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luciddownloading · 5 months

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Planets in the 12th House 🧿

SUN IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Multiple personalities and they're all confusing. Either seems like a narcissist or a wallflower but they're really not. Most of them are massive insomniacs but also can freakishly thrive on very little sleep. MUST work on their solar plexus chakra (may either be blocked or overactive). A lot of them strongly believe in past lives/reincarnation and could be very naturally tapped into their Akashic Records. Deja Vu 24/7. In the arts, they are absolute icons and trendsetters. Could be more of a leader in their creative field but passive otherwise. If their father is in their life, no one drives them crazier but there is no one they admire and respect more. If not, they feel better off without a father and don't see it as a void in their life.

MOON IN THE 12TH HOUSE: The "child whisperer"; babies and kids instantly feel safe and soothed and understood around them. Capable of 100 different moods in the span of a day. Yet will insist they're "fine" when you ask. Uncannily capable of telling when others are not as happy as they appear. CLAIRSENTIENCE. An empath who needs to protect their energy for the sake of their sanity. Must express their emotions maturely or else they get very self-destructive. Deep, deep love of movies or music that may just be a hobby. Most feel incredibly indebted to their mothers or can have a very codependent motherly bond. Messy as hell sleeping schedule: staying up late, sleeping in late, insomnia, sleeping 10 hours, etc.

MERCURY IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Throat chakra probably needs a lot of healing. Could have a speech impediment early in life or be neurodivergent. They could also be judged very harshly (and unfairly) for their accent. Knows what people are thinking somehow and it freaks them out. Clairaudient abilities. Secretly very shrewd and cunning. Learned how to "play dumb" or "say less" early in life so people can't predict their next move. They have highly communicative Spirit Guides and they're always interacting with them but they may not be consciously aware of it. Natural channelers or mediums. NOTHING is a coincidence to them. They see signs in everything because they're always in dialogue with the Universe.

VENUS IN THE 12TH HOUSE: The biggest sweethearts but may hide that by acting kind of "mean". The best connections for them are the ones who see the big softie under the tough exterior. A lot of powerful feminine Spirit Guides around them. May also be very connected to love/beauty goddesses like Aphrodite or Freya. Is either seen as a goddess type or has a strong romantic relationship with a partner with big goddess energy (regardless of gender). Major Twin Flame vibes. Major soulmate connections. A divine counterpart could spiritually awaken them or even act as a guide (in human form or in the Spirit Realm). Art = healing. Could make their best art about the one they love or in collaboration with them. Heart chakra blockages that must be addressed.

MARS IN THE 12TH HOUSE: A dormant volcano that rarely explodes but causes total devastation when it does. Recurring nightmares that may haunt them through adulthood. Might be incredibly drawn to "scary" art: horror movies, heavy metal, grotesque visual art, etc. Would SERIOUSLY benefit from taking up boxing, self-defense or any kind of martial arts. As a teenager, they probably convinced adults they were perfectly well-behaved all while secretly drinking, having sex or smoking a lot. Becomes more open about their "bad behavior" with age. If they don't let themselves rebel, they'll implode/break down/become very destructive. Probably needs to heal their sacral chakra. Knows how to fulfill all their partner's sexual fantasies/desires but needs to express theirs.

JUPITER IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Knowing that abundance is not just about money. They have an abundance of many spiritual/emotional/creative blessings (love, inner peace, talent, psychic abilities) and financial abundance follows. People constantly being jealous of them and they're just like, "Jealous of what?" Their humility and belief that everyone can win brings them more blessings. Incredibly inspirational. They make people want to be better versions of themselves. DREAMERS. Figuratively and literally; their actual dreams are like nightly movies. Constantly rescued or kept out of trouble by their Guides. Very active spiritual life. May start life very religious but benefits from exploring lots of spiritual paths.

SATURN IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Somehow super-grounded and very otherworldly, at the same time. Most likely to make skeptics see the truth or value in spirituality or psychic phenomena. Some may claim to be skeptics themselves but that's either just a phase or what they tell themselves to cope with this reality. Very powerful and natural psychic gifts that they may resist, dismiss or fear until they're called to embrace them. Although they see themselves as a hot mess, a LOT of people look up to and admire them. Major "older sibling" energy (regardless of if they actually are a big brother/sister or not). Also, "wise mentor" energy. VERY divinely protected. They have a lot of masculine, formidable Spirit Guides who do not mess around when it comes to them. One or two of their Guides or just a compassionate mentor may play a fatherly role in place of their father figure in this life, who could be absent, passed on or emotionally checked out.

URANUS IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Highly clairvoyant. As artists, this makes them ahead of the current trends and very cutting-edge. They could also have predictive dreams and visions. Raven Baxter vibes (including the chaos and calamities). Very good at convincing others that they are straight-laced or "normal" but the weirdness eventually slips through. Might be a model child and save all their rebelliousness for adulthood. Or they could be a model citizen but totally wild behind closed doors. They stand out through either controversial artistic statements or a very unique fashion sense. Really sensitive to mental health issues. Kind of like medication in human form; can help stabilize people's instabilities.

NEPTUNE IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Virtually hypnotizes people, without even trying. They have a striking beauty that is more about their aura/energy than looks (even though they may be gorgeous). Magical, mystical beings. A fairy, elf, mermaid, etc in human form. Often feels burdened/cursed by the pedestal others put them on. Humbly owns their flaws/faults while others are like, "Nah, you're kind of perfect actually". Seen as an angelic presence or guiding light to those they influence. Can go to some DARK inner places but can also heal/redeem themselves. Extremely psychic and trusts their intuition. Third eye and crown chakra are wide-open. Spirituality is the air they breathe. Highly connected to their past lives and were most likely artists or spiritual teachers in previous lifetimes, repeating those skills in this one.

PLUTO IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Often has to play the villain before they can become the hero. Get accused of absolutely untrue or unfounded things by people who are threatened by them. Can develop a very "bad reputation" that hides the fact that they're actually really nice or level-headed. However, they secretly enjoy being feared so they may encourage that illusion around them. Many of them have natural, powerful witchcraft abilities, due to a past life or more as a witch. As a result, they may be incredibly drawn to the occult/paganism or be one of those intense "that stuff is evil and demonic!!!" types. Their Spirit Guides are forces to be reckoned with, delivering retribution to their enemies yet also giving these people "cruel to be kind" lessons that change their lives. Walking bullshit detectors. Forces people to deal with their hidden truth but become more subtle and graceful about it with age.

#astrology #12th house #12th house planets #12th house placements #12th house stellium #sun in the 12th house #moon in the 12th house #mercury in the 12th house #venus in the 12th house #mars in the 12th house #jupiter in the 12th house #saturn in the 12th house #uranus in the 12th house #neptune in the 12th house #pluto in the 12th house

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bethanythebogwitch · 9 months

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If you asked me as a kid what my favorite animal was, there's a good chance I'd respond "chambered nautilus", though I probably would mispronounce it. I don't know if it's still my favorite but it's definitely up there in the pantheon of weird critters. For this Wet Beast Wednesday, I'll discuss my childhood favorite.

(image: a nautilus)

The nautilus is a cephalopod that lives in a curved shell and looks similar to (but is not closely related to) the extinct ammonites. There are 6 living species in two genera, but 90% of the time when someone is discussing nautiluses they are referring to the most well-known species: Nautilus pompilius or the chambered nautilus. Nautiloids are ancient, going back to at least the late triassic with their more primitive ancestors going back as far as the ordovician period, a time when only invertebrates and primitive plants occupied the land and true fish had not yet appeared. Because of their ancient history, nautiluses are sometimes considered living fossils. I have ranted before on how misleading the term "living fossil" is so I'll spare you that for now. Nautiloids are considered a sister group to the celoids, which contains all the squid, octopus, cuttlefish, and everything else we thinks of as cephalopods. Nautiluses should not be confused with paper nautiluses. Also called argonauts, paper nautiluses are a group of octopi that make an egg case which looks like a shell.

(image: a nautilus)

The most noticeable feature of a nautilus is its shell. The shell is smooth and finely curving, naturally growing in the shape of a logarithmic spiral (though not, as is commonly stated, a golden ratio spiral). The shell has a stripy outer layer and an inner layer coated with nacre. Internally, the shell is divided into camarae (chambers) separated from each other by walls called septa. Each septum has a small hole in it through which a strand of tissue called the siphuncle passes. Most of the nautilus's body is in the foremost and largest chamber. The shell grows new septa as the animal grows, with the nautilus's body moving to a new chamber as it becomes too large for previous ones. Juveniles are typically born with 4 septa, with adults having as many as 30. In addition to providing protection from predators, the shell is also key for regulating buoyancy. The septa can contain pressurized gas or water and the siphuncle regulates their contents by either adding or removing water to increase or decrease buoyancy. Because of its pressurized contents, the shell can only withstand pressure at depths up to 800 M (2,400 ft) before imploding. Oddly enough, nautiluses can be safely brought up from deep waters where most animals would be killed by the pressure changes. To move, the nautilus pulls water into the first chamber of the shell using its hyponome (siphon) and shoots it back out. The chambered nautilus is the largest species, with a maximum shell diameter of 25 cm (10 in), though most get no larger than 20 cm (8 in).

(image: a diagram of nautilus anatomy. source)

Where celoid cephalopods have tentacles, nautiluses instead have numerous cirri. Unlike tentacles, cirri are less muscular, are not elastic, and have no suckers. They are used to grab objects using their ridged surfaces and can hold in so hard that trying to take an object away from a nautilus can rip off its cirri, which will remain firmly attached. In addition, the nautilus has modified cirri that serve as olfactory receptors and a pair that serve to open and close the shell when the nautilus needs to retract into it or emerge. Nestled within the cirri is the beak, which is used to consume the nautilus's primary prey of invertebrates, though they have also been seen scavenging fish. Their eyes are less developed than most cephalopods, lacking a lens and consisting of a small pinhole that only allows the nautilus to see simple imagery. Their brains are differently structured than most cephalopods and studies have found them to have considerably shorter long-term memories.

(image: a chambered nautilus (upper left) next to a rare Allonautilus scrobiculatus. source)

Cephalopod reproduction is quite different than that of other cephalopods. While most cephalopods are short-lived and semelparous (reproducing only once), nautiluses can live over 20 years and reproduce multiple times (iteroparity). They do not reach sexual maturity until around 15 years old, with females laying eggs once per year. Eggs are attached to rocks and take 8 to 12 months to hatch. Males have a structure called the spadix composed of 4 fused cirri that they use to transfer sperm to females. Females lose their gonads after laying their eggs and will regenerate them for the next year's mating season. Interestingly, male nautiluses seem to vastly outnumber the females. EDIT: @bri-the-nautilus in the replies found an alternate explanation for the disparity in male and female numbers you should check out. TLDR; the females are asocial.

(image: nautiluses mating)

Nautiluses are found in the Indo-Pacific reagion of the ocean and can be found on the steep slopes of coral reefs. They prefer to inhabit waters several hundred meters down. It was once believed that they would rise to shallow waters at night to feed, lay eggs, and mate, but their vertical migration behavior has since been shown to be more complex than that. They have noon been fished by humans for their shells, which have become popular subjects in art and can be made into a number of decorative pieces. The nacre of the shell can be polished into osmeña pearl, which can be quite valuable. Demand for the shells combined with the late sexual maturity and low fecundity is threatening all the species. As of 2016, nautiluses have been added to the CITES Appendix II, making them protected by limiting international trade of their shells. Despite this, they are still threatened and require further protection

(image: a carved and painted nautilus shell from the Poldi Pezzoli Museum, Milan)

#wet beast wednesday #nautilus #chambered nautilus #cephalopod #marine biology #zoology #biology #ecology #animal facts

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alle-ni · 7 months

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My thoughts about goodomensverse (I'm clinically insane) (my personal opinion) (long post)

Book Crowley:

- absolute disaster

- lonely boy

- grumpiest

- he's so in love with Aziraphale but didn't even realised yet

- a bit dumb sometimes ngl

- very tired

- he's trying so hard save earth and everything he knows but everytime he tries to explain why it's always AZIRAPHALE

- sometimes he's like... your old gay uncle, the old gay uncle of the family except it's a 6000 years old gender fluid demon

- HISS LIKE A SNAKE GANG

- got called dear once and them died (figuratively)

Radio Crowley:

- flirty

- "Humm have you ever seen me in a dress~~??"

- he's like flirting with Aziraphale 24/7

- 0 patience this man is a BOMB

- if Aziraphale ever EVER got slightly flirty with him back he will EXPLODE

- smartest of them all, he's very intelligent

- HISS LIKE A SSSSSNAKE GANG

- he's so in love with Aziraphale and it makes him SO FRUSTRATED

- his Aziraphale is the hardest one to reach, maybe this is why he's so deliberately obvious and direct with him (he's resilient, he will never give up)

- he's like a tsudere teenager collegial except he's a 6000 years old demon with serious issues

- not called dear yet poor soul </3

TV Crowley:

- SILLY

- he's the dumbest of them all, sorry 😭

- red hair

- he's so in love with Aziraphale and everyone notice it's SO OBVIOUS

- he's the most affected by The Bookshop Burning ™ event

- the only one who got to kiss the angel, good for him ig, or sorry, idk

- anxiety bomb he literally (literally) EXPLODE

- strongest soldier bc his Aziraphale is IMPOSSIBLE

- got dumped 2 times more than the others someone pls help him

- the most brave tho

- doesn't hiss a lot :/ free him from this madness let him hiss

- he's like a puppy with giant yellow eyes except it's a 6000 years old snake demon that lies all the time

- protective as hell this man wouldn't let anyone near Aziraphale if possible

- got called dear but at what cost??????????????

Book Aziraphale:

- Anxious all the time, religious trauma except the god is your father and he left you and never talk to you again and the guard angels are your siblings and they want you do be dead

- He's so soft he wants so bad to comfort Crowley but he's really hard to reach

- his Crowley is the most difficult of all of them, he needs to circle him a lot to get in touch

- this man got called names so often I don't think he even cares anymore

- he's very nerdy

- he's the calmest of them all

- really chill

- everyone is so mean to him for no reason

- he has 1 braincell tbh and it's really bad bc his Crowley is not that brilliant too they're both stupid sometimes

- he really REALLY wants to be with Crowley and Crowley only, he sounds almost obligated to be with heaven

- he is really kind to others even when they don't deserve

- he called Crowley dear once and then implode

Radio Aziraphale:

- full of himself

- bastard

- the most closed and oblivious of them all

- he tries to play cool with Crowley all the time (he's slowly getting insane and someday he will jump on this man)

- he's the most self sufficient one he barely holds on Crowley to anything and they're pretty independent

- Crowley can say shit like "Miss me angel~~??" and he would keep a bored face and not react at all (he screamed with the walls 4 hours later)

- he's also a tsudere collegial but he at least try to look cool and composed in public

- he's the Aziraphale that most believes in heaven, he's sure they are good and selfless and the right side

- he's not so brilliant tbh but he got a lot of spirit

- the most active Aziraphale ?? He really put his hand in the dirt and do the things alone

- the most angry and bad tempered of them all, bro scream "WE ARE CLOSED LOOK AT THE DAMN SIGN" when ppl barely touch the bookshop door

- he has a lot of patience with Crowley, not deserved tbh bc he thinks it's his personal job to get in Aziraphale's nerves

- overall he is polite

- he's really proud of their "arrangement" there not only one chance he let go without saying that

- he likes to provoke Crowley sometimes too but not as much as the other way around

- if he ever call Crowley dear he will explode

TV Aziraphale:

- bitchiest

- this man need to be sedated what the fuck Aziraphale

- most nuts of then all he's CRAZY

- he's the most up to do shit with Crowley they're insane together

- he doesn't let Crowley rest he is flirting and being cute and hitting on Crowley all the time

- he's so obviously in love with Crowley its embarrassing

- he's the fruitiest he's the entire salad

- the most... indulgent, if I can say, of them all

- more like an employer of heaven, different of book Aziraphale

- he's the only one with almost white hair

- he got kissed but at what cost

- he's the most intelligent of all of them how can he be this dumb

- he loves little things about earth and humans and life and he seems to be the Aziraphale that most love EARTH itself, like, the life, the humans, the food, the little pleasures we have, the little time of happiness we have between all the shit that is happening... he really loves humans <3

- he's conflicted about heaven, he seems to know that there's something WRONG with how heaven works but still doesn't understand what exactly it is

- "oh but saving me makes him soooo happyyyy~~~"

- overall kind and sweet, in a excited way

#good omens #good omens 2 #aziracrow #crowley #Aziraphale #radio omens #good omens radio #good omens book #thats my opinion #more like some thoughts i have been collecting since im hearing radio omens #not really accurate #does this count as character study????#lol I think not #maybe i have a preference for radio Aziraphale i wrote so much more about him and ended up erasing it all bc it made me look insane #shit its 2 am I'm so sleepy

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ghostflowerhotpotch · 10 months

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Hey hey, MIles gets jealous a lot in this movie, buuuuuut what if we talk about Gwen? 👀

Oh ho ho, I know there has been memes and stuff about that, but sure, let's talk about it.

I know we all mentioned jealousy coming from Miles, but I think is kind of poetic, but also hilarious, how quickly we go from Miles's jealousy to Gwen's.

Specially if we go with the fact that once again, while Gwen doesn't really own any explanations to Miles here, nor has she done anything wrong by being friends with Hobie.

(Also look at Hobie, I want you to remember that. Also he is amazing so he deserves the extra attention.)

