crickets and the weeping moon than be inside where the echo of his voice whispers through the halls, and he knows this, because he knows you, and so he brings you in before you can entomb yourself in grief, lost to the elements. He sets you down gingerly on the couch, body now more fragile than fine china, brushing your tangled hair from your forehead. It catches on his weathered hands. You barely feel the pull. 

He looks at you like you're a battle that can't be won. 

"Take care'a yourself, yeah? It's what—" he chokes, then, and you feel the hiccup like a white-hot knife to your gut. "It's what he would've wanted."

What he wanted is gone, and it's dead—just like him.

You don't say these words, but you wonder if he knows them, hears them, anyway. He must, you think, watching as the ashy, smoked cedar of his beard twitches. His mouth gnarls to the side in grief, uncertainty. 

He says your name. You know this because you know the shape it makes of his mouth, but don't you hear it. All it sounds like is a nail scraping over waterlogged, mossy wood. 

Price leaves.

A part of you goes with him.

You rest your forehead against his pillow, the one that smells of him still—warm milk, honeysuckle—and you wish so hard on broken promises, unfilled dreams, to see him again, to hold his face in the plinth of your palms, that your heart feels like it might burst—

—break. 

But it's already broken. There's nothing left to shatter. The pulpy mess he left behind beats not because you want it to, but because it has to. A biological failsafe that does not care about your human emotions even as it quivers and shakes at the loss that tipped your world upside down. A gaping hole sits in the middle in the shape of his smile, and your stubborn heart pulses around the wound. 

Sometimes you think it would be easier to feel nothing at all. To shed the agony like a rotting limb, cutting it as close to the bone as you can, and watching it fall, blackened with decay, and postulating with infectious spores that bud, devouring unblemished, unhurt, flesh until you're a pristine corpse. 

Grief twists you into the living dead. Breaks your head in two, cloved clean down the middle of unrelenting panic and anger—anguish so severe, you can easily convince yourself nothing at all is real. 

But it is. 

And then there is only denial and abject horror at that unimaginable nothingness that looms, blooming in your insides until they turn into a gaping, festering maw. One that makes you feel like you could swallow the whole world and still feel empty. 

No longer a human on the inside but a chasm. The person you were before died the moment his heart stopped beating. Irrevocably changed with three, stark knocks against the door he painted yellow because it reminded him of the way you looked standing in a field of sunflowers. Gone. Gone—

A barren void with its insides scraped out. Hollow. Wind rattles through your chilled bones. It sounds like his voice when it ghosts over your ribcage. 

You chase the sound. 

Running, running, running. Going so fast, it barely feels like your feet touch the ground. A wingless bird soaring across the valleys that gleaned in his hazel eyes. 

Running, running—

Your feet slide against marshy peat. A hidden bog gurgles beneath your soles. 

You don't scream when you sink. 

(The bubbles sound just like him—)

You smile.

—NOW

Eldritch machinations, some fanciful god playing a chaotic game of matchmaker, a dizzying sense of folie a deux—you haven't quite determined what the reason for this is, who or what might be behind it, but one thing you do know is this:

Something might be aligning your paths until all trails lead to him, but when you wander down those Wonderland roads, your heart beats for him. 

A second heart pulses under your skin. One slipped inside when you cupped his cheeks in your palm, and told him when you looked, you saw only him.

It might not be a choice you've made in this lifetime, but it's certainly one you can't bring yourself to regret. 

You run, but this time, it isn't away from him, but to him. 

He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle. 

You're lost, now, in the swell that gusts across the boscage. A breeze dances over your ears. A thousand starlings coo in the clear blue aether above. You feel the tickle of barley against your knees. Rasping tussock sedge curls over your ankle, weaving together until you're tied to the ground. Anchored against the stalks of wheat that shiver in the wind. 

His hands are warm, solid, on your skin. One hand braced on the small of your back, keeping you pressed firmly against him. The other cups your chin like you're made of fine china, polished crystal full of precious gems and rare metals. He holds tight as if he's afraid you'll drift away when he lets go. 

Your head is blooming full of sunflowers. They germinate in your thoughts until the petals burst through, lifting high to the heavens where the sun burns half as hot as his body angling against yours. 

His atoms sing, calling to yours. A buzz, a hum. You feel them stretch, shifting from the prison of you until equilibrium is reached when they merge, tangling together. A new being, a new entity is born from the collision—a person made of two with lungs and hearts that breathe and beat in the same cadence as it's ghosts. Woven together with marionette strings. 

It feels like coming home and getting lost all at once. 

Etched in the delicate flesh of your heart sits a kairos moment. A brief period of nothing that runs as deadly and tumultuous as the Swillies. An upheaval. 

Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented. 

An arm stretches out, anchoring across your waist. His mouth presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, eyes glossy in the mid-morning sun. 

"Wha' time's it?" He slurs out, words thick with sleep. 

Your eyes cut to the alarm clock on the end table. A slow, languid smile curls across your kiss-bruised mouth. 

"Eleven-fifteen," you breathe, eyes fixed on the red lines. Your heart stutters when it flickers. "Eleven-sixteen."

"S'too early," he moans, lips rubbing over your flesh. "Stay in bed with me." 

