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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year ago

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you showed me colors (eddie munson x fem!reader)

"YOU SHOWED ME COLORS YOU KNOW I CAN'T SEE WITH ANYONE ELSE."

summary: the soulmate au based on "illicit affairs" by taylor swift that almost no one asked for.

warnings: ANGST, HURT/NO COMFORT, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, strategic use of pet names, allusions to sex but none described, reader is referred to as a girl a few times, no use of Y/N, canon compliant. not really edited (cause i'm not putting myself through this shit again).

wc: 15.1k+

a/n: im genuinely sorry for once. blame @abibliophobiaa and @breddiemunson for this. also, thank you @hellfire--cult for helping me with the header!!! please take all those warnings very seriously. please. (also shout out to ash who got her own divider sort of so she'd know when to stop reading because my baby doesn't like angst 😅)

The first thirteen years of your life, you only had second hand accounts to trust when it came to colors.

The sky is blue, soft and dreamy, nearly translucent until grey wisps of clouds would overrun it on stormy days (although, the clouds, you could make out). Most grass is green, verdant and rich as it sprouts from the hard dirt. Even the yellowing strands are most likely gorgeous, a sign of life and death, a sign that someone once stood atop the green and held their ground. Roses come in a rainbow of shades, but everyone seems to adore the staunch red ones the best. The plush pink of a lover’s kiss-bitten lips, the warm brown fur of the dogs you passed by on the street, the deep violet of the plums your mother proclaimed as her favorite fruit. A range of colors you had only ever heard of, never experienced yourself.

For thirteen years, all you had was stories. Nothing tangible, nothing solid in your palms. Mere crumbs of a promise of what you would have one day, when you met your soulmate.

When you met him.

It wasn’t the most pleasant of circumstances in which you two met. You’d spent a lot of your childhood fascinated with the concept and lost in daydreams about it – maybe they’d be a stranger you caught the eye of on the train, or maybe they’d be the one making your coffee at a quaint cafe in a big city someday. Whoever they would be, you wanted them to be made of all the fairytales. You wanted a meeting to challenge every romantic story you’d been fed through your youth, you wanted a love that would shake the very Earth you wandered from the first time your eyes met theirs.

Your reality seemed as far from earth-quake inducing as they could get, at the time. Looking back, though, you wish you could plead and change your youthful mind. Because the day wasn’t perfect, the situation was terrible shades of melancholy, but none of that really matters; what matters is that on that sunny Wednesday afternoon, you met him.

Scraped knees. You had scraped knees, sitting embarrassed and frazzled beneath a tree as you tried to sink into the shade surrounding its base and erase the memory of what had just transpired. You could still hear all the other kids’ taunts echoing through your mind, cruel and unnecessary words that were suited to follow you the rest of your days. Comments on your looks and teases of things you couldn’t change. Seeds of insecurity that were hard to swallow at the beginning of your teen youth.

You were still picking at the edges of your open wounds with slow drying tears still coating your cheeks when his shadow joined the tree’s.

“Are you alright?”

You looked up immediately to find a boy standing there. Your eyes had traveled slowly, taking in his baggy jeans with patchwork knees and his oversized faded t-shirt first. Even with the hand-me-down clothes, you could recognize his gangly limbs beneath it all. A frail frame and hunger-panged face. An overgrown buzz cut, no doubt prickly as the hairs stood to attention. Sunken in eyes brimming with concern for you. Whatever shade they were, they had to be dark; they were nearly black in the shades of grey your eyes could currently pick up on.

The thing about soulmates, is the colors don’t happen until you touch your soulmate.

“I’m fine,” you stubbornly replied, wrapping your arms around your shins and tucking your knees beneath your chin despite the sting.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Then stop looking.”

He threw his hands up defensively, shrugging a bony shoulder, “Sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry. Even with the wince that graced his face, he wasn’t sorry for checking in on you. You knew it the moment you caught the broken skin on his knuckles, nearly matching the cuts on your knees. You had fallen on the pavement as you’d tried to run away from the bullies, determined to not let them see you cry. The entire ordeal had been mortifying. You wished you would have just stood there and cried, let them hear your sobs and let them crown you the school’s newest crybaby.

“What happened to your hands?” you sniffled, moving to wipe at your nose. Your cheeks were drier now, the skin nearly stiff where the tears marks remained.

When you mentioned it, he suddenly shot his hands out before him, flexing each hand for emphasis as he looked down with boredom, “What? The cuts? Carver has sharp teeth, ‘s all.”

“Carver?” One of the kids who had just partaken in tormenting you.

“Yeah,” the boy nodded, suddenly plopping himself onto the ground beside you. You flinched and he grimaced in a silent apology once more, “I think he was in the middle of saying something when I punched him, but that’s not surprising. He always has his big mouth open-”

He was cut off mid-insult by a soft snort of laughter. Looking up, all of the previous annoyance at his injured knuckles melted away as he caught you fighting back your laughter.

“What? I say somethin’ funny?” he was biting back his own grin, raising an eyebrow.

You only laughed more, shoulders shaking now with entertainment rather than sobs. “I- Yeah, sorry, I just- God, you’re right. Carver does have a big mouth.”

“The absolute biggest.”

“Bigger than the Atlantic ocean.”

His chuckling joined yours, along with a face splitting grin and eyes that you swore shone between the monotonous tones. “God, bigger than the fucking Pacific ocean. Every ocean, as a matter of fact.”

You both leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, just close enough you could feel his heat through the summer air but not quite touching. Not yet. You let the back of your head thump against the trunk and tried to not think about any of the debris sure to end up in your hair.

“So…” you sighed once the two of you composed yourself from your laughing fits, “I’m assuming you punched Carver?”

He only nodded in answer.

“Can I ask why?”

Part of you wanted to assume that the two events were connected; Carver bullying you, and this boy punching him. But you didn’t want to make such a bold assumption about some stranger. Fellow peer or not.

“Because he made fun of you.”

The assumption wasn’t so bold. Your chest constricted, you remembered the sting of your knees, heard the echoes of the other students’ laughter at your fall once more.

“You punched him just because he made fun of me?” you tried to force out a joking tone, as if it wasn’t a big deal, as if it wasn’t making your heart swell, “You don’t even know me.”

“Doesn’t matter. He made fun of you,” the boy said with concrete decisiveness. There wasn’t a quiver of doubt to be seen, as if the logic made perfect sense to him. Your heart swelled more, painfully so. He looked down at one of his hands for a moment, before suddenly shrugging and rolling his head to look at you, sticking it out towards you, “I’m Eddie, by the way.”

A certain security blanketed the moment. This kid, Eddie, had punched a guy for making fun of you. You’d never even spoken to him before that day, much less would you have considered bruising your own knuckles for him. But he had for you. Without hesitation, apparently. Just some boy with a sliver of a gap still between his front teeth, a promise of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and blood on his hands as a reminder of your honor.

Teachers were certainly going to be coming to find the two of you soon. There would be consequences, most likely more on Eddie’s part than yours, but that didn’t matter. There, in the shade of an oak tree of a middle school you’d soon be departing only to join the ranks of some awful high school with bigger and badder bullies, with larger and crueler problems than skinned knees, you had a friend.

“I’m-” you started, reaching out your hand to meet his halfways. But you stopped, because the moment your palm met his, it happened. Suddenly, quickly, unexpectedly. It nearly gave you an instantaneous migraine; the flood of color was so overwhelming.

The first color you saw was the soft, whiskey brown of his eyes. Two warm and comforting orbs, blown out to be as wide as your own, as his face echoed back the same shell-shock on your own. His eyes were brown. Not grey, not black, but something more, something russet. Brown.

Colors. You were seeing colors for the first time. You both knew what it meant.

“You,” he breathed out with a boyish grin, letting you catch the pink of the tip of his tongue as he finished your introduction for you, both of your excitement buzzing in the breeze, “are my soulmate.”

—

Fifteen was the age of awkwardness. Thirteen had been awful, sure, full of changes and growth and such, but fifteen made it seem like a cake walk.

You wouldn’t have survived it without Eddie.

Two years into the friendship, the two of you were inseparable. You had always spent your entire childhood assuming that when you found your soulmate, it would all fall into place, romantically speaking. But then Eddie happened. Eddie, your soulmate, fell right into your lap and you realized all of your childish dreams were pale in comparison.

He was your best friend first and foremost. Even if he hadn’t been revealed as your soulmate on that day, you have no doubt that the trajectory of your friendship would have stayed on this path. From the beginning, both of you decided to Hell with society’s expectations of soulmates. Sure, most people didn’t find their soulmates until later in life, when it made sense for the sparks of romance to fly instantly, but the adults still seemed to expect that when the news broke. Your parents had been concerned, Eddie’s Uncle Wayne had been weary, your teachers had been blatantly confused.

It was fun for the two of you, though. The thrill of introducing each other as, “This is my best friend. Oh, also my soulmate, but, hey. Technicalities, am I right?”

Most of the kids in your grade hadn’t met their soulmates quite yet, especially those first few years. A sense of superiority sprouted in both of you to be able to know, to experience, to lavish in a world of color. To have the weight of finding your better part lifted off your shoulders so soon in life.

You and Eddie had an entire lifetime to figure out the romantic aspect of it all. For now, he was your best friend, and you were his, and that was enough.

Once you two had entered high school, one thing did become very clear: the parading of being soulmates had to cease.

Jason Carver had been enough of a menace in middle school, but grew into a fully formed monster once he joined your ranks in high school. People were not kind to Eddie – they hadn’t been in middle school, when he first moved to Hawkins, and they weren’t going to change their tune suddenly in high school. The bullying you had endured had begun to fade, but his age of torment had just begun.

You never once left his side. It didn’t matter to you if the entire school knew you were soulmates or not. It didn’t even matter that you two were soulmates; he was your best friend, and you would be damned before you left him to battle the tides alone.

“I hate this,” he mumbled as he sat on the toilet of his shared bathroom with Wayne in their trailer, you kneeling between his legs as you blotted at his split lip with an alcohol wipe, “I should have punched the asshole back.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you scowled, furrowing your brows even deeper in concentration, “And stop talking – you’re making it worse.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but you quieted him with a glare.

Just as you wouldn’t have survived the Age of Awkwardness without Eddie, he wouldn’t have survived it without you.

You finished cleaning off the dried blood before tossing the wipe into the overfilled trash can, sighing heavily as you fell back onto the ground and supported yourself against the wall opposite of him.

You leveled each other into a staring contest, eyes blankly boring into each other with emotionless expressions.

“You’re lucky Wayne isn’t home, y’know,” you finally broke the silence, shooting a hand out to grab his ankle and give it a squeeze, “He’d probably be driving down to the school right now and-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie waved you off, shaking his head, “I know. Trust me, I know. I think Principal Higgins is starting to hate him more than he hates me.”

“Principal Higgins doesn’t hate you.”

“You’re right – he loathes me.”

The hand that was squeezing his ankle quickly traveled up to his knee to slap it, “Eddie.”

He raised his hands up in the air, lifting his brows for emphasis as he exclaimed, “What? You know I’m right, kid.”

Kid. The loving nickname Eddie had adorned you with the moment he found out he was a mere six months older than you. You hated it, and he loved that you hated it.

