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#it’s kind of cosmic horror-y? idk

yeyinde · 1 year

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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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axcel-lucci · 9 months

Text

I was cooking (literally) 🤭

Trafalgar Law x fem!reader.

(Angst?)

@the-fluff-piece @sailor-cosmic-horror (idk what blog to tag 😭)

Part 1 is here

"Fuuuuuckkk" (y/n) groaned as Bepo tilted his head slightly.

"What's wrong, (y/n)...?" He asked cutely

"Ah... it's nothing... but fuck- my side hurts..." she laid back down with a grunt, "everything hurts..."

"A-ah?! I should call captain!"

"No-!" She yelled back, "I mean... no... it's not that kind of pain... well I mean it is kinda painful physically, but... not the pain I'm complaining about..." she sighed deeply.

Bepo merely hummed and sat beside her, "when you told captain how you felt and passed out... he panicked. I don't think I've ever seen him so panicked and stressed like that before." He admitted, "and when I asked him why he was like that, there was no clear answer... like he changes his story every time I ask a question. And once you were better he just... stormed out. It's weird... he'd usually check on his patient's condition before leaving..."

"O-oh..." she mumbled.

'I messed up this time... Huh? Do I talk to him? He might be mad or weirded out because of my confession... if only I didn't tell him all those things! I thought I was gonna die! Goddamit!!' She thought before frowning.

"Uh... you need to rest, okay? I'll check on captain first, then I'll come back to you..." Bepo said as he left

She just sighed deeply, "I need to make this right. If I just kept it a secret to the grave... to be fair, he would never let his crew die on him... no one really died in his hands, unless for enemies." She muttered.

A few hours later, she didn't realize she had drifted off to sleep. Only to be woken up by a warm hand softly clearing the hair away from her face.

Her eyes slowly opened before groaning, "again with the fucking light."

A deep chuckle echoed beside her, one that was highly recognizable by the human ears.

"C-captain?!" She gasped as she looked at him standing over her.

"How are you feeling? Sorry I stormed out like that... I just had to deal with some affairs of the sub. It was kinda damaged from the battle. Though I had Bepo check your vitals. I guess he forgot to do that..." he explains as he adjusts the tube that gives her some IV.

"A-ah..." she sighed before humming, "hey... captain. Can I ask you something?"

"Hm? Sure" he muttered as he scribbled down the clipboard.

She stayed quiet for a few moments, thinking of what to say; "remember what I said...? Before blacking out...?"

Law paused for a bit before sighing and nodded, "yeah... I... I do..." he muttered before placing down the clipboard and pen, "how... how long?"

"What...?"

"For how long have you felt this...?"

Her throat starts to dry and close up as she looked away, "quite a while now..."

"I need the exact date."

She took a deep breath, "I think... a year and a half... I'm not too sure though."

"So... you kept this to yourself... for a year a half...? Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He muttered, he was hurt. Obviously. He knows why, but doesn't want to admit it.

She sighed deeply once more, "because I know you wouldn't feel the same about me..."

Law snapped his head to look at her in such a shocked manner. His wide eyes and a slight frown.

She didn't see it but it was fairly obvious.

"What do you mean...?"

"Cut me some slack, captain. The crew knows your stance on relationships... you just don't do them." (Y/n) muttered, her words getting choked on her throat, making it hard to speak. Her vision blurring with tears.

Law could only look at her with clear confusion and shock, "look... don't trust everything the crew says. Most of it is just rumour anyways." He grumbled a bit before holding her hand, "look. I didn't mean to make it seem like that, but in reality... I... I like you too... I just... didn't know you felt the same..."

She finally looked at him with tear filled eyes before sniffling, "really...?"

"Yes, really" he smiled softly before bringing her hand up for him to kiss, "when you get better, I'll take you out... what do you say?"

"Oh captain..."

"Law... just call me by my name now"

"Law... yes... please"

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empty-dream · 3 years

Text

Just read FGO Salem

FUCKING FINALLY.

Me, a Sanson big fan: My skin is cleared, my crops are watered. This is basically his spotlight. I can ask for no more. The guy is a doctor, good with kids, very level-headed, can cook, and have a massive chunk of guilt issues. It’s not apparent at first but at the climax, it’s obvious that all along he’s trying so hard to atone for his past as an executioner. So putting him here in this chapter about sins, executions, and redemption is really fitting.

Once I thought Robin showed up in the main story a bit too many times. Now I get why he’s in Salem. He is BIG MOOD™. All his cussings at the irrationality of the entire singularity are gold. His attitude naturally clashes with the rigidity of Salem. And his dynamic with Sanson is really fun.

Mata Hari is really is big sister for everyone, but mostly to Robin and Sanson lol. The part where she is executed and her sad past is played… Sanson yelling her real name as she’s hanged just makes it more painful.

Circe is really fun. I already expected it as much but wew. Now I want to see her interaction with Medea. As the Queen Witch™ , she is goat. The party couldn’t have survived for that long if she wasn’t there.

Queen of Sheba’s mixture of wisdom and recklessness is intriguing. And the part where she bonds with Mata Hari and timidly asks her to tell all about Solomon as a human in Chaldea is really endearing and bittersweet. I wish they could have met again… Also like Circe, goat.

