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jahiera · 8 months

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How To Know If Your Evil Vampire Boygirlfriend Really Likes You (a meta on Astarion's manipulations of Tav deeper into the romance.)

Okay, this was supposed to be a response to this ask right here, and it got so long I decided to just put it in its own thing for slightly easier reading. Thank you again to the asker for giving me an excuse to go off the rails talking about THE BOY. This also got long enough that it needs. Subheadings. And it is [checks notes] 3.6k words long. If you're interested in skipping the act 2 Scene Breakdown and going straight for the character analysis of Act 3 specifically, you can jump to the uhhh 3. Yeah He's Manipulative (Trauma Edition) subheading.

Prefacing that this is just my personal interpretation of Astarion here, the game leaves several moments ambiguous on purpose & I'd be super intrigued to hear what anyone else thinks is going on in this rancid little lad's head. This became more of a process of breaking down what I think he's doing in each scene than anything else, so I hope it's interesting to... you? reader? Since it's a bit long-winded and a lot of speculation and interpretation on my part for his wild ass behavior.

(Also, I haven't played far enough with an ascended Astarion to properly break down the differences between both--he'll have his own playthrough for sure but since I haven't gone far enough in that path, all of this is with no-ritual Astarion in mind) (I also don't have screenshots for everything but hopefully that's alright. just trust me bro.)

Fair warning, I didn't proof-read this & I moved paragraphs around so if it sounds incoherent that's a feature not a bug. Now. Let's get into the EVIDENCE.

1. but did he mean the kisses????

So, before the hug scene, the game leaves us a bit of room to interpret the progression of the relationship. I kind of wish we had one extra scene to sort of solidify his growing feelings in the in-between period of his "I'm just sleeping with you to secure my safety here," era (pre-confession as we'll call it) and his "oh shit I actually kind of care about you," era (post-confession, pre-ritual), but I understand why it wasn't included. Game mechanics & cost aside, the space between these two periods is left entirely up to player interpretation, & has lots of room for HC up to each individual player & Tav.

To address the easiest examples the asker gave, the repeatable kiss dialogues are all ones I'm going to mark under "sincere." Mostly because those are all post-confession, and after Astarion has acknowledged to himself (& the player) that he doesn't want to do anything sexual, but presumably kissing is fine (given that he's enthusiastic about the kisses & will shut down sex/intimacy acts otherwise.)

There's not really a logic to him being slinky here, and I didn't interpret any of his post-kiss repeated dialogues as insincere, much more so playful or coy or cheeky. The voice acting is subtle here, but I found it to be much more playful than his annoying little, for lack of a better word, purring "hello, beautiful" etc etc in act 1 / early act 2. Also, all these dialogues stay the same after the ritual happens, and your romance has been solidified in the grave scene, where he wholly says:

"I feel safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don't want to lose that."

^ Not a lie. So I think we can mark off those particular dialogue as sincere.

In act 2, there aren't really a lot of places for Astarion to actually get into his manipulative tendencies. He overtly needs your aid with Yurgir (Repeat after me: thank you for helping me. It was very kind.) so he doesn't really manipulate you at... all...? in my opinion? Act 2 shows you his most sincere moment yet in the confession/hug scene. He is not lying. He is more honest in those moments than he has been in the entire game, and it shows in his wording, his body language. He's uncertain of himself, maybe. He doesn't know what to make of the situation yet. He says as much to Tav when you ask him "What are we?" and he says:

"I don't know. But isn't it nice? Not to know. You're not a victim. Not a target. Not just one night it's better to forget. But then... whatever in the world could you be?"

He has no reason to say that without sincerity. He could say you're his specialest babygirl if he wanted to keep up the lie. And other than helping him with Raphael, there's really not a moment where Astarion has an opportunity to manipulate you....

EXCEPT.

EXCEPT. For this moment in particular. which is one of my FAVORITE Astarion ones because it is gloriously bitchy.

2. what if we took over a cult, babe.

Context first: I played a paladin of devotion, rough around the edges but fairly good-aligned Tav. She was a bit of a jerk but she saved people for free, and I adhered to her dialogue roleplay hard, choosing the "destroy the Absolute" dialogues at every turn. I don't have a save for this scene sadly otherwise I'd replay it and compare/contrast answers like a pepe silvia meme, so I'm only able to break this scene down from that particular lens.

Secondary context: This scene is important because it highlights Astarion's manipulative routine while still with a Tav he's very fond of (exceptional approval in this scene) and the way he lays it out is necessary to understand the moments later where he tries to manipulate Tav again, since it has components of the same themes, ideas, and tendencies that go on.

So, Astarion will hit you with this hot take early-ish on.

"You know. I feel a connection between us. Like we're two souls walking the same path (...)" Astarion establishes emotional connection, and a foundation of similarity/commonality/shareed interest. This is pretty standard fare for him. He does the same thing a lot early in act one, where he's almost CONSTANTLY asking you to "trust him," (when you really should not.)

"You might be a little naive in the ways of the world, but I see promise in you. Ambition." - He kind of snidely reveals what he actually thinks--you're a bit naive, you "have a big heart,"--he's hoping that his emotional cloying and little comment and connection with Tav will be enough to sway them over to what he wants to do, and they'll give him what he wants because We're So Similar, See?

"So I was thinking, what would be the right thing do when we get to Moonrise Towers?" - He wields his language carefully. The right thing to do. That's a language he thinks Tav speaks. An interest in doing the Right Thing; so, he adjusts accordingly. He wants to do the right thing too, you see, and the right thing conveniently lines up with what he actually wants, which is real power. Astarion confesses he's not a details guy, yada yada, then--

"If we can take that control from them, imagine the power we'd wield." <- He lets slip what he's actually interested in. Astarion generally can't keep a charade up for too long. His real thoughts always come through, and he reveals his hand in conversations often, but usually in offhanded ways and, well--he's never made a secret really of where his actual interests lie. His attempts at currying your favor and persuading you (and you can really feel the persuasion here) are prettyyyyy overt, but still, he's trying anyways.

"I'm just saying there's an opportunity here. If we can control the tadpoles, we can keep ourselves safe and liberate the world from this evil." <- He brings the conversation back around to what's more neutral than Absolute Power -- keeping ourselves safe. He uses the We and Us language a lot when he wants to convince other people of anything, really. "We're all such good, trusting friends!" he'll say, lying through his FUCKING teeth. His manipulations here are like.... pretty clear, but he still gets an A for effort for trying to align himself with Tav & Tav's perceived goals & see if he can wriggle in his own in the process, put "become god-cult-leader" up as a Reasonable and Rational thing to Want to achieve.

The actual question here: does he care about Tav at this point? Up for interpretation, but I'm going to say yes with... the caveat that I don't think he's fully acknowledged it to himself, and I don't think it's love here. It is high approval though. I do think he cares about Tav, I do think he's including Tav in longer-term goals, he's depending on Tav at this point as an ally he can count on, and he's starting to get chipped away at.

I don't even really think it's a lie that he on some level would like to see Tav safe, and takes their wellbeing into account. He's been with them long enough to worry over their safety to some extent, and to at least partially lump it in with his own (in my opinion). Is that love? I don't think so. "We can finally be safe," is a reoccurring theme in the other scene I'm going to break down in just a second. And it's interesting for a lot of reasons.

And furthermore: you can care about someone and still be manipulative toward them. That's a core thing going on here, I think, with Astarion.

3. Yeah He's Manipulative (Trauma Edition).

"Is Astarion Manipulating Me In Act 3? " YES. A little bit. And here's why it's INTERESTING.

So, the confession scene in act two has already happened. Astarion has confessed some of his big mushy feelings to you. He likes you. You've slammed the "can I kiss you?" dialogue 100 times already because you're really super normal about the vampire twink. He doesn't know what to make of his caring about Tav yet. See: his "what are we??" dialogue.

MOVING ON. Astarion is also, a manipulative little shit, and he will NOT change his ways just because he likes you a lot and giggles when you give him a little kissy kiss.

Astarion is deeply, deeply traumatized, and his trauma has in his own words makes him act out the same cycles of behavior that he did prior to escaping Cazador. In its most obvious format, one of those behaviors was seducing Tav because that was the kind of behavior he knew, and it was the only thing he could think of to secure his own safety. By act 2, he's somewhat aware of the cycle, but--

Traumatic behaviors, like anything relating to surviving abuse & getting out of it, come and go in waves. You'll likely not find a survivor of abuse who doesn't revert back to coping mechanisms at times, especially in moments or episodes of heightened stress, or being put back into the old environment again. ->

Astarion going back to Baldur's Gate--and specifically with killing cazador in mind--is him going back to that same place where traumatic events occurred... almost constantly. Thus, he goes back to his old behaviors. Not to the exact same level, but it is there.

Safety. THIS is a word that comes back a lot with Astarion, it is one of his most reoccurring (if not the most) themes. He wants to feel safe. He associates power with safety, because the safest person in the world--as in, literally safe, not "safe for other people"--in his mind, is Cazador, who is powerful enough to repel any threats to himself & what he owns, has, possesses, and keeps.

Astarion is still, at his core, no matter what, self-serving. He will do what's best for himself first and foremost in almost every circumstance you put him in. Or at least, he will want to--if Tav or someone else stands in his way, and he sticks it out, it'll be begrudgingly. That's a fundamental aspect of his character & to try and do away with it makes no sense.