“The day you’re right is the day pigs fly, old man.”

Old man. The nickname that served as your attempt at a rebuttal. It didn’t work, not as intended.

He chuckled softly at that, as he usually does when you call him that, and only smacked his palms onto his thighs, “Well, doc, I must say – you’ve done an exquisite job. Am I free to go?”

You tried to fight your smile, tried to linger in the anger sparked from seeing Eddie hurt. Your disdain wasn’t directed at him; it was always a loaded gun pointed at whoever dared to lay a hand on your boy. You probably could have had a spotless reputation without Eddie Munson in your life, but you’d found your fists quick to fly in his defense.

Your parents hated it. Wayne secretly adored it, even when he’d still join in scolding you and Eddie alike on avoiding violence.

“Sure,” you shrugged, before grabbing his calves through denim to stop him. Dark blue denim, a deep shade of navy that you still hadn’t grown used to seeing. You hadn’t even realized jeans came in so many different shades until you met Eddie, and you’d always chastised him when he’d opt for a boring black pair, “But first, a payment is required.”

“A payment?” Eddie tilted his head, looking down at you curiously.

“A payment.”

“And what would this payment be?”

“A movie night,” you grinned wildly, finally letting your grip on him go, taking in the chestnut highlights of his curls and the red font of his t-shirt, a band shirt you’d never heard of but that he had recently gotten into, “Snacks provided by my loving host, you, of course.”

He exaggerated his pondering, bringing a hand to his chin, stroking dramatically. As if he was ever capable of saying no to you.

“Hm,” he hummed, his voice echoing through the tiny space and encasing you in warmth. As serene as that first summer day when he’d taken the leap of sitting down next to you in the grass, back to a tree, palm in your palm as colors had swarmed your vision, “I suppose that can be arranged.”

—

Movie nights were a frequent occurrence. A sanctuary from the shit show of your small town. Sometimes, they had been the illusion of a bargain like that night, and others, they were an unspoken agreement. You’d show up to Eddie’s trailer or he would end up on your doorstep, your favorite candies in hand, and the two of you would just know. No words needed as you’d situate yourself on whoever’s couch, legs intertwining and blankets shared across laps. A bowl of popcorn that usually ended up being spilled inevitably.

Movies were more fun in color. Some of your friends didn’t get it, still living in a world of black and white, but Eddie loved to listen to your rambles about how the vivid shades appeared across the screen. He loved the way your eyes would light up passionately, he loved how you still smiled so widely at special effects that were made more poignant by this gift the two of you had been given.

Time. You two had been given the time most soulmates weren’t allotted. A gift you always thanked the Universe for.

The latest Slasher film that had been released was currently displayed on the small television in Eddie’s living room, the two of you practically molded to the worn cushions of his sofa. Wayne had left within the first ten minutes for his shift, bidding the two of you a farewell with the warning of behaving. Vibrant reds splashed across the screen as one of the protagonists takes a stabbing, and while you should be shying away from the gruesome scene, you can’t help but stare in awe.

Even after years of experiencing colors, they took away your breath.

“Jesus,” you sighed wistfully, “How do they even make the fake blood? It’s so… so…”

“Red?” Eddie laughed from the other side of the couch, prodding at your thigh with his sock clad foot, “Probably food dye. Maybe some corn syrup.”

“It’s just so bright,” you eagerly leaned in closer to the TV, squinting with a wide smile, unaware of his stare.

He was quiet for a moment, simply enjoying your joy. Your awe and wonder at the world, the way it seemed as if you two had just met that day rather than years before. As if colors were still a fascinating color to you. Eddie had grown used to them, let them become a part of his daily routine, but you always seemed to shine a new light on them for him.

Around you, all the colors seemed a little bit brighter.

“How do you do that?” he whispered so softly, it nearly got lost in the noise of the movie’s climax.

You hummed in response, eyes never leaving the screen. You were watching the movie in fascination, and he was watching you in serenity.

His miracle. His gift. His soulmate.

“You just…” he trailed off, no longer caring about the movie, “You always treat them like they’re brand new.”

It caught your attention. The way his tone was so… velvety, so caring, so affectionate. You looked at him, “I treat what like they’re brand new?”

“The colors.”

“Because they are.”

The same assuredness as he used that very first day. As if it were obvious, as if it were simply a matter of fact and not such an endearing trait. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and it only made his heart clench tighter.

You were his soulmate.

“We lived without them for thirteen years, old man-”

“Thirteen years and six months, in my case,” he piped up in interruption, wearing a Cheshire grin.

You nodded and rolled your eyes, “Yes, in your case. Thirteen years, give or take. I just… I don’t know. They still… they still get to me. I don’t think I can ever get used to them. Are you?”

“What? Used to them?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t know how to explain it to you, not at that moment. How could he articulate to you that after so many years, the colors had dulled ever so slightly? The novelty had worn off, had run its course. The only time they’d ever become as vivacious as the first time was when he looked at you.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t explain it to you, so he only shrugged, “I guess.”

I guess, except when I see the color of your eyes, and I realize they’re my favorite color. Except when I notice the varied shades of your hair, and realize how lucky I am to see them in their full glory rather than shades of grey. Except when you wear that favorite mauve lipstick of yours, and I can’t get over the shape of your lips. Except when you wear that pretty red dress, and your confidence has my head spinning.

I guess, except when it’s you.

“Well, that’s just sad,” you huffed, focusing back on the movie after kicking gently at his shin. You lapsed into a comforting silence for a few more minutes, letting the movie fill the air. The same cycle; you watched the screen, he watched you, and the Universe watched both of you with a smile as it knew that the right choice had been made. The two of you were meant for each other. In this life. In the past lives. In the next lives. The two of you were the epitome of soulmates, even if the concept had never existed before.

Thank the Universe it existed. Thank the Universe that he found you that day, below an oak tree, scraped knees and all.

His voice shook as he quietly confessed, “I love you, you know that, right?”

The movie faded in a blur for you instantly. Your neck could have snapped from how quickly you turned your attention to him. “What?”

“I love you,” his voice continued its waver, not from being unsure but from pure emotion. The flood of love that pulsed through his veins currently.

You smiled, the apples of your cheeks punctuated and the chip in your tooth from your youth he hadn’t had the privilege of being apart of on showcase, “Well, yeah. Duh. I’m your soulmate. You kind of have to love me.”

“Even if we weren’t soulmates,” he rushed to clarify, suddenly leaning forward and grabbing your knee beneath blankets that smelled of home, “Even if you weren’t my soulmate, I would love you.”

Your face softened. He wished he would have kissed you in that moment.

But the vulnerability was terrifying, and all that could echo through your mind is the fact that you two had time. So instead of matching his serious tone, you joked, “Well, it’s a good thing I am your soulmate, then. It might have been awkward for your hypothetically soulmate you would have had instead in that scenario, trying to explain why you love your best friend more than them.”

“Shut up,” he laughed, squeezing your knee tighter, “I’m being serious, kid. I love you. I really, really fuckin’ love you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m the reason you see colors.”

“Fuck the colors,” he was quick to reply, “The Universe can take back the colors, as long as I still have you.”

There it is. The earthquake you dreamt of as a little girl. The trailer’s across the park never felt it, the kids surely getting into trouble in the forest behind Eddie’s home didn’t notice it, but you felt it. A rumble through your chest, a groundbreaking discovery, a world-ending confession. Your world began, and your world ended, and your world restarted with Eddie Munson.

“You don’t believe me,” he noted, suddenly shimmying out from beneath the blanket.

“Wait, hold on-”

“Stay here.”

You stayed frozen in your seat, wide eyes following his broad back and the army green of his t-shirt. No longer a frail frame, face filling out with puberty. He was becoming a man. No longer the young boy who took punches and threw them back twice as hard.

He was becoming a man, he was your soulmate, and he loved you. He loved you enough he would give up what everyone else considered the greatest gift, just for you.

Eddie Munson didn’t need colors to love you so ardently. And you knew, at that moment, that the same could be said for you. You would have loved him no matter what. The moment his shadow had spread over you beneath wide leaves and simmering heat, he was destined to hole up in your heart, never to leave again.

By the time he had returned to the living room, you had paused the movie, eyes locked on where he emerged from the hallway with a polaroid camera in hand and a mischievous grin gracing his features. The camera had been a joint gift from your parents and his uncle the previous Christmas.

Your eyes weren’t on the camera. They were on him. His hair had grown over the years, wild auburn curls finally surpassing his ears. The awkward style made for ridiculous bed head, something you’d been witness to many mornings after impromptu sleepovers.

You were fascinated with the way the sunlight caught each strand as they bounced with his eager steps. The trace of gold you could outline. Shades of autumn you loved to run your fingers through when he’d offer the opportunity.

He shook the camera into the air for emphasis, finally catching your eyes’ attention, before he propelled himself back down onto the couch across from you, both of you sitting up instead of being reclined now. “Let me show you something.”

“O-Okay,” you stuttered out, unsure.

He fiddled with the camera for a few moments before he brought it up to his face, resting against his cheek as his eye peered into the small peephole. You were so busy memorizing him like that, that the flash of the camera took you off guard and effectively blinded you for a few seconds.

“What the-” you started with a scowl, hands flying up to rub your knuckles into your eyes in a sorry attempt to rush away the stars blocking your vision.

“Just wait,” he insisted, snatching up the polaroid the moment it printed from the camera. When you flashed him an unconvinced look, he continued on, “Trust me.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. You always trusted him with your entire being, whether for better or for worse.

The polaroid was slow in developing. Eddie hummed to fill the silence, occasionally fanning around the small capture of you that was slowly filling out in color rather than blinding white. You spent your energy on trying to decipher what song was stuck in his head and not focus on how slow those damned photos always seemed to be in coming to fruition.

It had only been a few minutes, but it had felt like an eternity when you finally gave up on figuring out the song and succumbing to your impatience with a sigh, “This is the world’s slowest magic trick ever.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but tossed you the camera. You thanked the Heavens for fast reflexes as you were able to catch it rather than let it fall to the ground. The two of you would have never heard the end of it if you managed to break such an expensive gift.

“Hey!” you shouted as you clutched the camera tightly to your chest, “Be careful with this thing, Eddie. It’s fragile.”

His eyebrows raised from behind where he held up the polaroid he took of you to his face, “Is it? Can we really be sure that it’s that fragile if we don’t knock it around for good measure?”

“We can,” you snappily replied, glaring down at the camera and fighting amusement, “If you want to throw it around, be my guest. But you’ll explain to Wayne why you broke it – not me.”

“Of course, kid,” he grinned so wide that it spread to his cheeks peeking out either side of the photo still obnoxiously close to his face, “What else is a best friend good for? Basically signed up to be your permanent scapegoat until the end of time the moment I gave you the gift of colors.”

“And yet, I’m the one usually talking us out of trouble,” you dramatically called back, finally looking up at him and holding up the camera, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I dunno. Break it, take a picture of me. The choice is yours, sweetheart.”

He still hadn’t put the photo of you down, so you finally reached across the sea of blankets to yank on his forearms. Once you were faced once more with those warm doe eyes rather than the blank back of a photo, you narrowed your eyes at him in indecision.