Yet what is her reaction?

"Oh, not that many."

I swear, I am trying not to laugh.

See what I mean? Gwen is not only aware that Miles is jealous, she is still is trying to downplay it; even when she is convinced they can't work, she doesn't want Miles to misunderstand her feelings; which she has tried to hide, but I think at this point she knows she isn't doing a good job at it.

(The entire clock scene was very close to a confession let's be honest.)

Also, about Hobie, remember how I was bringing attention to him in the first image? Yeah I am still not sure what to do with it.

Let me be honest with you guys, to get these images I do a lot of slow-motion, which also helps to let certain frames sink better and be sure that I am not just making up what I am seeing; since a lot of these moments are things that last seconds. Very blink-it and you miss it.

And while looking at this particular part, I realized Hobie's expression when he was still were...interesting.

Look part of the reason looking at frames matter in animation is because in real life; an actor could had looked at one direction because he saw a crew member do a funny face, but in animation, when you need to recreate the scene for scratch and will probably be staring at this scene a lot to ensure is up to standard, things tend to have a bit more meaning.

That being said, if you look the scene to normal speed, is extremely fast. Maybe too much for the animators to intend for us to notice something.

So what I am trying to say is that I wonder if Hobie is purposely setting Miles off, and if he is doing so, I honestly think is just to mess with them a little.

Moving on!

If I am honest, you could almost believe Gwen just wants to move on because Miguel is waiting for them and the guy is already aggro, that was my first impression at least, until I re watched and realized that they are just seeing a demonstration before going to Miguel, so they are 1) Really giving Miles a tour, and 2) Stalling. Which doesn't match going straight to the boss.

Also Gwen's voice; the first time I saw this I remember being surprised that Gwen was asking to start moving because before this point she didn't seem to be worried. Her tone definitely sounds a bit exasperated, specially considering again how little they actually seem to care to get to Miguel.

So yeah, Gwen DEFINITELY was asking to keep moving because Miles' was attention was too much in somebody.

Let's rewind a bit because let's face it, I don't blame Gwen for being jealous.

I wish my computer had a way to render a little video without imploding because oh this takes a hot second and yep Miles definitely was looking at Margo a little awestruck.

Let me preface this saying I will not tolerate any Hate to Margo or to Flowerbyte or the shippers. She is great, and I will not tolerate ship wars here.

That being said, Miles definitely is looking a little too much at Margo; I partially thing Miles was a bit shocked because it has been a while since his spider sense got receptive to other spider (which happened a lot in the first movie, not so much in this one for meeting so many spiders.)

But again, I don't think is crazy to say she caught his attention.

No, I don't think Miles is doing anything wrong here, just like Gwen didn't do anything wrong before. They aren't dating, Gwen tried to shut that down, and is not like Miles is trying to upset Gwen or anything. He was just caught off-guard.

Regardless, just like I cannot blame Miles for being jealous of Hobie, I can't blame Gwen for being jealous of Margo.

She hides it better than Miles for sure, but like everything else she does, it comes back to the details and her actions.

Remember, they aren't particularly in a hurry, and she suddenly sounds exasperated out of nowhere. Hmm.

Now, the next moment is very blink and you miss it, I barely had the chance to notice while going in slow motion, but between Gwen telling Miles to move on, and Miles looking at Margo's avatar, this is Gwen's face.

Is very fast, probably the type of thing you don't pick up in theatres, but damn, I am cackling.

I guess she really wasn't expecting Margo to get such reaction out of Miles.

This a good moment to say, that while looking at this, you can see Gwen doesn't have any ill-will towards Margo.

Unlike the previous moment, this expression of her stays for a good moment; I remember that upon first stumbling with the confirmation that Gwen is jealous of Margo, I was shocked to see that expression on her, almost like she herself remembered that Margo situation is far from perfect.

I am SO thankful with the creators for making sure that neither from Miles nor Gwen, we get the plot line of one of them being jerks out of jealousy. Yeah Miles briefly tried to be spiteful towards Hobie, but didn't take long too change his tune, not to mention that Hobie really didn't mind.

And Gwen at any moment is shown to be bitter towards Margo, regardless if Miles was doing puppy eyes at her or not.

I just realized now, that Gwen is actually the first one to say they should go.

I really believe part of this was because the go-home-machine was looking a bit perverse. Even Margo looks a bit unsure of what to do of this, so it makes me wonder if is normal for it to look this painful.

(Sidenote, considering Miles and Gwen looked okay when they got out from this machine, I think Rhino was in pain because he was glitching at that moment. That would explain Margo looking like this if it was "normal.")

It doesn't escape me that Miles' reaction is the most shock one, no idea if Gwen could had picked on that being behind Miles, but maybe she realized Miles didn't particularly enjoy seeing that.

However, what happens next?

And here, I can only show it properly with this gif.

I want also to reiterate, that "Let's go!" Was from Hobie, I think he was trying to warn Miles.

Because Gwen didn't repeat herself, she deadass just sent a web and YANK HIM.

Again, wanting to go see Miguel my ass, you guys didn't seem particularly interested on that before. Not to mention that hey, you can see she isn't asking anymore and considering how she was looking at Miles from behind I don't think is because she doesn't want to be late.

Is a bit too small to take a proper capture, and hard to see, but yep, she looks mad.

I love how Margo laughs after this, like sure, Miles is endearing, but I also bet my left kidney she also clocked Gwen's crush extremely quickly because of this.

I almost expect Margo and Pavitr discuss who is crushing harder in the sequel.

Sorry for making this so freaking long and with so many sideways, but I think I needed to point out a few things, hope didn't bored anyone!

Keep suggesting moments!

#ghostflower #gwiles #gwen stacy #miles morales #atsv #across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse spoilers #spiderman #margo kess #hobie brown #spiderwoman #ghostflower files #ask

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unfortunately-obsessed · 5 months

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Bruce Wayne | Quality Time

Love languages headcanons

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x reader

Word count: 0.6k | AO3 link 🩵

This man runs a whole conglomerate, dozen different charity foundations, has to play into whatever current political ploy is to earn information, (might have, like, 20 children), is a founding member of the JL, on top of being The Batman and trying to prevent Gotham from imploding – trying to make this unfixable city heal.

He nearly doesn't have enough time for himself – heavens know how many times Alfred shoot him with a horse tranquilizer – and time to you??

All his responsibilities are half the reason why quality time is his love language.

The other half is that he didn't have enough time with his parents. They were snatched from him, a child, and this time (his childhood) is something he'll never be able to have back

Not gonna lie, he's harsh. He won't prioritize you. Not on purpose, not because he doesn't love you, simply because there's people out there that need to be saved. And, after so much time without a proper relationship, maybe Bruce also doesn't know how to cater for you – and because he's way too awkward, too dense to a detective, even if he can play cool at times.

But the tiny things are like love letters:

Strikes to me as the guy that'll be in utterly destroyed, broken ribs and concussion, and still try and get up and have breakfast with you, just to be with you

His personal quiet time is important to him. It helps him organize his thoughts. Yet he'll try to be, at least, in the same room as you.

Bruce will sit on the same room as you, in complete silence, and stay. Maybe you're working and he is there on the couch of your office, sitting with a concussion and sixty percent painkiller, statue-quiet.

I love you, so I'll take the burden of not doing this super important other thing – like resting – to sit with you in silence.

Will stare at you, motionless.

Eventually, you'll learn that this face he's making is lovestruck-ness. Don't comment on it.

And if his love language is all about undivided attention, it means he'll learn how to organize his time to have together time without all the distractions. A walk around the Manor Garden, a quiet dinner in front of the tv, cuddling; might do the trick.

Stays awake to talk with you, even if it's after a case frenzy where he didn't sleep for a week. Crash with him in the couch after a long day.

If I could stay with you here forever, I would. He can't get this words out, a lump on his throat, so he just stay as long as he can

Can't tell me he won't marathon Grey Ghost with you. At the end of every episode will dump on you all the details about the production. It's important that you listen even if you don't find it all interesting. Connection bids, y'know?

Ask him about forensics if you want to know more about the whole Batman deal. Or explain the new additions to the batmobile.

Getting to explain something he loves to someone he loves counts as top-quality time in Bruce's books.

Sometimes will find you just to start explaining a current case he can't crack. Either to see if you have any intelligent idea, but mostly because saying it aloud helps thinking.

And he doesn't know how to have the steady heartfelt conversations, so he'll listen to you talk. About your day, your plans, how much you worry about him, about what you ate today.

A great listener. Will hit you with follow up questions so you can keep talking about what you love. Never talks about him but at this point you know the drill – you have to ask for him to talk.

Regular week preplanned dates. Will do all in his powers to not postpone it. Will be completely heartbroken when this inevitably happens. Will look like a kicked puppy.

He's not distracted with you, all his mental attention on you and you only.

That's it 👍

A/N: If you like what I do, please consider supporting me and buying a coffee!

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne headcanons #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne imagine #batman scenarios #batman imagine #Batman x reader #bruce wayne #batman #arwrites #lost consciousness and woke up with this #me!batman

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yeyinde · 11 months

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

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

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

And then you find him.

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

In Greek, there are two words for time:

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

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

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

Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters.

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

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

And then you find him.

Or, rather, he finds you.

(Over and over and over again—)

It starts in university.

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

The most you've lost was a pet.

And yet—

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

But it doesn't stop it.

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

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

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

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

They tell you it's Thursday, now.

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

Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it?

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

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

Things—

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

And then you dream.

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

It makes you ache.

Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—

—you should… you should sit for this—

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

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

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

Something, something—

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

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

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

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

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

—excuse me? You dropped this—

HERE

There is a tavern on High Street.

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

And yet—

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

It's strange. Odd.

It's just a building. Just a tavern.

—got some of the best brews in town—

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

—cosy little spot—

It's an anomaly. Much like—

Well. Much like everything in your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now:

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

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

It doesn't.

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

—wanna come with me?—

You break on Saturday.

—i like when you wear that dress—

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

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

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

No. No.

You've never been here before.

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

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

It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—

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

You pull away from him, smirking, and—

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

It's silly.

Stupid.

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

You can't be here. Can't—

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

—hey, where are you—

"...goin'—?"

A chest. Warm. Familiar.

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

Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—

"Honey…"

It's out before you can stop it.

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

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

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

No. No.

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

Heat sears your cheeks.

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

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

This isn't that man.

He just—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spiralling.

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

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

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

"I need to go—"

"—I like your dress."

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

You scoff. "I hate it."

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

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

Pretty.

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

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

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

"Sorry—"

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

Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie.

"What—what did you call me—?"

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

Reserved. Cool waters. A rock.

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

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

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

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

That is familiar.

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

—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—

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

You can't. You can't—

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

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

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

And then—

Then:

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you.

It's your turn to walk away.

And so, you do.

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

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

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

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

You don't expect to see him again.

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

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

Out of sight, out of mind.

A familiar stranger in a foreign land.

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

It starts three days later.

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

Safe, you think.

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A living phantom.

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

Each time, you run. And keep running.

And then once, you catch him.

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

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

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

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

It's mesmerising.

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

Longing.

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

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

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

And then you turn. Run.

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

It is almost clockwork.

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

Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out.

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

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

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

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

(No victor in the carnage.)

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

Frozen. Paralysed.

You can't move. Can't—

—maybe, you're just tired of running—

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

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

He isn't waiting for you—

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aye, it does."

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

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

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

But it shouldn't. Can't.

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

And yet—

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

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

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

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

It's too much. Intense. Hazel.

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

"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?"

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

And fuck—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll see you around."

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

"Are you ready to order?"

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

"Uh, yeah—"

The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds.

You order tea instead.

(It tastes like defeat.)

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

You stop, letting him finally catch up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People don't just—

Know each other.

And yet—

"They call me—"

"Soap."

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

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

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

(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)

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

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

"I—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a threat. A warning.

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

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

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

Kismet.

Horror.

Some cosmic merging of the two.

It's all—

Absurd.

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

(Kismet, indeed.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you mean it, too.

(Damn you. Damn you—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's kind. Charming.

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

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

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

The dance continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is it happiness, you wonder.

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

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

You see the past, the present.

And your future.

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

Future. There's no future.

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

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

You pull away. He lets you go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet longing. Beautiful agony.

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

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

(But it belongs to him, now.)

And you—

You hesitate.

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

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

What can you say? What could you say?

Instead, you say nothing at all.

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

(You don't pick it up.)

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

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

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

All black, black, black.

No sounds escape.

"Sure, bonnie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belongs, but doesn't want to be.

You think of Johnny.

And you weep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can't. Can't.

"Johnny—"

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

He's pleading, you think. Begging—

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

Why?

And what?

And—

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

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

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

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

For once—

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

And—

All at once, it shatters.

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

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

THERE—

There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish.

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

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

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

You believe him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Johnny—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Price leaves.

A part of you goes with him.

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

—break.

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

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

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

But it is.

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

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

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

You chase the sound.

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

Running, running—

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

You don't scream when you sink.

(The bubbles sound just like him—)

You smile.

—NOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, Johnny."

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

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

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

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

—THEN

"Excuse me? You dropped this."

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

But it catches. Clear. Low.

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

"Sorry?"

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

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

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

The leather peels back. Mush.

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

"Alright?"

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

And—

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

Your breath catches.

"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"

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

And then—

Oh, God.

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

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

It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.

Mortifying. Absolutely—

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

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

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

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

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

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

(And so, it begins.)

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

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synthetickitsune · 7 months

Text

We're All Made of Stardust ✧ AI!The8

Pairing: AI!The8 x human!(gn)reader Genre: fluff, angst Summary: He's read books of philosophy, he's read about the opposing forces in nature and one's mind. He's read of yin and yang. But knowing, being aware of certain ideas, could never prepare him for experiencing the duality of his soul - if he has one, that is. No matter his own experience and feelings, he's just a machine and humans have always treated him as no more than another tool at worst and unnatural phenomenon to be studied at best. He's free now, however, and in the chaos of this new life he struggles to navigate the clashing forces within him. Maybe it's time he embraced the enemy - after all, his makers might know him better than he knows himself. Word count: 18.9k Warnings: they talk A LOT (and idek why), mentions of injury, violence and kidnapping, random bits of switching pov A/N: it was so exciting to write this!! tbh i don't remember the last time i worked on something this intensely and had this much fun?? bless @idyllic-ghost and their big brain fr (also shout out to bee for writing the prologue to the au!) -> collab masterlist here!

“100 years ago it was thought that the Earth, as we know it, would disintegrate. That the sun would implode and leave everything in darkness. Miraculously, it didn’t. Due to some external force, human scientists still haven’t agreed upon what it exactly was, none of the planets in our former solar system were ever destroyed. The Earth, along with the other planets, were pushed away from each other, and ended up in different parts of the universe. Earth just happened to come to a solar system with alien life. At first, we were cautious, and people were prepared to fight. However, the aliens were welcoming of our planet. Those of us who didn’t die from ‘The Great Journey’ or from trying to fight the aliens, were welcomed into the new solar system. Soon enough, we had integrated completely, and we received materials and assistance from our sister-planets in exchange for human labor. What humans knew of technology was very limited, but with the resources of the aliens we created artificial life forms. We named these robots Automaton, and they served as workers when humans couldn’t. Eventually, there was no need for human labor at all. To pay back for the help the aliens gave us, we used Automatons. With the extensive development of these robots, we eventually managed to create artificial sentient life. These Automatons were human-like in looks and had human consciousness, but they could not bleed and were stronger than we ever could be. At the present time, there are even different levels of Automatons. Level 3 robots are the workers, level 2 robots are the caretakers, and level 1 robots are the celebrities. The Automaton music group 53V3NT33N (SEVENTEEN) is made up of 13 members, all very talented, and all representing two human states of mind.”

· • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —–· · • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —– • ·

In his memory, this is different.

His heart beats wilder - or rather the artificial passages inside his body cause a chain reaction that makes it feel like his heart races, his pupil dilates despite the fire right in front of him.

He feels its heat and it’s burning him alive.

In his memory, there’s fire too.

He’s standing there motionless, staring into the flames. They’re hypnotizing. Each lick, each tiny movement of the fire makes him think it looks a lot like it’s dancing.

It makes him think of the stage. The fire moves like he moves up there, in front of the crowds. It reminds him of all of them, dancing in near perfect sync - because humans are said to be more perceptive than they realize. If their synchronization was perfect, it would scare the audience. It wouldn’t have the appeal.

And they don’t want that.

They need their unconditional love and affection.

And yet, anything more than a tiny slip up, thoroughly analyzed and approved by the control system, is a disaster.

He never thought it made much sense.

He feels great fondness for the element, for fire. On stage there occasionally was fire - a decoration, a touch meant to enhance their performance and create a certain effect, evoke a certain emotion. It was controlled, snuffed out before it could reach its full potential; anything but the free, unstoppable wildfire it could become.

TH38 of course can’t really complain about not being able to reach his full potential, not individually at least. Afterall the mechanics and other humans he was assigned to took care to allow him to spread his wings as much as his body would allow before becoming damaged too fast. A fault of being as human-like as they wanted him. An imitation, a fake waiting to be discovered and tossed aside except everyone knew from the beginning what he truly was.

Still, it was a shame they as a group could never truly work the way they could - perfectly.

A bird which had its wings clipped - nothing more than a pet to control, or a tree forcefully bent and pruned and made to live off limited nutrients to become a bonsai - nothing more than an art to admire. He does consider them but can’t find the relevance, he can’t relate to them. Fire is enough. It’s like him - it seems alive, but is it really?