And in case it got lost, I'll reiterate that I do think Astarion's actual feelings for Tav at this stage are entirely genuine, & deeply felt. It shows, and it's obvious. He's just got several layers of behavior going on in the process.

"But I thought astarion liked me??? why would he consciously choose to manipulate me??" The thing is, once again, you can like someone and still try to manipulate them, pull on their heartstrings, or quite frankly guilt trip them into helping you kill like, a lot of fucking people so you can become godlord supreme emperor of mortals and vampire kind.

Let's get into the second scene I want to break down. Keeping all of what we've established above about how Astarion goes about establishing connection & togetherness & the idea of shared safety to sway Tav over to his side.

So let's set up one thing for sure. It's pretty obvious, everyone gets this scene, but let's set it up anyways.

"What's a handful of the wretch's servants? IF they're anything like me when I was enslaved, they'll all be begging for death anyways." <- apathy toward others, generally motivated by self-interest, lack of empathy for others' plights, a callousness that is fairly unrepetant. He's fairly sure this is what he wants, and--

"After two hundred years of pure shit, I think I deserve something better." Again, Astarion tells us exactly what he's thinking. And what he believes. And he's not wrong! He does deserve something better than what he had before. Or, at least, he doesn't deserve the level of cruelty he endured at Cazador's hands. However.

And then he follows it up with, "I know you do [care]. It matters to me too. I want to be able to protect you too." <- finally, we come back around to the reoccurring theme he'll use to sway Tav over to his side. He sees the soft point of Tav in the conversation--they care about him--and he needles that in; they care about him, he cares about them, they should help him complete the ritual for it, it's what's best for everyone. Except for the 7000 spawn, but. You know.

NEXT IMPORTANT SCENE. let's take a look at the scene that follows after you confront his fellow vampire spawn in the tavern.

I'm keeping the full screencap so I can keep his shifty little look in here. It's not the best format, I wish I'd kept videos, the body language & voice acting adds a lot to this moment, but. Neil you're so good at balancing Astarion's careful shiftiness, his gleeful/vindictive revelry at being so close to his end goal & confronting his siblings without flinching, his coy little pleading, and his near desperate watchfulness. He needs Tav. He cares about Tav, yes, but he needs Tav to help him.

Astarion is, again, fairly callous about the deaths of his brethren. You have to remind him time & again to maybe empathize with their suffering & similarity to him. But each time he reverts back to, "their lives" serving a greater purpose.

Astarion then follows that up with "But we're a team. If I become all powerful, then we become all-powerful." <- I think he genuinely does think of himself & Tav as a team, and as a good one at that. More than anything, Tav is the first person Astarion, in his own words, feels he truly cares for. They've killed a few gods chosens together, Tav has given him respect, patience, care. He feels fairly assured of their presence & kindness at this point. And assurance tends to breed............. let's call it, taking for granted?

I believe he's trying to again emotionally bid for their help & loyalty as much as gauge if they're still with him, as he does by going -> "We are a team after all. You're still with me?" Once again, the easiest way to secure aid is through emotional connections; someone's attraction to you, or better yet, their care for your well-being, are easy strings to pull on to try and entice someone to do what you want them to do. It's not necessarily maliciously intended, but it is a kind of manipulation.

"But Astarion just genuinely wants to know you're on his side!" Yes. And he also really wants you to help him with the ritual. ANY arguments against the idea that he's benignly trying to manipulate Tav's feelings, I'm just gonna put up this screencap right here, one of the last times he bids for Tav's affection & loyalty in this, in this particular conversation:

Look at his stupid pouty face and his "You want what's best for me, surely?" and oh god the voice acting. We're smacked right in the face with Act 1 Astarion's slinky, whiny little "truuuuust me it'll just be a taste I promise <3333" voice. That PURE "I'm trying so hard to connive my way into your good will because I REALLY want this." voice.

His strength is your strength. And he will pleading face emoji his way through getting you over to his side if he needs to. It's honestly so funny, how the writing plays out, because SEVERAL times you can choose to fully fall for it, "yes of course I want whats best for you / want you to be safe / feel good" and every time, he's like "I know I know <333 and I want YOU to feel safe too <3333" and I don't even think that's a lie! I don't think it's a LIE, I just think it's the same pattern of manipulative behavior he's exhibited time and again even when he cares for you.

Astarion is still Astarion. He is very willing to kill, lie, and cheat his way through just about anything to protect himself, & all of that makes PERFECT sense for him. And if you're not on board with his plans, of course he will use every tool at his disposal to get you on board. It is, after all, what's best for both you and him. His power is your power.

4. "I'm doing this for you too." He said, lying. Or genuinely believing that but lying to himself too and executing it in the weirdest way imaginable.

So, this is probably my favorite interaction in the entire Astarion romance. Love the grave scene. Love the horny evil vampire turning. But this moment in particular is fucking brilliant, because it illustrates the dilemma here perfectly.

Astarion outright tells us exactly why he is the way he is, and why he cares for Tav while being able to be so cruel and callous about others. "No one ever looked out for me [...] you're the only one." Tav is exceptional--as in, THE EXCEPTION to the rule--because they cared for him in a way no one else ever has. He has ZERO reason to even bother lifting a finger for anyone else besides himself, because in his mind, none of them ever bothered to help him, why should he bother with them. But TAV. Tav he can make promises too.

On some level, I do kind of believe him when he says things like "I'm doing this for you too." -- As in, I believe that he believes that he's taken Tav into account here as well. I do think he genuinely thinks they'll be an even more magnificent duo of glorious bastards together once he's God Vampire Emperor Of Eternity. And on some level, he's probably right. They do take over the world together in some endings, so. Good for them.

However, do I think he's primarily motivated by anything but himself? No. Tav also benefitting from his mega vampire powers is just a bonus in a laundry list of reasons why Astarion wants to ascend at this point in the game. Why Astarion is willing to pull out every guilt-trippy, pleading face to get Tav to help him, if they show even a hint of reluctance. More than anything: Astarion is a survivor, and a survivor of severe abuse that pretty quickly explain why he is the way he is. Does that excuse what he does in the aftermath of that abuse, when it comes to harming other people? Not really. But it explains it pretty clearly.

Because Astarion is back where he came from, he's immediately thrust back into the cycles of behavior that both traumatized him & were what he had to do. The pattern of behavior, coping mechanisms, rooted in traumatic cycles, that he has done time and time and time again that has successfully gotten him, not what he wants, but what he needs to survive. Does his manipulation of Tav here mean he doesn't care? Not at all. It's just that he needs this work. He needs his allies to help him make it work, and he's willing to pull out every stop to see Cazador dead and himself with enough power to never feel so helpless or vulnerable again.

Astarion can love you & still be himself. He will never stop being a bit bitchy, a bit conniving, extremely focused on self-preservation at all costs. He might not seek out active maliciousness, but even in act 3 after the ritual, he still approves of generally being a sneaky bastard, taking short cuts, taking easy ways out. And none of this is necessarily... a problem? It isn't ""moral"", sure, but it's not really a problem. In some endings, he can pursue ""better"" paths, but his general deceivery and typical behavior aren't going away. Feature, not a bug. How each Tav feels about his ... fairly obvious deep romance manipulations is up to each player though, and that is what's interesting for each playthrough.

There are five more essays to write in here. There's the Astarion after the ritual, who agrees that fine, killing 7000 people is wrong. And there's the Astarion after the ascension, who is now fully entrenched in the idea that Power Is Everything, and all that means for him afterward, and his visceral, intense, obsessive controlling dynamic with Tav where they descend into Chaotic Vampire Evil Marriage. And there's Astarion and Tav together finally, honestly, openly, with the heart-wrenching intimacy of the grave scene. And this is almost 4000 words so I'm shutting the fuck up here.

So. I will end this by saying I'm peeling him like an onion rn I'm obsessed with him. He's gods horrible princess and he's never going to die.

#astarion #bg3 #bg3 meta #the fact that I'm sitting here like 'okay but I'm not even taking into account...'#Astarion.. you vainglorious hilarious evil twink. Why are you so complicated. I'm obsessed with you.#if this flops we don't talk about it okay....#also I'm not sure but if you need a tone disclaimer my jokes/insults/teasing is all complimentary. unfortunately #I love him deeply. and want to put him in a bag of rice and shake him really hard.#bg3 spoilers

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keiicom · 9 months

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Yjh things the Webtoon 'forgot' to mention or to point out bc they hate novel yjh

Warning for vague webtoon spoilers ig?? No spoilery names are named and no unreleased scenarios are mentioned/specified btw but I thought I'd add this warning just in case :)

He waited three days on the bridge for kdj to resurface after he dropped him in the Ichytosaurs mouth. Just. Waited there.

He smiles when Kdj tries his food and says it's good (it's more like a tiny smug smile tbh)

He is a WORRIER. Man worries about everything, but sucks at expressing it through actions bc that's when he's most easily misunderstood. It is EXTREMELY easy to misunderstand his actions unless the other characters ask him what he's doing and why [after he explains, he turns out to be actually really thoughtful tbh]

When he tells 41st round shin yoosung to "quit her blabbering"...he wasn't that harsh in the novel. The line was changed (still don't know why) but originally he said something about not having enough time, and wasn't a complete asshole.