I have no idea why Nezha is in here, but her friendship with Abigail is so cute. The way she is evil detector and very earnest to a fault is endearing too. Come to think of it, she does show up a lot too, huh, considering LB3&4 iirc.

I like that from the day the trailer dropped, we all knew that girl is Abigail Williams, the most (in)famous kid who incited the Salem Witch Trial. But how she’s played here, it’s interesting. I like that she’s a very pure, kind little girl who doesn’t mean harm, but that very purity leads her to accuse people. In the end, she knows she is as sinful as everyone else in Salem, and the only way she believes to help them all is to inflict punishments as redemption. Very pure, but very dangerous as a result.

Nobody would have guessed Lavinia and the Whateleys are also cast in Salem singularity. Like, literally cast in. Lavinia’s relationship with Abigail and Sanson is really nice. Even though she’s so awkward, she truly does care for them. LAVINIA WHEN DW??

It’s so weird tho to see the Chaldea crews in their usual get-ups, which are decidedly very not puritan-y. It clashes with the more realistic villagers. I know, cuz budget and all. It’s just funny that Tituba is a slave in a very traditional puritan village, and she dresses like *that*. Also kinda spoiling the fact from early on that she isn’t really ordinary after all. Thankfully the manga handles the costume aspects.

Ngl it’s lengthy. I don’t play the game, so I just sat down and stared at the screen for total 8 hrs. (Thank god for speed controller). Tipping my hat to the actual players, Idk how your phones survived that.

I don’t think this is what people hail as best EoR chapter, and no comment from me either cuz I haven’t read the other EoR chapters. But ever since the EoR trailer popped out, this singularity grabbed most of my attention. Cuz Salem with trial is, uh, a very well-known messed up case.

And the game story actually fulfilled my expectation. How dark it is from the get-go. The cruelty of people as they start accusing each other in their faith-covered paranoia. Before it is a cosmic horror story, it is a horror story of humanity. It is exactly what I imagine witch hunts and overly religious environment would be like.

I love the way the tension and creepiness building up, but at times I felt it was a liiiitle bit too long. And I was expecting the climax to be longer tho. I just wanted the moral conclusion of the core story - the endless searching of redemption for sins in the past - to be elaborated more. I mean, atonement in a twisted way is an interesting concept for me.

I don’t know much about Lovecraft lores, but I admit having such an unknown variable completely outside what we’re used to in Nasuverse is really exciting. Raum is creative, I’ll admit that. For people who played the JP version first time, this should have been a very big moment.

Meteo Hoshizora I owe you my life.

When Robin yells “LA MORT EST L'ESPOIR” near the end I just

#fate grand order #random saying #type moon #epic of remnant

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wolfwhiteflowers · 4 years

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I found this on twitter and wanted (try) to answer them here instead. :B Great questions! thanks. @LM_Nocass twitter.com/LM_Nocass/ status/1292935841258647553

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𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥/𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥/𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 (𝐩𝐥𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲); 2:28 PM · Aug 10, 2020 --------------@LM_Nocass

1. Which part of herself does Carol see in Daryl? ||um same brokenness past and seeing that there’s good parts in him. He’s not like Merle and Ed. 2. Which part of himself does Daryl see in Carol? ||They both know what it’s like to be abused and have an understanding. He sees strength in her. /...I think they slowly start to think they’re not alone on feeling like the odd one out or fighting to live before Apoc. They eventually think they’re a lot alike and connected right away. s1-s2. I guess they both started to grow at the same time and look after each other’s back ever since.

3. If there was no za and they met each other, would they be so close? Why? ||Yeah I think so. But not so close or “early” on. Probably lil glimpse of like oh they’re alike and good people. But other things in the way...like Carol or Daryl be stuck in bad situations and die or something. Y’kno Daryl would’ve been like “mini Merle” or like.... dead from stopping a fight or prison. Carol could just be dead or lost herself from being with Ed. ...Unless they got away from their abusers :) I can see there’s a chance of them getting close. *”mini Merle” I think I got this phrase wrong. Mini Merle is Merle’s hand weapon thing. I meant that Daryl would have become more damaged,lost, and be similar to Merle then. ..like a younger Merle.

4. How do you think, Alexandria's ppl ship them or they don’t care? Why? || BTW, I think of what the writers want or had in mind.. Anyway, when Rlchonne happened or Abe and Sasha went canon, it just seems like very neutral whatever way. Well I guess the show isn’t that .. charactery and romantic. -_- Anyway, I think they care and are supportive and of all Team family but mind their business. I think practically everyone knows about Caryl and their close relationship. I guess they’re like in the same boat as us or general fans. We would be happy if they get together but if not then like ....hmm you guys are so together~ Um..I guess people would be going WTF if Caryl grew apart.

5. AU: real life. Which one of them is more attractive to believe in supernatural stuff? Why? || they both seem to be into that. erm I’ll say Daryl.

6. AU: real life. Which one of them is more attractive to send a lot of Red heartFace throwing a kissSmiling face with heart-shaped eyes and etc? Why? || Carol is more open to display of affection. But Daryl got his heart on his sleeves. He’s straightforward tells/show you how he feels and means it.