He was still smirking. Wide enough that his teeth just barely peeked out between his barely parted lips. You recalled the tales of kiss-bitten lips, the way you’d heard adults describe that deeper shade of pink, and for a second, you considered that it would look good on Eddie. Something about imagining him flushed and bruised by love and lust rather than malice made your gut twist stormily.

“Picture it is,” you muttered, “Put that stupid polaroid down and smile for the camera, pretty boy.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

The camera went off mid-teasing, his dimples on full display and eyes shining wonderfully with the flash of the camera.

“Nope,” you mumbled, “Just said it so you’d keep smiling.”

It was a lie. A horrible, pathetic, and badly-veiled lie.

The photos developed faster. Yours is finally in full color and detail by the time the two of you can make out the shape of Eddie in his, and he was quick to toss it to the side before he shoved yours into your lap.

“There, look.”

It wasn’t anything magnificent to look at. Just another photo. The same old color of your hair, baby hairs frizzing at the edges. Same old eyes fighting from crinkling in adornment at the boy before you. You weren’t anything special, not in your eyes. But Eddie’s expectant stare told you that there had to be something more there, something he was waiting for you to pick up on. You scoured the background of the photo for pops of color only to come up empty-handed. All you could find were the tired dark tones of the Munson’s furniture and living room behind yourself in the picture.

“Eddie, what am I supposed to be looking at?” you squinted, bringing the photo closer and trying to figure out the useless puzzle he had presented you with, “It’s just a picture of me-”

“Exactly,” he interrupted, “A picture of you. My soulmate. That right there,” he leaned over and plucked the photo from your hands, holding it up tauntingly just out of reach, “Is a picture of the girl I love. A picture of the one person who makes colors worth seeing, and makes colors worth losing.”

The sentiment had you choked up.

“You’re my favorite person,” his voice dropped to a whisper, and he held up his hand with his knuckles facing you as he put down the polaroid in his lap, “Have been since that very first day.”

There was still a faint scar, right there, clear as day. It casted over the knuckles of his ring and middle finger as a permanent reminder of that fateful day. As if the colors weren’t enough, as if the swell of your heart inside your chest wasn’t enough reminder of the love and care you’d always felt pulsing from Eddie.

You reached out to the coffee table suddenly, picking up the photo of him, glad to see it finally developed. You didn’t even glance at it before you held it up to him, “And this is a photo of my favorite person.”

“You didn’t even look at the picture.”

“I don’t need to,” you breathed out, moving the picture out of your vision to look at him dead in the eyes, “He’s right here in front of me. In full color, treating me far kinder than I deserve.”

His touch was ginger as he pinched the corner of the photo and took it from your grasp, placing it down atop the polaroid of you, “Don’t do that. You always deserve my kindness – you deserve the entire world’s kindness. I’ll kick the ass of anyone who argues otherwise.”

A soft and shy smile ripped at your lips, made the corners and your cheeks ache as you shrugged, “Whatever you say, old man.”

He only looked at you, only wore the lovesick look of a man face-to-face with his soulmate.

The movie was long forgotten. All snacks carefully put on the table before Eddie threw the blanket off of the two of you and scooted backwards while leaving a space large enough for you between his legs.

“C’mere,” he beckoned, motioning for you to crawl forward and fit your head to his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. He pressed you impossibly close to him, until your cheek was tight to his t-shirt and your ear was thundering with his racing heartbeat.

You melted into him easily, letting your own arms encase him to the best of their abilities in this position. You took a few selfish moments to just be there with him, to just let his words sink in beneath your skin and the reality of them weigh heavy on you. The heavier it weighed, the further into his embrace you pressed.

The warmth of serenity and peacefulness of the picture perfect moment nearly lulled you to sleep. But even in the drowsiness, you felt the kiss he pressed to the crown of your head.

“I love you, too,” you admitted, muffled by his chest. You hoped he felt the words and wouldn’t teasingly make you look him in his eyes as you confessed, “I love you so fucking much. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“Sure you could-” he began, but was cut off but the abrupt lifting of your head, just as he fingertips had started on a path down your spine.

“I couldn’t,” you insisted, “I really, really couldn’t. I need you to stick around for a long time, Munson. I’m not in the business of losing my soulmate until we’re old and grey and gross. I want to keep you around until I lose count of all your wrinkles and weird moles.”

He chuckled, and the force vibrated against your shoulder digging into his torso.

You retrieved those two polaroids before you resettled against him, your back now pressed to his chest as you held the two snapshots side by side for both of you to look out.

He was right. You think you get it.

When you look at the photo of yourself, you see nothing extraordinary. But when you look at the photo of Eddie, everything just… the world seemingly stops, all moving parts suddenly snapping into place. A boy vibrant with color and glee, a boy who tugged on every heartstring you’d hung in your chest throughout your lifetime. It sent warmth to every crevice of you, from the top of your head where the ghost of his lips still lingered to the tips of your toes wiggling beside his within thick socks.

It’s more than an earthquake or the world stopping. Eddie doesn’t just stop or begin your world – he is your world.

A world of wild hair, charming smiles, unfiltered laughter and fierce adoration. Even the brightest shades out there that you had yet to discover were dim compared to the boy photographed in time for you.

His arms slide around your shoulders, tugging you in even closer,“Just out of curiosity, what is your cap on wrinkles you can count? Because I’ve seen Wayne, and some photos of my old man, and let me tell you – time is not kind to us Munson men.”

You rolled your head and pressed a kiss to one of his forearms before smashing your cheek into it, breathing deeply as his fingertips drew random shapes over the spot on your chest that your heart rests beneath.

“As many as it takes, old man.”

“Whatever you say, kid.”

You brought a hand up to curl around the arm, right beside when you kept your cheek nuzzled. He finally laid his palm flat against your chest, and you wonder if he can feel the way each beat of your heart called out his name. It was okay if he didn’t – he had all the time in the world to figure it out.

—

“I just don’t understand why you’re so mad!”

“I’m not mad, Eddie – I’m fucking pissed!”

“Okay, then I don’t understand why you’re so pissed!”

Seventeen is the age of being reckless and redundant. Of big feelings and reckless decisions. It is the time in your life for being an absolute idiot.

Eddie Munson was proof of it as the two of you stood outside of his van, the whistle of the winds around you two from the impending storm lost on your current screaming match.

“Figure it out,” you seethed, stomping your feet almost childishly as you began to turn away from him, “And while you do that, leave me the fuck alone.”

“I- Hey!” he reached out for you, but you’re already quickening your pace and hopping up onto the sidewalk, “Hey! Don’t fucking walk away from me!”

You didn’t reply, only widening your strides.

He called out your name, and you heard his frustrated groan before he easily caught up with you.

Damn him and his newfound height.

“Would you just listen to me?” he shouted, latching onto your bicep and spinning you around harshly to face him.

You yanked yourself out of his touch quickly, eyes blazing, “Why should I? I’ve seen what I needed to see, Eddie. Just go back inside to your preppy girlfriend. Forget about me. Pretend like she’s never stood to the side while her boyfriend bullied you like- like- like some asshole.”

His hair was longer now. Ringlets that cascaded to brush over the top of his shoulders – shoulders that had broadened impressively as he neared the end of his youth. His newest clothing staple covered them; a denim vest you’d helped him distress and sew multitudes of patches onto, a display of his favorite bands that had only painted a new target onto his back.

Satan worshiper. That’s what they called your soulmate in terrified whispers amongst the halls at school. That’s what all the PTO mothers’ eyes silently cursed when they’d see him with you at the grocery store.

He’d made quite the image for himself. And you’d stayed by his side, defending his honor at every chance. Your best friend, your soulmate.

Only to find him eating the face off of some cheerleader at that goddamned party.

Yeah, you didn’t need to listen to him. You really had seen enough.

“She’s not my girlfriend!” he waved his arms wildly, the storm roaring loader with his increased volume.

“What is she then?” you insisted with venom, crossing your arms and effectively closing yourself off from him as you took another step back, “Just some one night stand? Some fun to have before you have to accept that you’re shackled to me for the rest of your life?”

You hated the way your eyes burned. You cursed the tears gathering as you glared at him viciously, masking all the pain with as much rage as you could muster.

He wouldn’t even kiss you, his soulmate. But he would kiss her.

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” he warned lowly, tone no longer making a spectacle of the two of you, “You know that’s not how I see it.”

“You won’t even kiss me.”

He was stunned into silence. As you spat out the words, the first few tears slipped.

It was about more than the pretty blonde girl you’d found him with. It was about more than the fact he was kissing someone else.

“I… What?” he whispered, his entire body going slack with defeat.

The tears fell more rapidly now as you replayed the moment in your head. The two of you were only at the stupid party for Eddie to deal weed from some weird guy he’d met in the arcade, a way to make extra cash. Cash he claimed he was putting towards your future together. You had no idea how you’d gone from sitting on the couch together to tipsy, joining a circle of fellow peers who momentarily forgot their cruelness between shots of whiskey and pours of vodka.

You were going to hate the game of Spin the Bottle for the rest of your life. You were sure of it.

When Eddie’s turn had arrived, when the neck of that dingy beer bottle casted shades of ambers in your direction, you had been so excited. Your heart had been in your throat, your head dizzy with the excitement of him finally kissing you. Your soulmate by Nature, your best friend by choice, finally would be kissing you. You had been so sure it was an affirmation from the Universe that the right choice had been made when it came to the two of you. That it was all real, and the colors weren’t a product of your delusion.

And then he said no.

“You wouldn’t kiss me,” you choked out, pulling your arms around your torso tighter to fight back any shivers or shaking, “The bottle landed on me, on your soulmate, and you wouldn’t even fucking kiss me. The one person you should have kissed. And you didn’t.”

Eddie’s eyes widened in shock, a deer caught in your headlights, as he started to stutter out a sorry excuse.

You didn’t want to hear it. You only threw your head back in bitter laughter, spinning on your heel and preparing to leave him behind once more.

“Wait,” he begged, grabbing your shoulder this time.

You shrugged it off harshly, “For what? For you to make up some bullshit excuse for it? I don’t want to hear it, Eddie. I get it. I’m so sorry that I’m your soulmate. I’m so sorry you’re stuck with me. I’m so-”

He cut you off by rounding in front of you, blocking your escape route and cradling each of your cheeks with determination as he forced you to meet his fiery gaze, “Stop putting words in my mouth! That’s not why I did it, okay? It’s not!”

Your tears fell more rapidly, so quickly that his thumbs couldn’t have kept up with swiping them away if he tried. Instead, he let them puddle against his palms, focus solely on your eyes as he bore into them and whispered, “That’s not why I said no. And it’s not why I kissed that girl, okay? You’ve got to believe me, kid.”

“Don’t-” you started, but he shook his head, determined.

“No, no. Hear me out. Please. You know I don’t see it that way. You- You’re- I’m not shackled to you. You aren’t some sort of damnation for me. Do you get that? You aren’t some life sentence or burden – you’re….” he trailed off, and you could see the tears gathering in his eyes. Constellations in his lashes to match your own. “I said no because I’m terrified. O-Okay? I said no to kissing you because… because… what if you’re the one shackled to me?”

The crack in his voice reverberated through you. Aftershocks rattled your bones at his confession.