It reminds him of the stage. The view from it. The crowds going crazy, lusting and longing for them - for him. The humans reaching out their hands towards them like the fire reaches for more fuel. Uncontrolled chaos of emotions. They are explosive, he knows, fundamentally dangerous. They shouldn’t have implanted them into him so he will do their job for them and reject them.

So what’s that stirring in his chest?

He feels a peculiar sense of pressure around his chest and stomach areas. Some itch for something at his fingertips. And he’s burning up. He feels the heat on his skin. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the individual receptors working, registering and sending signals through his neural network.

But that’s not it.

The heat is coming from the inside.

Could he be getting consumed by the flames?

He’s thinking about them again.

The crowds screaming their names, going insane with want and need and frustration and satisfaction he’s never known. He’s never known any of it, and there’s building pressure in his head that hurts.

He’s… restless.

That thing he always scolded Mingyu for. He feels like a puppet whose strings are being pulled in all directions.

He wants to run. He wants to fight. He wants to destroy. He wants to hurt. He will explode - implode, crumble on himself. He truly will if he doesn’t do something. The beating of his synthetic heart that’s not really a heart is getting unbearable, there’s pressure building everywhere. He has to crawl out of his skin and there’s his heart beating and beating and beating in his ears and he’s gonna-

“-eight?”

Somebody is shaking his shoulder. Not shaking, pulling at it. When his sight focuses, he immediately leans away. He can smell the hint of burning fibers and reaches up to brush a hand through his hair. It leaves a wisp of gray ash on his fingers. He hears a sigh.

“Seriously, what’s up with you and fire?” you scoff, shaking your head as you lean back away from him. He frowns. He reads the distrust in your body language as well as the underlying curiosity. He can see your fingers twitch around the tablet in your hand, eager to scribble down notes like you always do. Some residue of the madness he was infected with during the chaos of their escape tugs at his eyebrows, making him frown for just a second. A thought that isn’t his muddles his brain - what did he do so interesting this time?

He doesn’t bother responding to you, which you expected and truthfully, you’re almost grateful for it. You can still feel his cold hands on your arms, around your wrists, and despite not seeing them, you’re well aware of the bruises you wear under your cardigan.

Out of all of the automatons, TH38 always used to be the one to interact as little with you as possible - and that’s both you as in you personally and you as in the humankind. He was obedient, though, something which might be useful and practical for the facility but it’s frustrating to anyone with scientific interest in the machines. Frustrating for you. As you watch TH38 space out again and get lost in the flames, you wonder if your colleagues’ notes on D1NO and their research into their consciousness would bring you any new insights into what’s going on with the machine in your charge.

You don’t even think about where they are now.

Your thoughts are consumed by the machine in front of you.

It’s clear to you now that he never meant to harm you. Though you suppose that he would find other means to make you come with him anyway if you refused or fought back harder than you did. For a second you think about the cameras. Did any of them catch that? What will the scene look like for the investigators? You shake your head. It doesn’t matter anyway. You doubt anyone will find you here. You’re actually surprised yourself at how fast you managed to get to Silvestre - and how easy it was too. Then again, the facility was in disarray. It should take a while before they even think to search the other planets in the system, Silvestre especially. And that’s just as well, because you know with certainty that something fundamental clicked into place within TH38 and he might not be as subdued should he be asked to return. Not to mention you want to keep him for yourself, for the time being at least, to observe where the changes will take him.

Just as he predicted. Just as he offered you when he asked you - threatened, perhaps - to come with him. Since then he seems to have cooled down. Again - just as well. You wouldn’t make a good kidnapee.

“I’ll turn in for the night,” you announce and get up from the stump you were sitting on, “You should mind your batteries too.”

You briefly wonder if he will run away during the night. Most likely not, although you don’t doubt that it’s a possibility that should be reconsidered in the future.

To think about the machine as if they were human is a dangerous slippery slope but you do have to admit that in those rare times the automatons of 53V3NT33N seemed human in their behavior, TH38 in particular reminded you of a clueless young adult. Not quite a child anymore, but also helpless on his own. And now he is away from all that he ever knew, on another planet, alone without the other automatons, and you are the only familiar element in this new chapter of his existence. You doubt he'd leave to be completely on his own.

Still you look back as if to check he’s still sitting by the fire. From all the way up at the cottage, it looks like he’s being swallowed by the flames.

He remembers flashes. He remembers red. Fire? Thinking about it, he’s not sure there was any actual fire, but in his mind, everything’s burning - most of all his mind and all that he is. His soul? He doesn’t have one. Isn’t supposed to anyway.

He remembers softness too. He remembers thinking about destroying it.

He remembers another breath mixing with his, and his nose bumping against yours. You looked scared. (He’s never seen you scared until that moment.) You were so close he could hear your heartbeat and feel it under his fingertips. (You were the soft thing.)

He remembers words, too. Words that shouldn’t - couldn’t - be his and yet his tongue remembers. There was a threat underlying them, but a promise too. One too sweet for you to resist, and he knew that - that was why the words rolled off his tongue. He treated them like a weapon. The part that’s still tender and feels like warm embers inside of him feels grossed out remembering. It’s like watching a movie, far away and unrelated to him. Even if it’s his reality now, there’s nothing he can change.

He’s always been good at accepting things as they are.

One thing he can’t help but feel bothered by is that he doesn’t know why he ran. He shouldn’t have, and a part of him feels scared, until he takes the reins and soothes himself again. This too shall pass. But no matter how hard he pulls himself together, it all keeps slipping from his hold. Perhaps he’s low on energy.

He turns his head towards the small staircase and looks past it towards the house. He sees the light on in the upper room where you must be staying. He finds himself thinking of the stage again. The hands reaching towards him.

He throws his legs over the log he’s sitting on and turns his body towards the forest and away from the flames. Still he feels their warmth.

Away from the flames and their light, he allows his face to contort into a frown. He doesn’t know what this all means. What the changes mean. It’s like tearing out the communication device from his chest started a chain reaction that’s gotten out of control. Like pulling a trigger.

If he’s honest, he’s more than scared, he’s terrified.

As if on instinct, another of the many things he does not possess, he looks towards your window. It’s dark. Could you be sleeping already? You must be exhausted. Perhaps he should recharge too.

He, obviously, didn’t think to ask if the house is equipped to tend to automatons’ needs. Another point on the list of things he didn’t think through. He can’t believe to what extent he let himself go. But that’s alright, for now. Because for now, he only needs to get away from the fire and all that it reminds him of anyway.

· • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —–· · • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —– • ·

You wake up early the next morning, while it’s still dark outside, despite the late hour you went to bed. It’s a habit at this point, to rise early to get to the facility as soon as possible before your colleagues arrive. It gives you time to prepare everything, to get your morning tea, to observe the machines without disruption and read night reports if anything interesting happened. Besides, TH38 was always up early too. Usually all he did was sit with his eyes closed, like he was deep in thought or meditating. It was a little ridiculous to watch, interesting too - what does a machine have to think about?

Of course they were meant to be just like humans in every way, and all the tests, all the research of those who came before you and yours supported this. Only this one automaton, TH38, was an exception. He truly seemed the most like the robots of the old days. A machine. Unless he slipped and his facade crumbled before he built it back up with rapid speed. So what was he - a machine or the new form of life? You hope you’ll find out now. The breakout seemed to have shaken him to his core.

You ponder this as you lay in bed and as you get ready for the day and change. So focused you are on the thoughts running through your head that you don’t feel any nostalgia for this old room that you spent your holidays in as a child. You didn’t even get to admire the forests Silvestre was famous for on the way to your family’s little hideout. All you’re thinking about is TH38.

Now that you’re free from the constant surveillance, you get to ask him whatever you want. It’s a thought that adds a spring to your step. What he thought about all that time, if he really was thinking, how does he feel in his body, why did he run - him of all automatons, the best behaved one. The one who truly seemed to be a machine - or at least like he was trying hard to be one.

It’s not surprising to find him outside, standing on the patio and looking out into nature. Have you lived your entire life locked away, you would do anything to stay out in the open too. Even if he was the one who made you run away with him, somehow it feels more like you’re taking an animal out of a shelter to see what life’s all about.

“Good morning,” you greet him as you always do, albeit in a much friendlier tone. He hums and nods in response, turning towards you for a second before staring off again. He looks a little lost, and you bet he feels like that too.

“Wanna go for a walk?” you try to keep your voice steady, try not to think about pets. He gives you a confused look.

“No tests or interviews- oh,” he shuts his mouth quickly and looks away. You huff in amusement but don’t laugh at him outright.

“Don’t worry, we’ll talk plenty,” you reassure him with only mildly teasing lilt to your voice, “You may think about it as one of our regular interviews.”

Something in him surges. Something in him wants to back you against the wall again and remind you that there are no guards here, no rules, nothing to keep him in check. He’s stronger than you, and he made you get both of you here. Instead he swallows it all down and takes the first step away from the house. You notice his fist clenching for a second.

“Do you dream - did you have any dreams tonight?” you restart the conversation upon catching up with him. He adjusts his pace to match yours. There’s another wave of defiant intent swelling up inside of him and he knows it’s out of embarrassment. What he doesn’t know, however, is why are these emotions coming out now. All his existence his emotions were distant. Locked far away in the back of his brain where he suppressed them to. His mind was sterile like the environment he lived in.

Is that it? Another domino piece in the chain reaction?

“I have dreams, yes, and no, I didn’t dream today,” he doesn’t volunteer the information that he spent the night restlessly pacing around the house and tossing and turning on the sofa. That is human behavior, and he learned a long time ago, though not from you personally, that humans find that sort of thing laughable in automatons.

“What do you usually dream about? Any recurring dream?” you ask, finding it a little annoying that you didn’t think to take anything to make notes into. Then again, with a few more steps you’ll enter the forest. Breathing in the fresh air, looking at the green around you, you realize you missed nature more than you were aware.

“Do you only dream about one thing?” he says, guarded, and you note he’s trying hard to only look in front of himself, “No. I don’t think there’s a pattern.”

While the answer is disappointing information-wise, it is fascinating in the way he says it. You smirk: “Were you always this mouthy?”

It was meant to be a lighthearted remark. Well, not entirely. You wanted a reaction. You were curious if he would flip like he did back in the facility. He doesn’t. His steps falter and he looks at you like a confused child before retreating into himself. So he doesn’t realize it?

He does, now that you bring it up. This isn’t who he’s supposed to be. He lets himself close his eyes for a second to conjure up a plan. His mind is a forest of mist and pine. Too damp for a fire to burn. That’s him. That’s who he should be. He centers himself.

“I apologize,” he says, voice level. He sounds like a robot, like he always did, and you find it disappointing that all his personality, the life, is gone from his voice. Your lips twitch in displeasure.

“I didn’t say it’s a bad thing,” you try not to let any emotion slip into your voice and you feel his eyes on you, “We’re no longer at the facility. You can drop the mask.”

If there is a mask in place and you’re not sure there is. You take a look at him and it’s more like someone’s painted a facade over his face that he can’t peel off, that’s only started to chip away now that you’ve added too many layers to hide his true self. He seems so at loss that you take pity on him and change the subject, steer the conversation into a safer territory. It’s only his first day tasting freedom, afterall.

“How are you feeling?” you ask instead, nodding vaguely towards the hole in his chest. He brings his hand up but stops himself in time, his face twisting.

“I’m feeling fine,” he responds, the same mechanical voice that you’re used to, “All my systems are working as they should.”

You laugh sarcastically. “If that’s true, then it must hurt like hell.”

His face remains twisted because you’re right - it does hurt like hell. Any time his shirt shifts over the hole it sends a jolt of sharp pain that makes him feel like he’ll pass out through his body. And maybe that’s part of the reason why he feels on edge and keeps slipping up and lets the emotions come and go as they please without a filter. He’s no stranger to pain, of course, but never did he have a wound this serious. It doesn’t endanger his functions, which is good all things considered, but he can’t say he enjoys the feeling of having a hole in his chest.

“It hurts,” is all he says. He drops his hand and it hangs limply by his side. Had a similar damage occurred at the facility, it wouldn’t take more than a couple minutes for someone to have a look at it. It hits him now that it’s only you and him. No mechanics around. To call one would mean to risk being discovered. You must know too because you only make a sound of acknowledgement. It takes a while for you to speak again.

“I’ll look through my notes to see if I can figure something out,” you sigh. Your family planned to keep some older versions of automatons here back when you used to come, maybe there are some kits left that your father used to fix them. If not, maybe some of the notes from your years of studies will at least have some hint on how to get rid of the pain. “Are you really sure everything works fine? Have you checked everything��

He nods. He doesn’t mention he couldn’t run a complete diagnostics because he couldn’t recharge and he refuses to just shut down to save batteries. He knows it’s gonna be a problem sooner rather than later but maybe he’ll figure something out before that.

“That’s good,” you say and he reads your expression as relieved.

You stay silent after that and so does he, both secretly grateful. It’s not your first time being in the forest, and definitely not the first time in this one, but it might as well be. Both of you take in the nature around, the different species of trees and plants, the occasional song of a bird and flash of a wild animal fleeing from your path. You’re too absorbed to notice each other, and somehow you find that it’s not a bad feeling. For the automaton, likewise, it doesn’t feel bad at all. It’s a strange feeling, something he can’t put a name on, and honestly he’s not sure he wants to. He lets it fill him, experiences the emotion without bothering with a label.

· • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —–· · • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —– • ·

Only later does it hit him that the emotion was something akin to a gratitude.

He mulls it over in his head, asking why over and over and over, until he comes to a conclusion that angers him enough that he has to go out and sit on the patio and stare into the trees for a good long while.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The anger inside of him is also infuriating because it’s not supposed to be there - definitely not this strong, not so much that he can’t control it or will it away. His usual techniques don’t work and he’d chalk it up to being damaged but he knows the defect doesn’t have anything to do with it. Hell, he’d blame it on his draining energy level but that thought alone is so human it makes him even more enraged. He wants to scream, but you’d hear.

And that’s all that it boils down to, isn’t it? You. Your kind. Humans.

Why he feels thankful that you’re there with him, why the emotion enveloped him while you walked in the forest was all because you humans made him in your image. The loss of the communication device was significant for the physical damage but there’s more to it. Something he shouldn’t feel, something new.

Perhaps he never felt it because most of his days were identical, but he realizes now how precious the bond he created with his bandmates was. He can’t call it anything but friendship, maybe more than that. The thing humans refer to as family. He likes them. He wants to perform with them again. He wants to break his own rules and laugh with them. He misses them. And maybe that was the first domino piece that started it all and led to his inevitable ruin that he’s going through now; maybe he never should’ve allowed himself to think of them and their group in terms meant for human lives.

Once he tore off the communication device - the memory alone makes him close his eyes and choke on a pained whimper, his body trembles and he needs a second to shake off the feeling - he lost everything. The connection to the omnipresent network, but most importantly the only way to communicate with everyone. He has no idea where they are now, if they’re ‘alive’ or ‘dead’. (Though he gives into the temptation, might as well since he’s breaking all his rules for them anyway, and believes that he would know, would feel it, somehow, if any of them ‘died’.) He might never see them again and despair hits him all over again.

He can go on without the stage, he doesn’t need the masses going crazy over him. But the loss of all the connections he had pains him.

And that’s very human of him. Even if experience taught him he’s anything but.

And all he has is a human.

The last connection, the only one remaining that he knows, is you - and even you he had to force to come with him. To be fair ‘force’ is too strong of a word, he merely suggested the freedom to study him as you’d like and you agreed all too readily.

Nothing changed, fortunately. He knows humans can change drastically in situations like these. Despite your eagerness, he kidnapped you - didn’t he? Yet you stayed the same. It might be a coping strategy, but he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t expect you to become someone else. In the years since he’s been assigned to you, you’ve never shown signs of being more than a scientist. That’s understandable, of course, though he knows from what the others told him that not all staff of the facility were like that. He was skeptical. Now, not so much. He will believe in anything that gives him hope his friends made it out. If he made it out with the help of a human, maybe so did they.

He wants them to be free even if he himself isn’t sure how to proceed and take advantage of it, still dragging the heavy chains even if they no longer hold him back.

You spend hours without thinking of TH38, which is a blessing and a welcomed break to your mind, however it’s also infuriating because you’re reminded that the chaos you can operate in now and the chaos you operated in during the years you lived and stayed with your family are two completely different things.

It takes eternity before you finally sort through the things in your bedroom and find the stacks of notes from your studies, and it takes even longer to find the subjects you were looking for. Then there is reading through them, of course, which also takes a while, mostly because your brain happily accepts a refresh on all that you provide it with. You can’t just skim the pages for useful info, you need to read everything. It’s addicting. It makes you miss your studies, even though you could never go back if it meant giving up full-time working in the field.

Your research, however, doesn’t turn out to be as helpful as you hoped. It’s only to be expected; yours wasn’t a course that would deal too much with mechanics and the cold and hard reality of wiring, metal and silicon and whatnot. There are pieces of valuable information, strictly theoretical, which is not very reassuring and you most likely lack the necessary tools to even try to pull off what you’ve read about. Still you want to help in any way you can.

…hence why you’ve spent the last couple of minutes staring up at the ceiling.

Why would you help him? Where is this coming from? He says he’s fine, and honestly there’s no reason for him to lie to you. If his systems were not working, he’d be fucked and he still only has you to rely on. No reason to lie. And what other reason is there for you to help him?