Also during that same arc/scene it was revealed that he woke her up because he genuinely didn't think she'd attack him/be mad at him iirc, so it wasn't him being stupid, just somewhat naive

When Iris called KDJ ugly he actually stepped forward and intimidated her by glaring so she'd stop talking :) because he sensed fighting spirit in her and he decided to react lmao

His eyebrow moves similarly to a caterpillar when he's about to make an important decision (note: kdj points this out in the novel because he's always staring at yjh I swear to god there's proof)

Yjh puts on a 'cool' face when he's been caught or called out after trying to be sneaky (he's SO BAD at being sneaky istg I love this man so much)

He sometimes uses his skills for stupid and petty shit *said lovingly with heart eyes*

He's more likely to give someone/an NPC a quick death than to make them suffer until they die

He always goes along with KDJ's plans, even though Kdj barely tells him ANYTHING about them ever 😭 He glares but still goes along with them I NEED Y'ALL TO UNDERSTAND HOW IMPORTANT THIS IS- /lh

He drags his sword on the ground when he's happy/satisfied with something, or generally in a good mood. Also Loves to clean his sword (I think the webtoon added a scene of him cleaning the sword like. once)

He loves his sister more than anything (we haven't seen a lot of scenes with yoo mia AND yjh in the webtoon yet but I have high expectations for those knowing how much he adores her in the novel)

Mans RUNS to help every time kdj is in danger, unless he genuinely thinks kdj 1) can handle the situation himself or 2) deserves the punishment

He has MONOLOGUES in his head even though he only ever says like two sentences thakrhsjfjb, and is very eloquent when given the chance to explain his thought process/reasoning

[which kdj rarely lets him do. bc he's hellbent on doing the talking and most other characters don't expect yjh to talk anyway]

The hand holding scene that was turned into a weird wrist holding scene? Yes originally they held hands (he wasn't as angry then either)

He's a serial texter and will spam message people

He loves dumplings

He gets jealous when other people monopolize Dokja's attention for too long (also canon, ex: Sangah, [redacted 1], sometimes han sooyoung, [redacted 2], [redacted 3] 💀 and WILL glare at Kdj or demand answers depending on how severe the transgression is)

He's tired. So, so tired.

HE CAN LAUGH

he doesn't let Han Sooyoung live out of pride/not wanting to lose to kdj (???? what even was that). he lets her live because he doesn't want kdj to think poorly of him / alternatively he doesn't want to lose him as an ally. Not everything is about pride with him 🫠

he looks embarrassed after hearing yoo mia tell him he looks "happy when you talk about [kdj]". the narration also gives her statement some credibility, because "she knows him well since she's his sister". but of course they made him look angry instead of embarrassed 🙄 bc god forbid he shows any other facial expression ever

He's nosy (again: said lovingly with heart eyes). You'll notice how even when he pretends not to care, he'll still stick around to see how things develop/gather info on 'important' stuff. If he's not interested, he'll just leave, bc he's the kind of guy to just do that. So if he doesn't leave, even if he's pretending not to care... you see where I'm going with this

He has a sense of humor, believe it or not (though most of the time he's hilarious without meaning to)

When [redacted] asked yoo joonghyuk what his deal was with kdj and why he wanted him in his group he said "kdj is necessary for this world. I need him." but webtoon decided to skip that line 🫠

Yjh says "I guess your mother doesn't like me" instead of this "like mother like son" bullshit, because the second one implies dokja doesn't like him. which couldn't be farther from the truth

I'd add more but the rest is spoilers fhajhrjeka so yeah I'll just wait to see what webtoon does first and I'll update this as they go

#writing about orv is hard because after reading so many fanfics I no longer can tell what's canon and whats not 😭#i think I finally got all the canon differences with the webtoon though #but y'all feel free to correct me if something's wrong #orv #omniscient reader #omniscient reader's viewpoint #when did this turn into an “all the things I love about yjh” post 💀#I was NOT gonna wait until the dark castle arc to talk about how yjh actually has feelings alright 😭 I'm sorry I'm not that strong

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yeyinde · 11 months

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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.)

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #Johnny MacTavish x reader #og soap x reader #og soap #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #cod fanfic #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #this took me forever #idk why #i just?? expected more fluff but instead we get horror and grief and eventually fluff #kinda #like #sorta #idk #enjoy

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aokoaoi · 1 year

Note

Hi, I love your writing! I would like to request a sully family x adopted daughter reader where she is sad since she misses home but doesn't let anybody see that she is sad?

— pairings : sully family x fem!adopted!reader.

— warnings : avatar the way of water spoilers. more like fluff then angst.

— author's note : Tuktirey and mama Neytiri fluff coming through<3. very short, but i wanted it to end with ma neytiri being the best mom🤞

You watched your siblings play in the water with the Metkayina siblings as they learned of their ways. You were just sat on the woven material of the Marui, a material that acted as a 'blanket' that your friends from back home weaved draped over your lap.

Tuktirey nears you, panting heavily as she tugs on your tail softly. She wipes off the water that irritated her face, giving you her signature big smile. "Come on, (name)! Swim with us!" She cheers.

At her sentence, the attention of your brothers and the two Metkayina siblings was caught. "Yeah, sis!" Lo'ak splashed around the water childishly, accidentally splashing on Tsireya in the process.

"What? Do you not know how to swim?" Ao'nung questions, getting on your nerves. Tsireya gives him a scolding glare, and then turns to you with a sweet smile.

"Come with us, (name), I will be teaching you if you have any problems." She states, looking up at you as your face scrunched up.

"I– i don't know, I think it's just best if I stay here."

Neteyam shakes his head, his braids moving at his actions. "Father will be mad if he learns you didn't spend the day learning, sister. He's gonna give you one of his big lectures again." He says, stating the obvious.

You blew raspberries, making Tuktirey giggle. Groaning, you stood up from your sitting position and went back to the direction of your home.

Neteyam pursed his lips as Tuk whined at you as you walked away. Tsireya looks at Lo'ak with a confused face, slightly worried for you. "Will she not be joining us? Maybe something is bothering her." She asks out of concern.

Lo'ak was about to respond to her despite not knowing why as well, before he heard the sound of loud thudding footsteps. The rest turns to see you jump in their direction, leaving them to scramble away as you jumped recklessly into the water.

Neteyam and Tuktirey cheers as you did so while you hurriedly went up the water to come up for air. "Yay! You did it!" Tuktirey praises, swimming towards you and wrapping her legs around your waist as she clung onto you like a koala.

You chuckled, "I haven't even done anything yet."

"Yeah, but you joined us." Lo'ak gently hits the back of your head, and you hissed at him playfully. Tsireya smiles at the scene as Ao'nung tried his best not to role his eyes.

"Come now, you four have still lots to learn!"

"Four?" You questioned, tilting your head. "Where's Kiri?"

"Not again."

"Again?" You exclaimed incredulously, looking at Neteyam with wide eyes. What does he mean again?

"Don't worry guys, Kiri is right here!" Your group hears a voice from a distance. You turn to see a boy frantically waving his hands in the air as kiri laughed at him, and you sighed in relief.

"Keep an eye on that girl, why don't you?" You clicked your tongue and Neteyam, and he playfully salutes at your orders.

The sound of knife chopping on your families dinner ingredients filled the silence as you helped your mother with preparing. You have been drained from earliers activities, and your muscles were definitely sore.

You were thankful Tsireya was patient with you when her brother wasn't, or else you would've given up right then and there. You appreciated the girl, and you had taken a liking towards her. She was definitely good in teaching, her words and examples were well, but you had wished she told you about the pressures of the water when you rode your first Ilu.

Thankfully you weren't embarrassed like how your brother was.. you felt bad for him though.

Your mother, Neytitri noticed your unusual silence and stopped her chopping, looking at you suspiciously. "Is there something the matter, child?" She questioned, hiding her concern.

You let out a sigh, your harsh and hasty knife chopping slightly faltering at her acknowledgement. "I miss our home, ma." You told her, after a few beats of silence.

Your mother let's out a deep exhale, moving towards you to comfortingly rub circles on your back. Your shoulders slumped at her actions, finding her ways of reassurance nice. "I know, ma dear. But you know your father's intentions, you of all your siblings would understand." She says in a low voice.

"At least Tuk is enjoying it here." You blew raspberries, going back to chopping. Neytiri fondly smiles at your words, her hand switched from your back and on to your shoulder.

"What do you miss of our home?" She questioned.

And without missing a beat, you answered. "Everything." You said. You glanced at her, eyeing her reactions.

"It's gonna be hard to adjust for now, ma dear. But I promise you, you're going to fit just right in." Your mother spoke, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. You softly smiled at her, leaning your head on her chest. Her hand holds you there, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as she comforts you.

At the corner of her eye, she sees a tall blue figure standing at the opening of there house. She turns to see her husband looking at them fondly, and she smiles at him.

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fuedalreesespieces · 4 months

Text

Inuyasha & Demisexuality

i think halfway into writing this i thought about just cramming all my thoughts into a semi-coherent rant due to a combination of a.) lack of access to decent translations of the manga and b.) paranoia about over-analyzing scenes and coming off as delusional (i think by now it's probably too late to thwart that claim) buuut this headcanon in particular is near and dear to me so i want to try and get as in depth as possible.

what is demisexuality?

in simple terms, demisexuality is when an individual doesn't experience primary attraction - that is, the sort of attraction based on immediate observable (often physical) characteristics - and instead only experiences secondary attraction first: the type of attraction that forms after the development of a deep emotional bond.

inuyasha and kikyo

this aforementioned term perfectly describes inuyasha and his relationships with the only women he's ever loved romantically. you could make the claim that his inability to feel primary attraction first stems from his trust issues and not inherent sexual orientation. and to that, i would disagree - he and kikyo develop an emotional bond despite an unspoken lack of trust, which may have improved had naraku not meddled in their lives. still, both find solace in each other's similarities, loneliness, and "outlier" status (though the similarities are in isolation only, if i'm being completely honest) and establish a connection that persists post-revival.

inuyasha eventually did start to feel primary attraction to kikyo during their time together - in the second chapter of the manga, when he compares kagome to her, he states that kikyo "looked pretty."