“I- We haven’t crossed that line. And I just… if I crossed that line, and if you decided I wasn’t what you wanted…” his eyes searched yours for answers you couldn’t provide to him, not as your brows creased and your chest tightened, “If I kissed you and you decided that the Universe made a mistake, that I’m not actually your soulmate… I- Fuck, I couldn’t take that, kid. I couldn’t.”

You’re no longer poised to run, to escape him and all the emotions drowning your lungs. You felt your shoulders drop, your defenses burned to ash as you stood with two solid feet on the quivering ground below you.

There were a million reassurances on the tip of your tongue, but instead you only said, “Why did you kiss her?”

The question that had pinned you as a flight risk. Because if what he told you was true, and you did believe him, then it didn’t make sense. Nothing that had happened that night made sense if what he said was true.

“I don’t know,” he seemed even more confused than you, “And- God, I’m fucking sorry for such a shitty cop-out of an answer. But I just… I don’t know. I just did. She was there, and she kissed me, and I kissed back. I pretended she was you, like a fucking idiot.”

The honesty threatened to shatter you, but you decided it was better to hear his truth than risk being lied to. You could move past the anguish in both your eyes, the confusion and the hurt having brewed – you wouldn’t have been able to move past some half-assed lie in an attempt to save your feelings.

“I regret it,” he whispered, “The moment I kissed her back, I regretted it.”

“Why?”

An opportunity to seal a bandage over the bleeding wound. A chance for him to make it all better.

“Because she isn’t you. She isn’t my soulmate - she never could be. It’s you, and it was always going to be you, even if the Universe didn’t agree with me.”

You took a moment to try and picture a world in which the man stood before you wasn’t your soulmate. A world where your palms touched, and your world hadn’t exploded in technicolor. Another Universe where the first color you had seen hadn’t been warm, brown, honey coated eyes. A twisted timeline where you hadn’t been awarded the gift of memorizing the red of his guitar, his sweetheart, or the calm blue tint his room bathed in every early morning. A world where you don’t know the shade his skin turns in during golden hour, or can’t see the way his few tattoos he’d gathered in the past year on his skin are actually a fading shade of blue-green rather than stark black. A world where you couldn’t pick up the Fruity Pebbles stuck between his teeth as he rushed to class late and you teased him mercilessly for it. A world without color - a world without the guarantee of Eddie Munson.

A breeze roared by, and you could hear the Universe you were in whispering to stop it, to not do this. Because you weren’t living in a world without color. Your world had burst to life when your palm met his. You knew all the colors of his lifeline like the back of your hand.

“It wasn’t worth it?” You knew the answer. You still needed to hear him say it.

And say it he did, nodding in confirmation, “It wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t worth it.”

He could have left it at that and you would have offered him your forgiveness anyways. Even if the bond formed between you two didn’t feel like a shackle of chains binding you two together, you knew that there would always be an invisible string wound around your soul and connected to his. You could have spent longer being mad, you could have still walked yourself home and left him broken in the middle of that neighborhood street. But even if you did, you would have eventually found your way back to him. Whether you left in anger, whether you left in sadness, whether you left in mourning – your final destination remained the same. Him.

You may have all the time in the world with Eddie, but even a second spent upset with him felt like a second wasted.

Not even forever felt like long enough. You knew that now, glaringly obvious by the chain of events the night had followed.

And so he could have left it at that. And all would be well. Wounds would heal and time would soothe the ache that echoed. But he didn’t.

He took a step closer. Took a shaky, deep breath. And then another step. One foot after the other until he was toe-to-toe with you as he breathed out, “You’re my future. You’re everything to me. Soulmate or not, you’re all I want. I want to grow old with you until I lose count of your wrinkles, and then some.”

His chin tilted down, lips daring closer and closer to yours as your stare into his eyes refused to waver.

Deep, deep brown. Endless, molten, a kind of comforting that says you’re home, you can rest now. How fortunate you were to see the twisting of lively carob and umber rather than lifeless greys.

Your eyes tried to flutter close, but you couldn’t let them, not yet. Not until he was close enough to feel his breath on your chin before he let out a raspy, “Baby.”

You folded immediately, took the plunge as your eyes finally shut and you pressed forward with fervent.

It wasn’t like the movies. It wasn’t fluid and instantaneous. There was hesitancy and there was awkwardness, and your noses bumped one anothers hard enough to make both of you chuckle into the rarity of space left between your mouths as you both gasped in waves of air before returning to one another. His hand took its time before it grabbed your waist, and it trembled the entire time. Your arms shook the entire way they lifted until they wrapped around his neck and shoulders, unsure of where exactly to lay comfortably.

But none of that mattered. Because he was kissing you – your soulmate was finally kissing you. And you had never kissed another soul before that night, but you knew immediately you’d never want to kiss another soul.

It wasn’t like the movies or fairy tales, but it was enough.

And you knew he felt the same way when the kiss was broken by the grin that split his lips just as the sky began to spit out the beginning of its inevitable downpour.

—

You hadn’t heard from Eddie in three days. Which, fair enough. Finals season was nearly upon you two and you knew he had been stressed. Since the night of that party nearly a year before, you two had become even more inseparable if possible. You two had finally crossed a line, had finally accepted your status of soulmates, and no one would dare to demand the two of you detach from each other’s sides once you made the announcement that you were officially together.

Wayne had worn a knowing smile. Your parents had simply warned Eddie to not hurt you (as if that was even an option for him at this point). Even Principal Higgins had offered a polite smile when he caught you two holding hands in the hallway, surprisingly not commenting on the public display of affection. You two were officially dating, officially succumbing to the status quo of what soulmates should be.

Everyone had already sort of known there was something there between you two, but making it official removed any sliver of doubt any of them may have harbored.

And so it was fine if Eddie needed space. It had been that way before your first kiss, occasionally learning how to stand as your own entities rather than solely a joint force, and it could continue to be that way after your first kiss.

But after three days, you had started to worry.

Pacing your room, you told yourself you were being ridiculous. This was fine. Space was good – space was needed.

Space didn’t help with all your what-ifs, though.

What if he was hurt? What if he was sick? What if he was mad at you? What if the longer you gave him that space, the starcher of a revelation he would have that he didn’t need you? What if the two of you had flown into all of this too fast, too quickly, too soon? It may have taken years to get there, but what if Eddie suddenly decided the last year had been too much?

You were in your car, driving recklessly down the streets that would lead to his house, before you could even think of another what if.

If it was that last thought that crossed your mind, if everything between the two of you had become simply overwhelming for him, you convinced yourself it would be okay. It would be just fine, you could handle it as long as he told you as much to your face rather than hiding behind distance put between you. It remained a mantra spinning through your storming mind the entire drive; it will be fine. It will be okay. As long as he says it, I can handle it. Anything for him.

You never considered that one of the other possibilities was more likely. Not until you had your car haphazardly parked in front of the Munson’s trailer, fist banging on their front door before Wayne threw it open with tired eyes and wrinkles bunched in concern.

“Is he here?” you breathed out in lieu of a proper greeting, breathless from your jog up to the damn porch from your car that you hadn’t even bothered with locking up.

It will be fine. It will be okay. As long as he says it, I can handle it.

Wayne understood immediately, stepping to the side as he nodded and motioned for you to come in, “He’s in his room. But listen, he got some news, and he’s not do-”

You didn’t hear the rest of Wayne’s warning, too busy storming past him and flying to Eddie’s bedroom door. You didn’t even knock, bursting through the door and already fighting tears as you geared up to hear Eddie say that he needed time and space, that he had gotten sick of you, that he wanted to experience more life before you guys really gave any of this a fighting chance.

“Eddie, can you please tell me why you’ve just up and disappeared-” you cut off your plead the moment you laid eyes on him.

He wasn’t facing the door. He was curled up in bed, back to you, clad in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. You could see the stubborn knots that had built up in his hair, immediately keyed in on the way he was trying to collapse into himself. His knees were nearly buried in his chest, and if you squinted into the dark room, you’d see the outline of his spine beneath the flash of skin peaking out from where the back of his shirt had raised.

It wasn’t just the state of him; the state of the room also immediately silenced you.

Almost as if a war path had been torn through it days before, the bedroom was messier than normal. Eddie was never the most organized or pristine person, but he kept his living space well enough to… well, live. Kept the floor always within sight, tried to never let any collection of trash overflow on the tops of his dressers or desk. He even found himself emptying his ashtrays without your reminding most of the time. Usually, most of the clutter simply came from mountains of papers detailing campaigns or writing new songs, or different sets of dice being left out from planning said campaigns. A t-shirt here, a pair of ripped jeans there – sure. He was a teenage boy. It was expected.

It looked as though a level five hurricane had hit Eddie Munson’s room.

Clothes strewn everywhere, dresser drawers thrown open and never closed. Beer cans collected across each surface and both ashtrays were overfilling with cigarette butts. You even spotted two half smoked joints on his bedside table. His sweetheart had been taken off of its wall mount and laid to rest on the floor. He would never have let his prized possession be discarded like that. Ever.

Your voice came out weak as you took a step closer to the bed, “Eddie?”

You’re surprised he heard your whisper. He stirred, and your eyes followed the dust particles dancing in the single stream of sunlight that was bursting through a hole forgotten in his makeshift curtains. Navy blue sheets the two of you once used to make a pillow fort in the Munson living room, thinned to the illusion of a sky blue in some patches.

You’d always warned him they make shit curtains; he’d always shrugged and said it added to his feng shui.

“Eddie,” you whispered again, knees knocking against the edge of the mattress as you looked down at his broken form, “I… What happened? Are you… are you okay?”

You hadn’t known how to approach it. Whatever happened was even worse than the first time he’d received a phone call from his dad in prison.

He mumbled something against the pillow he has one arm curled under.

“What?” you questioned, nearly ready to climb into that damn bed and force him onto his back, force him to look at you if only so you could guarantee there were no tear tracks on his cheeks.

You don’t have to, though. Eddie finally loosened his grip on that pillow and rolls ever so slightly, just enough for you to see half his face and feel your heart break at the confirmation of tears. Translucent pink eyes, glossy wet cheeks, the tip of his nose glowing as his gaze met yours. He looked tired.

“I’m getting held back,” he croaked, “I fucking- I flunked. I’m not graduating.”

You nearly sighed in relief. For his sake, you don’t, but the weight on your shoulders lifted immediately.

“Oh, sweet boy,” you murmured, giving into the need to crawl into the bed. You folded your knees as you situated yourself on the bed behind him, and the moment you’re situated, he wasted no time twisting himself to face you and bury his face into your side, “Why didn’t you call? You had me losing my goddamn mind-“

A strangled sob rattled against your side. One of his hands gripped your thigh, fingertips holding on for dear life, “Because your soulmate is a fucking loser.”

Your chest cracked further, a valley beginning to form as a hand buried into the back of his head, holding him to you as the other hand moved to rub his back in soothing motions.

“My soulmate is not a fucking loser,” you tried to keep a gentle tone rather than scold him at the moment. He didn’t need scolding — he needed patience, he needed care, he just needed you to be there, “Keep talking about him that way, and I’ll have to get the fighting gloves.”

He wetly laughed into your t-shirt, and you were sure that there would be tear stains when he finally lifted his head, “I’m the one who taught you how to throw a punch, baby.”