You peel your gaze away from the clock ticking down the seconds (minutes, hours, days, months, years), and turn to him. Hazel in bloom. A boscage in spring. Your eyes mist a little from the morning dew. 

"I love you, Johnny." 

His breath ghosts over your skin. You hear the hitch in his voice when he speaks. 

"Been waitin' a long time t'hear you say that, bonnie."

"Sorry to keep you waiting." 

—don't wait for me, Bonnie. i'll come find you—

—THEN

"Excuse me? You dropped this."

It's raining. Pouring, really. The droplets are the size of pennies and pelt the top of your umbrella with an unforgiving force. It sounds like the clatter of a mourning bell, and drowns everything else out. 

But it catches. Clear. Low. 

You turn, blinking through the thick fog that congeals around High Street in a dense, white blanket. 

"Sorry?" 

A man. He's towering above you, cut off at the chest by the fine points of your umbrella. You lift it, and—

Your wallet is the first thing you see. Wet, covered in grit from the cobblestone. It's clenched between a thick thumb and forefinger, held delicately together. You baulk. 

"Oh, shit—," it's snatched out of his hand, and pulled into the sanctuary of cover. You can feel it already. The mess inside. Still. You hope—

The leather peels back. Mush. 

You groan. The meagre bills you'd pulled from the machine are now wet, sticking together in a papier-mache square. Useless. No one is going to accept sopping wet bills. 

"Alright?" 

"No, I—," you glance up at him, irritation cutting across your brow. No, you're not alright. You're shit out of luck, and stranded here, now. And—

And—

Hazel. It's the first thing you see. Mountains of brown slope into a lush green valley. A cool blue lake cuts through, splitting off into a ravine. 

Your breath catches. 

"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"

Attractive is the first word that springs to your mind when you stare at him—dark eyes, furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips. Kissable is the second one. 

And then—

Oh, God. 

"Sorry," you murmur again, cheeks heating despite the chill. "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm—"

"You're not," he says, and it's uttered so assuredly that you can't find it in yourself to lie. As if he is somehow able to chisel into your head, and rifle through your problems with ease. "It's all wet, isn't it? Were you heading home, or—?"

It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.

Mortifying. Absolutely—

His lips quirk up. A soft, almost secretive smile. Reserved. "Well, I know this place around the back. I could use the company, if you wouldn't mind."

You should say no. No, thank you—because you were raised proper. But all you can think about is the deep, brassy tone that tickles your ears when he speaks. The distant, almost careful way he regards you, as if he's putting himself at arm's length so you aren't scared off by his brawn. 

Hazel is dusted in gold. You want to bask in his warmth for just a moment longer—

"I'll pay you back, I promise."

His brows raise. Hazel framed in white. A soft huff leaves his full mouth before his lips pull up in a slow, genuine smile. 

"Y'alright, bonnie. I'll hold you to it."

(And so, it begins.)

[whatsurnameblog]

We Have an Update on Nanami.

After days of no contact, someone finally texts you with an update on Nanami’s whereabouts.

"We have an update on Nanami."

As soon as the message popped up on your phone, you were out of the door.

You thanked the heavens for the fact that your home was in such an isolated part of Kyoto but you undoubtedly missed the sounds of the city that accompanied much of your childhood. Kento was always on the fence about that topic, though he preferred a bit of quiet. The man was almost more fond of silence than jujutsu, that’s where you two were similar.

Your inattentive and hurried steps slipped your keys out of your hand and onto the ground by the car door allowing you a glimpse of your frantic state in the side-view mirror. With your right hand, you combed through some of the flyaways and knots in your hair that you neglected to notice and gathered yourself together. The bags beneath your eyes taunted your youth and the lack of moisturizer on your face was shamefully obvious.

And you couldn’t afford to worry Kento. Only one of you could be worried and you certainly reserved the right.

While standing up straight, you opened the car door with a newfound facade of calm and slid into the driver’s side. Placing your bag in the passenger seat, you jumped as the door slammed shut without you having grabbed it yet. This car was one of the newer models Kento bought with money from some freelance job he did for the government, so without needing to insert an actual key, you took in a breath as you pressed the button to start the engine. As you gathered your seatbelt and clicked it in, you pulled off towards Jujutsu Tech.

You hummed a made-up song as you rolled the windows down a bit, November has never been this beautiful. The weather felt hopeful. A small smile graced your lips as you spotted little landmarks that told you, you were going the right way. You were a bit excited to see the school again and hoped to run into Shoko to slide her your late birthday gift.

But you also couldn’t help focusing on that little feeling bugging you.

The government has called for a national emergency after the city failed to bring back power and service to all the residents. People have evacuated their homes to avoid what the public deemed “mysterious deaths.” No one truly knows what killed all those people in Shibuya.

And Kento is missing. Was missing.

You had reached the final turn of your journey, Jujutsu Tech was just up ahead. The school didn’t really have parking due to an incident that happened decades ago, so you pulled up on the grass right in front of the first entrance.

With an impatient quickness, you made sure the car was turned off, you pressed some face moisturizer and chapstick to your face and lips, grabbed your bag and flung the door open. Your winter boots were fast on the pavement as you walked towards the main building of the school.