[source - viz. i haven't been in this fandom long, but what i've gathered is that there are a lot of mis-translations of this manga, even from viz. since i have yet to buy physical copies of the manga and don't have an account for the site, i'm going to be using fan-scans for the rest of these, which hopefully won't really affect what i'm trying to convey since i'll be looking at character expressions rather than dialogue for most of them.]

i'd also note the order in which he lists those traits: kikyo looked intelligent and pretty. her intelligent appearance is the first part of her he remembers, which i think underscores his priorities in this regard. he values things like intelligence and companionship - facets that come to light when developing secondary attraction towards someone - more than aspects of primary attraction.

inuyasha and kagome

as mentioned before, demisexuals don't feel physical attraction before establishing a tight emotional bond. the most blatant examples i could think of this were any instances in which inuyasha sees kagome nude and his difference in reaction - in particular, during the yura of the hair and togenkyo arcs, which are roughly seventy-three chapters apart. there are two new moons in that time, and from that we can say at least two months have passed.

chapter six: yura of the hair

kagome's bathing below him, and i'm sorry, but this expression literally screams "zero fucks given." he does not care in the slightest. not a blush. not a spot of red on his cheeks. not a sweatdrop. not a tee-hee. if i were to describe what he's feeling in this moment i would say "extreme ire." when she uses the sit command on him, it's on the assumption that he's "peeking," but kaede understands that it's actually because inuyasha is trying to steal a shard of the shikon jewel.

"huh?" - he sounds genuinely confused that she reached that conclusion, even though he was quite literally peering over the cliff's edge in what obviously has very perverse connotations. it's almost like he doesn't understand why kagome would think his actions come from a place of sexual attraction because that sort of thing just isn't on his mind at all, and he doesn't get why it would be in the first place.

another extremely blatant example can be see in miroku's introductory chapter: chapter 51, the delinquent priest:

do i even have to say anything. this scene also further emphasizes my previous point - before, the only reason he was there was to try and steal kagome's jewel shard. if his true intentions had been driven by primary attraction, this would have been an opportune moment to "peep." in his words, however, he just isn't interested. note that he could have said something along the lines of "i wouldn't do something like that" (which, if he was attracted to her in that way from the start, wouldn't have done anyway) but specifically i'm not interested. the primary attraction is not there in the slightest. at least, not until:

chapter eighty two: fateful night in togenkyo

the scene i'm talking about needs no introduction, but for context: kagome's half-freaking out after having woken up in a sake bath. inuyasha breaks down the door to come and rescue her, accidentally seeing her naked in the process. well, i'm sure his reaction won't be that dif-

...it's only one panel-

okay, two-

i think at this point it's fairly obvious that primary attraction has developed. besides the fact that he's spent three panels trying not to look like he's having a quasi allergic reaction, it's been approximately two months since they've met, and by now they've definitely formed the deep emotional bond required for him to begin feeling any primary attraction at all. in fact, the chapter where he tells kagome "there's no replacement for you" - that chapter, where he's vulnerable and honest and opening up to her, strengthening their bond further, (ch. 78, a tender smell) is directly before the togenkyo arc begins, and, thus, just before these scenes occur. these chapters have all been building up secondary attraction, and now that primary attraction is just starting to show up.

several chapters later we have this iconic panel from 173:

this is such a look of awe, as though he's gazing up at a goddess. jaw dropped, eyes-wide, words trailing off awe. he's entranced. fully head-over-heels in love, feeling both primary and secondary attraction in regards to kagome, and this trend only continues throughout the entirety of the manga.

conclusion + extra thoughts

my belief in this headcanon comes from not just the evidence depicted above, but because i just related a ton reading those scenes. i found myself just nodding along (as someone who's demisexual themselves!) plus, since ace-spectrum representation is so rare, it's nice to see it reflected in a character whose story and relationships i love dearly.

tags: @nightshade-lullaby

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babybluebex · 1 month

Note

BEX I HAVE A THOUGHT

so there’s this Photo from when dommy went to the sag awards this year:

and all i can think about is your blurb abt “the scene” and like

What If yall’s film was nominated for an award and y’all are on the carpet . the look he’d give you as he’s watching you get interviewed n stuff?.? like the proud smile AGH

anyways this is the thought from 1am my time gn <3

oh yes, i can see you guys being in a very steady and good relationship ever since your first night together, but not announcing your relationship to the public, and that's pretty much your "fault", you wanted to try to get people in the industry to take you seriously and not think you're just some little girl who falls in love with the first guy to look at you, and dom understands your reservations, so you two haven't announced anything

but that definitely doesn't mean that you escape suspicion, you're always spotted out at lunch or at pubs together, basically attached at the hip the whole time, and paps notice the way dom will play with your hair or your skirt, basically the way he can get handsy, and somehow the popular narrative becomes that you two are fwbs and not actually dating

but YES the movie starts to get a lot of critical acclaim, but most of it is pointed specifically at YOU, people LOVE your performance and say that it's the best performance they've seen in years, and you're getting nominated for a bunch of "best actress" awards at various shows and you start WINNING?? and you're always sitting next to dom, and he has to REALLY exercise control when you win, he wants to just grab you and kiss you but he knows you're not comfortable with that yet, so it's just a gentle hug and good-natured pat on the back

but he's pulling THAT exact face in the bg of you being interviewed about your historic run of wins, like he's not exactly in frame of the camera but people find another angle of the interview that shows him better and he's just cheesing up a storm

and oh my god, the night before the academy awards, you're nominated for best actress and dom is for best supporting actor, and the odds are looking in your favors, but you're crying on dom's chest, so terrified about what will happen if you win, you're scared that it means you've peaked and will never have anything like this again

and dom shushes you and kisses your teary cheeks, "shh, honey, it's ok... look, i got you a present, do you wanna see it? i wasn't gonna give it to you until tomorrow night, after we've both won, but i can give it to you now" and he rolls out of bed and pulls his pajama pants up his skinny hips as he goes to his luggage, and he grabs a small box from his suitcase and gives it to you, and you sniffle as you open it, and you first come across a flannel buttoned shirt, and you instantly recognize it "... this is the shirt you wore—" "to the bar our first night together," dom nods, "what was that... two years ago, i guess? but i hardly wear it because it used to smell like the perfume you wore that night... it doesn't so much anymore, but it's still sentimental to me. but i want you to have it" "oh, dom, i can't—" "yes you can" and he nods at the box "there's more in there, go on"

and you move back into the box and push aside the paper filling up the empty space, and you find a delicate box in the bottom, obviously a jewelry box, and your mouth goes dry, bc it's a small square box and you know what that means and you sorta whisper "dominic?" and his eyes are sparkling as he gently takes the ring box into his hand and opens it, and you gasp

the ring is beautiful, your dream ring, and you harken back to a few months before, when bella had asked you to help her pick out an engagement ring, and you had given opinions the whole day, but under the pretense of helping her, what cut you liked and what gemstone, and it suddenly clicks into place: bella, the absolute sneak, had colluded with dom to figure out what your perfect engagement ring was "oh my god, dommy, yes"

"i didn't even ask you anything" dom smiles with playfully narrowed eyes "but i know what you're gonna say, and fuck, yes" you sob and grab him tight and draw him into a hug, and he kisses you and fumbles blindly to put the ring on your finger

and the next night, you're all dressed up for the oscars, and vanity fair is there to make a video on dom getting ready, and they tell you that it'll come out after the awards show, and you and dom are free to be a cheesy annoying engaged couple because you've already decided exactly how and when you're going to announce it that night

and it comes time for the awards show, you're all sitting together, you and dom and your director (who was nominated for best director), and best supporting actor comes up first (not the first award, but out of the nominations y'all have, it comes first in the night), and your heart is in your throat as they flash up clips from the movies of each actor, and you notice the cheering is just a little louder when dom's clip is onscreen, and you think you actually pass out when the announcer calls out "dominic sessa!" but you're drawn right back to reality by dom grabbing you and hugging you, and your mouth is just gaping like a fish, unable to form words as you grab his face and tear up, and you want to kiss him, but you can't, not quite yet

he gets up to the stage, and he does his little gasping laugh "oh wow..." gazes lovingly at the oscar statue in his hand "this thing is heavier than i thought it would be..." and the whole audience laughs "but um, this is an honor... i sorta stumbled into this field— literally, actually, i stumbled, i fell and broke my leg and couldn't do sports, so i decided to try acting on a whim, and— whatever, but this was never the plan for me, but this award is... it means a lot..." and he takes a breath and squints in the stage lights to find you and he smiles "i think actors are defined by certain roles in their lifetimes... pacino as corleone, schwarzenegger as the terminator... and even though this role will always have a special place in my heart, the role i think most defines me... is the role of husband. and for that, i have to thank my beautiful wife, and by extension, our director and screenwriter and casting director, if you guys hadn't put her in my life, i wouldn't have her, and that role means more to my heart than anything else does... oh, shi— crap, they're telling me to wrap it up, haha. anyway, yeah, um, wife, director, crew, my other actors, the academy, and, um, is ryan gosling here this year? yeah, you're cool too"