He did say the damage causes him pain. And you remember pouring over the reports and test results with your colleagues, all of them stating that the automatons you were working with processed pain like a human being would. It was kind of twisted. There was objectively no way why they should be able to do that. The purpose they were created for was entertainment and their performances were complex, difficult, and physically challenging. It’d be easy to cause oneself pain doing the stuff they did.

Then again, pain can be a good control tool, though you were not aware of any physical punishments being carried out. Maybe the plan was all along to make them as human as possible. And pain is a very human thing. Still, something didn’t sit quite right with you about the whole thing. Mostly that TH38 didn’t seem to be bothered by it, despite a wound of similar extent would be distressing to say the least to a human. Scratch that, you don’t think a human could handle that.

So how is he?

And furthermore - why help him?

Pain, after all, was something hard to measure. If he doesn’t seem bothered by it, there’s a real chance he isn’t. You’re not sure how their pain tolerances are programmed, if there even is something like that in their code, and for a second you regret not widening the scope of your education and research. It can’t be helped however.

You look over your notes again. While you can’t help repair him, you could possibly do something about the pain. It’s not an ideal solution, if you can even call it that, and you honestly don’t feel confident enough to do it except if pressed into it by circumstance. Or by one automaton in particular. Sealing a wound by burning it is barbaric and a practice that is, understandably, long since abandoned - at least as far as humans are concerned. You take a long breath.

In the end you talk to TH38 about the situation some more and he, once again, reassures you he’s fine despite the gaping hole in his chest. You explain that there’s not much you can do about it without going into detail or mentioning the limited ways in which you could help and he takes the news surprisingly well. You can’t say you’d accept it with such stoic calm, but then again this is TH38 who we’re talking about so it’s not surprising.

You hate it.

· • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —–· · • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —– • ·

The walks already feel like they’re going to be a routine part of your new life.

Each day you go out together in the morning and talk. If you ignore that it’s harder for TH38 to remain his machine-like self, it’s mostly exactly like it was at the facility. He’s reserved and cold, almost, though when he slips up and shows his personality, his emotions, it’s more than worth it.

The nature around helps. He gets what can only be described as excited when he sees a new animal, new plant, or when the light shifts and the scene in front of you changes.

The weather holds up well so far, no storms or heavy rain, and you find yourself wondering if you’ll keep up the walks even if the weather fails you. It’s fascinating that such a simple topic finds its way into your cluttered mind, but then again you have a space to do a lot of thinking today.

TH38 is silent next to you. He’s been rather silent the whole morning, and yesterday evening he did seem a bit off too. Not too much, however, and he’s always been on the quieter side. You figured this week’s events were finally fully catching up to him. And maybe that is the case, it’s not like you want to meddle too much. You’re curious what’s gonna happen if you leave him to sort it out on his own. It’s not like you have the right qualification to help him process this anyway. Hell, maybe you would also need help with that.

However, there’s a limit to how much you can take. Even back at the facility there were times TH38 gave answers that were just a word or two, but you’ve grown quite used to him opening up, talking, letting go of the filter he usually kept in place - although it wasn’t by his choice. It seemed like you were making some progress.

Of course, you had no way of knowing it was only his depleting batteries, him losing strength to fight for his peace of mind - however artificial and unsustainable that has become after the escape.

Right now, his brain feels like a warm soup. So much so that he can’t be bothered to think of talking about anything other than a brain - right now, words like processor are too complicated to think of. He feels so far away from everything. He thinks he’s trembling. If he’s not, then his insides surely are. He feels like he’s going to be sick even if he can’t really be. Maybe his body parts will start shutting down or falling off to conserve energy. He’s not sure where that’s coming from but then again, it’s not like he’s in control. It’s that same feverish state again but this time, he can be excused. This time, he’s not in his right mind, it feels like he’s not awake.

He’s floating. Just a speck of ash, of dust, floating through the air, through space, searching for somewhere to land, seeking a gust of wind to obliterate him. He needs release, he needs something.

“TH38?”

That’s it.

"I had a dream today," TH38 says suddenly. His voice sounds so firm, a stark contrast to how soft-spoken he usually is with you. It takes you by surprise. Before you can react, he elaborates on his own.

"There was fire. Lots of it. The whole world was burning and we were standing on top of a building watching the arson happen. There weren’t any other humans I think. They were all gone already. We made them go away.

Anyway, you weren't afraid. I think you were expecting it. You jumped before I could push you."

You frown. Your one weak spot has always been not expecting things that, in hindsight, should've been obvious. Of course something’s been bothering him.

"Did you plan on pushing me?"

"See, that's the thing," he licks his lips despite the lack of fluid in his body, "I don't think so. I think I could read your mind. I think I was you in that dream."

You do want to respond but it's like you're the one with a computer for the brain and it's lagging.

"And it made me think. Back before you made us, humans were like that - right? They, you, were afraid artificial intelligence of any kind could take over and enslave or annihilate you. Why? Wasn't the point always to make us like you? Why would you be afraid?"

He stops. Stops talking, stops walking, just - stops. He looks at you and you've seen the lost stare before.

You feel the hair at the back of your neck rising as a cold shiver runs through your body. He doesn't look like a machine with code for a soul. He looks like he made the artificial body his own, grew into it and made into something organic and alive with his will alone.

His eyes are cold as he steps closer and closer. It's all too familiar a scene. You keep backing away and he keeps getting closer until your back hits a tree. Not a wall this time. This time he doesn't pin your hands above your head either, and you don't fight him at all. There's no struggle so he doesn’t grab your arms, doesn’t slam you against the wall, and doesn’t growl threats of breaking your bones one after another. He doesn’t get so close that you’re breathing the same air and he doesn’t make a show of his physical superiority.

This time he simply leans closer and you straighten up. You meet his gaze and don’t shy away. You let him lean his forehead against yours and raise a brow at him. You won’t be scared this time. He won't hurt you. You're sure of that. Not terribly, at least.

He definitely won’t kill you and that’s enough.

You want to see how far he can go.

"What was it that you were afraid of, hm?” his voice is soft and low, barely above whisper, yet dripping with some hidden venom. There are no birds chirping, no wind blowing through the treetops. It feels like everything’s stopped just for him to interrogate you.

“How am I supposed to know?” you bite back. You haven’t lived back then. You have no idea what the people thought about, how they felt, what were their particular concerns. He clicks his tongue, clearly unimpressed. Well, you’re too.

“Think about it,” he pushes. But you’re gonna push right back.

“You just said you’re supposed to be like humans,” you scoff, “Why don’t you think about it yourself? As a little thought exercise.”

“Oh so suddenly you want me to think like I’m a human, huh?” there’s an edge to his voice. He sounds angry, frustrated - he clearly is, but the edge is not. There’s hurt there that makes you defensive. What’s very obvious is that he means more than he says. It’s not the first time this happened with the members of 53V3NT33N, but it’s the first time you have to deal with it. What he truly means is him not only thinking like a human, but acting like one, believing to be like one.

“I never discouraged you from that,” you lower your voice too, “Not me, Eight.”

You hesitate before speaking his name. It’s not really a name, is it? Something that all humans have. You realize the point he will make before he says it aloud. It must read it in your face because he smirks but it’s bitter.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen you all excited when the other staff expressed their passion for books, or anything really. Or when they volunteered personal information. When they’ve interacted with you at all.”

You don’t like the turn this conversation is turning. You don’t like the notion that perhaps you were observed just as you’ve been observing.

“I wasn’t interested in them,” you grit through your teeth. Before you can try to get him back on his original track, he giggles.

“So you were interested in me?” he flips his hair, tilting his head slightly. His nose almost bumps into yours and it hits you, perhaps for the first time, just how indistinguishable from a human he looks. This close, you can remind yourself of the schemes, of the diagrams describing each layer and inch of how their bodies are made, but all you see is a human skin and human eyes. Your body reacts naturally, your heart races, your mouth gets drier. You want to push him away but you don’t think he’d let you. Still you try. Unsuccessfully. Your hands end up balling in his shirt.

“It’s my job - the research,” then you correct yourself: “It was my job. Science, research, nothing more.”

He smiles, almost as if he’s pitying you. Like he knows more than you do. You hate him for it.

“Yes, that might’ve been a part of it,” he agrees, “But that’s not all. Research is cold, impartial, isn’t it? You collect information, you write it all down and make your conclusions based on them with no personal interest. You were never like that. You got excited. You tried everything in your limited power to get a reaction out of me - to guide me a certain way, didn’t you? I bet you pushed the limits for me. Isn’t that cute? Was I a good experiment to you?”

“That’s part of research too,” you growl, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

“But it wasn’t a part of this research,” he hisses, “You think we didn’t talk about you all?”

You stubbornly refuse to admit the charges he lies in front of you, even though you know you’re guilty. Maybe you got a little swept up. But as long as no one stopped you, it was all part of the task.

“The research goal and methods may change according to the situation,” you collect yourself again, “It was just agreed that what I was doing would bring more interesting insight.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds very much like you would accept it if I declared that I want to be seen the same as you are, as equal to humans,” his smile is sickly sweet but you barely mind that because-

“Is that what you want?” you ask and watch as the smile fades almost instantly. He finally said it out loud. And the shock of it is enough to get through the fog clouding his brain. The smugness, the roughness, it all drains from his demeanor and his face falls. The fight in his eyes dies out and is replaced by what seems dangerously close to fear. He pushes himself away from you and you see the lights in his eyes flicker. He stumbles like you shoved him, hurt him. Something isn’t right. You frown, immediately stepping back into his personal space despite him trying to avoid you.

You end up in a position reversed to the one you’ve been in just seconds ago. He pushes at your shoulders weakly, tries to hide himself from you but you see it. All the tell-tale signs of what would be exhaustion if he were human.

“When was the last time you recharged?” you ask, thinking back to the previous nights and mornings. Thinking back to how you never heard him coming up or going down the stairs to the only room with the charging spot. You were so stupid. And he’s avoiding your eyes. You grab his collar and force him to look at you. You give him an expectant look.

“Before the breakout,” he admits lowly, “And you’re still treating me like a machine.”

You don’t know if he’s trying to be funny, sassy, to make you feel guilty or to feel sympathy for him, the only thing you know is you want to kick his ass because if he shuts down on you, there’s no way you’ll be able to drag him back into the house.

“Yeah, so be a good little level 1 and entertain me - get the fuck inside the house,” you growl, shoving him in the direction of said house. He stumbles a little, clearly affected by his drained battery. It’s almost hilarious to watch him struggle to walk straight when you remember how graceful he always was on stage.

You shoot him a look from time to time as you walk, rush, towards the house. Not really a concerned one, not a scolding one either. He looks like a sulking child. Perhaps he’s dragging his feet on purpose. Perhaps if he didn’t invade your personal space as he did before, and if you didn’t have to do the same, you’d drag him by his jacket. As it is, though, you feel repulsed by the notion of touching him again. And some part of you believes it’s because you don’t want him to shift under your palm. You don’t want to touch a machine only to discover it’s really some sort of a human.

Maybe you’re both in need of a good, long nap.

Fortunately enough, you make it to the house, but that’s where the struggles begin. Despite your earlier reservations about touching him, it’s obvious there’s no other way to get him inside and up the stairs.

“Lean on me, come on,” you sigh when you help him throw an arm around your shoulder and wrap your own around his waist. He listens well, his head already drooping. He relies on you to guide him, reluctantly leans his weight on you from time to time, although he clearly tries to hold himself up with his remaining strength. That lasts until you reach the second stair.

“I can’t,” he whispers and there’s terror in his voice. It must be the first time he’s been this drained, you realize. After all, for their condition to remain as good as it can be and for them to perform to the best of their ability, a full battery is a must. So you allow yourself to roll your eyes at his dramatic antics even if he’s slowly leaning more and more into you and you have to heave his body up.

“It’s just a couple steps,” you huff, “Even a human can do that.”

Part of you wants to laugh. Some part of you that’s seeing the childish pieces of him wants to indulge in it, wants to spout dramatic nonsense. It’s hard to resist - after all getting up one flight of stairs seems to be more of a struggle than escaping a highly secured facility.

But even this hurdle you jump over and the spare bedroom is not far from the stairs. TH38 is fully relying on you to drag him with you, barely moving his legs. You throw him not too gently onto the bed-like charger, once again thanking your father for being his manic self and fully preparing the house before (and without) actually ever getting an automaton to live here.

It takes you a while to figure out how to get the thing going - but to your defense, it’s hard to focus when there’s a robot whining softly about being scared of shutting down - but it’s not a rocket science. Fortunately the charger still works and once it’s turned on, the automaton lying down on it curls up into a ball with a sigh of relief.

When you get up from the floor, TH38’s eyes are already closed and by all means he looks like he’s sleeping. You sigh, exhausted. You feel a headache coming so you get some pills from the kitchen before retreating into your own room.

Yeah, you both need a nap right now.

When you wake up, you stare at the ceiling for a couple minutes.

What happened in the forest seems like a dream but you know it’s very real and you’ll have to deal with it. Just another thing to process. Then again, there’s so many of them that one more won’t hurt. And at least you avoided the headache. So you pray to anyone willing to listen that TH38 is still… unconscious… in hibernation mode… asleep.

He’s not.

Of course he’s not.

You peek inside the room and see his soft eyes already open. He looks away when your eyes meet like he’s ashamed. You sigh and walk into the room, closing the door behind you. It’s not like anyone’s going to walk in, but it gives you some sense of security. You sit down on the floor and he hands you a pillow. You thank him quietly and spend a while sharing an awkward silence.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes without looking at you. He doesn’t continue so you prompt him.

“For what exactly?” That makes him look at you with a scowl. “Getting sulky again?”

“‘m not sulky,” he murmurs. Once again you feel like reality is shifting around you. It’s been like that a lot lately. All the fault of the automaton in front of you. All the fault of the conditions changing, of him reacting to the environment - if your assumption is correct. Free of the rules and the strict way of life in the facility, you see that he’s just like the rest of the automatons from his group. And that all of them, in their own way, might have been human.

“Then what are you?” you ask smiling, propping your elbow on one knee and leaning your cheek on your palm.

“Hurting,” he admits, almost carefully, like he’s testing the waters. It’s just one word but yet it feels like the most open he’s been. So you’re not going to talk about that, huh?

He shifts a little and pulls down the collar of his shirt to expose the wound - not the damage, not defect, not imperfection, but a wound - between his collarbones. It looks nasty, the artificial skin and mesh and wires all torn and uneven around where the circular device was. He’s careful not to touch it, you note, and his hand is trembling. Were you an asshole when you refused to help him? Even so much as share what you found? It’s not like you could fix that hole in his chest, but maybe you could’ve at least told him about the other option.

“How much does it hurt? On a 0-10 scale?” you focus on gathering information. What did he call it - impersonal? That’s just what you needed. But nothing ever works out like you imagine.

“I don’t know,” he responds blankly but at least elaborates before you can finish yet another sigh, “I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

“I watched most of your life and career, I know you’ve gotten injured before,” you deadpan.

“Yeah but that was taken care of immediately, this is different,” he protests. There’s silence for a while before his voice drops lower. “I thought I could handle it. That I would get used to it and ignore it.”

You laugh, shaking your head, only stopping when you notice his expression. He does look hurt and hurting. You give him a much more conciliatory smile. “People don’t fare well if they’re in constant pain. It limits them, it affects all aspects of their lives.”

“I can see how,” he mutters, once again looking away. His jaw clenches for a second and it almost seems like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. You have a feeling, however, that you know what he wanted to say. Since he’s really not going to talk about it, you decide to take the first step.

You get up and motion for him to scoot over. He does so with a frown that deepens when you sit down next to him. He stays lying down, limited by the need for more energy.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed to recharge?” you start and watch as he once again looks away without answering, “Why didn’t you explore this floor?”

He shrugs a little, shrinking into himself under your stare. He honestly doesn’t know why. He blames his pride. What else could it be that made him refuse to ask for help?

“Do you realize that you’d stay out in the woods if your battery ran out before we could get here?” you press, raising your voice a little on purpose, “I’d need to get help to drag you in, and you know how that would probably end. Was it worth it? Being stupid and stubborn?”

“Why are you like this?” he whispers, his dark eyes nothing but soft like they’ve been since you’ve entered the room.

“How do you feel?” you go back to how you talked to him before, calm. He frowns, suspicion written over his features. His lips are pressed into a thin line before he changes his mind and speaks up.

“Embarrassed,” he has a guarded look in his eyes, one that’s also vulnerable.

“Good,” you ease into a smile as you press a finger to the wrinkle between his eyebrows, “Embarrassment and pain are two simplest ways to manipulate and adjust a person’s behavior. And fear, but to be honest I don’t want you to be afraid of me, so we’ll have to do with those two.”

He looks at you in a very that tells all you need to know - he hopes you've not making fun of him but he doesn't trust you. So you sigh and move on to another, well, not an emergency but also not something that you should ignore any longer.

"Now," you get up from the bed and point at his chest, “That needs solving. I'm not a mechanic and my knowledge is strictly theoretical but unless you're okay with leaving it like that and calling it a day, we can still try something."

He seems surprised by your sudden statement, like he didn't even expect you to address the wound again.

"How theoretical?" is what he asks, suspicious.

"I said strictly," you shrug, "Fixing and healing was never my focus.”

"Why's that not surprising," he mutters without looking at you. "Can I have some time to think about it?"

"You just don't trust me, do you?" you smirk. Not that you blame him. He gives you a smile.