Today was a special day, one you waited days for.

That’s when you see it, the short head of hair with thick black glasses and a woman in a lab coat speaking passionately about things you could only theorize.

“Masamichi, Ieiri!” you shouted but when neither moved you began to pick up the pace in your walk.”HEY SHOKO, YAGA, I’m here!”

Both sets of eyes turned to you in shock, it was obvious neither expected your arrival, especially because it seemed that both were leaving.

You relaxed as you joined them, the sweat on your body drying up with the cold air and just like a little girl, your inner game of i-spy got the best of you.

“What’s with all the boxes?” you questioned with a quirk of your brow. “And the handwriting I’m guessing is Masamichi’s?”

He looked between you and Ieiri with a knowing look and sighed, “Yes, it’s mine, I’m just boxing some stuff up to put in storage before heading off to Tokyo for a while.”

“Ah ok,” you smiled. “It has been a hard few weeks– months even, hasn’t it?”

“It truly has,” he placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Oh man, how about a hug before I’m off, huh?”

“It’s just Tokyo!” you comment.

“Oh just humor me, I’m getting old!” Yaga laughed and held his arms out expectantly.

“That you are.” Shoko sassed before dragging you into a brief group hug.

How unusual. You thought.

“Alright, you girls take care yeah? See you when I see you!” And with that, he and his boxes were off with a whistle.

The air was gentle in its movement and the silence the two of you stood in was antagonizing. Your fist was sweaty as you clenched it and your lips dried quickly in the late Autumn air. Your gaze wandered to Shoko as she looked out at Jujutsu Tech. So many memories and so few people to share them with.

“Let’s go inside, we can order something for everyone, what do you think?”

“Why are you here?” Shoko questioned you flatly.

“W-what?” You turned to her, confusion on your face. “You texted, said you had an update on Nanami so…”

“So I was going to come to the house.” She explained. Her face held some of its usual calmness but her eyes turned up with distress.

“Your attitude is unnerving at the moment, Ieiri.”

“Mine?” Her eyes widened. “Did you think logically at all while coming here?”

Her face was balled up in disbelief. She stepped back to take a look at you before composing herself. You on the other hand could not be more offended and frustrated.

“Think logically?! Shoko, what's your problem? I just came to see Kento.”

This is the first time you’ve seen the woman so distraught. Her eyes were teary and her hair stuck to her face as she clenched the strap of her bag, “I know you’re not dumb per se, you knew that when you walked up to me I wasn’t expecting you to come and even in the time we’ve stood here, I have not taken you to Nanami,” she took in a breath as she says your name. “I was on my way to yours.”

Her annoyance with you wasn’t pure, that much you could tell but you found yourself clueless as to why she was taking this tone with you. Instead of jumping on your friend and possibly having a huge argument when it’s evident that you both have been going through such a tough time, you opt for silence as you think about the past couple of days up to now.

“Did you even look at the rest of your texts?” she sighed. “Where’s your phone?”

Your hands were sloppy in going to grab it from your bag and five minutes into your search, you realized it wasn’t there. And while checking your pockets the image of you leaving it on your coffee table flashed strongly in your mind.

“I don’t… have it…”

“Figures…” Shoko tutted. “I texted that I’d meet you at your place because well… you know why.”

Her eyes were sharp and stern, like that of a mother reminding a child of the rules. And after wracking your brain for any possible answer, you concluded that you do. You know exactly why Shoko didn’t rush to take you to Kento. You know why he hasn’t at least texted or called, why he hasn’t tried to contact you at all. You know he went to Shibuya that night to watch out for Yuji, you know. You know why he isn’t in front of you right now. You just refused to admit it.

“Shoko…” you shook your head with wide eyes as your hand laid on the place between your chest and the base of your neck.

He couldn’t be. No not when you feel so much hope, it’s impossible. You and Kento are connected, your souls so intertwined you’d both joked about being lovers in past lives. You two are so close that you can decipher his emotions by reading the lines on his face, the slight movement of his lips, the change in his posture… you can even feel him when he’s not there. And you felt him, all these days you’ve felt him, at least you think you did.

“Everyone… they’re all… Satoru isn’t but he’s- I don’t,” she trails off as tears silently cascade down her face. “And they said Suguru was there but he- he wasn’t him.”

“Shoko, please tell the truth…”

There was a whiplash of emotion. You felt way too hot and way too cold. Everything around you moved all too fast and all too slow. A pint of nausea crept into your gut, the only reason it results in nothing is due to the lack of food and energy you failed to have while Kento was away. You were in agony, the feeling of horror and disbelief crawling into a hole so deep inside you it already began to rot.

“I’ve never even felt this way before, I usually feel so calm, not empty just a bit unbothered but this time, this time I feel so much, too much.”

“Oh, Shoko.” You joined her in her emotions, your knees weak, melting under distress, you fumbled to the stairs beside her. Your cough was girthy and your mouth furrowed with your eyebrows, you pleaded with her. “Oh, I- I… I’m sorry I just-, please say the truth.”