and he gets offstage and comes to you, and you finally FINALLY get to kiss him, and you see the cameras starting to swarm you, and you take care to put your hand on his face, to let everyone see the ring

and now that the cat's out of the bag, you're not afraid to be loving and cute together, and your director wins her award, and you get a notification on your phone that your movie is trending online, associated with "SWEEP!!", and suddenly the pressure starts to gnaw at you and your stomach turns, but your fiancé is luckily very in tune with you, and he gets up and leaves for the bar in the back of the room and quickly returns with a small glass of ginger ale and rubs your back as he whispers "hey, you're gonna be ok, it's all gonna be fine" "dommy i don't wanna win" you whimper and he shushes you "well, honey, i'm gonna be honest here, i think you are gonna win" dom tells you "i don't think you have a choice, so what you're gonna do, when they call your name, all you gotta do is just go up there, and look at me. don't look at the cameras, don't look at margot robbie or anyone, just look at me" "what happens if i puke?" you whisper "i'll clean it up" dom says instantly, without a single thought "wh-what happens if i can't talk up there?" you ask, and you're certain dom's patience is wearing thin, but if it is, he's not letting it show even remotely "i'll talk for you" dom says, and gently urges you to sip your drink to calm your stomach "look, you are amazing, you deserve this award— if they gave my untalented ass a fucking oscar, then you are way more qualified to win than i am— and winning doesn't mean you've peaked. it means it's just beginning" and he shifts a little closer to you and pushes your hair behind your ear, and he whispers "tell you what— if you get on that stage and thank only the academy and then immediately leave, if that's all you do... i'll eat you out in the car on the way to the after party. deal?" and you sniffle and give a weak laugh, but you nod at him, and he grins "i mean, i'd do that anyway, but if that's the incentive you need..."

and the lights dim to signal the end of commercial break, and you feel sick the whole time as they're announcing the nominees for best actor, and you're so acutely aware of the big camera rig next to you, capturing your every reaction, and you go hot when they flash the clip of you and you notice the louder cheers, just like before

and you must have been too busy trying not to throw up that you didn't even hear your name announced, you just hear the cheering, and suddenly dom's got his hands on you, pulling you out of your seat and hugging you, and you just feel numb, but your feet work you up to the stage and you're handed the statue, and you look out past the lights and the audience full of industry giants, and you lock eyes with dom and you swallow thickly "... why is this so goddamn heavy..." you mumble and there's laughter "baby, you could've told me" and dom grins and shrugs "i just... really don't know what to say... um... thank you to the academy, who thought i'm worthy of this.... and my husband said that's all i gotta say, so i think i'm gonna go before i puke everywhere"

and you get back to your seat, and you feel a lot better now that it's over, and dom kisses you so sweetly, and you two goofs continue your goof streak and make your oscars kiss like barbie dolls

(and dom makes good on the promise he made hehe)

#bex answers #thekid-ofsteel #dominic sessa x reader

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slayerkitty · 8 months

Text

Let's Talk About Trust, Baby

I've seen a lot of posts where people are really confused about Mew and where his head might be at with regard to his relationship with Top. Why he hasn't given Top the boyfriend title back, why they haven't had sex yet, etc. That led me down a rabbit hole of thinking about the relationships between the characters and the one thing all relationships need to function - TRUST. If you don't trust your significant other or your friends/family, etc, what kind of relationship can you even have? I tried to break this down in groups/pairs and some of it might not be as thought out, so there may be more on this as the show goes on but here we go.

The Fab Four

So there's a lot of context we're missing about the relationships between our core four dysfunctional besties (Note: So far, Cheum doesn't seem that dysfunctional, you're doing amazing sweetie!) such as how they met, how long have they been friends (what the hell Ray and Mew got up to that one night... *ahem* I digress). Now, we don't have any real answers to these questions (yet) so I'm taking some educated guesses based on my own college experiences and what I've generally picked up from other university BLs typical story telling.

I feel like the four of them met during orientation (except maybe Ray and Mew, I'm waffling on thoughts that they've known each other since high school). Most university BLs set it up that the mains meet during orientation, bond during whatever torture the seniors are putting the freshman through and kind of build their friend groups based on that.

I also feel like they may have gravitated toward each other or remained a group because they're all queer. BLs can go either way on whether or not homophobia exists in their narrative and I think that Only Friends is going the more realistic route (and it's Jojo) so I think that I can definitely see them bonding over being queer. They find an LGBTQ bar and it becomes their thing to do together. Most friendship groups form because people just sort of fall in together due to circumstance and they seem no different.

But do they trust each other? Signs point to yes. (I was shocked too, lol)

Mew and Cheum: We haven't had much focus on her, but he seems to value her opinion and listen to her advice. (We also know that April likes him from the time they've spent together and he likes April, so I would say he and Cheum probably have pretty good trust built up.)

Mew and Boston: He believed without a single doubt when Boston said that Top had never had a lover longer than 3 months and that Top would probably, as Ray put it "nail and bail" once Mew and Top have sex. Cheum also believed Boston. Do I think Boston was lying here? No. But neither do they and that's important. Does Boston trust Mew? I think he does. His issues with Mew are not about trust.

Mew and Ray: These two vibe a little different than the rest of the group. They seem closer; they seem like they've talked about "the deep stuff" (vs maybe superficial topics with their other friends). Their first one on one scene has them talking about Ray's alcoholism seriously (even though Mew doesn't push about it as much as I would have liked) and you can tell there's an intimacy there that the other group members don't share. Whether that stems from whatever it is that happened that night in the video (I am salivating about this, it's delicious, I need more info) or because they've been friends for longer, I don't know.

Let's move on to the pairs:

Cheum and April: Do they trust each other? I assume so? Cheum goes out drinking with the boys at least once a week and April seems okay with that (we haven't heard otherwise), so I'll say yes? (Jojo, I NEED MORE OF THEM. I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH TO EVEN ANALYZE. GIVE US MORE.)

Sand and Ray: I'm gonna call this one as Sand does not trust Ray, but Ray trusts Sand. Sand knows that Ray is a walking red flag and he's trying to resist but Ray is making it really hard. *ahem* Ray bailing mid-make out is not helping Sand's trust issue. If you look at how Sand has cared for Ray since episode one, however, Ray most likely trusts Sand. I mean, Ray talked about his mom to Sand. I think that's a biiiig deal.

Mew and Top: Thanks to Boston, neither of them trusts the other. And this, right here, is why Mew has not moved the relationship forward. HE DOESN'T TRUST TOP. He's still worried that Top will "nail and bail". Remember Mew's checklist from episode two? He only checks off "gets along with my friends" (HAH!) and "respects me" but not "doesn't lie to me". We can infer this means it hasn't been marked off since he doesn't mention it to anyone in this episode. Given that a lot of us clocked Mew potentially spotting Boston's trunks on the floor in the shower, along with him questioning if Top was telling the truth about the fire, it's clear this is the one thing holding him back.

If Mew agrees to be Top's boyfriend, then the expectation of sex becomes a lot higher (it shouldn't but that's a different discussion to be had). It's also implied in the narrative (and from Jojo) that Mew is a very structured person and he doesn't like to lose control (re-watch the counter scene from episode one. You know you want to. I'll wait). The moment that Mew realizes that he is way too into what they're doing, he panics because he doesn't have control over the situation.

Up until episode three, Top did trust Mew. He trusted him enough to get vulnerable and then Boston blew it up by fabricating a narrative backed with evidence of...something between Ray and Mew (I'm seriously dying for this scene, I need it).

Another thing I am having thoughts about is that in this episode, Top referred to himself as Mew's boyfriend and so did Cheum and Mew didn't deny it like he did in episode two. When Top's *ahem* "buddy" approached them at the silent disco, it was very clear that Mew expected Top to introduce Mew as his boyfriend and was visibly (if momentarily) upset that he didn't.

Boston and Nick: Yes and no, but also no and no, respectively. So Boston trusts Nick with some things but not everything which leads to him lying, gaslighting and manipulating (he's a triple threat). In turn, Nick lies right back, because what else can he do? (a lot of things actually, oh Nick, you are starting to spiral hard.) This leads Nick to rigging the CCTV video to show on his phone and to wiretap Boston's car, which just shows you his trust in Boston is non-existent.

In conclusion: Trust is another theme the show seems to be exploring: earning it, keeping it, and what you do after trust is broken. I think it can tie back into the ongoing ephemerality discussion as well: trust isn't permanent. You have to earn it, maintain it, and once broken, it's gone (and seldom can be repaired).

Also, everyone needs therapy.

Tagging the Ephemerality Squad: @waitmyturtles, @chickenstrangers, @lurkingshan, @twig-tea, @ranchthoughts, @clara-maybe-ontheroad

Hope I didn't forget anyone!

#only friends the series #thai bl #only friends meta #Hope this made sense

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nicosraf · 5 months

Note

You inspire me…. Any advice for writing books ?

!! I'm honored u get a little inspiration from me! That's very sweet of you.

I struggle with advice because I've only written about 5 books and published... two-ish. (An old fanfic and ABM, which as you know is basically fanfic). But I think I have some specific advice since I'm revising right now and have a lot of thoughts... Here is what works for me (!):

Outline. I know it sucks but... please try it. (Or you'll end up like GRRM).