“Exactly. Which means I’ll have you on your ass in ten seconds flat.”

It was a few minutes of silence that followed; just you holding him, just him clinging onto you. His life line — his single ship of hope in what had been a terribly rocky sea the last few days. An irreplaceable peace settled across all the wounds and damage that had been done in private. You had been right. He should have called you immediately. He should have known that if anyone could make the situation feel less like his world was ending, it was you.

His soulmate.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you questioned in a soft, lulling tone. The endless patterns you’d drawn on his back had nearly put him to sleep, “Maybe be a bit kinder to yourself this time?”

“I just…” he started, finally removing his face from being buried against you, “I sort of had a hunch. O’Donnel wouldn’t round my grade, you know? And I’ve skipped a lot of classes, I know. But hearing Higgins say it just… just…”

“Made it real?” you offered a weary ending to his sentence.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Real. It made it really fucking real.”

He didn’t feel judged at that moment. He felt seen as you continued on, “It is real, and it sucks. But it’ll be okay, Eds. I mean, I was already planning on the community college for my first year, maybe even taking a year off. If you need any help with classes, you just gotta ask me. Don’t forget I was one of O'Donnell's pets, as unfortunate as it was. I know how to work that woman into rounding up some grade.”

You rambled on a little more, all the while still stroking his hair and back, offering even more solutions. The longer you spoke, the better Eddie felt. You made it all sound so easy — like this was nothing, like it was the smallest of blips in plans that had been years in the making. You weren’t upset, you weren’t disappointed. He deserved your negativity, and instead only received your optimism.

You were with him for the long haul, he realized. Truly. It wasn’t just some one off promise or chain of the Universe holding you to him. He wasn’t dragging you down.

When you finally trailed off, his lids finally heavier than his heart, he sighed, “I love you. You know that?”

“I love you,” you smiled, “That’s kind of part of the soulmate package, isn’t it?”

“Fuck the soulmate part,” he lifted out of your hold despite everything in him screaming to stay put, to let you to continue to coddle him, “I’ve seen plenty of people be shitty to their soulmates. I watched my dad-“ he cut himself off, throat tightening with memories of his parents. You don’t make him finish that sentence, only nodding in understanding, “The Universe doesn’t force you to be a good person. You choose to be that. Every single day, you choose to stand by my side. You always have. You could have made me feel shitty about this, could have let me see how bummed you really are about sticking out another year here, but…”

But you didn’t.

Your eyes softened, a stormy shade of his favorite color, “Do you remember the way you punched Carver that day, before you even knew me?”

That very first day. The day two souls destined to intertwine had come in contact. The day the Universe had sighed in relief as your palm met his.

He nodded.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered, “You didn’t even know me. And yeah, whatever, maybe the Universe nudged you to do it, whatever. But there’s tons of people who know their soulmates for years and never realize it. Tons of people go to school and never interact with their soulmates. But that very first day… the first day you were at that school, the first day you saw me — we met. You defended me. And that counts for something. And I like to think it speaks more about us than it does about the grand scheme of things,” you brought a hand up, wiped away whatever tears were left on his cheeks with enough tenderness he almost started to sob again, “You didn’t know I was your soulmate. I was just some random classmate, and you defended me without even thinking about it. And I will always do the same for you. Always.”

You always had, you always will. The two of you had proven, time and time again, that you will always choose one another. It was never about that inevitable bond.

“I don’t deserve you,” he confessed, quickly moving to keep your palm there, resting on his stubbled cheek, “You deserve a soulmate who isn’t a fuck up. Someone good, someone who can give you the world and someone who… who isn’t repeating another year of fucking high school.”

“You still don’t get it,” you grinned sadly. Your fingertips press into that soft spanse right before his ear, cradling him more urgently on their own accord, “I don’t want or need someone else. You do give me the world- you are my world, you idiot.”

Idiot sounded perfectly aligned with lover as he leaned forward, burying his face in your neck. Home — he was home as you wrapped your arms back around him, pulled him a little closer in your embrace, clung to him as tightly as he clung to you.

All the colors in the world, and the only ones the two of you cared about were the ones confined to that small space for the time being, shades of you and shades of him, all overlapping perfectly in sync.

—

You stay true to your word. The first time Eddie repeats his senior year, and the second time.

Endless nights are spent studying, you forcing him to focus when he couldn’t, trying to invent new ways to learn that work for him rather than against him. He’s brilliant; you never let your boy forget that.

It’s nice for a while. Sickly sweet kisses and teasing exchanges. Enough lovesickness to make even those around you two nauseous. Nights spent out by Lover’s Lake, exchanges of promises of a future to come and discussions of whether your kids will have his eyes or your eyes. Kids. You two were discussing fucking kids. And it had scared Eddie half to death to even bring it up, but you hadn’t been phased. You’d answered terrifying question after question with ease, had even joked about what color flowers the two of you would have at your wedding and listened to Eddie describe the house he’d want to grow old in with you in excruciating detail. Sometimes the two of you even brought up what kind of dog you’d have, fantasized about the big yard which would not have a white picket fence (because, according to Eddie, that shit was too cheesy even for him in all his adoration for you). It made Eddie realize that after all these years, maybe you had become the brave one.

You’d both succumbed to the stereotypical soulmate trope. Become exactly what society had expected from the two of you since the beginning. And honestly, you couldn’t even be mad about it. You get it – you got the allure as you had laid with a head pressed to Eddie’s chest, observing all the stars again, a night sky the vision of black and white as your vision went blurry with fatigue.

“You know, that house sounds awfully expensive,” you yawned, curling a bit tighter into his side. You’re in nothing but his t-shirt, his chest still bare from the night’s activities.

Another new development. Even after all your time together, you two continued to find novelty to explore. New ways to learn each other, new ways to love each other, new ways to further tie your two souls together. An unbreakable knot. If anyone, the Universe included, tried to loosen it, you would spill blood without second thought.

“Oh, it absolutely will be,” he chuckled, vibrations echoing in your eardrum, “But that’s fine. We’re going to tap into that rockstar money, baby.”

In between talks of the future, more honest versions had arisen. Eddie and his band. You and your aspirations. Things that neither of you laughed at quite as much as the talk of children or houses with wraparound porches because they were in reach.

“Do you think you’ll have groupies?” your voice was a murmur, mouth half pressed into his skin as you lazily traced circles on his pec you aren’t using as your own personal pillow.

It made him chuckle once more, “Groupies? Sure. Don’t think any of them will be very successful, though.”

“Bold of you to assume I meant just you,” you’re able to snark back even half asleep, “Gareth deserves to be fawned over, too. Jeff is definitely a ladies killer.”

Your hand moved just fast enough out of the way for Eddie to lazily mimic stabbing himself in the exact muscle you were painting invisible imagery across, “You wound me, sweetheart.”

From this angle, you could catch the exact shade of brown that his faded freckles shone. You could see the differences in tan skin, see where he’d left a pair of sunglasses on his chest during a lake day over the summer and the tanline had remained stubborn. That had been a good day – Eddie had thrown you off the dark, wrapping his arms around you and turning the world to a blur of passing greens and blues before you’d been dunked beneath the lake’s surface. The cold water had stunned you, but him joining you seconds later hadn’t. Always by your side, even when he was being a little shit.

You’ve gone quiet on him, mind overcome with fond memories as the silence came naturally only for a few seconds before Eddie felt the need to fill it again.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, the hand that had mock-stabbed himself now curling around your forearm.

Your hand against his chest turned to a fist, pressing deeper into the skin, just to feel him closer, before you teased him, “How do you even know I’m thinking? What if my mind is just blank right now?”

“Psychic-soulmate-telepathy powers,” he answered without hesitation. When you only huffed, clearly unimpressed, he pressed a kiss to your temple before whispering in honesty, “You were smiling.”

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. Usually, you loved memorizing all the colors of him. You loved taking in his doe brown eyes and the harsh blush of his swollen lips. You’d memorize the twinkling of pink staining his skin across his chest and up his neck. You’d pick at the vibrant cherry shade of his painted nails, a sharp contrast from the usual black or sharpie scribbles he’d wear on them instead.

That silver glint of his rings. The forest green of his plaid boxers. All shades in the palette of Eddie Munson, your soulmate.

You love him so much, your chest is ready to burst from it. And you told him as much, too.

“I’m just really glad I have you,” you said for only him and only the trees to hear, “I’m really happy you came after me that day.”

There’s no rush to memorize all his colors and all his shades. You had all the time in the entire world, and then some. The only reason anyone had ever reported losing their colors was due to the death of their soulmate, and he wasn’t in any danger at the moment. He was there, sturdy beneath you, deep breaths syncing with your own.

If you didn’t learn them in this life, you wouldn’t rest until you found him in the next to finish what you had started.

“Yeah?” you could hear his grin as he held you a bit tighter. Another deep breath, another expansion of his ribs, and you feel all that time laid out at your feet. A lifetime of learning and memorizing Eddie Munson. A life well spent, “I’m glad, too.”

“Did you have even a single moment where you…. I don’t know, hesitated coming after me?” your speech began to slur, and you knew you were one foot in unconsciousness at that point.

“Never,” that same certainty he has always held since day one laced his tone, “Never. I just- I went for it. I made Jason Carver eat his words, and I ran after you. The only thing I’ll ever regret is not throwing a second punch at the asshole.”

Your smile widened, and you knew he felt it. Imagined the comfort he felt at the feeling. Imagined the peace that was washing over him just as it encased you, “But not about coming after me?”

“I don’t regret coming after you,” he told you, not growing the slightest bit annoyed at your need for constant reassurance. His fingers and palm slowly spread across your lower back, the warmth of their weight carrying you into sleep, “I’ll always come back to you, baby.”

—

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

Spring break was supposed to be nice. Time spent with friends, lazy mornings that you and Eddie slept through, night drives spent screaming out in relief to empty highways because he made it – you both made it. The college transfer was already put into motion, making it so you’d start the fall semester at a University in upstate Indiana. Eddie had taken a few roadtrips with you at his side, already having gotten on the good side of a boss at one of the car shops within range of where you’d be attending. You two had littered his floor with ads for apartments, the ones in your price range circled in brilliant and glaring red. Everything had been perfectly in line. Everything was set in place. Spring break was supposed to be a break to just be kids one last time – it was supposed to be nice.

But then Chrissy Cunningham happened. And Jason Carver, and an entire town of people who had always hated your soulmate. Suddenly, your own plan for the future had been scrapped, and in its spot a line of new dominos had been placed. One falling down after the other, too quick for you to keep up with.

A group of strangers had banged down on your front door. Had demanded to know where Eddie was, claimed they were friends trying to help him. You hadn’t even seen the news yet. They’d tried to fill you in, but only confused you more in the process, because the words Eddie and murderer should have never been used together in a sentence in the way they claimed the entire town was currently spewing.

You were his soulmate. They were sure you’d know where he was, but you didn’t.

That didn’t matter, though. The young boy, Dustin, had been determined. You’d heard all about him from Eddie – about the brilliant mind hidden beneath baseball caps and unruly curls, about the smart mouth you witnessed mouthing off to Steve Harrington first hand as you’d been searching for your boy.