She slightly bends forward at your misstep to make sure that you’re okay and once she gets that overcompensating nod, she straightens up with despair almost permanently etched into her face. “He’s gone… Kento is gone, dead…and I’m so sorry,” she choked.

“Oh, w-what am I going to do? I can’t-… how am I supposed to live Shoko? Tell me, tell me Shoko how?!.” You retch, chest erratic as you struggle for air. You clutch your stomach as thick tears roll down your chin.”This hurts…so much.”

For the third time today, you were reminded of your childhood as you cried and hugged your legs on the steps of Jujutsu Tech. Shoko watched as you broke down and she couldn’t contain her composure as her bag fell from her arm and her hands searched to embrace you. Your sorrow was too great to suppress, so you gave up on fighting it.

Nanami, the man whom you named the love of all your lives, was gone, really gone in every sense of the word and there was nothing anyone could do to bring him back. You were sure you still felt him, and now you see that it was only your heart deceiving your mind.

Everything switched at the realization, causing pain and grief to strike your body in constant waves, and every sound, every figure, even the gushing of the wind, was blurred and muffled. You looked to Shoko, watching as her mouth trembled and stumbled on the words detailing all she tried to do to save him, but life was already too far gone. To try and save Kento Nanami would be like grabbing for air.

You were inconsolable, so much so that your emotions had spilled you from Shoko’s arms and placed you on the ground, bowing before your heartache at her feet.

Your home was no longer ours.

Your love was no longer shared.

You were empty, the only thing in you left was nothing at all. You might as well be dead too

© whatsurnameblog 2024, do not copy or repost anywhere

[koukaaa-descent]

A masked that is just- hugging an employee. Not turning them, maybe it's out of blood at the moment, just- big bear hug.

ask and ye shall receive

something about holding on as tight as you can because you don't know what else to do Lol..

thank you for sending an ask :)

[miquella-everywhere]

Me 6 months ago listening to Miquella's Haligtree, Elphael and Purest Gold:

Me listening to Miquella's Haligtree, Elphael and Purest Gold now:

[kazs-scheming-face]

Two Minutes - The Amazing Devil / Domovoi - The Forgetmenauts

[hechiima]

sometimes I think about hmmk's first meeting and how they have no idea that they're going to heal each other and help each other and ultimately fall in love only to fall apart because that's how this story always goes.

[purrdle]

The Older Twin

[hotdogmchiggin]

King and Eda are fucking pissed.

Both of their reactions throughout this whole scene in Watching and Dreaming fucking destroyed me man. Their complete, wordless shock followed by unbridled grief-stricken rage just…. hit hard. Havent really seen art for this moment so wanted to take a crack at it.

Also since I’ve been experimenting more with procreate, I learned that it automatically saves a TIMELAPSE. So now YOU TOO! Can see my abysmal drawing process. I’ll either add that in a reblog or in a new post, so just keep an eye out if you’re interested in seeing that I guess.

Anyway tumblr’s gonna fuck up the quality so I’m putting CLOSEUPS under the cut.

[isogenderskitty]

tw suicide mention

this is extremely dark, but like... hear me out. what would steph even do with herself if she had ended up killing pete? she has no family to go home to, no clear aspirations... and i'm sure she doesn't even want to think about the possibility of someday getting over pete and finding someone else. i can't get the idea out of my head that she would've just... hung around long enough to see the lords in black make good on their end of the deal, and then... created a parallel to romeo & juliet, if you catch my drift.

[findafight]

Eddie's never met a Jedi. Of course he hasn't. But he's seen a Jedi, way back during the clone wars, when a battalion had helped after seppies had targeted civilian supply lines.

Eddie's pretty sure they were Kel Dor, what with the breathing apparatus. They'd worn tan and woody robes, long and elegant and flowing as they'd weaved between people, helping them stand or tending to wounds.

What had stood out to Eddie, watching this being that was supposedly a fierce warrior of light, was that they...were normal. They laughed and shrugged and cooed at babies, just like anyone else.

That was until the Jedi had raised their hands and lifted a two-tonne shipping crate into the air without so much as touching it. It frightened Eddie, then. Barely twenty and in the middle of a war his planet didn't want a part of. Beings that could lift and toss objects too heavy to move without machinery like they were playthings are not to be unwary of.

Of course. Eddie had spent a lot of the redistribution of rations effort around clones. They'd seemed...fine? While he is no stranger to speaking his mind he had thought well enough ahead that he probably shouldnt ask if they'd wanted to be there. Figured that might get him kicked off the project and he needed the money.

He listened instead. How they called each other things like Spoon and Duck and Trinity and Loopback as though they were names. Maybe they were. Eddie didn't know and didn't want to ask at the time.

But the Clones had been friendly, if formal. They spoke of their general with fondness and respect and a tinge of awe that felt appropriate to seeing what a Jedi was capable of frequently.

Eddie had liked them.

And then Empire Day came, and the Jedi were declared traitors and the galaxy as he knew it fell apart.

It never made much sense, from what Eddie had seen, for the Clones to kill the Jedi. But nobody asked Eddie, so Eddie didn't say. He did get sucked into the Rebellion though, and heard rumours about mind control and sith and a dozen other things.

So no. Eddie had never met a Jedi. But he'd seen one.