Draft without going back to read what you wrote, or at least don't read your unfinished manuscript in full. You will want to edit it. Don't edit it. Yes it sounds bad; yes you used the same word 8 times in a paragraph by accident; yes you can see a major plot hole. Don't fix it yet, maybe write it down somewhere so you don't forget to fix it later. You need to avoid editing while drafting or you will never finish the draft. This is the biggest advice I can give anyone, especially if you haven't written your first book yet.

Give each character a strong backstory, even if it never shows up in the plot. Sounds obvious but sometimes I have to remind myself of this.

Give your characters friendships, not just romantic relationships. Include tender scenes with friends.

A lot of writing is tedious and boring. Drafting is hard, editing is hard. You have to be disciplined. But finding motivation is also hard. Don't motivate yourself using the dream of a fanbase or the dream of becoming famous. You're setting yourself up to be hurt. (Not because any of that is impossible but because achieving it in the way that you dream is virtually impossible.) Motivate yourself using something more personal, if you can.

Re-do your outline after you draft. Why? Because you probably changed things while you drafted, you probably made some stuff up on the spot, character dynamics changed, etc. A new outline is good because you can see the story you actually wrote, which is helpful for editing for plot cohesion, moving scenes, adding and removing stuff.

Your draft is going to be bad. Don't freak out. Drafts are always bad. You're going to want to analyze the hell out of it though. What did you plan, what did you write, what worked, what didnt work, what themes are on the page, what themes should you remove, what themes should you amplify.

When editing a scene isn't working, rewrite it entirely. Yes it's more work. You'll be much happier though, I promise.

The first to second revisions should be for plot and characters and pacing; these should take the longest and be the most difficult. The last third to fourth revision should be about prose. Don't focus on prose when you're trying to fix the plot.

Let characters fuck up unforgivably.

Consider your audience heavily when you edit, but don't consider them when you draft.

I've given this advice before but when it comes to plot devices/objects, you want to give each device a moment of introduction, a moment where it's recalled, and a moment of use. (Ex. A knife is introduced in chapter 1, its mentioned again casually in chapter 7, then it's used to kill someone in chapter 14.) This is mostly to give each object its own arc that feels satisfactory but ur the boss about what works best.

Kill all your characters, but not physically (unless you want to). Make them change so much that, by the end, they would barely recognize who they were at the start.

This is book advice for the type of books that I've written. Things are very different if you're writing, say, contemporary romance, but I think this list is pretty general !! I hope it helps. Good luck!!

#mine #ask #writing

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midgardian-witch · 4 months

Text

Blame It On The Moon

Jack has been distantly lately. A dangerous encounter in the woods shows you how much affection Jack and his wolf side really have for you.

ships: Jack Russell/afab!Reader

word count: 5.9k

AO3

Jack had been distant as of late. You had blamed it on the moon at first. Time had slowly creeped toward the dreaded full moon. The few days surrounding it always had him a bit cagey. You'd been traveling with Jack and Ted for so long identifying their moods had become second nature. Ted's humming and grunts got easier to interpret day by day. Even reading Jack had become easier, even though he hides his wolfish traits rather well. At this point you could figure out the current moon phase just by watching your werewolf companion for a while.

So while you had blamed his strange behavior on the moon at first something is gnawing at the back of your mind. The way Jack hastily excused himself from your presence whenever you joined him and Ted for coffee or how when you'd wake up in the middle of the night - startled by the sound of an animal stepping on a particularly loud twig - you'd find neither hide nor hair of the werewolf. It all started to feel more and more like Jack was actively avoiding you. The why eluded you though. You had become good friends with the werewolf since you had joined him and Ted. Or so you thought at least. Had you done something to upset him? You'd talk to him and ask but every time you tried he'd made a quick exit.

You slump down on a tree stump with a sigh. The rustling of foliage and a worried sounding grumbling alerts you to Ted's presence. You shake your head and wave him off.

"Don't worry about it, Ted. I'm just overreacting." Or so you hope.

The creature sits down next to you, raising an arm and offering a hug. You smile at him, grateful for his empathy and lean into the embrace. You take a deep breath and mumble a quiet thanks as he gives your body a soft squeeze. Even though Ted could look terrifying at first glance you know what a gentle being he truly is. Especially in times like this when emotions run high he’s like a calming balm for your soul.

A few moments pass before you lean back from the embrace. Ted's big red eyes look at you in his very own version of the puppy dog eyes. A small laugh escapes you and you nod.

"Yes, that helped. I feel a lot better already. Thank you, Ted."

Ted answers you with a pleased hum. His gaze drifts from your face to something behind you. You turn around to see what caught your friend's attention when you see Jack standing a few paces away, frozen in place. His mouth hangs open slightly as if he tried to say something but forgot what he wanted to say immediately after. He looks at you and for the first time since your very first meeting you can't pinpoint what emotion is going through his head.

The look on his face is something you hadn't seen before. He almost looks angry? Disappointed? You're not quite sure and yet whatever this emotion is it's making you even more worried given his latest tendency to flee the scene whenever you were present. You take a step closer, unsure whether your presence is wanted or not.

"Jack, are you alright? I haven't seen you around much lately. Did something happen?"

Better to be blunt than struggle with subtlety and unnecessary niceties if you want to get behind what is going on with your friend. With every step you take, Jack's posture seems to stiffen even more, shoulders tense and jaw locked. You stop a few paces away from Jack, tilting your head quizzically. The man in front of you just stares at you, seemingly not having heard a thing you said while at the same time seeming keenly aware of your movements.

"Jack?"

You take another tentative step and like a scared rabbit he suddenly bolts. At the spot in which mere seconds ago your friend and companion stood is not even a Jack-shaped dust cloud left. You see him vanish back into the woods as you let out a frustrated sigh. So much for talking things over.

You turn back to Ted who looks at you with his red glowing eyes and you suddenly feel pitied. Ted humms mournfully, his gaze drifting back to where Jack fled into the forest.

"I don't know what I did for him to run from me like I have the plague", you mumble under your breath as you kick a defenseless stone in front of your feet. You only get a thoughtful grunt from Ted this time.

"Or am I just overreacting? Is it just some new werewolf quirk he gets when the moon is getting fuller?"

Your thoughts tumble around like each one is a loose item in a desk drawer. Why would he react like this now? He'd been nervous or a bit jumpy in earlier moon cycles but never like this. Or at least not since you had joined the small group that was Ted and Jack.

Ted's thoughtful rumble doesn't give you any more insight on Jack's strange behavior. You sit back down next to him and bury your face in your hands, letting out another frustrated sigh.

"So you think it's just because there is a full moon tonight and he doesn't want to be close and potentially hurt me?"

You don't turn to Ted as you question his reasoning, instead you look up and watch as the sun is starting to slowly set over the horizon. This whole situation, the worrying and uncertainty, made your head spin. You're rubbing the bridge of your nose to stave off the beginnings of a headache.

Ted hums in affirmation and you choose to trust his judgment. He knew Jack longer than you did after all. And yet that answer did nothing to stop the nervous flutter in your stomach. Maybe you really were overthinking things. Jack was a kind and thoughtful man, it made sense for him to want to keep you safe, however strange it may seem. His protectiveness was one of the traits you admired in him. More than admired even.

It's been a few weeks since you realized that your feelings towards Jack were more than just those one would have for a platonic friend. He made you feel safe and cared for regardless of the circumstances. You were in the woods in the middle of nowhere and yet you had never felt safer. Ted had a big part in that too but with Jack things were different. While Ted had become a great friend you didn't wake up from dreams of you two kissing tenderly under a starlit sky. But with Jack? You'd lost count of how often you wake up from dreaming about your lips pressing against his, hands combing through his unruly hair.

All of this makes the distance he has inadvertently put between the two of you hurt even more. Did he know? Could werewolves sense things like that? Crushes? They say wolves can smell fear, was it the same for other emotions? Could he hear the way your heart beat faster whenever you got too close? Is that why Jack is staying away? Maybe he just wants to let you down easy but is too nice to tell you to your face that he is not interested in you. Not in that way. Just as a friend.

You shake your head as you let out another groan of frustration. No, you would not let yourself go down that train of thought. Your crush on Jack was bad enough but you would not put words in his mouth like that. You'd have to just ask him, talk to him about it. Somehow. When he doesn't just run away again.

You look back at Ted, his red eyes studying you carefully. "I'll talk to him about that after the full moon. I've been safe before without him avoiding me for days on end. There needs to be a better solution."

You stand up and walk over to the small tent you and Jack used for shelter when the three of you were traveling - though at this point it hadn't been used by Jack in a while. A part of you is grateful for that especially since you've developed more than platonic feelings for the werewolf. Sleeping in the same tent as the man you have a crush on was dangerous territory.

You enter the tent with one goal in mind: finding a distraction. Jack wouldn't be back before the morning at this rate and you'd rather not be alone with your thoughts at this time. You remember that there was a deck of cards around here somewhere. Roping Ted into playing a few rounds with you before it was time to retire for the night should keep your mind off of Jack for the time being.

Digging around your belongings you come across something you hadn't seen in a while. From between Jack's things you recognize a soft piece of fabric - a scarf you had lent Jack early on when you decided to travel with the strange duo. Another security measure, or so the werewolf had explained, something to remember you by - to remember your scent - should you ever come across the wolf. Next to it you find sturdy iron chains, a bit on the older side but still functional. They were the chains Jack used to keep himself locked up and tied down at a full moon.

Wait.

What were the chains doing here when it was already starting to get dark and Jack was who-knows-where alone in the woods? A shiver runs down your spine. Jack wouldn't be this careless, not if there wasn't something bigger at play.