13. What would do today's Carol if she met someone like Ed? ||Probably she be able to stand up to him when he starts to be controlling and she speak out and say it’s not right. Idk..maybe them talking it out will make Ed change himself if he wants to. And she walks away from him early on. 14. If today's Carol met past Carol, what would she say to her? ||You’re stronger than you think you are. You are enough. These hard times made her wiser in Apoc./life. She’s always a mother..when they’re gone, they’re still with her. 15. If today's Daryl met past Daryl, what would he say to him? ||This doesn’t always have to be this way/Merle-life. You’re not alone. Good people will stick with you. Trust them. Your goodness matters. You don’t need to depend on Merle. If Merle wouldn’t change now then he won’t later on. Idk... Daryl is so loyal and to his brother. So it’s just he gotta let Merle/his past go. 16. Why does Daryl prefer the crossbow, not a bow? ||I guess that’s what hunters like to use most often. Idk. 17. AU: real life. Which one of them is most likely to surfing in the Internet for hours? Why? ||Carol because she mentioned internet in s4. lol Okay um yeah Carol I guess. I think she likes to research on things. Daryl is more outdoorsy kind of person. 18. AU: real life. Which one of them will have a private acc on social medias and who won’t care? ||I think both would be private...or heck Daryl not private but barely any content. lol Just hunting, nature stuff and games.

19. AU: real life. Which one of them will send memes? ||Carol because she like goofy or sassy jokes.

20. AU: real life. What profession is suitable for Carol? Why? ||hmm housewife, teacher, nurse, or something to look after the community.. She likes to cook but Idk if she likes to do it often. Some job to care about the people and place.

21. AU: real life. What profession is suitable for Daryl? Why? ||A hunter, mechanic, or construction worker. Something like hands-on job.

22. Which of them has a black sense of humor? ||I think Carol have a dark/black sense of humor. Daryl is ..more less humor-y. more sarcastic. idk what im saying.

23. Had Daryl ever thought about having children? If he did, he would prefer boy or daughter? ||I think he never really thought of it till he’s away from Merle/past life. But Idk I think he doesn’t really think on it. He just wants to protect all kids. He’s Uncle Daryl. I don’t think he has a preference.

24. Is Daryl asexual or demisexual? Or other? Why? ||Read ? #10. I say so far it seems like he’s demisexual from what Kang said and from what people/fandom been always questioning him from the show and from that 6 years in woods plot. (Also the show isn’t that showy on romance and relationships so I didn’t think they would bother to address his romance/sexuality but they did so ok.) I guess I always think of him as demisexual...or someone who would be friends to lovers kind of person. He’s the closest with Carol so..slowburn to canon, yeah? /// This makes me think of Carol’s relationships and how she is fine having sex anytime ..no emotions involved way...She doesn’t really have or know a good emotional canon relationship except almost with Zeke, I guess. 25. Carol’s fav movie genre(s)? ||Romcoms <3

26. Daryl’s fav movie genre(s)? ||action / horror :O 27. When the show ends, what kind of ending do you want for them? ||I want good writing and that flows right. Caryl be Caryl. I guess them riding off to the sunset to New Mexico. Or..looking after team family in ASZ or TF working together to find/help Rick and living their best lives in a community. A happy ending pls. 28. Which one of them is good at math? ||hmm Carol. Daryl would be good at reading..science.

29. If there was Caryl movie, what song(s) would you add to it? || hmm a song to add, I would pick ..”You and Me” by Pink I think. Or, “X and Y” by Coldplay. Or, “Cosmic Love” by Florence Machine. 30. Did Daryl help you? ||I really appreciate the writers and the acting did with Daryl and Carol. They’re really unique, interesting and relatable characters. Daryl helped me to keep being myself and do what’s right even when you feel odd ball out. Idk I also like that we see characters like Daryl and Carol what we stereotypical think they may be like in s1 but then we see they’re relatable and we can be more open minded to other people. I liked that we see him getting a chance to grow and see how loyal he is. 31. Did Carol help you? ||Yeah. I really like how she’s like I guess most people in s1, quiet, timid, not quite fit into the Apoc. world, but learns to trust herself, get braver and open up. She’s like so strong and brave now but it’s not surprising to see that in a way because we see her character development and I like how writers and acting, made it so relatable and realistic to me. We all can be like Carol. //I think she’s a great character to watch for mothers who lost kids or was a abused wife/person. Same with Daryl as a abused child/brother in that Merle’s lifestyle.

32. What did Caryl give you? Hope? Strength? ||I really like what became Caryl in the show for years. They became one of my fave ships. They’re unique and I love that we see their strong bond and connection. They’re soulmatey and angsty. Idk I feel like they gave hope that there are people that will get you and have your back. And strength, they grown so much and made me think about myself to keep facing my fears and be in a healthy relationship. 33. Carol’s fav music genre(s)? ||Country pop. Idk.. I think McReedus are into Rock music so. 34. Daryl’s fav music genre(s)? ||Country rock. ...Idk Metal music.

35. Describe Carol in one word. ||Brave

36. Describe Daryl in one word. ||Loyal or uh a word that means does what he think is the right thing to do...and caring. Uncle.

37. What do you expect from them in season 11? ||Idk I’m really clueless. TWD right now is really not by the comics anymore and it’s hard to speculate now. I’m kinda hoping they have something a plot that relates to taking care of the Grimes kids and a plot/s that relates to Rick’s journey/TWD show. Idk well I guess they be figuring it out what to do with Maggie and politics with the ..spoiler- new communities.