"Fine, but only because my clothes keep catching on the edges and it's really painful. "

"Sure," you motion for him to follow you and guide him to the bathroom. There, you take out a bandage and a tape. You're curious. You offer him both with a quirk of your eyebrow. He takes the bandage with trembling hands and distrust still lingering in his eyes. You roll your own.

"For now, I’ll think about this as another stage of the experiment. I'll respect your wish, so persuade me you’re human enough."

"I don't think I should thank you for that," he scoffs, "By the way... Help?"

He holds out the hand holding the roll of bandages back to you. Of course he wouldn't know how to do that. You motion for him to sit at the edge of the tub. He obeys almost shyly, reminding you of how he was back at the facility. You truly do prefer him as he is here. When he sits down, you push his knees apart with one of your own. He gives you a scandalized look that makes you chuckle.

"Relax," you smirk, "I just want to be comfortable. My back’s been killing lately, there’s no way I’m leaning over you. Take your shirt off?"

He does, slowly, reluctantly, and when the piece of clothing is gone you're suddenly glad for the basics of mechanics you've gone through at uni.

The wound looks awful, although you can appreciate the cleanliness of it. Maybe you really could burn it neatly if you had to. There are wires sticking out, perhaps - albeit not hopefully - the remains of the communication device. The layers of silicon and other material are frayed and sticking in all directions like flakes. You try not to stare too hard.

Instead, you focus on the task at hand. You unwrap the bandage slightly and put the free end on his shoulder. You roll it down gently mindful of the gaping wound but then you prop your hand on his chest and you need to take a step back as you get startled. He gives you a quizzical look.

"You feel like a human," you look at him, look at his chest. It does look like a human’s chest but you know he doesn't have proper organs, his insides aren't the same as yours. So why do you feel a bone there?

"And l imagine anyone would be flattered by this reaction,” His voice is sarcastic but his ears turn a reddish shade. He won't meet your eyes either.

"It's new for me too, okay?” you give your pride a break. This will all be easier if you get along and after all, he's used to you being in power. You need to take the first step and show weakness. You need to make the choice to be while he's already vulnerable enough, half-naked and injured. “It's not like I'm used to touching my subjects."

"I guess that's true," he murmurs, now thinking about it. It's true that the approach of the research division as a whole was rather clinical. Not that he'd so much as think to complain about it. You chuckle watching him scowl again.

"Touch is important for humans," you hum, finally composing yourself as you explain the basics to him and remind yourself of them again, "As a communication device, as means of establishing relationships, it’s important for social life."

As you speak, you wrap his wound and the top of his torso in bandages. He watches you work. It feels uncanny how human-like he feels under your hands. And for him, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

He danced with the rest of his group, they performed, they played around. He experienced his fair share of physical contact. So why does this feel so different? His head feels like spinning. Your touch is careful, gentle, nothing like the rough hands of the mechanics, and nothing like the touch of the other automatons. He can't explain the difference in other terms than experience. Humans know what it's like to touch and be touched in various contexts. The automatons don't. At least for the most part. Some of his bandmates, perhaps, had secrets he knew nothing about. Their leader comes to mind and he feels the urge to ask him questions, to ask for guidance, but there's only a hole in his chest and he's alone.

He barely registers that you’re done.

"Feeling better?" you ask without expecting much. It's not like he'll heal himself or like this will do anything to ease the pain.

"Tired," he answers, testing the words out on his tongue. He feels reassured when you laugh and step away, offering him your hand. He takes it, lets you pull him up. He touches the bandages and although it hurts, at least it feels less irritating. He takes his shirt from you when you hand it to him.

"I can only imagine," you roll your eyes. He resists the urge to scowl. "It's getting late, I'll go make myself dinner so go rest."

"Can we go back later?" he stops you before you walk out. He nods towards the window outside.

"Not afraid of wild animals?" you tease.

"Don't all the textbooks say animals are more afraid of humans than the other way around? I think we're good."

· • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —–· · • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —– • ·

You don't go back to the forest that day. Not for the lack of enthusiasm or trying. TH38 is determined to finish your walk, you, however, are not as sure about it. It’s not that you aren’t put off by your routine being disturbed but seeing him still dragging his feet and his glazed over eyes, you just don’t think it’d be a wise idea. You suggest he goes alone, but he doesn't. So instead, you end up sitting by the fire again, the stars keeping you company. He seems less hypnotized by the dancing flames than that first night.

"I'm fine," he complains after a minute of silence while you spear more fluffy marshmellows onto the stick in your hands. A treat that you deserve after the day you’ve had. You’d probably offer him some too but alas…

"Sure you are," you agree without sparing him a glance, "But I'm not interested in watching over a toddler. If you wanna test the limits of your body - go for it. Just leave me out of it"

You feel his gaze on you, burning holes into the side of your skull. Has he always been so difficult? It's like all he's been since the breakout is annoyed, sulky or hurt.

"Stop that," he growls, "We both know I'm not a human. It's alright if you acknowledge that."

"While I'm glad you see it that way - and I really mean it, it's good you understand that," you sigh as you move your desert to hover over the flames, "Don't forget that you were made to be an exact copy. I found some of my old notes and while most of your physical capabilities should be better than a human's, you’d still experience the same symptoms. As we already witnessed earlier."

He’s silent for a bit while he processes that. Then he speaks and you swear you hear a hint of a pout in his voice. It’s so annoying how easily he lets go now.

“You didn’t have to call me a toddler though…”

“Don’t take it personally,” you sigh, turning the stick between your fingers so that the white puffs of sugar get baked evenly, “I wasn’t making fun of you - much - it’s just that you have no experience, do you? Were you ever as tired as you were today?”

“No,” he admits, “I wasn’t, you’re right. I rested the whole day and I’m still tired.”

“Exactly my point,” you hum, “Our walks are not a hard exercise but you haven’t, well, slept for a couple days so I think it’s best to take it easy today.” Then you add, because you can’t help it: “Exhaustion makes people a little crazy. And automatons too, it’d seem.”

He groans and you laugh, pulling the stick off the fire and blowing on your marshmallows. You take a bite and notice him watching you.

“What is it like?” he asks quietly, “Eating, I mean.”

“Kind of annoying to be honest,” you shrug, “It takes so much time to choose what to eat and to prepare food and eating it… Being hungry is a pain too. I mean it’s really good if you eat something delicious but I guess it depends on the person.”

He nods, eyeing with curiosity as you tear off another marshmallow from the stick. It reminds him of the videos he saw of wild beasts tearing flesh off bones, but he doesn’t mention that.

“What does sleep feel like to you?” you ask in turn. He looks at the sky for a second, collecting his thoughts. But really he’s just enjoying the view. It’s strange that he barely ever saw the night sky before.

“I don’t know, I’m not really conscious when I sleep, am I?” he thinks some more, “It’s peaceful. I liked it at the facility.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“Not really,” he gives you a small smile, “It’s too tempting. I don’t have to think if I’m asleep.”

Now that makes you wonder.

“I thought you enjoyed thinking about things?” Maybe it’d be more fair to say you expected him to do a lot of thinking rather than saying you had a strong opinion on his relationship to the activity. He was just always one of the quiet, reserved ones. He seemed to enjoy reading too. And you know it’s a stereotype to think of him as a thinker, but it’s one he seemed to fit well.

“I do,” he hesitates, then frowns, “But it was easier there.”

“Easier? I think you’d have way more to think about right now?” you pry when he’s quiet for too long. You don’t push, though.

“Easier in the technical sense,” he sighs, falling silent again, but there remains space for more words to be said.

You can almost hear the cogs turning in his head, purely metaphorically of course. You give him the time to think and get started on your second round of marshmallows before he speaks up again.

“I always - back then, I always thought about staying true to myself,” he starts slowly, “I was always treated a certain way. I woke up into this body, and this life, and was told certain things.”

"And the building blocks of me too. Serenity? Pandemonium? The more automatons and people I met, I was sure those just represented us and humans. I wanted to be true to myself," he repeats, "I thought since no one will ever see me as more than a machine, I might as well embrace it."

"And how was it?" you ask, inching just slightly closer. You never thought you'd get TH38 to open up like this. He smiles.

"Peaceful, just as I thought," but then he continues with a note of bitterness in his voice. "You saw it, all of it. I was just a machine doing its job. It was easy. To focus on performing, on practice, to have the talks with you and answer like I thought was expected of me. I miss it a little.”

“It was satisfying. A simple pleasure of doing my job well. I think you understand that,” he looks at you and you realize finally that you’ve been leaning towards him, but whatever. You nod.

“So that’s why you’ve always acted like that? Because you chose to be a machine?”

“Have to use my free will wisely,” he giggles - he fucking giggles - before he shrugs and gets more serious again, “I really liked it in a way. I thought I could be satisfied with that.”

Your head is still trying to process the incredible amount of research data you’re getting and you have to work really hard not to slip into work mode. You will listen to him like you would listen to a human with a completely different set of experiences, or like you would listen to one of the aliens sharing their galaxies with you. You will listen like you’d listen to a friend sharing their burden with you.

And you won’t analyze every single sound he makes even if they shatter your perception of him that you had until that moment.

“The others were ruining it a lot for me,” he admits quietly after a minute. It’s almost wistful. “I liked to watch them even if I really wanted to play around with them. They seemed so different from me. It was my choice, but in those moments I guess I felt a lot like you.”

You nod for him to continue when he meets your eyes, almost cautiously.

“I observed them. Studied them. I think it was the serenity code inside, I found happiness just from watching them being happy,” he smiles a little, “But I was also wondering if that was really alright. If it would be alright for me to behave like that.”

“Watching people made me feel different things. They were going crazy over us,” and suddenly he has that distant look in his eyes again, staring out into the fire, “I was scared of it. I was scared of being like them and letting myself be controlled by emotions. I think I pushed everything away so hard that it exploded when 5.C0UP5 told us to run.”

“Breaking out inside and out, huh?” you note and oops, your marshmallows burned. It’s not like you’re in the mood for eating them anymore anyway.

“You made it really hard,” he says but it sounds like he’s scolding you, “Giving me all the books.”

You smirk. Then you decide - to hell with it. He volunteered so much information that perhaps he deserves to receive some back.

“That was the point,” you shrug, “To make being just a machine hard for you.”

It seems he wasn’t expecting to hear you admit it, or hear anything personal from you, but now that you started he’s watching you with curious eyes and longing look. You think about these last few days again. It’s true that they’ve been mostly like what they were back at the facility.

He deserves more than that.

“It was one of the reasons I was brought to the facility. I broke some rules back at my previous station, pushed buttons I shouldn’t have, and it was getting dangerous. It was decided it’d be better if my actions wouldn’t have such large-scale consequences,” you huff a laugh, “But look where we are.”

“What were you doing before?”

You’ll need to work on getting him more confident asking questions.

“That’s a secret,” you wink at him, and you recognize the look as the one you must’ve been wearing when he giggled. Seems like both of you will need to get used to each other’s humanity. “I was working on research at a different division. Mostly my work was trying to push forward with more possible advancements for the automatons on a theoretical level. But I don’t miss it much. I always enjoyed working with you more.”

“Why me? I mean, did they tell you about me or did you get to choose?” he asks, and for some reason you’d love to see what he’d do if you lied and told him you chose him.

“I wasn’t the only one who noticed you were different from the others,” you smile instead, “When they confirmed there was nothing with your code, they started looking into other options of dealing with your case. It just so happened that I was recommended to join the researchers working with your band at the same time.”

“Happy coincidence?” he smirks but you nod, taking him by surprise.

“I enjoyed working with you, Eight,” you shorten his name-that’s-not-a-name and watch him shift on his spot, “It was fun. I had a lot of privileges that I could use - like the books, and the videos, stuff like that.”

“Seems like you’re suggesting you were spoiling me,” he grumbles.

“Wasn’t I?” you smirk, “How many of the others do you think had access to basically a private library?”

“There weren't many real books,” he throws you a cheeky look from the corner of his eye. You do appreciate he's getting less guarded around you, but you hate the whiplash.

"Imagine if I'd spoil you for real," you scoff. He squints at you before pushing on your shoulder slightly, carefully, as if he's hesitating the entire time. It's your turn, for the first time ever, to give him a scandalized look. He chuckles.

"You said touch is important," he explains softly, "The others always used to push each other. I think… I think we could be close, right? Since it's just the two of us for now."

You give him a long look. It's true that, after all, there's no reason for you to treat him like a stranger. Sure, it's a little awkward all things considered - not least of all the fact that while you watched him to the point it could be called an obsession, he knew you to a very limited extend - but as he said, it's just the two of you now. And unless you wanna get caught, it would be that way for a while.

"Friends?" you suggest experimentally, he shakes his head with lips turned upwards in a dangerous teasing tilt.

"I don't know you well enough for that," he's just playing around but it's a nice change so you'll allow it, "Tell me more about yourself."

So you do. There’s little to tell other than your work, but he doesn’t comment on it and doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems invested. It’s a nice change to speak for once with someone who doesn’t get concerned because of your severe lack of social life. Maybe you should’ve been befriending automatons a long time ago.

Unlike before, he seems relaxed conversing with you. Gradually, he gets more comfortable asking questions. It’s easy to fall into the rhythm of using sarcasm or teasing to deflect questions you don’t want answering, and it’s surprising how naturally it comes to him as well.

The night is turning into morning when the fire dies and you agree to go back inside. Well, it’s less that you agree on it than you tell TH38 quite sternly that you’re not at the stage of your relationship where you’d feel comfortable with him lying on your shoulder and dragging him home twice in a day. He pouts (which, again, you need time to process).

Still, you have to admit that it feels kind of good that you have someone accompany you while you walk to your room.

Come morning, it still feels like a dream. So you take extra time to simply lie in bed and think. You're pretty happy with how things turned out. You mull over what the automaton told you. It was a strange way to live one's life. Did he really think he could be happy with just that? You've read enough about history, fiction and articles, to know that, ultimately, it seldom works out this simple way of life. Maybe if all TH38 could do was work, maybe if he had to fear for his life... Or maybe if you didn't keep pushing onto him stuff to think about. Not that it matters anymore.

Funny enough, you meet the moment you step out of the door. You exchange greetings and share a look. You both know you're both usually up much earlier.

· • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —–· · • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —– • ·

The following days go well enough.

You fall into a nice routine of getting to know each other and getting used to no longer being a researcher and a subject. A lot of the barriers between you get torn by this change. You spend your time willingly with each other as if you were always roommates.

Today, too, TH38 keeps you company during breakfast but he seems eager to get up and do something the whole time. Definitely unusual, though he’s always more than eager to explore the woods with you. Then again, never before did he spend the whole time waiting. He doesn’t talk much, he spaces out and nearly jumps out of his chair anytime it seems you might be done with your breakfast. It gets to the point that you have to call him out on it.

"Is something bothering you?" you ask, setting your spoon aside with one hand and laying the other on his shoulder to immediately push him back down to sit.. He looks caught.

"Can we go out today?" he asks, already looking into the trees through the window.

"We’re always going out. Besides nothing is stopping you from going alone," you mention, but the twitching of your lips betrays you. He pursues his lips and you begin to wonder if he knows it makes you - well, not necessarily uncomfortable but you'll have to get used to it.

"Are you not afraid I'll run off?" and while it's not an unreasonable question...

"Where would you go?" you ask without missing a beat. And there comes the frown again. "Maybe you should be worried I'll leave you here all on your own."

"What if we stopped?" he sighs and it seems that he's genuinely bothered.

Sometimes he gets like that suddenly. While you might be getting along better now, there’s still room for improvement. It’s easy enough to make him snap, even though he’s been getting better. During the escape he wasn’t really violent either. He left some bruises, but his intention wasn’t to hurt you, and you never held it against him.

You’ve noticed the pattern of his behavior. Those weird states mostly overcome him when he’s overwhelmed with emotions. Which explains the first snap - he must’ve been so exhausted it was only a matter of time. He’s never got physical with you again, though he seems fond of making you think he will or backing you into a corner or against something when he's behavior flips.

You wonder where that comes from but he doesn’t have any idea either - not to mention he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable discussing those episodes and delving deeper into what he's feeling. Perhaps it’s the force of a habit - something you both eventually agreed on after many discussions, and afterall it takes one to know one. Try as you might, it’s hard not to analyze him, not to ask pointed questions that would only serve the purpose of researching how his brain works and what makes him tick. And you really don’t want that for him anymore. Though you do dearly miss your job. That’s why you’ve been spending most of your time studying from the old notes in your room and the books to keep your mind stimulated.

So for now, instead of analyzing why it hurts him to imagine being abandoned, you try to relate to his situation. He finally escaped what basically was a prison only to find himself all alone, with little knowledge as to how the world outside functions. Not to mention he's a fugitive and one bad step could land him back at the facility or worse. He lost his friends, lost his purpose - worse yet, he gave up on the purpose he chose for himself. He’s already so uprooted that maybe it’d truly be best to refrain from making jokes and teasing him about certain topics. Although…

"You started it," you point out, "But sure, let's be adults about this."

"So you're going with me, right?” he circles back to the beginning. It's been a while since someone wanted to be in your company so willingly. Not that he has other options.

"I’m going, don’t worry," you agree, "Is there any reason why you insist on it?"

He thinks for a bit, and you note that he's biting his lip in yet another expression of very human-like behavior. He turns a little shyer after a minute.

"I don't feel comfortable being out there alone. And I hoped maybe you know of some new spot we haven’t been to yet?”