You gather up your scarf and the iron chains, the card deck you came here for completely forgotten, and leave the tent. The chains rattle in your arms as you return to Ted's side. He gives you a questioning groan, head tilted to the side, as you stuff the heavy chains into your backpack and tie your scarf around your neck.

"Jack left these and it's already getting dark. I have no idea how he could forget them but I have to get them to him before we have a werewolf wandering the woods. What if there are people camping? What if some hiker decided to go out at night for whatever-the-fuck. What if-"

What if he hurts someone innocent? Jack would never be able to live with himself after that.

You close your bag with shaking hands, heart racing like you just ran a marathon. Putting on your backpack you take one last look at Ted.

"I have to find him. I'll be fine. Just stay here in case he comes back before I find him."

Ted just nods, knowing once you had made up your mind he couldn't do much to dissuade you. With a soft hum he asks you to be safe and you give him a smile that you hope comes across as confident before you make your way into the woods.

You're nervous, walking through the thick foliage, tall, sturdy trees obscuring most of the last rays of sunlight that fight their way over the horizon. You try to focus your senses on finding Jack, the sound of careful footsteps, the sight of a figure moving through the bushes or just the eerie feeling of someone being nearby, anything. But all you feel is your heart threatening to beat out of your chest, all you hear is your own quickened breath. What if you're too late?

In desperation you start calling his name, your voice getting more and more panicked each time. After what feels like hours of walking but could have only been a few minutes of almost screaming yourself hoarse you finally hear the answering call of your own name. You stop in your tracks, eyes frantically searching for the source of the voice, Jack's voice. At a distance you see a figure move towards you. You call out his name again and the figure moves faster. Finally you see him fully, Jack closing in on you, his face a mirror of your own panic.

"What are you doing here? The sun is almost down! You can't be here, it's too dangerous!"

You nod, completely agreeing, as you take off your backpack and open it, showing him the thick iron chains inside.

"I am aware of that, thank you. But I couldn't let you be out here alone without these."

You pull the chains out of the bag and hold them out towards him. His face lights up in recognition before his brows furrow. He looks guilty.

"I- I completely forgot. Dios mio, thank you. I just-"

He takes the chains and looks around as if he suddenly realized he was lost. His eyes find the thick trunk of a tree nearby and he walks towards it. Jack takes a few rounds around the tree, inspecting it and giving it a small nod when he deems it suitable. He turns back to you, still a guilty look on his face as he asks: "Would you-? Could you- uh. Help me with this?"

He must have done this so many times before and yet he stands before you like a lost child. Your heart squeezes uncomfortably in your chest as you nod and follow him to the tree. Carefully you wrap the iron chains around the tree and Jack, securing him to it like a hostage in one of those countless Robin Hood movies. You worry about hurting Jack but he guides you through the motions, telling you how tight the chains should be in order to hold him back.

Your hands feel like they are burning after you are done - from the cold or the strain to them you don't know. You take a step back and look at the man in front of you. A quiet part in the back of your mind suggests that now is the time to make Jack talk, now that he can't run away again, but you push that voice back. By the thickness of the tree crowns you can't say how much daylight you have left and the wolf would certainly not be able to answer your questions.

"You should leave."

You can tell he is trying to sound stern and yet his eyes betray him, pleading for you to heed his words. You take a moment to just look at him. You won't lie and say you aren't curious about the other him, the wolf. But that curiosity is overshadowed by a very different emotion.

You don't want him to be alone.

It's silly maybe. Staying here would be dangerous for you. No one can predict if Jack will still recognize you when he turns or if the chains, old as they are, would even hold tonight. But you have seen the aftermath enough to know that whatever happens on the full moon it drains Jack. Hurts him in ways that no blade nor bullet can. And you don't want him to go through that alone.

Your pondering is disturbed by groans of pain. Jack is writhing against the chains, body shaking violently. Your eyes widen as you look up and only see a bit of silvery light shining through the leaves.

The full moon had risen.

Jack's groans of pain turn into inhuman growling. You watch as his limbs shift, claws and fur growing. It's hard to avert your gaze from this gruesome sight, your eyes linger while your mind tells you to run. And yet you are frozen in place, by shock or by fear is unclear and irrelevant. Time slows down as you watch the figure in front of you strain against the chains, growling like a cornered animal. He doesn't even seem to notice you anymore.

"J-Jack?"

Immediately his eyes are on yours.

Oh.

You'd have thought his eyes would look different but they are still Jack's. Still the same beautiful brown-green. Time slows down as the two of you just stare into each other's eyes and you feel like you can't breathe.��

Getting closer would be a horrible idea. Terrible. Absolutely stupid.

As you try and talk yourself out of doing something that could get you seriously hurt or worse killed the wolfman starts to sniff the air around himself. A soft whine takes you by surprise. His eyes had become impossibly large, pupils dilated to leave nothing but black. He keeps panting and sniffing and whining, looking at you with the one thing you would have expected from Jack but not the wolf: puppy dog eyes.

You blink as if it would change the scene in front of you. Maybe you hit your head on your way here or maybe you stumbled and this is a dream or hallucination.

The surrealism of the situation gives you the courage to step forward, closer to the werewolf tied to a tree. You are only a few paces away before Jack starts to struggle against the chains again, growling and snarling angrily. You flinch and step back again. As you leave his proximity the wolf starts to whine again, looking at you with big, round eyes, pleading. Your first thought is that he wants to be free from those chains. Who wouldn't be after all? Nobody wants to be held against their will.

You take another careful step forward, repeating this strange dance of two steps forward, one step back - all the time never breaking eye contact with the wolf. Each time you come closer Jack fights harder against his restraints. Each time you step back he starts whining and whimpering like a dog begging for treats.

You just hope he doesn't see you as the treat.

Repeating this song and dance multiple times you are now about an arm's length away from Jack. He is still straining and fighting against the chains but it doesn't scare you as much as it did but a few minutes ago. Slowly, carefully you raise your hand. Jack's eyes look away from yours for the first time - eager to watch your hand, head tilted towards it, eagerly taking in your scent. You swallow hard hoping against hope that if anyone saw you they would blame the heat in your cheeks on the cold. Your fingers softly brush against Jack's cheek and you feel his fur for the first time. You're in awe, your hand hovering next to his face. You'd never thought his fur would feel this soft.

A rumbling startles you out of your thoughts and it takes you a moment to figure out the source of the sound. You can feel Jack rubbing his face against your hand, softly growling, almost like a purr, as he eagerly chases your touch. You can't quite stop the nervous laugh that forces its way out of your lungs. You resume your petting and the content rumbling sound gets louder, echoing in the empty forest.

"Is that it? You want to be petted?"

You don't really expect an answer but you feel like you can't just stay quiet around Jack, even if he isn't the best conversationalist at the moment. His mouth is hanging open, panting loudly, allowing you a closer look at his sharp fangs. The werewolf gives another whine, not content with just rubbing his cheek against the palm of your hand anymore. He drags his tongue along the inside of your wrist leaving a damp stripe of saliva in its wake. You gasp, embarrassed by the unbidden thoughts of how that tongue would feel in other places.

Hesitantly you take a step back, needing the physical distance to compose yourself. You ignore the disgruntled growling of the werewolf and close your eyes, taking a deep breath. This was a bad idea. Jack isn't in his right mind and you shouldn't take advantage of that. Not to mention that the wolf in front of you may seem somewhat harmless now but that could change any second. You should leave and find Jack again in the morning to untie him. Or tell Ted where to find him.

A metallic groan disrupts your thoughts and when you open your eyes again you see Jack pulling at his chains. You take another startled step back as the werewolf breaks his restraints, metal bending and breaking under his inhuman strength.

In a flash he is on you, your body crashing into the ground. Your back hits the earth and you gasp, pain shooting up your spine. As you look up you see right into those stunning eyes that held you captivated only moments ago. Jack kneels over you, his whole body trapping you underneath him. He bends over, nuzzling into your neck. You hear nothing but his hot breath and your own heart pounding in your ears. You keep completely still, afraid that any small move could be the wrong one and thus your last. You were never afraid of Jack but the wolf had you terrified. You flinch involuntarily as you feel his wicked tongue against your neck, sharp canines dragging softly against your skin. Heat curls in your abdomen as you gasp out his name. The rumble in his chest vibrates through you as his body crowds yours. There is no space, no air left between the two of you as Jack rubs his face against your neck, claws against your sides and his hips sliding against your legs.

It feels like your mind is made out of static as you feel the drag of his sizable erection against your thighs. You were afraid the wolf was seeing you as a treat to devour - you didn't know how right and wrong you were before now.

"J-Jack! Oh God", you gasp as the werewolf keeps grinding down on you frantically. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the dark fur, pulling him even closer. With a pleased rumble he paws at your clothes, eager to get them off, to expose more and more of your skin. His claws rip through your clothes, the fabric tearing apart like tissue paper. You shiver at the contrast between the heat radiating off of Jack and the cool night breeze, goosebumps prickling over your skin. Jack drags his tongue from your neck over your collarbone to the swell of your chest. Your nipples stiffen with Jack's proximity and the low temperature of everything but yourself and the werewolf currently bent over you.

He huffs against your bare skin, his tongue swirling around your peaked nipples. With a choked off moan you squirm beneath Jack. He holds you down with his sheer mass, his hips still grinding against you. You can feel the heat of his hard cock through the fabric of your pants.