I hope for good writing and if they go canon, I hope they write good relationship/romance writing. As in they don’t separate them and break up a bunch of times or be boring. eek. I hope it’s like they still be like the subtle canon ship..like RIchonne as there is something else they have to do together. Like they be canon but they talk about the new plots/problems/family in s11 and their relationship grows.

38. Your favorite Caryl season(s)? Why? ||It’s season 2 or s10. I feel it’s the most Caryl interaction and them deepening their relationship. 39. When do you think Daryl was ready to start a relationship? Or do you still think he isn't ready? Or he is ready rn? ||Whenever the writers are ready. :\ I think as a character he’s ready...yeah especially s10. He’s not hiding and being emo in the woods in s9. He’s not the (Rick’s)sidekick character anymore. He’s I think grown a lot by being with people and opening up being a leader-like now, domestic?,leading character, and I think he’s now more ready to have romantic relationship if he wants to. And for Carol ..rn is like does she feel worthy or ok to have love again. ooh angst. 40. Which of them is owl, and which of them is lark? Why? || I think Daryl is a lark/early bird because he likes the quietness and time to hunt, and Carol is a night owl because she likes to know what else is going on when it’s the dark.

#caryl #caryl positivity #*twd #2nd time posting this but no link added..

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twistedsinews · 5 years

Note

1, 8, 10, 12, 19, 24, and 44?

1. Do you listen to music when you write?

Always. It soothes the fidgety part of my brain while I’m trying to translate what I see into words that I hope make sense.

Occasionally I forget to put the music on and there’s a definite negative correlation to productivity there. :P

8. Oldest WIP

… … …the FFI novelization I started when I started writing seriously as a teenager. I got several chapters in, then restarted it, then restarted it again and parts of it are still up on the internet, wheeze

I still intend to finish it, and it’s kinda a good thing I didn’t just blow through it, because it’s ambitious and I’ve come to a lot of worldbuilding conclusions I wouldn’t have by letting it set. It’s still way overdue for the writing it out part, though.

I also have a full series Ultima novelization series planned. Pray for me.

Not that I know anyone else really likes video game novelizations other than the people writing them, even for pretty bare-bones games, but I like them so I presume some other folks enjoy them too.

10. Doyou set yourself deadlines?

Occasionally. Usually it’s like, “I wanna get this fic completed by [x] date” or “before I start on [y],” though.

I have more luck with fic exchange deadlines and challenge deadlines and things like that, though. Though I missed the last challenge deadline I signed up for because I signed up for too many exchanges this year and it snuck up on me. Oops.

12. Describeyour perfect writing space

Desk, laptop, comfy or adequate office chair, candy or other junkfood to graze on while thinking, earphones in, playlist shuffle on, middle of the night so no one is around and all is still.

19. Howdo you keep yourself motivated?

“Maybe someone will read the thing and like it.”

also the realization of, “If I want it to exist I gotta write it ‘cause it’s not going to write itself.”

Idk, though, there’s this thing I got with certain stories where I also can’t really stop thinking about them or move on to the next until they get written. Which is it’s own “Okay, I guess we’re doing this??” motivation at times.

24. Favouritegenre to write and read

Reading:

Fanfiction. Really, though, give me that emotional continuity or whatever it’s been called recently. If I love a thing I love me more of the same.

Uhh…

I like Sci-fi, Sci-fantasy, and High Fantasy. I like heavily worldbuilt stuff but with characters that are engaging. I really like rogue types. Cosmic horror is its own thing, but it’s fun when it’s built into one of the above.

I especially like stuff that engages my brain in a clever or creative way, because I’m one of those people who spots the plot twist three chapters in regardless of whether you intended to write foreshadowing or not. XD

Writing:

…Fanfiction? XD

I … actually really like writing plot-heavy stuff and new adventures for characters and all kinds of side stories, I’m just not very good at long plot stuff before I start second guessing myself and end up putting it on the back burner. And I enjoy worldbuilding the same. Magic can be very fun, especially the magic that makes no logical sense, but also the magic that works according to rules. Same with sci-fi that just works because it’s advanced and taken for granted by the people who live within that world, no explanation given.

That aside, I’ve actually really enjoyed writing the ‘mundane’ RL analogue stuff that is early Saints Row. Even if I keep putting ghosts and paladin-style magic into it, but hey - GooH is a thing now.

And I really, really enjoy rogues.

44. Howmuch research do you do?

Too much.

Not enough.

Okay, look: a wizard arrives does just as much research as he intends to, alright?

I have a bad habit of getting hung up on little details here for two hours and eventually handwaving everything anyway there. It can’t be said I don’t make the effort, though.