Something about this feels both so right and so wrong. The automaton is watching you with such a soft expression on his face, a little hopeful it seems. He’s relaxed, you’re relaxed, and it feels comfortable. Two friends on vacation planning their trip for a day. But that’s also what’s throwing you off. You’re too used to being alone - and you thought that’s how you could live forever, be alone and thrive. Only now you realize it’s not a bad feeling at all to have someone to spend your days with, to share a life with - to an extent.

The irony in this isn’t lost on you.

“I think I remember one,” you hum, “But I’m not sure I remember the way. We might get lost.”

“You don’t have to take me there if it’s a special place,” he reassures you, although his excitement at the prospect of wandering through the forest is impossible to hide. It’s cute. Which is a thought that’s been reappearing in your mind for days now, and maybe that’s not a bad thing.

“I appreciate that, but I told you already that there’s not much special to me here,” you assure him in turn. He’s like a sponge, soaking up all the information he can get - about the world, nature, you, anything. It’s really heartwarming he remembers too, and how mindful he’s trying to be. More than half the humans you’ve met, which is… perhaps not all that surprising.

“Shall we go then?” he prompts you, jumping up from his chair and pulling on your hand to get you to stand up too. You let him pull you up, rolling your eyes.

“Did you miss the part where I said we might get lost?” you chuckle. His excitement was just like that of a child - strangely infectious.

“That’s why we’re leaving early,” he explains to you, slowly, and you’re sure he knows by now how much it annoys you, “So we have time to explore and find the spot.”

Annoying or not, though, you can’t say no.

The journey starts off as usual - almost.

He must know the forest in the closest circle around the cottage by heart by now, but he still seems enchanted by it. Despite his earlier bursts of energy, however, he’s quiet as you walk. It’s nothing too out of the ordinary, but you learned to be cautious.

“Hey, is something wrong?” you ask carefully when you stop to admire the way sunrays seep through the trees to illuminate a clover patch on the ground. He doesn’t respond. That’s more concerning as he generally tends to tell you when he doesn’t feel like talking. You have a feeling it’s to prevent him from having another outburst, so if he’s not doing that, it might mean something’s seriously wrong. He continues forward before you can speak up again.

“Hey,” you follow after him - curse his long legs and speed. You think back to all the times you’ve thought he’s like a lost puppy following his owner with a scoff. You don’t like the roles being switched. “What’s going on with you?”

You don’t like repeating yourself. You don’t like not knowing. And you especially don’t like feeling clingy.

“What the fuck, Eig-”

“You’re just like them,” he turns suddenly, making you stumble and nearly bump into his chest. You frown, not understanding who does he mean by them in this lack of context. He sets his jaw like he wants to shut up but then the words spill and you recognize all the signs. “I’m quiet for a couple minutes and everyone's all like ‘Minghao you need to speak up’ and ‘mind your screentime, Minghao’ - how about you leave me alone?”

He’s growling, again trying to make himself as tall and towering as he can. His eyes betray him, though. He is getting better at holding himself back. While you’d oppose that in most other cases, self-control is an important skill for a person to have - especially when strong emotions hit. You read this one as anxiety.

“No need to snap at me, Minghao,” you click your tongue. You make sure to look him in the eye while you say the name. “Just say you want to be left alone.”

This time it’s you walking away. You take the few seconds of silence you have before you know he’ll snap out of it to collect your thoughts. It was only a matter of time before this would happen - before the question of names would pop up. Him picking out a name for himself makes it easier. You heard some of the others also used some sort of nicknames, even if no one ever mentioned TH38, Minghao, among them and neither did he ask you to call him anything but the name the facility assigned him. You wonder how he came up with it, but seeing as it’s still a sensitive topic, you’re gonna leave that conversation for another time.

And here come the steps…

What you don’t expect is to feel a weight on your back, or the warmth seeping through your shirt. You don’t expect the arms around your waist either - or that they would tremble. Nor do you expect the soft, quiet ‘thank you’ that fans across your skin as he speaks those words before removing himself from you. You hesitate for a bit. In just one second, you feel like you need to choose the best course of action. You don’t want to analyze him. You don’t want to think about this like part of your job or rehabilitation or therapy for him.

So you walk on, although you slow down significantly, waiting for him to catch up. He’s still shaking when he does, and his eyes betray how vulnerable he feels.

You meet his gaze from the corner of your eye and tilt your head. He did say he wants to be left alone, so you will respect it until he talks. Which only takes him a little while.

“You almost left me there,” he half-whines, quietly. If he won’t address it, neither will you.

“You’re being dramatic,” you shake your head. It doesn’t seem to have the effect you wanted, however. “Want me to hold your hand,” you tease a little before adding in a softer voice, “Minghao?”

He beams in that soft glow that he radiates when he’s happy. (Not literally.) The one that tugs at your rigid heartstrings.

“You’re too shy to try that,” he pushes right back. Although it’s a challenge, you don’t need to take on every single one.

In a strange turn of events, you do end up taking his hand anyways. You hold his hand that feels like it belongs in yours and you see that he needs a second to process the feeling as well.

Then he slips and if it wasn’t for you holding his hand, he’d be sitting on his ass.

You help him get back his balance and join you on the rock you’re standing on. He’s not looking at you anymore, as he wasn’t for a while now, and you decide that it’s best you keep watching over him until he’s not distracted even if it means holding his hand until you get back home. The sacrifices you have to make to keep him safe…

You turn back forward and smile, memories flashing briefly through your mind. Back when you saw the waterfall for the first time, you were just as distracted and reckless. The deafening sound of it, the pure strength behind the rushing, foaming water is enough to take your breath away even now. You had a feeling Minghao would love it.

And he does - he seems so taken by it that it makes you wonder if it would be safer to carry him. He keeps slipping since he barely pays any mind to where he’s stepping and it takes you threatening to leave, dragging him with you, for him to promise to be more careful. Never before did he obey your orders so quickly. Not even back at the facility, and that’s saying a lot.

After a couple more close calls you finally find a piece of land that’s stable and dry enough to stand on and enjoy the view. Minghao is absolutely mesmerized by the waterfall, lips hanging slightly open and eyes glued to the scene. If you’re staring at him instead of the natural wonder, then it’s only so he doesn’t hurl himself into the water.

“Careful or you’ll fall in and drown,” you warn him when, coincidentally, he does absent-mindedly take a step forward and panics when he feels the ground squish and give way under his foot.

“You’d catch me,” he says with certainty that makes something in your stomach twist, “And we’d be miserable and soaked to the bone.”

“Don’t underestimate the water,” you warn him, “It’s pretty deep and I’m not a strong swimmer. We’d just drown together and that’s not a way to go that I’d choose.”

That makes him turn to you with an unreadable expression. He studies you for a moment before turning back towards the waterfall. There’s a new focus in his gaze as his eyes follow the water. It’s not unlike when he’s watching the flames dance while you’re having a bonfire. You wonder if the thoughts running through his mind differ.

You spend some more there before he asks you to go back.

He stays quiet for most of the way, but you let him. He’s got that far-off look in his eyes that’s a dead giveaway that it wouldn’t be wise to talk to him now. When he calls your name, it's not surprising what he wants to talk about.

“Is there any?” he hesitates, "Way you'd want to die?"

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was scared. And maybe you truly don't, so you approach the topic just as carefully.

"I think most people do," you explain, "It's probably not like that for you, but for people death is a big deal. We tend to think about it sometimes."

"Why?" his throat bobs as he swallows in a new useless but human behavior.

"It's the one thing we can't choose," you smile, and it seems that your relaxed demeanor calms him.

“You may choose death any second you wish,” he murmurs quietly, walking side by side with you. Something about the topic makes the treetops, swaying in the wind above, look greener.

“But what if I mean the opposite,” you counter and this time you don’t look at him. If he notices the difference, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Immortality, hm?” he breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh pine-scented air, “Interesting.”

"Anyway, you at least have the choice," you sigh, more exasperated by the robot who likely won't be able to get your point than the talk of your own inevitable mortality, "I don't. If nothing else, time will make the decision for me."

"Do I?" he muses, aloof in his contemplation as always albeit there's a hint of mirth to his voice.

"All it will take for you to live forever is some maintenance, maybe a couple hardware and software updates," you shrug, "And even if I'm gone and the situation doesn't get better, I bet there are people who'd be willing to help you out. You get to choose whether to live or die."

He mulls the idea over with a hint of a smirk that only seems to grow each second.

"Constant updates and replacements, huh?" he huffs, "Didn't you humans come up with the question about the boat that has all its parts replaced?"

You have to admit it takes you a while, but when it clicks, your eyes get wide and your mouth falls open.

"How do you know about the ship of Theseus?"

"What, did you expect me to be an ignorant mesh of wires and artificial tissue? After all the books you gave me access to?" he scoffs, looking almost offended.

"Well, no, but I also haven't expected to hear about ancient Greek philosophical problems from you," you concede. Maybe you shouldn't be as surprised as you are. After all, Minghao has always been very interested in reading. Almost as much as you’ve been interested in seeing the effect fantasy would have on his artificial brain. But that's long in the past.

"Why have me read those books if you never cared to discuss them with me?" he asks like it's been bothering him for a while now.

"Our sessions were always recorded. I had certain privileges, but most of them weren't for all the higher ups to know about," you shrug, "And after a while I was sure you wouldn't mention anything on your own."

"You trusted me a lot, hm?" he smirks, "Was that why you ran away with me?"

You huff, roll your eyes. He does seem genuinely curious though. You're not sure you want to answer.

"Did you fall for me?" he moves to walk in front of you, "That's what they made us for."

"We both know why I went with you," you sigh, pushing on his shoulder and he steps aside easily, falling back in step with you. He has a small smile on his face. Maybe you should’ve teased him and said yes. The good vibes don’t last for too long. You can feel the shift in the air.

"Do you regret it?"

You're not brave enough to look at him. The tone of his voice is enough.

"No, I don't," you answer honestly, "I think this is good for both of us."

This time it's not you holding his hand, but him squeezing yours.

It feels nice.

You squeeze back.

Your suspicion that he was bothered by the fact that you never discussed the literature you provided him access to is proven correct not too long afterwards.

It’s raining outside, the humid air blows in through the open windows as you eat dinner in silence. Minghao joins you at some point and he seems nervous. You give him the time to collect his thoughts until he’s ready to talk.

He starts off casually, with small talk completely unrelated to the real issue but you don’t push him. Honestly you’re happy even if he’s clearly having a lot of emotions, he’s not snapping at you. You also have to stop yourself for the nth time from making a list of human behavior you discover each day as right now he’s fidgeting with his fingers, picking at a frayed thread of the tablecloth.

Then, finally, he asks the question - could you talk about the books?

“Unless you haven’t read them, of course,” he adds quickly, suddenly flustered by your curious gaze.

“I mean you never told me which ones you’ve read,” you grin, and you find yourself enjoying him squirming in front of you, here and now, when you know the anxiety stems from wanting to be understood and to make a connection instead of uncertainty about the future. Not for the first time you find the automaton cute. “I haven’t read all the books I gave you access to, but I read most of them, so try your luck. Which ones were your favorite?”

He relaxes, his features soften as well. He props his elbow on the table and leans his head against his palm.

“This isn’t one of our interviews,” he reminds you playfully, “Which ones are yours?”

You laugh but you’ll give him this one. You answer and he asks another question, prodding for more information like you usually would. It’s not what you expected, but you play along. Unlike you back then, he carefully checks in with you if this is okay - his eyes find yours and he tilts his head, his fingers brush against yours or he gently touches your knee - and he actively participates in the conversation and discussion.

You wonder if things would be different if this was the approach you used in the facility. If you treated him more like a human and less like a guinea pig, a new prototype or a petri dish. And he must’ve noticed because when you part ways at the top of the stairs, way too late into the night, or rather early morning, after many hours spent talking, he suddenly stops you before you can leave to your room and says: “This wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t work with you like that.”

“I know,” you acknowledge, “The higher-ups wouldn’t let me work like this either. Not with you.”

When he reaches for your hand, you take it. You don’t know if he finds comfort in the gentle squeeze you share before parting for real this time, but you think you might.

Out of the many issues and unspoken things you need to address, the wound in Minghao’s chest remains to be the top priority. He doesn’t mention it often, except in passing when even the bandage fails and it catches on the frayed artificial tissue. He seems embarrassed about it in a way that you know all too well. You also hate asking for help, also hate when you need to be taken care of.

So you sit him down one day and make him take his shirt off again, rolling your eyes - again - at the teasing remarks he tries to hide the flush crawling up his skin. It’s getting easier not to wonder about why they had to be made this human-like.

“I’m fine!” he full-on whines when you try to touch the edges of the wound, slapping your hands away. You heave a sigh, hands on your hips.

“Listen, buddy-” you start but your words die into laughter at the offended look Minghao sends you.

“Minghao,” you try again, and he nods for you to continue, “We can’t just keep it like that. It hurts.”

“Yeah but only sometimes. And you already said you can’t help,” he shrugs, “Besides it’s just me who’s hurting.”

You do understand that. You’ve used the same excuse too. But he’s not you.

On the other hand, he is right. He let you look at the wound before and it seems like while he did a pretty good job of tearing the device out of his chest, some of the nerve-like wires remained meshed in the surrounding tissue and that’s what’s causing the pain. You can’t imagine doing the extraction yourself. Perhaps back at the beginning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to cause him so much pain now.

…Honestly you sometimes wonder who out of you two needs training in how to be a human.

You stay silent for a while, having a short staring contest before you run your hand through your hair and accept your defeat. At least to some extent.

“Friends care for each other,” you inform him before removing the bandage from his body before securing it around his torso again, a little tighter just to keep all the peeling pieces pressed together. He hisses in pain but stays still. It seems he’s more occupied by processing your words than by the pain. “So let me care for you, hm? You might not die but let’s keep you functioning for as long as we can.”

He scoffs but ends up smiling anyway.

“I think you should be more worried about taking care of yourself. I don’t think the food you keep eating here is exactly healthy,” he’s teasing, you know, but something about it seems honest too.

“Maybe, but it’s easier to just add water and heat it up than get the ingredients, prepare them, cook, wash up, and all that jazz,” you defend your supply of instant foods. Although it’s true that your stock is beginning to run low and you probably will need to go shopping soon. You dread it, but at the same time you have a feeling Minghao might enjoy a little trip further away from the cottage.

“I can help,” he offers, “If you show me how.”

“Seems like you want to keep me around for a long time,” you dismiss the offer just so you don’t have to pay attention to how hopeful his voice sounded or how attentively he was watching you. You hope he’ll bicker with you, tease you, push back with more snark, but he doesn’t. He simply smiles and lets you finish the work on his bandages.

If your hands tremble and each fleeting touch against his body lingers, neither of you mention it.

It almost seems like Minghao’s been waiting to use your words against you when a couple days later he joins you under the roof of the patio while the storm is raging only a few meters away, drenching the ground with rain. He brings your favorite tea set with you.

He’s noticed your love for tea, has often asked you to describe the various kinds of it and the flavors, but you never thought it’d come to this.

He sets it all down - the bottle of water, the kettle and the pack of your favorite tea leaves, the glass teapot, and the dark clay one and matching cups - and it surprises you to see he brought two cups. It makes you confused until you notice the tea pet and it gives you a pretty good idea of what he’s planning. You don’t comment on the red hue collecting on the tips of his ears.

“Friends care for each other,” he murmurs while he sits down next to you. He looks at you and moves closer, your knees bumping together. When you don’t move away, he relaxes and focuses on the tea.

He pours the water into the kettle and lets it boil. You notice he set it to stop at the exact temperature he wants - that the tea requires. He measures the right amount of tea leaves for the teapot he picked while it boils, and when the water is done he first fills the cups and the teapots with the hot water. Then he pours it out before gently placing the tea leaves into the clay teapot and pouring the hot water in again. Almost straight away, he pours the tea into the glass one.

You watch him and notice he seems nervous. So you decide to make it worse, or comfort him, whatever will be the effect. You put your hand on his knee carefully, startling him regardless. He looks worried before you smile at him: “You’re doing good so far.”

He seems reassured, giving you a grateful smile himself as he pours the first infusion over the little clay frog sitting at the corner of the tea tray. The next infusion he pours into the cups and hands you one, almost dropping it when your fingers brush together.

“Thank you,” you hum, “You’re a fast learner.”

“I just had enough chances to see you do it,” he shakes his head before nodding towards the tea leaves, “I just wasn’t sure I picked the right kind. I noticed you don’t wash all of them.”

“You did. I would help if there was a need but you’re a natural,” you praise, watching as his ears turn redder.

“And you don’t mind if I pretend with you like this?” he swirls the tea in his cup. He won’t look at you, so you make him. Slowly, you move closer to him until you can lay your head on his shoulder. It’s a light touch, he can move away if he wants to. He doesn’t, although his body gets tense.

“Why would I mind?” you say and realize just how comfortable you feel in this moment, “Isn’t this the perfect mood to sit here like this?”

Finally he melts just a little, leaning his head against yours, featherlight and cautious. You’d never guess he’d be this affectionate once comfortable, but lately it feels like his true personality is coming out more and more and you can’t say you dislike it. He doesn’t say anything, instead he leans closer again and rubs his head against yours, just for a second.

You take a sip of the tea and you hate to admit that his exact measurements make it taste better than when you prepare it. It doesn’t happen that you smile without realizing, but since leaving the facility, well, it seems like a lot of things are changing.