It reminded you of Eddie. It made you ache. It made you only more voracious in your search.

And you’d found him – terrified, alone, trembling and crying. A version of him you’d never been privy to had pinned Steve fucking Harrington to the wall of Reefer Rick’s boathouse with a broken bottle to his throat. Wild, scared eyes and hands that shook harder than the day his father had called him and he’d put a goddamn hole through his kitchen wall. More desperation on his face than the day he’d informed you he’d be repeating his senior year for the first time. Shoulders more tense than the night you’d nearly walked away from him over some silly kiss with a cheerleader.

When he saw you, he’d shattered completely.

The sight of you had him collapsing into your arms, unable to explain himself in full sentences as he gasped and panicked and clung to you. And you had held him, had forced the others to give him time. You were like a feral animal, standing between him and them, friends or not. Your claws and teeth alike had been out, ready to mar anyone who would dare to lay a hand on your soulmate.

He’d calmed down. He’d explained. And then they had explained and reassured Eddie that he wasn’t crazy. His eyes had found yours over and over, and not a single time did they hold a single doubt for him in them. You believed him; you would always believe him. The cries of the town had been nothing more than static noise. You knew the man before you, you loved the man before you. Your soul knew his intricately, intimately. It would always know him, no matter the circumstance and no matter the troubles to come. In this life and the next.

The colors were never the gift. The gift the Universe had offered you had always been him.

You stayed with him those short few days. Ran from Carver and his posse, swam in the lake and had kept a level head as you formulated a plan. Find a walkie-talkie. Call for Dustin, call for help.

When the rest of them had jumped into the lake after Steve, you’d put a selfish hand on his bicep. For a moment, the only thing you were thinking of was him. You couldn’t lose him.

When he jumped in after Robin and Nancy anyways, you’d followed, no hesitation.

A dreary, nightmarish world. You’d followed him into Hell – quite literally, it seemed. Except they didn’t call it Hell, they called it the Upside Down. A place made up of all the things children fear, of awful creatures that only served to attack, to kill, and terrible storms of flashing red lightning. A blue tint to the town you’d come to know. Shades of flesh and shades of grey – shades of death – flooded the place. And only you, Eddie, and Nancy could see them.

Nancy’s soulmate was somewhere far away. Somewhere safe. But she understood that protective stance and the way you’d stuck staunchly at Eddie’s side. She got it.

A stolen RV, shields made of trash can lids and nails rather than make believe, goddamn spears made at the hand of people all far too young to be handling these things. They were handling the end of the world, and you suddenly hadn’t felt as brave as Eddie always claimed you were. The plan was formulated, and the entire time, you had a sinking feeling in your stomach. You watched Eddie play fight with Dustin, real weapons discarded to the ground, and you listened to Robin whisper the same sentiment to Steve.

“I just have this terrible, gnawing feeling that… it might not work out for us this time.”

You agreed with Robin. You hated that you agreed with Robin.

And so you stood like a watch dog at Eddie’s side, nearly lashed out when it was suggested you might be more helpful joining everyone else going after this Vecna rather than staying with Eddie.

It was his turn to put a hesitant hand on your bicep. Brown, russet, umber eyes that flashed with the unspoken question of are you sure you want to do this?

But he was sure. And just as quickly as you’d followed him into that lake, just as quickly as you had dismissed those awful claims against him, you’d nodded. Because if he was sure, if he was going through it, you would follow him.

You should have insisted on staying with him and Dustin.

Because your group of rag tags re-entered that Hellish landscape, and you flinched with each flash of red, not even soothed by Eddie’s hand in yours. And the people around you were now friends; you’d realized in a few short days that you would do almost anything to protect all of them as well, but you knew there was nothing that you wouldn’t do to keep Eddie alive.

“Hey,” he insists once the two of you stand outside this alternate version of his trailer, somewhere that you should know all too well but that has morphed into something unfamiliar in this world.

His hand holding yours spins you to face him, a few steps off to the side from the rest of everyone.

“Hi,” you whisper back, trying to only focus on him. Not the bleak colors of the landscape around you two, but the vibrancy of his shades. You hate the weakness written all across your features, unable to offer him any reassurance in return for all that he had given you over the years. You were terrified. As Robin had said, a terrible gut feeling was gnawing at you from the inside out. You couldn’t help the tears gathering, couldn’t unravel the restriction of your throat.

“It’s going to be okay, alright?” he does the talking, nodding and lowering his chin to stare right into your eyes. His favorite color now wet with emotion, shining even in the dullest of environments, “Can’t be worse than punching Jason Carver, right?”

It could be. It could be much, much worse. Everything you two had endured together was children’s play compared to this. But you don’t say that; you nod in dishonesty, biting your lip to stop from letting a whimper escape.

“I’ll always come back to you, I promise,” he swears so vehemently, voice spitting with determination. Those brows half hidden by the bandana atop his head furrow, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

That, you at the very least, believe. Just as you would find him every time, in this life and the next, he would find you.

“You better,” you choke out, hands reaching up just to latch onto him one more time. To feel him, sturdy beneath your palms. Alive. Your gift from the Universe, the boy who let you see colors. You almost regret spending so long fascinated with the shades you’d discovered when you should have allotted more time to imprint the features of his face to memory. You should have cared more about that freckle beneath his right eye, the slight crook to his nose, the way each of his calluses feel against your bare shoulders. Shades of blue, red, green, violet, yellow – none of them matter as much as the boy before you. They only matter because they paint the picture of him for you fully. They only matter because he matters, “I still need your rockstar money to pay for that wraparound porch.”

He laughs at that. And God, he’s gorgeous – his head thrown back, eyes crinkling with genuine joy for the first time in days. No one else catches the tear that slips from one of those pinched eyes, the hidden sadness for only you to catch onto.

That gnawing feeling – the one you and Robin felt. He felt it, too.

“Of course,” he finally sighs, opening his eyes back to yours and now holding so many words that neither of you have the time to exchange. It kills you – you don’t have time. You thought you’d always have more time. “Think of this as a test run for that rockstar money. See how a crowd of bats feel about my rockstar skills.”

“Careful,” your voice cracks, a few tears slipping that he’s quick to swipe away, “I hear they’re a tough crowd.”

He smiles at your joke, but doesn’t waste his breath on laughing. His lips find yours instead, pouring out every single thought and emotion possible. You feel a tug on that knot you’d tied between you two, everything in your being protesting from pulling back from the kiss. You try to move your lips in a response, to tell him it’ll be fine, to tell him you’ll both return to each other. To tell him you’ll have more time.

When he pulls back, realizing you can’t, his hand falls from you only to reach into the pocket of his jeans. You don’t understand until suddenly, he’s thrusting a laminated square into your hand.

You know what it is before you even turn it over. Your entire body strangles down the broken sob as you look down at a polaroid of a younger Eddie. Somewhere safe and somewhere that time is still yours.

“Keep that safe for me, yeah?” his voice wavers as he produces his own polaroid – the picture of you, “I mean, I’ll have yours, obviously. But… but just… it’s gonna be worth a lot of money once I’m the next big thing in the Upside Down.”

He’s trying so hard to make you laugh just one more time. It only surges more tears to burn your vision.

“All I’ll have to show Vecna is this,” you start to joke back, letting more tears stain your cheeks, “And- and-”

You can’t finish the joke. He gets it, putting a hand over yours, forcing you both to put away those polaroids.

“I know,” he assures you, “I know. Show him my ugly mug, and he’ll go down without a fight. That’s exactly why I’m giving it to you, baby.”

Another tear, only for you, slips. You trace it all the way down his cheek, memorize the way his skin looks in the horrid blue tint and try to remember the shade it glows during golden hour instead.

“I love you,” you say. But once isn’t enough, “I love you.”

“I love you,” he takes your hands in his palms, finally presses his forehead to yours, shares his breath for a moment as he focuses on your sad eyes, “So fucking much. You always were prettier than all the colors combined. Better stay that way till I come back to you.”

He releases you. Wipes away his tears, has to give you an encouraging shove on your shoulders to force you to join Nancy and Robin’s sides.

Steve catches your eye, a look on his face telling you he’d been watching the entire interaction. Something yearning crosses his features, and then something clicks. As if this is the first time he’d ever witnessed soulmates. As if he’s the one seeing colors for the first time.

Maybe that’s why he gives his little speech. Maybe that’s why he tries to plead your case and make sure that Eddie and Dustin don’t do anything stupid.

After Eddie has made his final request to Steve, to make him pay, he looks at you one last time. A ghost of a grin, wearing his bravest mask to date as he mouths I love you.

You echo the silent sentiment. A silent prayer. For the Universe to bring him back to you. To bring you back to him.

—*ash, stop reading here*—

The only way to lose your colors is if your soulmate has died. It’s one of the first things you learn when school first broached the sensitive topic. Your soulmate dies, they take the colors with them. They never told you how the soulmate takes the colors with them – never discussed whether it would fast and sudden like the moment you first touched your soulmate, if the colors would drain from you in real time and leave a path of chromatic grey behind, or if you’d watch them flicker from sight, just as one might watch the life flicker from the eyes of the one they loved.

You’d always wondered how it happened.

You’d been morbidly curious that day in class despite finding it all a bit dramatic. Had looked around a black and white classroom and processed your classmates' different greyscale reactions. Some were forlorn, some were snickering beneath their breath. Some just looked plain bored. It made sense; you were all kids, none of you had ever seen the blue sky or the verdant grass. Only heard about it. Only listened to adults drone on and on about it wistfully. It was never something tangible, something to have and to hold and to lose.

You wonder how younger you would have looked upon you now. As you faced down an alternate dimension’s fiercest villain, hand paused midair, prepared to launch a lit molotov cocktail with aim to kill, when you suddenly paused.

The shades of the fire burning brightly in front of you have dulled. Microscopically. The smallest of flickers in vibrancy.

“What are you doing?” Steve screams when he notices your hesitation, “Throw it! Jesus Christ, throw it before-”

Robin cut him off, being the closest to you and reaching over to snatch the ticking time bomb of a bottle, tossing it for you.

As it explodes against the mangled being before you, another flicker occurs. You swear you feel a stabbing pain in your side, as if that gnawing has taken to ripping you apart.

You swear the bright flashes of yellow amongst the flames have turned to white. The orange has gone so faded, the dullest bits have shadowed over in grey.

Nancy takes another shot, but you can’t move. You watch it all in slow motion: she doesn’t miss, her shot ricochets dead center, Vecna stumbles before crashing through the wall behind him.

The world flickers a final time, and all the air leaves your lungs.

It’s black and white.

The floorboards, all of your sudden friends beside you, the walls of the old house, the lightning flashing amongst storm clouds in the sky outside.

It’s black and white. Shades of grey monotone.

As everyone rushes to look out the hole, your knees collide with splintered wood.

The colors are gone. It’s black and white.

“Where’d he-” Steve starts to question before he turns and sees you. You’re folding into yourself, no longer breathing as you look down at your palms. Grey. Not a single sliver of flesh tone to be seen. “Are you okay?”

The colors are gone.

A cold washes over you like never before, and even if you wanted to take another breath, you couldn’t. It’s not ash burning your eyes – it’s tears, hot and vicious as your face begins to crumple in panic.

Eddie.