#chyrstis #how not to write fic #thaank <3 #prompts and answers

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suggable · 5 years

Text

Alphabet Tag

Long post ahead!! I was tagged by the lovely @nyxqueenofshadows

a // age: 23

b // birthplace: Madrid

c // current time: 20:29

d // drink you last had: Sprite! Hobi and I are Sprite soulmates I love it so much

e // easiest person to talk to: my friend Sonia :)

f // favourite songs: ahh this is hard!! but I guess Just a Boy by Angus and Julia Stone, Bonnie and Clyde by Serge Gainsbourg, Cosmic Love by Florence+the Machine (but they’re my fav group ever so anything from them!), Lovers in Japan by Coldplay, How soon is now? by the Smiths, Anna by Will Butler (or anything Arcade Fire!) and many more to list here!!!

g // grossest memory: uhhh idk I’m not easily grossed out

h // horror.. yes or no: yes! but most of the time I can’t take it seriously!

i // in love: not really? but I love a lot of people if that counts!!

j // jealous of people: nah

k // kids of your own someday: depends on a lot of stuff so 50/50

l // love at first sight or walk by again: both? I get esaily infatuated but depends on the person!

m // middle name: María...don´t like it do not use it

n // number of siblings: 2, younger bro and sis

o // one wish: wish I could sleep forever right now!

p // person you last talked to: my mom

q // question you’re always asked: Laura are you paying attention? jksdhjfk that says something about me

r // random fact about you: my hair grows insanely fast hsjha

s // song you last sang: I’ve been stuck with Magic Shop by BTS all day the “so show me bit” ahhhh

t // time you woke up: 7:15...rip me

u // underwear colour: black

v // vacation destination: Australia or Norway!

w // worst habit: staying up really late

x // x-rays: right hand a couple of times

y // your favourite food: any kind of cake! or chocolate!

z // zodiac sign: virgo

This was fun!! I tag @minyoongsueit @yoongisugameow @by-myg @hroseok @jisooxukun if you want to do it of course!! ^^

#so much personal info hjsdhdjf #long post #tag game #personal tag

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titleknown · 7 years

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I Saw A Film: The Void

Well, I actually saw it a couple o weeks ago and it kept slipping my mind to do this review, so I think I must put extra emphasis on the fact that YOU NEED TO SEE THE VOID.

Like, legit, if you’re a fan of 80s-type horror; practical effects or even just being scared in general it is an excellent movie. The long and short of the basic plot is: Dude sees guy battered and bruised on the side of the highway; takes him to the hospital; and weird body-horror-y shit starts to happen; having something to do with a creepy cult blocking anyone from leaving the hospital and the stuff below in what turns out to be a story of downright cosmic horror.

This film is excellent; one of the few non-found-footage horror films to make me fucking squirm. The body-horror-y monsters are pretty much all done with practical effects and; no offense to the hard-working professionals at ADI, but it’s pretty much what Harbinger Down should’ve been.

Even aside from that, the production design is great; with the eerie image of the hooded cultists and the triangle motif that I’m sad hasn’t at least inspired more Bill Cypher jokes (Yet another reason to GO SEE THIS MOVIE).

But, this is enhanced by the superb cinematography; lighting; use of color and acting. The lighting does the opposite of most horror films; instead of washing it out giving it a lurid; eerie and unnatural feel. It reminds me of the wya Hobo With A Shotgun used color; and it’s a way in which I wish more films’d try it. And the way cinematography is used is fucking haunting in some scenes, especially during the introduction of the “mistakes” we find out about later and in a heartbreaking mercy-kill scene I will not spoil.

Mark Kermode was kind of right in that the script can be a bit wonky at times; but I will say the performances make up for it in spades; especially the main villain; whose monologues are fucking chilling. And the story itself is structured quite well; reminding me of a Call of Cthulhu game; and taking a lot of the best storytelling techniques from the era it is pastiching; such as the action-y opening before the quiet buildup and the eerie trapped-in-a-nightmare-place plot.

Tho; it did end up kinda wonky at times thanks to the script; such as the reveal of what the hell the deal with that one pregnant girl (Which I knew was going to end darkly the moment she first showed up because body horror movie) was. I did kinda find myself slapping my forehead when I realized the Night Of The Living Dead showing and the mention of “de-gloving” was foreshadowing, but IDK whether that’s good or bad.

But yeah, it’s the kind of movie I wish there were more of nowadays; an excellent cosmic horror trip and one I highly recommend you support if you can.

#movie review #i saw a film #the void #horror film #practical effects #cosmic horror #horror movies #good

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foxhenki-blog · 6 years

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Disintegration

It’s Walpurgistnacht again, I made it.

Every year my other self’s employer sends our shared mortal coil out to San Fransisco for a conference on Knowledge Management. Yes, him, the other, the non-magic-y fellow, he professionally manages gnosis. A Gnosis Manager employed by the demiurge. As the phrase goes, you do what you got to do to survive. I’m going to try and live blog the trip as it happens, to stay connected to all of you dear readers, just to stay sane.

The flight was uneventful, I consumed Occulture’s latest with Jason Miller and re-consumed Original Gangster Gordon White’s Open Systems Spirit Work Solo Show from the close of last year on the plane. I’ve listened to that damn episode a number of times already, but this time, idk what it was, but it stuck, the concepts gelled, I got it. Maybe it was the cold brew coffee with the 2:45 AM wake up call chased with lonely tab of piracetam I’ve been saving - I don’t care, whatever happened it worked and I think I have a good idea of the way I am supposed to be taking a 2018 practice.

I came here last year, and was much less relaxed. I stopped to visit the Mission Dolores and wrote about it in a fumbling way here. I’m back, because I promised not to forget the dead there, but, I don’t know, this city, it bothers me for some reason on a magic-y spidey-sense and manifestation of the empirical agenda kind of way.