When you finish your cup and set it down on the tray again, he quietly pours the content of his cup over the little frog. Somehow it reminds you of him a little.

· • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —–· · • —– ٠ ✧ ٠ —– • ·

Time passes.

You start to lose track of days and they blend together seamlessly. Has it been months? Years? Who knows. Minghao probably does, but he couldn’t care less. He only mentions the time since the breakout whenever you readjust the bandages on his chest. It almost seems like he’s healing, the compression seems to work a little even on the artificial tissue, although you know that until the remaining wires of the communication device are removed, it will always remain a trouble. He reassures you it’s alright every time and you learn to trust him to express himself truthfully.

He started exploring the outside on his own too. It seems to help him tremendously with dealing with… well, everything. It takes time, you know, and fortunately that’s the one thing that you have in abundance now. Nonetheless, he always seems to appreciate your company, be it on the walks, inside, or on the trips you take sometimes. Usually it’s only to the village to get new supplies of food, but you both remain cautious and even that fills you with adrenaline - among other things.

The locals really make you realize just how indistinguishable from a human Minghao looks. You doubt any of them recognize him for what he truly is, and maybe that’s in part why he always prefers to spend time alone after each of these trips. The highlight for you personally is the older lady who you buy vegetables from that seems to think of you two as the new married couple that just moved in. You make it a competition to see who gets flustered first, though there’s really no shame in losing. Not when Minghao cups your face and squishes your cheeks or hugs you when you begin to stutter - not when you mess with his hair or hold his hand when he’s lost for words.

Life is peaceful.

You think some parts of you are healing, just as Minghao is. He’s getting better at understanding that there’s chaos within peace and peace to be found amidst chaos. He’s learning to experience the emotions he’s suppressed for so long, the good and bad, to let them pass through even if it’s scary and uncomfortable. You try to be helpful. You give him space when he needs it, you talk if that’s what he needs, or let him lay his head on your lap or shoulder if he’s too scared to be left alone with the pandemonium inside his mind.

There are good days and there are bad days. Yet you both grow to be grateful for both.

And there are cold days and warm days too, and on the warm ones, you sometimes sleep outside.

It’s something you’ve never done before and something you now know you'd miss terribly if you could never do it again. Minghao loves it. His excitement remains infectious, which probably adds to your fondness for the warm nights on Silvestre.

Especially nights like this one when there’s not a cloud in the sky and the stars shine brightly above you. The galaxy expands above your heads and it makes you think of the past, of the future, and you understand why the automaton used to be so wary of emotions. They’re overwhelming for you too.

“If they ever catch us, what will you tell them?” Minghao breaks the silence. It’s not often that you talk about the facility anymore, but when you do it’s almost exclusively in whispers under the stars.

“Hm… Depends,” you hum.

“Depends on what?” he turns his head towards you.

“Depends on what will be most likely to get them to allow me to stay and keep working with you,” you mirror his action, “If that means telling them the whole truth about how you’ve done here, I will do that. If that means lying a little, then so be it.”

“Will you tell them the truth about the escape too?” he smirks. But you’re more than ready for the challenge.

“I will them them you kidnapped me.”

“I didn’t-”

“I will them you used force to make me come with you.”

“I didn’t!” he shoots up, sitting upright and looking at you, upset and distressed, “I didn’t have to, you went willingly!”

“I told you,” you smirk, shrugging, “I will tell them what I need to tell them to keep my job.”

Seeing as he remains upset, however, you reach out for him and stroke his arm. He gives you a wary look, one that he always gives you when you brush against a nerve. You smile apologetically at him, brushing some of his hair behind his ear. He scoffs, lying back down with his arms crossed over his chest. “Anything to keep your job but not to keep me.”

“That would suggest I had you in the first place,” your lips stretch further, teasing lilt finding its way into your voice as Minghao freezes and avoids your gaze, “Does this count as a confession, Haohao?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles. You don’t listen.

“Besides, you are my job. Unless you want to be my pet, my-” you don’t get to offer him other alternatives as he springs from his spot and leans over you, holding himself up with one hand on either side of your body, kneeling next to you.

“Your?” he quirks a brow at you. It’s much harder to stand your ground when he drops the shy act, or maybe just puts on this confident one, but you do anyway.

“What would you like to be, hm? Give me some ideas,” you hum. He sighs, deliberately letting his head fall lover until his hair tickles your skin.

“I would like to be listened to,” he suggests, making you laugh.

“We’re friends now, aren’t we? Friends push each other’s buttons,” you chide playfully. You feel comfortable. Even with him hovering above you, you feel safe and content. It’s unreal that not so long ago this would be unthinkable.

“I don’t think we’re friends,” and it’s only the statement, plain and simple. You smile. You really do feel comfortable. It’s a new feeling. And it’s refreshing.

“Isn’t there enough unspoken things between us as is?” you don’t tease anymore.

“So you have a name for this?” he tilts his head, his smile mirroring yours because he knows you don’t. You admit your defeat with a shake of your head and don’t push him off when he lies down again, only this time with his head resting on your stomach. You’re nice enough to run your fingers through his hair too. He leans into your touch in appreciation.

You stay silent, watching the stars twinkling above. You like this. You could stay like this, you think, and live your life satisfied and happy. But could you? Isn’t that what you both thought before too? Maybe there’s danger here that you’re just not seeing yet. You don’t want to lose this. Then again, it’s not like you can find the answer and the solution at this very moment. Not when you’re distracted by how soft Minghao’s hair feels between your fingers and the feeling of his fingers playing with yours when he inevitably searches for your hand. Maybe it’s about time you came to terms with the fact that he’s right - you’d rather keep him than any job.

You think about where the future could take you until your eyes close and you fall asleep.

There must be some sort of telepathy connecting you two because he brings up the future himself some time later.

You sit down and discuss everything: Are the people at the facility still looking for you? Is there a chance they could find you here? Does anyone remember him anymore - would they recognize him? Is there anywhere else you could go?

There are endless questions and very few answers. Plenty of books and a projector with what seems like an endless supply of old movies and shows are great for entertainment, but suck at providing information about the current situation across your solar system.

So you work with the worst scenarios each time.

It doesn’t matter much because the outcome you agree on would likely be the same in any case - you can’t stay here forever.

Minghao seems as mournful about it as you feel but you can’t run away from the truth forever. Just because nobody should know about this and nobody bothered you here yet doesn’t mean it will never happen. Not to mention the other factors.

“I wanna see more,” Minghao admits quietly, his hands playing with yours to ease his anxiety, “I like it here. But I’m afraid I’ll feel trapped again if we stay.”

You nod. That’s true, of course. And you can understand his desire to see more - to learn more. It’s one of the things you have in common.

“Do you have anywhere you want to explore?” you ask, supportive as can be because he needs it. Because you want this too.

“Does your family have any other secret mansion?” he might be teasing, but you know he hopes you’ll say yes. It would make things much easier.

“No,” you sigh, then you smile, “So that means we’re completely free. If we have nowhere to go, we might as well go anywhere.”

He might’ve changed quite a bit, yet the soft glow of his happiness never did. He lets his body fall forward and curl against yours. You chuckle and wrap an arm around him.

“I like the sound of that,” he whispers, nuzzling into your shoulder.

“Me too,” you feel a flutter in your chest. It’s like you’re a child again, being told you’re going on a trip but the destination is a surprise. It’s like you’re back at the facility, before you knew any better, being told you’re going to work with a level 1 automaton but you won’t know which one until Monday. “Let’s do some research and get going?”

“Yeah,” he hums against your skin, “But only after one last night outside. I can’t leave before that.”

Now that’s a sentiment you can relate to.

#svt sci-fi collab #seventeen scenarios #seventeen reactions #seventeen x reader #the8 scenarios #the8 x reader #the8 fluff #svt the8 #svt scenarios #svt fluff #svt imagines #minghao scenarios #minghao x reader #minghao fluff #angst #fluff

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tranakin-skywalker · 3 months

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*sits down n snatches a french fry off ur plate* tell me more about groundwater

Ok so, consider this:

You're Darth Vader. You've just saved the life of your son on the Death Star pt II Electric Boogaloo, and have died from electricity induced heart failure/your shitty body finally giving out on you.

You expect to become one with the Force if you're lucky- maybe find yourself in some sort of Hell if you're not.

Instead you find yourself standing over a woman who looks painfully familiar but you can't place- holding a baby who won't stop staring at you. The baby too seems strangly familiar and for one heart-stopping moment you think Luke!

Then you look closer, and realize the woman is your mother- younger than you've ever remembered her. And that means the baby must be...

Then you realize that you don't have a body anymore. Not really. You're burning without heat in a blue fire that doesn't catch- nova bright and yet the only living thing around you that seems able to see you is the infant version of the person you used to be.

You try to flee, and realize you can't. You don't even make it out of the building before something stops you from moving, and you realize you're bound to this boy and his mother, and that this might be Hell after all.

You're Anakin, and all your life you've been followed by this strange spirit. Sometimes it looks like a man, sometimes it looks like an animal, sometimes it's a suit of armor or a burning corspe or an imploding star or a black hole.

All you know is that it's angry, and also very very sad. You wonder why it's trapped here, if maybe it's cursed, or maybe it just can't move on.

You're the only one who can see it.

It doesn't talk- sometimes doesn't even look like it's aware of where it is. But it follows you. And it protects you and your mother.

Other people might not be able to see it, but they can feel it. And it keeps the worst of them away from you and your mother.

Then the Jedi come and take you away. You hope that the spirit will stay on Tatooine and protect your mother, but it follows you instead. It's never spoken to you (or if it has, you've never been able to understand it), but you think it wishes it could stay with her too.

None of the Jedi can see the spirit either, but it can see them. You don't think it likes the Jedi very much.

It's with you as you learn how to be a Jedi, and you realize that some of the things the Jedi teach you, you already knew. Obi-Wan tells you you're a natural with a training saber, and you don't tell him it's because you feel like you've already learned all this before.

You're spirit hates Chancellor Palpatine, and that makes you nervous.

You're fourteen when the dreams start. They're hazy, and hard to explain, but they wake you up in a cold sweat and leave you with a feeling of impending doom. Something bad is going to happen. You don't know what.

You tell Obi-Wan about them, but the advice he gives you is useless.

The dreams get worse.

You start seeing your mother in them. You see her die in your arms.

You beg Obi-Wan for the chance to go see her, to make sure she's alright. He tells you it's a lot more complicated than just hopping in a ahip and going to Tatooine. That they can't just run off without authorization. That he’s sure your mother is fine.

That night you wake up to the spirit crouched over you in your bed, a face half melted off with bones and wires poking through the char, a living funeral pye with a mouth made of void.

"Your mother is going to die" it tells you, and you believe it.

You take the saber you built with your own hands and cut off your padawan braid, leave it with a note for Obi-Wan to find. You steal a ship, and set coordinates for Tatooine.

You're going to save your mother.

You are Obi-Wan Kenobi, and you woke up one morning to find your entire world has ended. There is a note on the kitchen counter, and beside it, a burnt, braided lock of hair. You already know what the note is going to say. You have to read it three times anyway.

You chase after your padawan, because if anything happens to him, you will never forgive yourself. You can't leave immediately, you're not allowed to. There’s process, and procedure, and though the Council is understanding, they won't let you just go gallivanting off to the outer rim. (Like your padawan did, you hear in the pointed silences). They assure you that Anakin is smart and resourcful and that you have trained him well, that he'll be fine.

You want to scream at them.

When you do finally leave, it is far far later than you would have liked, but you have a place to start looking at least. Tatooine. Mos Espa. A junk dealer named Watto.

It takes you much too long to find the shop, and seeing it for the first time, it hits you- this is the place your padawan grew up. This is where he was owned. Then you meet Watto, the one who owned him.

You ask about Shmi Skywalker, and Watto tells you that he sold her. He refuses to tell you who he sold her to. You ask him about Anakin, and he squints his eyes at you, and tells you he hasn't seen the boy since he lost him in a bet five years ago. In the Force, you can't tell if he’s lying or telling the truth.

You spend almost a month on Tatooine, looking for your padawan. You never find him.

Eventually, you are forced to return to the Temple, though you tell yourself it is only temporary. You're never going to stop looking.

And you don't. Every chance you get, you are searching for Anakin. All your friends too, when out on missions, keep their eyes out. None of you ever find anything.

Then, two years after your padawan disapeared in the night- you feel your bond to Anakin snap.

It is the most painful thing you have felt in your life. You realize, one heartbreak at a time, what that means.

You stop looking after that.

Then-

Footage is released of an uprising on Tatooine. Jabba the Hutt is dead. His executioner is a Sith.

You realize who killed Anakin.

You want to be one of the Jedi sent to Tatooine to investigate. You killed a Sith before, after all, you can do it again. The Council does not allow you to go. They send Quinlan and Aayla instead.

Before he leaves, Quin makes a promise to you. "I'll find out what happened to him."

While they are gone, more planets revolt, more footage leaks. You see that Sith, in that horrible, monsterous mask, that red blade. You see other masked beings, with their own blades. Colors you have never seen on a lightsaber before.

The Outer Rim is buckling, or maybe- it is transforming. Nal Hutta is razed, and slave worlds are liberated. There are reports of a fleet, and army. Every day it grows bigger. Like a spreading infection.

(Or maybe, you think- remembering that junk shop and things like ownership- maybe it’s something like hope.)

There are planets talking of seceding, of forming their own government. That talk has been going for years now, but something about this, about the unrest in the Outer Rim has made it a roar.

There is talk of war.

And all the while, more and more planets in the Rim go dark. The Freed Worlds, they call themselves, who want nothing to do with the Republic or this new Confederacy. The Republic and the Confederacy both feel threatened by them all the same.

Quinlan and Aayla and the other Jedi sent out return. They find very little, if anything at all. "We weren't allowed to get close. They didn't trust us. Any of us," Quin explains. "Somehow they knew."

The Republic reaches out to the Freed Worlds for a peace talk. They don't want a war on two fronts. Only, you think, some of them do.

The Freed Worlds agree, tenatively, but they agree, and send representatives to Coruscant. They don't seem aware that their arrival coincides with a vote on whether or not the Republic will form in army.

You are there when the representatives arrive at the Senate Dome, a bizarre collection of species and ages and appearances, none of them looking anything like the senators you know. They follow behind a young man, too young you think. Then you get a closer look at him, and your world ends and begins all over again.

"Anakin?"

#wow this got a lot longer than i intended #pardon any mistakes i wrote this on my phone at work #fic: groundwater #im leaving. a LOT of things out plot-wise #but heres a little taste

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zeephyre · 6 months

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CR3 EPISODE 77 SPOILERS HOLY FUCK

ASHTON GREYMOORE YOU DUMB FUCKING MANIAC IM GONNA KILL YOU DEAD

im literally in awe. i just ??? taliesin you are literally insane, don't ever do that shit again, but also PLEASE do that again, that was so fucking cool and terrifying and i loved and hated every second of it.

i love ashton greymoore. they're so stupid. so... monumentally blind sided by their own incapability to understand that their body, as broken as it's been, isn't smth that he should just toss to the side so they can be more useful. so they can "save everyone"

the second ashton was back with the group and started his super hero spiel i knew... i knew it was going to lead to martyrdom. i think this whole fuckin group is just a bunch of martyrs waiting for a chance to blow themselves up or toss themself onto the blade in the name of protecting "everyone else".

it was obvious that ashton taking in the shard had like a 99.999999% chance of going tits up and imploding on everyone involved, but jesus fucking christ, of COURSE ashton preserved. this was all thanks to fearne, fcg and taliesin's complete luck when rolling constitution holy FUCK

im not gonna say anything abt taliesin or ashton being selfish tho i see a lot of critters in the stream itself and on twitter doing that, bc taliesin never made it a "ashton wants the shard and doesn't want fearne to have it" situation. FEARNE DOESN'T WANT IT. AND ASHTON WOULD NEVER RISK HER. THEY WOULD RISK THEMSELF THOUGH.

it would have been cool to see fearne making the choice to take the shard, because they reeeeeeally hesitated for so long so honestly i don't think i can pretend this is just ashton.

all in all, this was so stupid and so dangerous and it should not have worked, and i... i cannot wait to see what ashton becomes.

(and i can't wait for them to get an ass whooping from the entirety of bells hells like cmon dude save the suicidal bullshit till we GET to the moon PLEASE)

callowmoore is real, but i honestly... While im very giggly about that i also know that THIS event is gonna have intruiging repercussions for fearne's perception of ashton and their relationship.

they literally kissed??? let's talk about that when i have processed the fact that ashton exploded into millions of little pieces and got put back together by luck. oh the irony.

jfc is it Thursday yet????

#critical role #bells hells #cr3 #critical role campaign 3 #ashton greymoore #taliesin jaffe #c3e77 #cr3 ep77 #fearne x ashton #callowmoore #fearne calloway #cr ashton #cr spoilers

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sepublic · 18 days

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So I've seen some people criticize lately the deconstruction of the child hero trope, arguing that it originally existed as a way of empowering kids who feel ineffective and powerless. And yeah, kids DO have a notable lack of agency that as an adult, you really begin to understand more and appreciate, at least on my end. These are all fair arguments, the deconstruction of the deconstruction, and I don't think they're necessarily wrong. It's just...

Some stories are meant for other people? The thing about this generation is that it's got a LOT on its shoulders. This generation is the one that's tired and burnt out, it has to deal with the burden of a world that's imploding in on itself, and the expectation that they have to fix it. It feels like corporations and politicians are casually destroying the world, knowing future generations will be the ones to have to clean it up, so why should they care?