Chrissy had spoken about the rumoured Jedi (or-- not-jedi? She said they often refused the title) that stayed in the small Rebel enclave they've been helping. There were two, apparently. She'd met them, even, during a debrief where she'd been discussing how to better use their resources to help her contacts on the Freedom Trail. They'd barrelled in and spoken in such a way that Chrissy would have swore they were of the same mind, had they not been on opposite ends of the room.

"they were polite." Chrissy said, headtail twitching. "For people who interrupted an important meeting." Eddie'd laughed. "One, the Balosar man, he was very insistent that we delay our plans. The other, I think she was human? It's hard to tell, said the force was calling to them and very insistent about it during meditation."

"seriously? And the generals did it?"

"oh no. They argued for another twenty minutes before the not-Jedi threw up their arms and said, in unison Eddie!, 'The shipment will be lost if you go ahead with it. Better late than never, pricks.' and walked out."

So. On an abstract level, Eddie knew that whenever he entered the hangar bay to run maintenance or completely rebuild a ship, there was a chance for him to meet a former? Jedi.

He'd gotten well acquainted with a group of teenagers there, ones who were friends with the younger brother of the heir apparent to the region they were in and liked the make-believe games he ran in his off hours. But he never really thought about the Jedi that supposedly haunted the base until a woman shouted for Dustin, a rodian who was part of his little sheepies and had literal stars in his eyes when Eddie spoke, to come over. Dustin, the betrayer, jumped up and dashed off without even a word of goodbye.

"okay, so the head mechanic needs this-" she gestures to a small smuggling freighter that had seen far better days "hunk of junk out of the way so they can start work on a couple of x-wings. Steve and I figured we could help her out and get you to work on control of larger objects."

Eddie meandered casually over. Just to watch. Just to...see.

Dustin bounced on his feet. "Really? Woah! Where are we putting it?"

She pointed up, to the open vertical entry doors that created the roof of the hanger. "Steve's up there, he'll make sure if your control slips we don't crush the ship or anyone on the floor once you get it high, and he'll get it out and place it where it's supposed to go. I'll be here with you so you don't hurt yourself."

"I'm not gonna hurt myself."

She patted his head "yeah. Cuz I'm right here making sure."

"uhg. Almost wish I never learned you guys used to be Jedi."

"and who would train you then? No one. You and El would be sad little tooka kits all on your lonesome." She raised her voice to yell at the roof, "you ready Stevie?" and it should not have been loud enough to carry, the tone of an after thought, as though she already knew the answer and the question was just for the spectators, but the figure silhouetted waved.

Then, Dustin took a steadying breath, raised his arms, and closed his eyes. Slowly, the ship in front of him groaned and rose up. A crowd had formed, watching a magic thought extinct.

The woman's eyes darted between Dustin and the freighter, one hand loosely outstretched. It occurred to Eddie that neither wore the tunics and robes of Jedi. Dustin ran around in the mismatched pants and shirts of the Rebels' donations, while the woman wore deep greens. There were no dramatic sleeves that swished when they moved, just slightly loose fabric fastened by a belt and holster. He wonders if she ever wore them.

Dustin struggled for a moment, the ship quivering ten feet up, and the woman tensed slightly before he loosened. Eyes open, she deftly moved her arms up with the ship following, an ease in her movements that Dustin lacked. When she dropped her arms as well, the freighter stayed moving upwards, the other not-Jedi, Steve, likely taking over.

"good work for your first go." She said, draping an arm casually over Dustin's shoulders.

"I barely got it off the ground! Don't patronize me, Robin."

Eddie stepped in "considering I wouldn't even be able to move it sideways an inch, I'd say you did pretty well, Dustin."

The kid spun, just as the light comes shining back through as Steve maneuvered the ship out of the hangar. "Eddie! You saw?"

He scoffed "uh. Yes? Why didn't you tell me this is what you did when Im not around"

The woman-Robin, Eddie supposed, tensed. "It's not particularly safe to boast about it. Especially when it's not clear if you're alone."

Ah. Yeah. That did make sense. "Then why practice in a hangar with two dozen people around?"

She shrugged, and looked up. Eddie followed her sightlines and "wait is he gonna-" just as the figure that must be Steve launched himself off the edge of the open roof and towards them. He landed, he's leather jacket flapping behind him, and stood straight, grinning.

Robin laughed. "You'll give someone a heart attack one of these days, Steve."

"eh. No one's died so far."

Dustin smiled too "I'm getting pretty good at my controlled falls too! Oh, Steve, this is Eddie!"

And then Steve turned his gaze on Eddie, and his brain may have melted.

Steve looked like a spacer, windswept from the fall and leather jacket snug around his shoulders, two different holsters visible, his pants deliciously tight. He ran a hand through his hair, his antennapalps bobbing, and stuck it out for a shake.

"so, you're the great Eddie Munson Dustin hasn't shut up about? Good to meet you."

"mmhmm!" He forced his hand out to jerkily shake Steve's. Jeez. It was as though he'd never seen anyone beautiful before. His best friend was a Twilek dancer (and spy) for star's sake. He needed to get it together. Jedi didn't date, Eddie was pretty sure. Something about the force or power or devotion or something. He wasn't sure. He wasn't a Jedi. He wasn't a not-Jedi either.