But I’m here, in the Mission District, I stopped at Four Barrel Coffee, which if it weren’t for Google Maps I wouldn’t have found because of course it doesn’t have a street facing sign, just well patina’ed wood and mustachioed gentlemen gazing balefully out of the window.

Back to the weirdness while I charge up my government approved tracking device. On Original Gordon’s advice (given freely in the Premium Member Q+A’s), I journeyed on this trip because I didn’t know where to take it. I magic’ed the hell out of it last time, some of my experience was peaceful and some of it was freaking terrifying (like the spontaneous slam a Lucifer Square in the mouth of a lion guardian at China Town’s Dragon Gate after invoking the Lord of the Crossroads part of it… Whatevs, I was trying for invincibility). My journeying has continued off and on all week, including on the plane. The cemetery really didn’t come up. Nor did the original Mission, where I tried to jailbreak a Cyprian treasure spell to fulfill the very first bit of advice (the very first question I asked over at Rune Soup) in an attempt to un-f*ck a longstanding carjacking of my financial situation brought about (I’m 99% certain) by another jailbroken, very ill-timed and half-finished treasure spell I attempted back in my twenties. I expected both of those to be prominent in the journeying, to really jump out, along with the Dragon Gate, but it didn’t happen.

What I did get was a very ‘A Dark Song’ (that movie f’ed me up Mr. Ghostly Harmless) vision of four gigantic angels standing guard at the corners of the primary Mission Dolores and an image of me collecting holy water. This linked up with a dram I had where I was in another church, pouring over sheets of unreadable dream lettered sheet music, listening to posh elites talk about nose jobs…

So that’s my first destination… to grab some holy water. I was shown that I am to anoint my new Seven Sorrows rosary, so I imagine I’ll be petitioning the Queen of Heaven to return my texts again, before moving on.

The Mission District seems much smaller this time around, and I don’t need my phone to get around. I walked up to take a peak at the San Fransisco Mint, stopped in the obligatory Whole Foods, and then made my way down to the Mission passing what I think was a gigantic Datura bush on the way. There was a fellow in front of his house, blithely watering a lovely urban garden, every inch of his skin (including his head and neck) covered in tattoos.

Arriving on the corner, the Mission rising above me into the cloudless sky, those Dark Song angel-giants popped into my head again, but this time, they were conflated with the bell tower, in fact, all bell towers. The idea was really ludicrous, at least it felt that way, but I was overwhelmed with the thought that all churches everywhere, those that had steeples anyway, were actually flanked by angelic soldier that stood as tall as their own towers. This tower fetish I’ve developed as a result of reading through Lovecraft’s work is getting a bit out of hand, but maybe that’s the point. The Tower in the tarot has always been so inscrutable and seemingly out-of-place, but now, after so many instances of towers in Lovecraft’s work and the connections I’ve made, this most odd of archetypes is beginning to congeal into something much deeper.

Angelic magic has been in the air a lot lately as well and really, doesn’t its weirdness, its un-humaness, really fit the Lovecraftian Magical Aesthetic well? Cosmic beings that live among humans but are in many ways not aligned with the human agenda, whose ways are unpredictable and chaotic…

I fulfilled the task set about for me during my journeying, anointing the rosary and praying the Seven Sorrows in the basilica. The ritual was the same as my last largely unimpressive attempt until I reached the sixth sorrow, when that familiar magic body buzz was kindled. With the seventh sorrow it came back, like psylocibin waves, and by the time I completed the prayer, I had fully altered consciousness. Deep gratitude to the organ and cello player practicing in the front of the church, you gave me a nice free jazz soundtrack for the act.

Even though my journeying did not indicate a need to return to the cemetery, I did. The first time, last year, it was cold, no contact. This year, after making the promise to return and fulfilling it, it genuinely felt like a warm hug, an instant calm filled with intrigue and a sense of mystery, not entirely unlike the film scene in our first imbrication.

IMBRICATIONS

I’ve got this thing for walking in the footsteps of Jimmy Stewart. To me, well, he’s not really an icon, but, I don’t know, a fixture in my psyche is probably a better word. I have a sister who is from Marquette, MI and when she was getting married up in Big Bay, above Marquette, the thing I was most excited about was that was where Anatomy of a Murder was filmed. I got to stay in Inn where the bar scenes were shot. I ate in the bar, right next to where the actual murder took place. I got real stalker-y and drove slow through the trailer park where the murderer (real and filmic) stayed. I was really into it. That said, I’m not a film geek, so I wasn’t aware that I had stumbled on another set of Mr. Stewart’s footsteps, until I saw the plaque above the Alfred Hitchcock bobble heads in the Cemetery gift shop (so much wrong with that sentence). A key scene in Vertigo was filmed in the cemetery I had just spent time in, communing with the oldest and only known dead in the city of San Fransisco. Replace me with Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak with various invisible spirit forms and my visit looked exactly like the scene below:

Obviously, a lot has gone down in the city of San Fransisco, musically, culturally, etc. If you’re not a metalhead, however, you might not be aware that (the bizarrely now nearly mainstream band) Slayer got their start in the Bay Area. The below video from the National Museum of American History (see what I’m saying about bizarre, well deserved, but bizarre) gives a really nice high level overview of the makers and influencers of so much music that made me the person I am today. Hint, they ain’t the Grateful Dead:

And lest you think to count them out, here they are again, in full force. I have deep memories attached to this song. The best of which is walking in the Lena, IL cemetery, with my dual cassette boom box, playing this song off of my treasured (it was hard to get music in the sticks in the eighties) Reign in Blood tape:

DOWN ON FASCINATION STREET

Our Lovecraft tale this week is a quick one by the name of Cool Air. It offers whiffs of Lovecraft’s experience in New York city, citing a four story brownstone on West Fourteenth Street as the local. The nameless narrator, our protagonist, is poor and hopping from rooming house to rooming house. Very likely a reality for HPL at some point. The very first lines set the scene for us:

“It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude. I found it in the glare of the mid-afternoon, in the clangour of the metropolis, and in the teeming midst of a shabby and commonplace rooming house...”

Cool Air, more than most, gives our Lovecraftian Magic a place in the urban environment. Our protagonist, after some exposition, meets our archetype, one Doctor Muñoz, who is described as such:

“Exquisitely proportioned... clad in somewhat formal dress of perfect cut and fit... short iron-gray full beard and an old-fashioned pince-nez… full dark eyes... aquiline nose… He was the bitterest of sworn enemies to death, and had sunk his fortune and lost all his friends in a lifetime of bizarre experience that devoted to its bafflement and extirpation.”

This sentiment is very similar to that one feature in Whisperer in Darkness where the brains in jars are looked on as the ultimate evolution of human. Lovecraft is not a celebrator of death, but rather, his tales are an incantation to bing about longevity and the elevation of class. And maybe, when you think on it, most classical steampunk has this at its core as well. The anime, Steamboy, for example, has at its core a young poor man who is in possession of a great advancement in the science of the genre. He is seeking to use it for good, but in effect is about the business of raising his station. It is a magical aesthetic that incorporates and, in the case of Cool Air, depends on machines to keep the magic operant. This might seem unthinkable to many magicians, as the eschewing of technology and the urban environment is rampant among the neo-pagan and even the modern ceremonial magician. The Lovecraftian Magical Aesthetic looks past these false constraints into a world where technology and necromancy are complimentary, if not inseparable. The drama reaches a height when these machines begin to break down:

"One night [in the middle of October] about eleven the pump of the refrigerating machine broke down... The moribund hermit’s rage and fear, swelling to grotesque proportions, seemed likely to shatter what remained of his failing physique...”

While not our tarot card for the tale, Cool Air is certainly connected to the Hermit archetype in certain ways, but an urban hermit, a slightly different animal. Viewing this from the 21st c. this is a very solid connection to the internet culture, seeking digital immortality, living next to each other, yet avoiding their neighbors, the being alone in a crowd. Moreover, the narrator offers this nugget:

“There is... an infinite deal of pathos in the state of an eminent person who has come down in the world.”

Which shows more musings on class and station and the inevitable loss of that station. As the machine around Doctor Muñoz begin to fail, the magical reality of his existence (or psuedo-existence) begins to take over:

“A kind of growing horror, of outre and morbid cast, seemed to possess him. He talked of death incessantly, but laughed hollowly when such things as burial or funeral arrangements were gently suggested.”

Leaving us with a curious phrase, death without burial, a keeping of the dead among the living. We see this aesthetic growing with the activities of the Death Positive movement. Doctor Muñoz could be seen as their champion:

“He seemed about to hurl defiance at the death-daemon even as that ancient enemy seized him.”

Our tarot match for Cool Air is the Eight of Coins.

Our now familiar Etteilla deck offers us two key phrases. Fille Brune for the upright position and Usure for the reversed. The literal translations are Brunette, and to Wear. Brunette stems from the PIE root *bher-, which can mean either bright or brown and forms part of words like amphora, aquifer, bairn, or barrow - essentially a container. If we are to look a bit deeper at Cool Air, one of the underlying points the author is trying to make is that the body is merely the container for the soul, the intellect, the spirit of the individual. The verb phrase, to wear, helps to deepen the archetype.

From etymonline:

“The Germanic forms ‘were homonyms of the vb. for 'prevent, ward off, protect' (Goth. warjan, O.E. werian, etc.), and this was prob. a factor in their early displacement in most of the Gmc. languages’”

and so we see, that is another match for our good Doctor, whom not only clothed his living spirit in a decaying corpse, but used his machines to prevent and ward off the inevitable disintegration of his corporeal form, cheating his unbeatable enemy, death, if only for a time.

#Steampunk #Science #Relics

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pomoblue · 6 years

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I realise when I’m analysing stuff, I make up a lot of words, or make words mean different things.

I should start a dictionary for shit I just made up. I should probably make this a page rather than a post but whatever.

"lonely” space opera/sf/scifi: that sort of atmosphere of loneliness and emptiness in a science fiction series, usually one that takes place in spaceships. Think FTL. I think it’s a really cool atmosphere, and I like looking at the simple things that make it feel more immersive.

Base SF: I think the best way to describe this is sort of like cosmic horror, only less cosmic and more sort of dreamlike. People randomly disappearing, things turning into other things,lots of unexplainable stuff. I find it kind of fascinatingly creepy because a lot of my nightmare-y dreams involve that, where things are scary because they’re inherently Wrong.