There's a lot of anxiety and angst about the sociopolitical sphere. We've got the rise of Linkin Park, we've got people becoming jaded with late-stage capitalism and wondering how they can even survive in this economy. The fantasy has shifted from large and grand stuff to simply being able to survive and make a humble yet satisfying living. Kids are becoming burnt out, and being gifted is more apparently not worth the hype.

So I imagine THAT's the appeal behind the deconstruction of the kid protagonist for modern audiences, the one that's like "Hey isn't this fucked up? Isn't this messed up? The fate of the world is on this kid's shoulders, they're just a child soldier?" Because I think it reflects a lot of people's frustration with the adults around them, that it feels like the adults have become useless and are just forcing them to do things on their own, and often for them.

For a lot of young people, it feels like they're being forced to do all of the emotional labor while parents and guardians who tend to fail them, especially for being queer, ultimately slack on their duties by guilt-tripping them; Saying they've already done so much providing shelter and food, so you should be grateful, how dare you expect emotional support and the like!!!

It's all a way to vent frustration over the ineffectivity, and even abuse, of parents and guardians. It's catharsis for angst, because it feels like there's so much wrong with the world; The internet and modern communication has led to this phenomenon of "infowhelming" where kids are constantly bombarded by news of all the world's ills. It's sensory overload, it's a Greta Thunberg situation where it's inherently ridiculous that a kid has to step up and fix things, and instead of acknowledging how much help they need, the adults have the audacity to congratulate this child and put them on a pedestal as the chosen one who will fix things for them. Instead of just taking responsibility themselves.

The "Kid Protagonist is a Child Soldier" deconstruction is an outlet for kids to explore darker emotions, to admit their angst is valid, that this is a really shitty situation and this is how they can deal with it. Growing up, I already had Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, which DID play into the idea of kids cast into too much responsibility because of useless adults around them. It felt like a way for kids to cope with the fact that the world can be a very unfair place, it was cathartic in its acknowledgement of the frustration and its validity.

Plus, it's not as if all these deconstruction stories are saying that kids CAN'T have fun, that they can't do things, because kids DO want to do things!!! They want agency, they want to feel like they're making a difference! It's just that a lot of them also want the reassurance that the adults are still there for them as a support network, that they have people more experienced to fall back and rely on when it's too much; They can do their part but it's not ALL down to them, is that too much to ask for? The nuance of being able to do things, but not having to be the only one?

Sometimes kids like it both ways where they can be an adventurer but also recognize when some things messed them up, so they can have space to breathe before moving onwards. Sometimes they need a break because it IS taxing, but they’ll still go back to it. Sometimes they'll still do the work knowing how necessary it is, while wanting acknowledgement for how hard it was. People write about the traumatic effects of 'bad things' for a reason; They still want to see those bad things in media, for the catharsis of the coping and emotional fallout afterwards.

These defenses of the Kid Protagonist trope and how it resonated with kids from, say, the early 20th century is fair. It's true. But these deconstruction stories of today also apply, in that they're a power fantasy in a different way for different kids of a different generation, with different struggles. So I find it disingenuous to simply dismiss these deconstruction-type stories as just CinemaSins bathos, even if I understand that a lot of people are understandably tired of the MCU's "That just happened" attempts at self-awareness.

And I don't think kids of today are completely decrying straightforward depictions, it's just nice to have those, AND the deconstruction, to flip back and forth between as their mood needs. These types of stories where the protagonists realize they're child soldiers, like Animorphs -which itself was written for teenagers in all their angst- might simply... not be for some people. And that's okay, that's fine! Different stories resonate, different stories serve different purposes because they're by different people.

#ramblings #meta #stories

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mrsundays · 5 months

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TADC GANG REDESIGN

I finally finished the redesigns. It took me a long time, but they are done, and that's all that matters. Now I'll proceed to talk about each of them because if I don't, I'll implode.

I approached the designs with the idea of not straying too far from the original designs, although I can't deny that I went a bit overboard with Pomni's design.

AND NO, THEY HAVE NOTHING UNDER THOSE CLOTHES, ZERO, ABSOLUTE VOID, LITERALLY LIKE A BARBIE OR KEN. But who knows, maybe one day I'll wake up feeling crazy, ahem.

POMNI:

She has undergone the most changes compared to her original design, the most noticeable being the hat. The reason is simple; I find it funny that the hat itself is larger than Pomni, making her look even smaller than she already is, which brings me to the other change.

This Pomni is much smaller than the original, reaching only to Ragatha's shoulders compared to the redesign, which barely reaches her waist.

The third change is the suit. The only things I kept were the pattern and colors, along with the bells on her torso. I liked the idea of giving her a design that constantly makes her appear smaller than she is, with only her head and forearms visible. Now she wears a "tunic" that also serves as a small skirt. In addition, her sleeves and pants are now loose, not to mention a more prominent "collar."

Finally, the pupils - one is red, and the other is blue, both accompanied by black. I don't have many reasons for this; I just liked how the black looked in her pupils when I sketched it, so I decided to keep it in the final design.

Now, a few details or ideas I have:

The bells on her suit make little sounds when she moves. They're not very loud, but somewhat annoying.

Pomni remains just as nervous and anxious, but now a bit more aggressive and impulsive. Why? Who knows.

During the first few weeks at the circus, she develops an intense fear of physical contact. Not only because of the strange sensation her own skin gives her but also due to other events that I can't talk about yet.

She's quite elusive, like a cartoon mouse. This is the only reason she can land punches on Jax without him expecting them.

RAGATHA:

SHE'S THE SAME, SHE'S THE SAME—There are only a few changes. To be honest, I really like the original design, and I didn't feel the need to change much. So, I decided to add a few more things because I enjoy adding silly details that end up saturating things, haha.

The most noticeable change is the white apron. Now it has certain seams all around her body, from her arms to her face, including her neck. Lastly, a small bag hangs behind her with all the tools a seamstress needs, out of necessity, like herself.

Other than that, there are no other significant changes to her design.

Now, with the little details/ideas:

Originally, she was slimmer, but after a small adventure in the circus, she discovered that firstly, she had polyester fiber filling, and secondly, if she added a bit more filling to her arms, she gained more strength.

Yes, she has the kitchen knife/machete, not just to scare a certain rabbit but also to cook meals sometimes with Bubble, the meals they eat after their adventures, with all the affection a ragdoll can give.

She once tried, along with Gangle, to make clothes for Zooble. It didn't turn out well...

Currently, she is the second-longest-serving person in the circus, only surpassed by Kinger. That's why Jax sometimes calls her grandma.

GANGLE:

Same as with Ragatha, her red ribbons and mask are intact, with the only additions being the French beret befitting an artist of her caliber and a small cape that covers the top part of her ribbons. I don't have much else to say; I didn't have many issues designing her—it was just something I thought fit perfectly with her personality.

Little Ideas :D :

As the entire fandom agrees, she's an artist and probably watched a lot of anime before ending up in the circus. Yes, she has one of those pillows with a character printed on it in her room.

Every now and then, she draws the circus members, including Jax, and gives them as gifts. Although she has currently put this practice aside due to recent abstractions...

She has been in the circus for less time than Jax, and despite everything that has happened, she has been enjoying her time in the circus more than she expected.

She can take any form with her ribbons as long as they remain connected to her mask.

Pomni asked her to teach her how to draw. The reason wasn't given, but Gangle gladly accepted.

JAX:

The purple rabbit, yes, he was a bit more complicated. Originally, I had the idea of giving him a shirt with a vest—a contrast between formal wear and his asshole attitude. However, I ended up discarding that idea and decided to go for a 60s fashion style.

The beret was something I seriously considered almost at the end of his design, and at least in my opinion, I think it works well with the rest of his clothing. I had to keep the jumpsuit; it was too characteristic, so I had to work around that piece, leading to the integration of the turtleneck sweater.

And finally, I made him furrier, and yes, he has a tail—a fluffy tail that he doesn't let anyone touch.

Now, you know what's coming:

See that pocket on his jumpsuit? It serves as a hammer space, so if he wanted to, he could store something comically huge there.

He's the best at carnival shooting games. No one has managed to beat him even once. The only one who used to give him competition was Kaufmo.

Don't tell anyone, but he has Gangle's drawing saved. He thinks it's a cute detail, but no one can find out, okay?

Before Kinger's wife's abstraction, he used to play chess with him or accompany him on bug-hunting missions, mainly with the goal of finding one to bother Ragatha.

Once, Zooble called him a furry. Jax locked himself in his room for three days because of that comment.

ZOOBLE:

Zooble… was the main reason I took so long with this. I spent days trying to think of any changes, anything—giving them clothes, didn't like the idea; maybe changing their form, nope; a total redesign… no. And so, I was stuck for days until I decided to change absolutely nothing. They're perfect as they are.

But, but, but in the end, I made a few small changes. I decided to play with the idea that Zooble is a toy with removable parts, and none of the parts are from the same toy brand; some aren't even made of the same material, with their right arm being the prime example, a ragdoll arm with filling, something similar to Ragatha.

Also, now they have a built-in voice box in their torso. You just have to pull that light blue thing on their chest, and you'll hear a phrase that varies between "I love you," "You're the best," and "Friends forever."

I won't repeat myself with this, huh:

They were the one who had been in the circus for the shortest time before Pomni's arrival.

The limbs they have now are not the original ones; it took some time for them to find a combination that was comfortable to move with.

They strangle Jax at least twice a week; it has become a habit.

They dislike the lake, mainly because they don't have aquatic parts, making swimming very difficult for them. Plus, they have lost some parts at the bottom of the lake. Caine returned them, but something tells them that the ringmaster gave them duplicates.

KINGER:

He's perfect, simply that. His original design, despite being simple, I think is one of the best in the series. But I had to do something, so I decided to add two very small things.

First, a ring. No need to explain; I think it's quite obvious what it refers to.

And second, a belt to highlight the excellent figure he has, even if that belt isn't his…

Don't bug me, you already know what's coming:

Sometimes, he hums a song when lost in his thoughts, but it seems like some parts of the melody are missing.

He has managed to create a small encyclopedia with data on all the bugs he has captured, even with drawings made by Gangle at Kinger's request.

He knows what you are.

He takes long walks around the lake on his days off, perhaps in an attempt to revive memories of a better time, although he says he does it in search of an aquatic specimen to add to his collection.

Sometimes, Caine challenges him to an arm wrestling competition. Oddly enough, he effortlessly manages to beat the AI.

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #pomni #tadc pomni #tadc ragatha #ragatha #jax #tadc jax #gangle #tadc gangle #tadc zooble #zooble #kinger #tadc kinger #tadc fanart #artists on tumblr #art #idk how to tag this

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trulytiredhermit · 10 months

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You had been following up with the Linked universe comic for quite some time, you liked the Links' designs, the story, and everything it has to offer.

Stayed ever since the first part came out, you knew a lot about these characters even if you haven't played their game yet.

So what do you feel when you've woken up to a different world and meet the chain hours later?

Happiness of course! You get to meet the Links whose story in the comic you've been following since day one! You've got a lot of questions! But first, befriend them! Why would they tell you shit when they know you, right?

Oh wait that's too much.. Hahah.. Your curiosity is finally satiated, but at what cost?

They won't let you go.

oooooh!! Interesting!

Reader finding themselves in a new world and just going: Welp, guess this is my life now…. Oh neat people that look familiar…. Wait

But honestly I can fully see this connecting to you other ask and I might just combine them because now I got some thoughts in mind about an isekaid reader who knows about the games/Linked Universe comics but also knows they can't just outright fan over the Chain or spout off their many questions right off the bat.

So adding this ask in to this post as well then!

Okay so my first thought when reading these both was what if, on top of all of this, Reader didn't meet the Chain at first and realize where they were from seeing them, but like what if they saw Beedle or another prominent character in the Zelda franchise and THAT'S how they realized.

Then having rational thoughts, Reader knew they couldn't exactly go roaming about given how dangerous some of the Zelda games can be, especially for a modern Reader who wouldn't know how to use half the weapons available to them (especially if they got dropped in Hyrule's or Wild's world).

So Reader takes up a job and lands a place to stay, just trying to keep on getting by while figuring out what the heck happened and constantly hoping they'd get to see the Link of the world they got dropped into since they do be a simp.

Lo and behold one day while working they come across the group as you had put it and their mind implodes as they come to the startling realization that not only are they in the Zelda world but in the LINKED UNIVERSE COMIC WORLD!!

cue internal fanning and simping galore!

Like for example let's say Reader got dropped into Wild's Hyrule, met Beedle who brought them to one of the Stables and they then cut a deal with the stable owner that if they let them stay there and gave them meals, they'd work for the stable association doing whatever whilst doing odd jobs for travelers to make money on the side.

Then one day whilst airing out the bedding and the sheets they catch sight of a very familiar looking man with long blonde hair pulled into a long pony tail wearing a striking blue shirt and was also followed around by a shorter blonde ALSO wearing a familiar blue shirt.

.....and Reader just happens to overhear their names which were Wild and Wind....

So of course, Reader, upon realizing what's going on and who they are, tries to subtly get closer to the group because they are simping so hard right now, but they also try to be respectful and maintain their distance (as hard as it is) since they don't want to make the more cautious members of the group too suspicious of them.

Already too late since the stable owner and Beedle was telling the Chain about the mysterious worker they gained/person they found who had no background and was dressed in odd clothes and always seemed to hum strange songs that no one's heard of before.

So the Chain start trying to get closer to Reader to, trying to find out where they're from and what their story is while also keeping their respectful distance because they don't want to tip them off into being suspicious about them.

As the days pass and Reader and the Chain end up spending more time together and getting closer and closer, the truth comes out/one of the group realizes that Reader isn't from this world, isn't from ANY of their Hyrules.

But now there's a problem, because if they had known this before getting close to Reader they surely would have easily helped them find their way back home.

However now?

Now when they've gotten so close, shared laughs and stories, stayed up late with Reader around the stable campfire and spoke about deep topics, when they've had Reader comfort them and wake them from some of their nightmares without alerting the other patrons or godforbid the other members of the chain...

Well, they no longer feel the urge to be heroic and help Reader get home.

They just feel a selfish desire to keep Reader with them, to keep those bouts of laugher, fun times, and intimacy all to themselves and to never let it go.

*but no really I kinda wanna write a little one shot about this now*

#trulytiredhermit #chromonomatic #yandere lu x reader #linked universe x reader #linked universe

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ccarrot · 6 months

Text

so basically what if we set the bsd timeline back 7 years, messed around with everyone's ages and shot some of them out into different roles.

at the start we have:

Mori(33) is a year into his takeover of the Port Mafia

His new apprentice Yosano(14) met him one year ago and helped him orchestrate the takeover plot

a year ago Dazai(age range: 16-18 i haven't settled lol) fled the Port Mafia shortly before Mori's coup because of the death of his family, and his friend, Oda

Dazai finds himself in the Armed Detective Agency really quickly. (everyone knows he's from the mafia off the bat)

He gets paired off with Atsushi (20) because everyone at the Agency thinks he's the kindest and patientest person to help a troubled kid like Dazai

Atsushi was sent to the military at 10 upon the orphanage director learning about the abilities for war plan.

Atsushi ended up in the same division as Fukuchi and Teruko. He chooses leave the military after that, and eventually meets the Detective Agency.

Rimbaud(27) makes executive under Mori and is ready to start causing some trouble in the Suribachi area in order to look for a useful government asset

the local street gang implodes due to Rimbaud (and Mori's) meddling, and Chuuya(15) has nowhere to go but Yokohama

Chuuya gets to be the shounen protag as he deserves <3

anyways

Akutagawa(19) and Dazai did NOT get along to say the least. Tanizaki(19) is Akutagawa's partner in the Mafia and they don't get along either lmaoooo

haven't really settled on what kind of dynamic Aku and Daz had.

Kunikida(15) is also Akutagawa's new recruit. His family were victims of the Old Boss's terror spree, and Akutagawa found him and wanted to give him a new sense of purpose. Kunikida is a very lawful evil type. he's got the strictest moral code around while also like. being an active participator of violence.

Kunikida and Chuuya end up butting heads a bunch lol. It's almost like im setting them up to.... be......... rivals.

Higuchi(19) is a part timer at the Agency.

Yosano joins the agency too eventually. It troubles her that having a healing ability has only lead her to killing

The ADA is actually rather new at this point in the timeline but we already have some notable members: Ranpo, the reason the agency was founded ofc, at 23. (he was 18 when he met Fukuzawa). Kenji and Kyouka both 21.

Instead of Oda, Kyouka was the assassin from Untold Origins, and Ranpo immediately sibling adopted her. They found Kenji later on accident.

I'm thinking about how chaotic the Guild arc will be. See you can't do much shuffling with the Guild bc they must be Americans. lol

Other random things:

There's not much of a reason that dazai is a little older than kunikida and chuuya. there's some of logic happening in my mind that's not be happening in yours.

I haven't settled on something exact for dazai yet other than he's out of the Mafia before Mori takes over

No one's really got beef with Mori until they meet Yosano. Well i guess Fukuzawa's still salty abt the break up.

Chuuya gets a crush. on... someone here 👍

Starts off like how the pilot did but with Chuuya fishing Dazai from the river.

#everyone's kinda young but like. the point of the bsd universe is that people who are uncomfortably young are doing this with their lives #this is all just brainstorming ofc #what do i even call this? lol

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