Steve only smiled and turned back to Dustin. "So. Next time you need to let the Force flow. You're still trying to shove it, which never works. You direct it, like changing the course of a river."

"but not," Robin added seamlessly, and oh, wow, that was weird than you Chrissy "like a dam. Trying to block it won't give you strength. You're more..."

"using a log to ensure the water finds a different path."

"to go where you want it to go, do what you want it to do, without preventing it's natural flow."

"you guys are so annoying." Dustin huffed. "You know that? You can claim it's your Concordance of Fealty all you want but I know your freaky thing is not normal for it." He groaned. "But sometimes I feel when you guys, like, shape it. Change it. What the kark is that about? If I'm not supposed to dam it, how do I change it and use it like you do?"

Both grinned "We're older. Master the basics, we must, before attempting the advanced, young one." The voice Steve used was croaky, an impression.

Dustin pulled a face. "Don't quote Grandmaster Yoda at me!"

Robin and Steve laughed, leaning on each other. Suddenly, Eddie felt as though he was intruding. Though they hadn't told him to leave, they were sharing about...about a relative, Eddie guessed. Someone near to them and their almost-dead culture.

"I can quote him all I want, I drank enough of his atrocious tea to deserve it!"

"he's dead. You're going to sit here and insult your dead great-grandmaster, the last Grandmaster of the Order?"

Steve got Dustin in a headlock "while we mourn their loss, and acknowledge the pain of their untimely and unjust passing, we celebrate their memory. Yoda, the old frog, is one with the Force, and while I can wish for his guidance, I can also make fun of his vile cookies I had to eat at lineage dinners all I want."

"pretty sure they were barely considered edible for near-humans" Robin adds. She caught Eddie's eye, and winked. "Who's up for actually edible tea? Dustin can practice his fine control and pour for us.

Both Dustin and Steve groaned. "The kid is gonna spill all over us for fun, Bobbin."

Concept post Dustin discovers they're jedi

[ashintheairlikesnow]

so... how about that jameson au though

(Anon is referencing an AU where Nanda turns up alive, I wrote a short piece on the concept here)

CW: Whumpee returned to whumper, captor bonding, dubcon (mostly implied? mostly), grief

Nanda's thumb and finger rub along the back of Jameson's neck, and he closes his eyes, tipping his chin forward to bare the skin more fully to the familiar touch. The leather seat beneath him feels impossibly soft. The car is new, but the scent of it isn't.

"What do they call you now?" Nanda asks, carefully casual, steering into a turn without signaling. His car, sleek and silver and looking somehow incredibly futuristic and oddly sexual, glides along the road. "In this house I found you in?"

Jameson doesn't look up. He can feel his skin prickling, the hair on his arms standing up. At the same time, he's shivery, feels a warmth pulsing through him. "Jameson," He says. His voice is hoarse. It's always hoarse now. For so long...

"Jameson?" Nanda's voice sounds curious, only curious. His fingernail scrapes lightly along Jameson's nape, edging the softest baby hairs there. Jameson's breath catches. "Like the whiskey?"

He swallows. Custard and blood, a voice he thought he'd never taste again. Vanilla and copper, somehow swimming together. It's not a good taste, but it's one his life revolved around once. A taste he loved, sometimes hated, sometimes both in equal measure. "Yeah." He drops to a whisper. "I was kept in a... a house for a while. I could see these bottles... he'd empty the bottles, and line them up. Jamison Whiskey, always. I thought it-... it sounded like a good name."

Nanda pauses. "... you read the bottles?"

Oh, right. Nanda never knew.

Jameson hitches in a breath. They're still slipping through the city like an eel through ocean, winding around neighborhoods as if avoiding beds of green plants waving in the water. The lights are purple in some spots and bright in others. Jameson wonders if Nanda's taking him-

... what used to be home.

"I read the bottles," He whispers. "I could-... I could always read."

Another long pause. Nanda glances behind him, then pulls over - still without using his turn signal, and that sure hasn't changed. The car's tires crunch along the gravel beside the road, then settle into a rumbling smoothness as they move into grass. Nanda cuts the lights, and leaves he and Jameson sitting in total darkness, without even a streetlight to see by. Only the dim hint of moonlight and stars.

"You weren't supposed to be able to read."

"I... I know. But I can."

"You never told me you could." Nanda's palm is heavy and hot on his neck, now. Jameson twists his fingers into his sweatpants to keep his hands from shaking as Nanda's voice drops low, too. "You lied to me."

"I was-... scared to tell you."

"You should have told me anything. Everything. There shouldn't have been anything I didn't know."

"No, I know, but... fuck. What if you had them take it away?" He looks, now. He finds the courage to raise his head, to turn and look Nanda right in his eyes. They're just a gleam in the night. "I needed it. I, I'm alive because I can read. If I couldn't, and you died, I wouldn't have... been able to read, to, to know-"

"You lied." No anger. Just calm certainty. "To me."