You don’t even hear them cross the room back to you. Can’t hone in on what’s happened, if the evil has been defeated and if you’d all won. It doesn’t matter; your colors are gone.

Your hands finally fumble without thought, patting down your person until you catch the corner of the polaroid. You yank it free, breaths finally strangling into your throat without purchase, your shoulders shaking.

It’ll be in color. It has to be in color. He has to be in color.

That familiar and well loved photo stares back at you. Your boy, curly hair wild and unruly, grin soft and fond. A twinkle captured in his eye and all that adoration that had been rolling off of him in waves somehow frozen in time.

Frozen in time, frozen in black and white.

Steve shakes your shoulders, Robin begins to pace and match your panic. They don’t understand.

Gritted sobs leave your mouth, tears blinding you as you look at the shadow of what must be Nancy.

She understands.

Even through the strangled breaths, earth-shattering sobs that make you nearly incoherent, she knows.

“Eddie,” you manage to gasp, fist curling around the photograph.

The only way to lose your colors is if your soulmate has died.

“Eddie,” you manage a mangled sob as Steve pulls back, horror-stricken as he looks down at the polaroid, slowly piecing together what was happening.

Fast and sudden like the moment you first touched your soulmate. Draining from you in real time and leaving a path of chromatic grey behind. Flickering from sight, just as one might watch the life flicker from the eyes of the one they loved.

“Eddie!”

You’d always wondered how it happened.

You finally had your answer. You wish you didn’t.

#my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson fanfic #gonna run and hide now sorry bye #Spotify

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teacasket · 1 year ago

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pink champagne

genre: fluff au: non idol au warnings: alcohol word count: 0.5k pairing: gn!reader x bang chan a/n: happy 2024, everyone!

A new year, a new city, a new friend. This is how trouble begins, you think, as you follow Chan through the crowds. Sequins and lamé glitter under the golden lights of crystal chandeliers, and premature confetti covers the floor. Waiters in dark, clean-cut suits carry trays of champagne, while guests drink, mingle, and take pictures in front of the famed staircase.

You climb up that very staircase, earning yourself a few disgruntled cries and disdainful looks. Chan mutters an apology but darts upwards before they can say anything. On the other hand, you linger to take in the beauty. They don’t have historic hotels or fancy parties like this where you're from.

The guests on the stairs scan you up and down. Sneakers and a warm coat aren’t wrong for this party, but scuffed canvas and loose, fraying threads are. You squeak out a jumble of incoherent words and run up after Chan.

He waits for you by the elevator and graciously gestures for you to head inside first. The doors shut, and the long ride to the topmost floor starts.

“Told you the lobby would be worth it,” he says, smiling as if you were against the idea in the first place.

“Shut up. You sure we can get on the roof?”

He pats his bag, heavy with illegally copied keys and other secrets. His friend used to work at the hotel, or so Chan said. You didn’t bother asking for more detail.

On the highest floor, he leads you down hallways of closed doors before stopping in front of a metal door with the words STAFF ONLY painted in red. He slides in his key, and the lock gives. When he pushes it open, you brace yourself for an alarm, a security guard hurtling through one of the dozens of doors, anything that signals that you and Chan aren’t permitted onto the roof, but there's nothing.

You tentatively step out, and the winter chill saps all of the warmth from your skin. Your breath makes wispy, summer clouds in the winter air as you take in the city below you.

Music and shouts intertwine like a sonata. Faraway windows glow, shining like the stars above, and crowds swell and ripple like a silver snake. There is so much light, it threatens to drown out the night.

“I love it,” you declare, spellbound by the view. You sit beside Chan, close enough to feel his leg shift as he involuntarily leans closer. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Yeah, no problem. Oh, I got a surprise.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out an unopened bottle of pink champagne. “Friend of mine stole it on the last day of work. He said it was expensive, so it’s probably good.”

“Is this the same friend who used to work here?”

“Maybe. Watch out.”

It doesn’t open with a pop and a flying cork but with a light hiss that is barely audible over the sudden thundering of fireworks. You stare in awe as the sky lights with gold and white, so blinding you have to look away. If you reach your hand up, you swear you could catch a spark in your palm.

“Happy New Year,” Chan says. He takes a hearty swig of champagne, exhaling with pleasure as he holds out the bottle to you. “Hope it’s a good one.”

“Me too. Happy New Year.”

As you put the bottle to your lips, you think this is what fireworks must taste like.

if you liked this, maybe you’ll like one of my older pics also centered around chan and new year’s: ringing in the new year

#stray kids #skz #bang chan #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #bang chan x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #bang chan imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #bang chan scenarios #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #bang chan fluff #stray kids au #skz au #non idol au

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eclectic-sassycoweyes · 1 month ago

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Knot-a-lot of Moons Ago

A Birthday fic for @heartstringsduet

Hi Michelle! Sorry I'm late! This is for you, on your birthday <3

I won't say Happy Birthday, bc it'll mess it up (this one doesn't count bc it's deleted). You might also notice three extra, free flowing Happy Birthday's in the header. That was a mistake, but it all adds up, as you'll see soon.

And if you feel like saying thank you, or even saying 'Maarr almost 16K words? This is too much!!' Just know that, 1) As for the word-count, this fic turned into a monster all on its own, one that I completely lost control of. And 2) You having a birthday catalyzed me actually posting my first fic to this fandom, so really I should be thanking YOU! (thank you)

Summary:

Knot - ugh NOT (and why does TK keep seeing that word everywhere now?!) even a year ago TK Strand gave fully into the universe and it's magnetic pull towards one Carlos Reyes, and married him.

Ever since they did the photoshoot that brought them together, the internet has been going wild over them, and TK not so secretly enjoys the attention. Carlos doesn't really get TK's guilty pleasure of reading fanfiction about them, though TK claims it's good for 'Inspiration'.

One night, TK comes across the fics of a certain user named EnchantedToReadYou..

Beautiful words woven in intricate patterns makes him think of him and Carlos, their story and what they had to go through to get to where they are now. And both he and Carlos certainly finds some inspiration.

A fanfiction about fanfiction. And about TK and Carlos. And an homage to EnchantedToReadYou's writing, on her birthday (or well, on the day after because this author is late as usual.)

And a snippet (or frøsnapper as they say in danish):

It’s amazing, TK thinks, skimming over now familiar words, how this author brings color to their stories with their words. The mystery-filled deep darkness of a room at night in New York City barely concealing someone trying to make their way through a window, bringing the light that they thought they were seeking out in the very room they’re trying to enter.

The harsh cold grey of a city on days where nothing makes sense, the green grass and clear spring air and pink fluttering butterflies both outside and inside someone’s belly on a day where it does. Every color made clearer and yet clouded with the nerves of being newly in love and knowing it’s reciprocated. By the hope of trying and the fear of not knowing the destination.

Or the sunflower yellow of a day spent in love, matching the flowers that symbolize finding yourself by becoming someone who might be able to be someone’s boyfriend, the dark center of the flower painting the background of truths not yet confessed and everything else ruling against these two lying lovers.

This story is a sultry, warm yellow, intensely inviting, speckled with the purple of lovemarks scattered on inner thighs, deep in color as all the layers of love and worship, of hunger, surrender, and trust.

#tarlos fanfiction #911ls fanfiction #my writing #tarlos #911 lone star #911ls #tk strand #carlos reyes #mar writes something

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bonesofapoet · 2 months ago

Note

(Occidui temporis umbra) Lucanis with a dilf Rook. I loved your first prompt done with him!

tangled like summer ivy author's note : thank you sm!!! this has been my fave request lately bc the combination? genius. lucanis pines for rook on the rooftops of treviso but he hopes for something more. minor spoilers. prompt : occidui temporis umbra: a shadow at sunset word count: 1280

He finds you on a rooftop, wrapped in all of the rainbow beauty of the setting sun.

The divine display has painted a masterwork for those who have taken the rare pause to look up, raising their eyes to bear witness: vivid sunflower yellows, mauve and lavenders swirl and melt and dance as they cool down the heat of the sun, burning the horizon in fiery reds and every shade of burnt orange, tangerine, and peach. Thick bundles of clouds were not swept away fast enough before bursting into flame; the sea salt breeze does nothing to rescue them from the rich golden gilt highlighting fluffy peaks and coalescing with wispy trails they leave behind.

Treviso glows in heavenly glory, a world among the throes of yet another apocalypse made beautiful by the simple act of taking a breath, taking a break, going for a stroll where no one would notice, because rooftops aren’t where day blooms gracefully into night.

You’re glowing too, when Lucanis finds you draped over a brick wall crawling in webs of ivy as ancient as the city itself. There is magic in this moment; he feels it in his bones, feels a strange sort of warmth nestle deeper into his heart, senses it burrow deeper still into his soul where it settles, calms, and, finally, stills completely.

He knows he’s breathing, can feel the way his lungs expand and empty, catches the scent of fresh pastries on the air kissing the unmistakable brine of Rialto Bay as they meet with every inhale, taste made stale on each exhalation. He’s grateful, for the reflex of it – otherwise, he fears upon seeing you look so at home against the backdrop of his city, well. He wonders if he’d ever remember to breathe at all.

What a kind way to die, he thinks, to be felled by your beauty.

So, he lingers a little longer instead of going to you. He tells himself its to give you another moment of peace, another moment to relish in the glory of enjoying a breathtaking view, warm, steaming mug in hand, alone. Especially these days, when the Lighthouse was becoming a home, and everything else was becoming a luxury.

He tells himself he wants to give you space, when all he really wants is to spend another second, minute, hour simply soaking you in. Committing to memory how you appear to him, in this very moment swallowed up in all the glory of the dying sun.

Content, is what first comes to mind. Your head tips back, welcoming the warm rays before they disappear behind skyline and horizon line, until tomorrow when everything rises again, anew.

Relaxed follows closely behind, as your body leans against the ledge, the ivy a soft bed in which to cradle the way your hip braces along the wall, protecting forearms resting on the chipped stone, cup loose in your grip. There is no tension here, in this rooftop haven you’ve carved out for yourself. No worries, no fear, no world weighing heavy on shoulders so powerful Lucanis has to look away.

That warmth blooms in his chest once more, pushing him into action, because -

Because, because, because.

The light is fading quicker now, the warm tones of golden hour have washed the air in a pale pink stain before giving way to dusk, and he knows these moments are always cherished alone, yes. He also knows that a well loved memory is first spent with someone you adore.

He takes a breath. Shifts his weight, as if he’s just arrived. Dusts off gloved hands for good measure, and makes his way over to you, twisting in the rose colored light upon hearing footsteps. You face him as his shadow falls over you in a strange sort of comfort, after basking in the light for so long.

“I was wondering when you’d find me,” you say, lips tilting up and eyes brightening, always, when you look at him.

It’s the smirk, however, that makes him weak in the knees. How it sharpens your features in all the ways that makes him want.

Lucanis has never acted on the concept of want before, has never felt like it was allowed, to a certain point. Illario has, of course, encouraged him to dabble, has supported him in the acts of following his desires as Illario does. But Lucanis is not, and could never be, his cousin.

Yet every time he's alone with you, it’s at the forefront of his mind, hovering along the edges when it isn’t.