"F-fuck! Jack please-"

You don't even know if he understands you, how much Jack there is left in this creature but you can't help yourself. Desperate for more, you tighten your grip on his fur and try to guide his head lower. The werewolf offers no resistance, only a questioning hum as he traces the path downward with his tongue. Once his face is right above your clothed pussy he inhales deeply, taking in the scent of your arousal that is evident to him even through your clothing. His whole body shudders and all air leaves his lungs with a dark growl.

You flinch at the sound, your sex-addled mind clearing as you are once again aware of who and especially what you are currently laying under. This was dangerous. What are you even doing? You can't just have sex with Jack while he is under the influence of the full moon. This was a glaring consent issue. What if he doesn't want you like that? What if the wolf would actually try to eat you? What if-

You are violently pulled out of your thoughts by your pants being ripped apart by two clawed hands and dragged off of your body. With a surprised yelp you try and scramble backwards but the wolf is faster. His claws dig into the soft flesh of your thighs much more gently than you could have anticipated. Once again you feel like you are pinned down like a butterfly in a display case.

Jack spreads your legs apart, his face so close to your core with only the thin fabric of your underwear covering you. You watch him and try your best to stay still. His tongue runs along the already soaked fabric of your panties. You gasp and your hips involuntarily cant upwards, desperately seeking more friction. Jack repeats the motion with a satisfied growl before you feel his fangs against your skin.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, both terrified and aroused by the sharp glide of his canines so close to your sensitive cunt. With one sharp tug on the flimsy fabric the wolf tears your underwear apart with his teeth. You can feel the cold air against your wet folds and instinctively try to cross your legs but you are stopped by Jack still hunched between your thighs.

Quickly the freezing forest breeze is replaced by the hot panting of the werewolf, his face hovering over your glistening cunt. Another satisfied rumble vibrates through his chest before his flexible tongue slides between your wet folds in long, firm strokes. Your whole body shudders as his tongue circles your sensitive clit, a choked off moan falling from your lips. You tighten your grip on his fur, desperately clinging to him for support.

Slowly, like rolling waves, you feel your orgasm approaching. At once it rushes over you, your whole body shaking with its intensity. Your breath shudders as the last waves of your orgasm ripple through your body and your arms fall weakly to your sides. For a moment you forget the surreal situation you are in and just enjoy the afterglow of such an intense climax.

You can feel Jack’s hot breath against your sensitive sex. He climbs over you once more, caging you in under his broad form, his throbbing cock lying heavy against your abdomen. Jack slowly drags his cock down between your legs, rubbing teasingly between your folds. You gasp at the feeling and look up. His dark eyes seem to devour you, like the feast he just made of your pussy wasn't enough to sate him.

Mind still buzzing with the afterglow of your orgasm you blearily watch Jack’s canine face. It takes you a moment to recognize the question in the wolf's eyes. You're stunned for a second with the realization that even when turned into this beast that he so fears, Jack would never force himself on you. Not trusting yourself to get the words out you nod instead. The wolf's pleased rumble fills your ears and you feel the blunt pressure of his cock against your entrance soon after.

Even with how wet you are, especially after your recent orgasm, you can feel the stretch of Jack's impressive girth entering you. He pushes inside you slowly, much slower than you'd expect from the werewolf. You gasp, his size more than you'd ever felt. Jack halts his movements and lets out a soft, almost worried sounding whine. You take deep breaths, squeezing your eyes closed and try to relax around his uncomfortable size.

“I’m alright. Just- just give me a moment,” you force the words out between your lips. Your face is twisted in pain, not too much to overwhelm you but enough to make your breath shudder. Suddenly you feel Jack's nose and cheek rub against yours, his apologetic whimpers filling your ears. He's trying to soothe you or maybe apologize - you're not sure. Your eyes blink open and with shaky hands you reach out to grasp his face gently.

It's difficult to read Jack's facial expressions like this, his wolfish features distorting the soft smiles or raised eyebrows you're so used to from Jack. The only thing unchanged by his transformation are his eyes, still so expressive even under the influence of the full moon. You take deep breaths, trying to calm your mind and relax. Jack rubs his cheek against yours, whimpering softly in your ear. “It’s ok. I know you don’t want to hurt me,” you try to soothe him, your fingers playing with his fur.

It takes you a few moments until you feel ready to continue. “You can move now. But slowly,” you tell him softly, your hands still buried in his fur, “Please.” He nods in understanding and the werewolf slowly starts moving his hips. You feel his massive cock drag against your slick walls, the pain his size and girth had caused you turning gradually into pleasure. Jack trembles over you, the need to just mindlessly plow into you slowly growing stronger than his restraint. As he bottoms out you shudder, your drawn out moan echoing through the forest. Jack stays unmoving inside you, his head buried in your neck, panting heavily into your ear. You can feel his cock pulse inside your pussy and you instinctively clench around him. With a deep growl his hips stutter and you gasp.

“Move oh god please move,” you beg. Jack doesn’t leave you waiting and at once he starts really fucking into you. His clawed hands hold your hips tightly and leave you unable to move as he buries his cock in you again and again. It’s maddening feeling him so deep inside of you, feeling him everywhere. The werewolf responds to every flutter of your cunt, to every sound spilling from your lips, growling and fucking you faster and harder. The last thought you have is that you won’t be able to walk in the morning and then he hits that spot inside of you that makes your mind go blank. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you let out an ungodly moan. You can’t think, all you know is the feeling of his massive cock splitting you open and the inhuman wolfman using fucking you like a human-sized fleshlight. It’s absolute bliss and you let yourself fall into the pleasure he gives you. You’re babbling something; you can hear your voice but you don’t know what you’re saying but he seems to understand, huffing and puffing in response. He lifts your hips and the angle makes you cry out even louder. The slick sound of his cock plowing into you is obscene but you don’t care. You’re getting closer and closer to your second orgasm, your fingers digging almost painfully into his fur, urging him on until a particularly hard thrust makes you see stars and pushes you over the edge. It’s too much, the pleasure overwhelming you as everything goes dark and you lose consciousness.

The first thing you notice when you come to yourself is the hard ground under you and the heavy weight on top of you. You open your eyes and the sunlight spilling through the leaves makes you squint. How long were you out? If the sun was already out then-

The weight on top of you shifts and you hear Jack grumble. Not the wolf but Jack. A very human, very naked Jack lays on you, his head on your chest. You freeze when you feel him slowly rouse from his sleep. Panic rises in your chest. What would you tell him? Did he remember what happened last night? Your spiraling thoughts grind to a halt when Jack’s eyes, heavy with sleep, find yours. His brow furrows as he mumbles your name. Realization dawns on his face and you can’t do anything but watch, anything you could say to him stuck in your throat. But where you expect embarrassment or disgust you only find terror. “Oh no, what did I do?” he whispers to himself. “Jack, I-” He sits up and the missing weight on you feels wrong. His eyes scan your body, taking in your ripped clothing. “Did I hurt you? Ay Dios, what did I do?” “Jack,” you try to pull his attention towards you, voice raised, “You did nothing wrong. You didn’t hurt me.” His eyes find yours trying to catch you in a lie but he finds only the truth. His shoulders slump with a deep sigh.

You stay quiet before Jack breaks the silence. “Why did you stay with me? You could have died!” He is still frowning but you can hear the anger in his voice. “I wanted to help! I-,” you explain as you sit up and try to cover yourself with the bits and pieces of clothing you are left with, “The wolf, he wanted me to stay. He didn’t attack me.” Jack swallows around the lump in his throat, pointedly not looking at you when you cover up to give you some privacy. “It’s a beast. You should have run. You should have-” “He didn’t attack me, Jack. He likes me.” A faint blush creeps on his face. “Likes you? I don’t think that describes quite what happened here,” he mumbles sheepishly.

Jack carefully sneaks a peek at you, not so subtly checking for injuries again. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” He sounds so worried and it breaks your heart. “I’m alright. A bit sore maybe but no injuries.” Jack clears his throat awkwardly, “Sore? Oh dear. I am so sorry. I didn’t- I mean, I wasn’t-” Gently you put your hand on his shoulder. “It’s ok. You weren’t in control. I know you don’t like me like that,” you reassure him, the words leaving a bittersweet taste in your mouth. He looks at you like you’re speaking in tongues. “You don’t…mi vida, I thought I was pretty obvious,” he says, embarrassment clear in his voice. You blink at him in confusion. “What do you mean?” Jack swallows hard and turns towards you fully. “I like you. Very much. I mean, I am attracted to you,” he sighs, rubbing his face, “The closer the full moon gets the harder it is to hide my feelings. I was close to ripping Ted apart yesterday just because he gave you a hug. It’s maddening.”

Your heart races, heat spreading through your cheeks. “You- You mean that you-” “I’m in love with you. And I know this is the worst timing and I really didn’t want our first time to be like this,” he motions around him. Your heart feels heavy and light at the same time. “I love you too, Jack.” He smiles at you, a big toothy grin that makes you smile too. “I’m glad. I didn’t think you did. That’s why I tried to hide it.” You nod in understanding given that you did pretty much the same. You tell him as much as you lean in closer, resting your head on his shoulder.

You don’t know how long you stay like this, the sun rising further and the forest waking around you. It’s only when you gather your things and make your way back to camp, careful of any hikers catching you in the nude that you turn to Jack and ask: “How do we tell Ted?” Jack laughs, shaking his head. “I have a feeling he already knows, mi vida.”

#jack russell x reader #jack russell #werewolf by night #wbn #jack russell/reader #wbn fanfic #werewolf by night fanfic #fran-writes

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