"... yes. I lied." He jerks away from Nanda's hand finally, raking a hand back through his hair, hating it again. It used to be thick, and kind of pretty actually. Used to look good. Even this long after escaping Robert, it still grows in unevenly, different lengths. And some places never grew back at all, so he has to grow it out to cover the bald spots up, but then the uneven bits are obvious, and... "I fucking lied, okay?! I had to protect myself. I had to, to keep safe."

"From me?" Nanda's voice is empty of emotion. It's worse than anger could ever be. "You had to protect yourself from me?"

"More than anyone, you fucking asshole!"

He's going to cry again. He forces the heat of the tears back, lets them turn into a twist of acid anger in his chest alongside his racing heart. He doesn't lower his gaze. He looks Nanda right in the face.

He thought he'd never see this face again.

"You-" His voice cracks, and he fights to get it back. Not to go silent now, when he has to say this, the thing he's always held inside. There's never been a grave he could cry at, there's never been a body to bare his heart to. Not since-

"You could have killed me yourself, and I'd have let you do it." The words come out too quickly, they run together and he's breathless at the end of the sentence. He grabs at Nanda's hand with both of his, holding so tightly he can feel Nanda's bones move, can hear the slightest hiss of breath as he winces. "And you might have. Even if all you did was send me back, they'd wipe it all away again. I'd lose too much, I'd lose you, you shit, and I didn't want to lose you. When you died, I thought-"

"I wasn't dead-"

"I didn't fucking know that!" He can't scream anymore, not like he used to. His voice only turns to wind, the rasp of an oncoming storm. Nanda is a rumble of thunder, and Jameson the leaves shivering on branches about to blow down and die. "If they found me, they'd blame me, and they'd send me back, for being defective, for being a fucking reject, for-... they'd take you away. They'd take you away from me, from my head."

He pulls Nanda's hand to him, leans forward, his forehead resting against the warmth of Nanda's palm, those fingers curved slightly over the top of his head. Like a god giving benediction, maybe. Like he could be lifted up or shoved off a cliff with just one motion.

"I couldn't lose you, not because I wasn't right. I couldn't fucking lose you. If you knew I could read, if you sent me back-... if they sent me back after you died-... they'd take you. I couldn't, I couldn't lose you. I couldn't. You're mine, god damn it, you were mine!"

"Pet-"

"I had to keep you mine." He drops his grip on Nanda's hand, but it doesn't move away, and neither does he. "I had to keep you in my head, because-... because if you were gone, and I didn't know you, then why was I ever here?"

He's talking about Nanda, and he isn't. There's some other face beneath it, another voice, another taste. A smile he'd known from his first memories, a loss he couldn't recall because it had been a loss too great to bear losing.

He doesn't let that other face surface. Some part of him knows the name but he holds it deep, deep down. "I'm what I am because I thought it was okay to lose, to forget, but when you were gone, I, I couldn't, I couldn't lose again. I couldn't forget you again. Don't you fucking understand that?"

Nanda stares at him, slightly wide-eyed, an expression Jameson has never seen before in his handsome, angular face. There's so much more silver in his beard now than there used to be. But they both look so much older, so much different, now.

The silence draws out, between them, and Jameson twists. Lightning threatens. There's no rumble of thunder, only the weight of something about to break overhead and if it does, he'll drown.

"Well?" His voice shakes, but he covers it up with rage. He always covers up his fear with anger. It's the only way he's lived this long. It's safe and easy. "Lost your fucking voice now, all of a sudden? Huh? You gonna fucking say something to me, you piece of shit, you were dead and how goddamn dare you come back and take me like nothing ever happened, like I didn't-... like I didn't have to live without you, for so long without, like I-"

He never finishes the sentence.

"Shut up," Nanda snaps. It's a growl, a snarl, and Jameson thrills to the sound of his voice. His hands are there, they shove Jameson to the side and then back. Nanda hits something along the side of his seat and the back drops flat. Jameson gasps as his head bounces back against the headrest, and then Nanda is on top of him again, yanking his shirt up with a ferocity that feels like the cloth burns along his scarred skin as it goes. His wrists are tangled in the cotton and Nanda grunts, irritated, and leaves it there as he works at Jameson's sweatpants, yanking them down off his hips until he's nearly naked, on his back in the passenger seat of a car, on the side of the road.

"Nanda-"

"I said shut the fuck up-"

Nanda's hand claps over his mouth, and his protests are muffled at first. Then they aren't protests at all, as Nanda's lips are hot against his neck, and then his teeth dig and his tongue works against the reddening skin he's just bitten.

Nanda's hand closes around him, between his legs, and Jameson cries out, all but levitating off the seat into scorching touch. He's dizzy, with the way all his blood suddenly shifts to meet that hand. He can barely think. Nanda's strokes are rough and fast, and Jameson rolls into them, again and again. All his thoughts are washed away by the lust that floods him.

Somewhere under that, though...

He's still afraid.

It could end any second.

It could all have been a dream.

This might have been the wrong choice.

Or it wasn't a choice at all.