Heavy Urban Fantasy: Urban Fantasy that uses a lot of heavy lit fic themes alongside the fantasy stuff. Often goes into the moral implications of stuff like the masquerade, as well as the psychological effects. I think supernatural (or possibly buffy idk I haven’t seen either) made this a popular tv show subgenre. If it’s also YA I give it the beautiful acronym YAHUF. Poetic.

Continental Fantasy: oh god I need a better name for this. Similar to urban fantasy, but the “Urban” part of the setting is also a constructed setting, usually based on 20th century earth. Think Legend of Korra, or FMA. It’s fun and political and there’s also magic

Halfpunk: A genre so called because it’s halfway to cyberpunk. Halfpunk works take place A Little Bit(tm) in the future and are A Little Bit(tm) more dystopian. What makes a halfpunk setting work is that the issues in the world are the same issues as in the contemporary world, but worse. The oil crisis worsening, a current conflict turning into an all-out war, whatever. Doctor Who had a couple of good halfpunk episodes, but the quintessential example of this is Black Mirror.

Eclectic Fantasy: I think this is similar to new weird? Eclectic fantasy is any kind of fantasy work which specifically doesn’t take a lot of its influences from Tolkein or any other influential fantasy, and takes a lot of influences straight from other mythologies and folklore. I really like this kind of fantasy. Think Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, all that lot. This may or may not be the same thing as new weird.

YAD: Usually said in a derogatory way. “Ugh, it’s YAD”. Stands for young adult dystopia. You know what I mean. For the record I don’t hate YAD, I just think 80% of it is a bit shit.

My Thing: Young adult gay shit with heavy themes and wacky sci-fi.

There’s more but I can’t remember them at the moment and this post has been in my drafts for aaaaaages.

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wolfwhiteflowers · 4 years

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found this on twitter and wanted (try) to answer them here instead. :B Great questions! thanks. @LM_Nocass

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5. AU: real life. Which one of them is more attractive to believe in supernatural stuff? Why? ||hmm they both seem to be into that. erm I’ll say Daryl.

6. AU: real life. Which one of them is more attractive to send a lot of Red heartFace throwing a kissSmiling face with heart-shaped eyes and etc? Why? || Carol is more open to display of affection. But Daryl got hearts on his sleeves. He’s straightforward tells/show you how he feels and means it.

13. What would do today's Carol if she met someone like Ed? ||Probably be able to stand up to him when he starts to be controlling and she speak out and say it’s not right. Idk..maybe them talking it out will make Ed change himself if he wants to. 14. If today's Carol met past Carol, what would she say to her? ||You’re stronger than you think you are. You are enough. These hard times made her wiser in Apoc./life. She’s always a mother..when they’re gone, they’re still with her. 15. If today's Daryl met past Daryl, what would he say to him? ||This doesn’t always have to be this way/Merle-life. You’re not alone. Good people will stick with you. Trust them. Your goodness matters. You don’t need to depend on Merle. If Merle wouldn’t change now then he won’t later on. Idk... Daryl is so loyal and to his brother. So it’s just he gotta let Merle/his past go. 16. Why does Daryl prefer the crossbow, not a bow? ||I guess that’s what hunters like to use most often. Idk. 17. AU: real life. Which one of them is most likely to surfing in the Internet for hours? Why? ||Carol because she mentioned internet in s4. lol Okay um yeah Carol I guess. I think she likes to research on things. Daryl is more outdoorsy kind of person. 18. AU: real life. Which one of them will have a private acc on social medias and who won’t care? ||I think both would be private...or heck Daryl not private but barely any content. lol Just hunting, nature stuff and games.

19. AU: real life. Which one of them will send memes? ||Carol because she like goofy or sassy jokes.

21. AU: real life. What profession is suitable for Daryl? Why? ||A hunter, mechanic, or construction worker. Something like hands-on job.

22. Which of them has a black sense of humor? ||I think Carol have a dark/black sense of humor. Daryl is ..more less humor-y. more sarcastic. idk what im saying.

29. If there was Caryl movie, what song(s) would you add to it? || hmm a song to add, I would pick ..”You and Me” by Pink I think. Or, X and Y by Coldplay. Or, Cosmic Love by Florence Machine. 30. Did Daryl help you? ||I really appreciate the writers and the acting did with Daryl and Carol. They’re really unique, interesting and relatable characters. Daryl helped me to keep being myself and do what’s right even when you feel odd ball out. Idk I also like that we see characters like Daryl and Carol what we stereotypical think they may be like in s1 but then we see they’re relatable and we can be more open minded to other people. I liked that we see him getting a chance to grow and see how loyal he is. 31. Did Carol help you? ||Yeah. I really like how she’s like I guess most people in s1, quiet, timid, not quite fit into the Apoc. world, but learns to trust herself, get braver and open up. She’s like so strong and brave now but it’s not surprising to see that in a way because we see her character development and I like how writers and acting, made it so relatable and realistic to me. We all can be like Carol. //I think she’s a great character to watch for mothers who lost kids or was a abused wife. Same with Daryl as a abused child/brother in that Merle’s lifestyle.

35. Describe Carol in one word. ||Brave

36. Describe Daryl in one word. ||Loyal or uh a word that means does what he think is the right thing to do...and caring. Uncle.

#caryl #long post #*twd #this was so fandomy #caryl positivity

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