Nanda yanks his hand back and Jameson whimpers at the loss, whines like an animal in heat, only to have Nanda grab him and roughly turn him over, throwing him back down. They're closed in this car, the space too small for it. His elbow bangs on something, his feet are pressing up against the rough carpet under the dashboard. But that hand is off his mouth, then. He can breathe, and he can make a sound that isn't entirely human as Nanda's mouth is back on his neck, the heat of his chest against Jameson's shoulder blades, the hardness of him pressed just where Jameson wants it, always wanted it

Didn't always want it-

"Nanda... please-... just wait-"

"I don't wait for you," Nanda whispers against his ear, nips at the shell. He can't stop himself from moaning at the feeling, as broken as that sound is now from his ruined throat. "You wait for me, when I say. You don't tell me when."

Jameson's eyes open, then. He's staring into an expanse of stars through the back windshield, and the sky is so goddamn empty between them, isn't it? Between the tiniest points of light, dead suns, and maybe their planets still revolve around them in the darkness.

"... I was learning," He whispers.

Nanda pauses. His breath is deafening against Jameson's ear. "What?"

"... I was learning how to say when."

He's a planet orbiting a dead star.

"Pet-"

"... I loved you."

"Loved?"

He's crying again. Goddamnit, he's crying again, and his shoulders shake with the sobs he can't hold back any longer. Nanda exhales and drops, weight against him, reassuring and real, alive. "I still love you, but I love-... I love-... I loved that I learned to be-... to b-be Jameson, fuck, stop it stop it stop crying, you shit, you fucking, just stop fucking crying!"

"Sssshhhhh. It's okay." Nanda's voice is a rumble, and the world shakes a little, gentle as a shower of rain. But he can't taste the rain here, not so far away from Allyn.

He can't taste the rain, only copper and sweet.

The stars blur into nothing, they're lost to the darkness when he tries to look through the tears. Even if his vision clears, it isn't even the stars he'd be seeing.

"Nanda... there's someone else."

He only sees the memory of what's already been lost.

[yuridovewing]

rv!perchwing and havenpelt are like proto violetshine and twigbranch. btw. in that they project their trauma onto them and use it to justify not helping them until the kin destroys them in turn.

[naranjapetrificada]

Happy WIP Wednesday!

Today's sneak preview was originally written for chapter 3, but I'm considering saving it for later because it could fit in lots of places. Anyway, have a little Ed POV today, where he's reflecting a bit on parental grief:

The thing about losing his father that had been the easiest to untangle had also been the hardest to bear, and when he'd finally put it together, the pain had hit Ed in the chest sudden and hard like a charging ram. Pop had taken a lot with him when he died, up to and including his own memories of Ed's mother. Memories that would never have been accessible to Ed anyway, but that he could now feel as an aching void in the world. And as he and his sisters and their children eventually passed away themselves, more bits of her would vanish with them until nothing real remained.

Sure, she would probably make it into the history books with the rest of the family, but only for her connections to each of them. Blackbear's daughter, Blackheart's wife, Blackbeard's mother, but nothing that would even require her name to come down the annals. And so he repeats it to himself now: Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte. Her name was Charlotte and she had mattered so much more than anyone in the future would ever know.

[tadpoles-and-daydreams]

Y'know sometimes deity work is just them shaking you by the shoulders going "DUDE JUST CHILL."

CUE THE DEATH MENTIONS/GRIEF TW bc I don't usually post about this so I feel like writing it into the post is important

The past few days, I've been completely unable to... witch. Witching is an action now. I've been struggling to get anything from my deities and guides. Tarot- which I usually can use for consistent yes/no answers- is now only giving me "maybe"s no matter what I ask. I feel like my trust in my deities and in my craft has suddenly plummeted despite having witnessed the most dramatic, flashy gift from them to my mom like a week ago. etc. etc. I tried just using the cards as their meanings and it felt... like I could interpret them but they were definitely not the usual "OH DAMN y'all just gotta say it like it is" energy I'm used to. I started to feel bad, like I'm in some sort of slump for no reason, and just generally was salty because I actively had been trying to start readings up again and now I can't until that blows over.

Then today, as I was making my breakfast, I was just thinking about it and admittedly getting a bit frustrated with myself- and suddenly one of my deities (I think Loki or Hades, I can't get a clear answer rn) just slam dunks a realization into my head like "SIR. SIR. You just had your first father's day since your dad died like two days ago. Don't ya think that mayyybe there's some feelings there, even if you're not actively processing them out in the open? That mayyyyybe you might be subconsciously processing a lot that can't be processed consciously?"

I just stood there like O.O for a second. I know I'm not the greatest at connecting emotional dots, but sometimes I forget that if I'm feeling shitty it probably has a 100% logical reason that I'm just not seeing. They brought a couple other things to mind that I'm dealing with that, while I often forget about them consciously, I currently have every reason to be in a slump about. I really am glad I have my guides there to just plonk thoughts that are distinctly not my own into my head sometimes so I stop questioning why I'm in such a weird mood XD

The point of this post is, really, don't beat yourself up guys. Plz. I mostly post happy lil funny things, but I also value transparency and authenticity. So sometimes I'll end up posting some heavier stuff, especially when I someday get more into working with heavier emotions in my craft, because I think it's important to post it. Maybe it'll make someone feel a little less alone. And, if it doesn't, then this post is just for me and that's okay <3

[athena-thumbellina]

You got games on your phone?