His eyes slip from your lips to search among the sun sinking farther into the bay as he settles beside you, palms skimming vines and leaves and stone. He has to do something, if he can’t reach out and trace the lines of honey gold still clinging to your jaw, your nose, the column of your throat, exposed.

With yet another breath, he steadies himself and mirrors your smirk, relying on the mask of his training to to see him through the next moment, the next breath, if only until he can get a Maker’s blessed grip -

“I thought I’d give you a head start,” he drawls, unwavering. “I didn’t want to interrupt your evening too soon-”

Your laughter gives him pause, when it interrupts him. He feels his eyebrows rise at the outburst, surprised.

“Lucanis,” his name sounds like a song when your speak it, the dregs of laughter living, still, in your voice as you speak. “You could never interrupt anything for me, even if you tried.”

Your laughter reminds him of the thrill of a risk, a stolen summer kiss, and the radiant shine of starlight. He wants to bottle it, cap the sound with your enticing sense of safety, even as it whispers danger along the shell of his ear. He ignores it, for once, because, mierda. That feeling is prevalent again, soaring through the skies to mingle with the gods-touched clouds, rides the wind swirling around his beloved beside him, the embodiment of roguish charm in this very moment.

Lucanis pinpoints the second his composure ripples like the tide in Rialto Bay shimmering broken reflections of the sky, the sun, the ships in the distance. Can feel the moment it buckles, threatening to collapse like it’s been hastily packed together like a sandcastle, instead crafted out of fade-touched Nevarrite, curated and honed and nurtured with the lifelong skill and precision born of an Antivan Crow, the Demon of Vyrantium, First Talon.

“Besides,” he continues, with no small effort. “Moments like these are best enjoyed together, in the company of those dear to you, no?”

A smile grows upon your lips, blooming into something genuine and enigmatic and passionate – as if Lucanis has just shared a secret with you.

And, in a way, he supposed he has.

Your smile is the kind that’s shared, and Lucanis is more than willing to return it, to let go for a single moment and simply live. And so he does, if only because yes, he realizes, as you take a step closer to him, the electrifying hiss of fabric kissing fabric, arm brushing arm – it sparks something alight, shakes something free from the confines of his carefully built and maintained cage. What a beautiful way to die, upon the tip of your bladed smile – but what an even better way to live, kneeling before you for as long as you’ll have me?

He wonders, as the sun sinks into nothing, the air turning chill as night ascends it’s throne. He wonders, carefully, slowly, hesitantly – if you’d ever do the same for him.

#lucanis dellamorte #lucanis dellamorte x rook #lucanis x rook #dragon age the veilguard #datv #dragon age #datv spoilers #kas answers #kas writes

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eleni-cherie · 7 months ago

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a thief's origin✨ || bts • kth - chapter 0.2

"you're afraid I won't wait." "I'm afraid you will."

a criminal and a doctor should be as different as the sun and the moon - but unexpected things happened every day. like him finding his safe haven in her.

»»»

masterlist: here

— genre: thief au, gangster comedy, adventure, romcom, humour, angst, fluff, sexual tensiON, slowburn, mutual pining, strangers to friends to lovers s2f2l

ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE. CHARACTERS NOT NECESSARILY LIKE THE REAL PERSONS. ALSO VERY UNREALISTIC PLOT LOL - JUST PRETEND READING A MANGA/COMIC OR WATCHING A FILM, REALLY.

SUGGESTIVE THEMES. MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE & BLOOD (BUT NOTHING TOO GRAPHIC, IT'S STILL A COMEDY!)

»»»

4th December

Barcelona, Spain

"Are you sure we won't get caught?"

Cassandra's hushed concern laced with irrational excitement got Taehyung snicker under his breath. He briefly glanced over his shoulder, seeing her wonderous gaze as she was leaning in to try catching a glance of what he was doing.

"Not if you keep watching for any prying eyes," he countered with a smirk, causing her to mumble a muffled 'okay' into her scarf and returning to stand guard as she trusted him for some naive reason. And he continued shortwiring the alarm system.

Her eyes briefly wandered down to the colourful beige-brown-yellow pattern of wet tiles beyond the canopy, which covered the backyard of Casa Batlló. Quickly heaving them again to look around into the rainy afternoon, ensuring no one was seeing them indeed.

Usually the building and the integrated museum were open till late, 10pm, every day. However, that day and the next it was supposed to be closed for some minor renovations. Cassandra had mindlessly mentioned that as the two had passed by in search for a place to await the rain. Neither one having an umbrella. She hadn't expected him suggesting to break in, knowing it was one of her favourite buildings in the city, clearly joking and not actually meaning it. And she surely hadn't expected herself to agree despite knowing it was all tongue-in-cheek.

Feeling an unknown thrill and rush while standing there behind the fence now, shielding his thievery skills while he worked on the rather simple security system - as he claimed.

"Thought your friend was the master thief," she giggled then over her shoulder before redirecting her focus to their surroundings.

Taehyung only huffed at this. "Doesn't mean I don't have some aces up my sleeve, too." A cocky smirk audible in his voice.

A shiver crept up under her pink woollen coat then and she wondered if he wasn't cold at all with his rather thin coat, which was even left unbottoned. Simply unable to comprehend how someone wouldn't feel the need for a scarf in the with humidity spiked coldness of the city.

It was the middle of winter after all, also meaning it got dark earlier and the rainy clouds surely quickened the process. They still got some time left though. Which unfortunately also meant someone could still see them, despite the possibility being low considering the downpour.

Besides, Cassandra was also uncertain if all the other neighbouring buildings weren't inhabited like this one. She knew the one on the right was something like a parfum museum. The ones on the left looked a lot like office buildings. But the rest around the backyard? No clue.

Before she could voice any of her concerns, however, she heard Taehyung's triumphant cheer. And he got up from the electrical panel, cracking open the backdoor with ease. Holding it wide open for her to hurry inside and observed all nervousness wash away from Cassandra's face the further inside they stepped. Her brown irises big while they looked around the colourful tiles and curves. Their footsteps echoing against them in the empty silence.

"Come, this way!" she beamed with excitement while gripping her backpack tighter and he followed her through the posh dining room to a corridor, until they reached the entrance hall.

The place evoked an underwater environment with its white and light blue. They began climbing up the staircase then, past the lightwell which distributed the air and light that entered through the main skylight on top. Also completely covered in tiles of shades of blue, with more intense colour in the upper part and lighter tiles at the bottom.

There was a strangeness to seeing all those high-built exhalted rooms and spaces deprived of any presence and noise but theirs.

Eventually they reached the top and the entrance to the roof terrace.

It sounded like the rain had stopped by now, the clouds having wandered further away to another city part. But since they were already there, might as well take advantage of it. So she let him take over again, allowing him to pick the roof door's lock.

The roof terrace was dominated on each end by what was popularly known as the dragon's back, which characterised the facade and had been represented with different coloured tiles. However, the main focal point of the terrace were the four crooked and polychrome chimney stacks.

The rooftops of all the other buildings around the blocks visible beyond them. Bathed in a warm hue by the low winter sun that peeked through the now clearing clouds.

Everything glistening wet, reflecting its rays.

"I've never been here with no other people around," she said, taking in the view in awe. Not paying attention to the slippery ground, she'd have landed on the cold tiles if it wasn't for Taehyung's quick reaction. Grabbing her arm and holding onto her tightly.

"Careful, clumsy fellow."

She blushed at his teasing grin. "Y-yeah, thanks."

There were a few chairs scattered around for visitors and they settled for a couple under a porch, spared from the rain. And Taehyung's eyes widened when watching Cassandra unpack a small drawing pad and a pencil. Seeing her beginning sketching on her lap.

It didn't happen often, but there were periods she really got into this often overlooked interest of hers. Overlooked since studying and working had taken up most energy in the past. Not leaving much for anything else. So she tried picking it up again whenever she could, carrying her pad and pencil wherever she went.

He peeked on her paper, seeing the rough outline of the skyline and the roof taking shape on it. And he pursed his lips. "You draw?"

"Mh, a bit. Sometimes."

"Do you have a spare piece of paper?"

Arching a brow at him briefly, she nodded and heaved hers to tear off another one for him. Offering him a pencil as well, which he accepted with a smile.

Her eyes caught a glimpse of calluses on his palm and index finger. From a gun, she concluded.

"You draw, too?" she asked then, adjusting the thick beanie on her head before glancing back down to her drawing pad.

"Hardly. But figured I could pick it up again instead of sitting here idle," he explained with a small shrug and started doodling. "Don't expect anything grand though."

she laughed under her breath. "Neither should you."

They grew quiet with only their scribbling pencils and the passing cars down on the street audible. Until Taehyung took out his phone and a mellow jazz song began accompanying them instead. And Cassandra stole a glance at him.

Over the course of the past three months, he'd tended to stop by in between of breaks from heists. He said it was because he loved the city and perhaps that was true. But she couldn't help and secretly hope it was partially for her, too.

He was still somewhat a stranger in some aspects. And a friend in others. One of these friends you only met once in awhile and yet, it didn't feel weird or awkward. Making her wonder if she would also still get along like this with her actual old friends from highschool and medical school.

And in an odd way, Taehyung felt the same strange familiarity with the young doctor. Cassandra was like a childhood friend.

When he was with her, he didn't feel like an internationally wanted thief, but rather like a normal and perhaps even good person.

She made him forget about what he was when being away from her. And in some naive way he wanted to cling onto that, for as long as possible at least.

After all, they had barely known each other and yet, while spending afternoons together just strolling around, it felt always easy. Effortlessly. At some point they'd even reached the beach, only then realising how they'd had walked up all the way there without noticing. They could always talk about anything and have fun.

Cassandra didn't know she wasn't the only one finding comfort in that.

Much to her dismay, however, they couldn't talk about everything as Taehyung would never tell her any stories from his heists with Jimin and Yoongi.

He lied that it'd be a thief's codex not to speak with an outsider about it, when in reality he simply didn't want her to judge or be scared of him.

He had this justified paranoia that a woman like her wouldn't want to have anything to do with someone like him if she knew any details. After all, he still couldn't fathom the fact she hadn't already run away from the very beginning when knowing what he was.

And besides, him not letting her in on his criminal life would be better in any case. For both of them.

"May I ask something?" she spoke up then, after tucking a coppery curl behind her ear that had gone astry by the breeze high up there. Hearing him hum, she gathered her courage and proceeded. "How did you become a thief? I mean.. did you wake up one day and thought 'yep, that's what I wanna do'?"

It was something she'd always wondered but never dared to mention. However, the sight of his hand reminded her of it again. So she decided to attempt coaxing some info out of him at least. Anything.

Cassandra's unapologetic curiosity made Taehyung burst out laughing, genuinely entertained by her. However, she mistook it for mockery and only pouted.

"Don't tell me if you don't want to. But stop making fun of me," she mumbled awkwardly.

He quickly shook his head, though, stifling another bubbling chuckle. "No, no. It's alright. I don't mind. Just didn't expect that sudden question."

She only hmpf-ed, focusing on her sketch. "So?"

"Well.." he began then scratching his head while contemplating how to explain it, "It's definitely not that I woke up one day and decided to be one. It just.. happened."

Cassandra only shot him a funny look. "Like.. you just tripped and fell into it?"

Wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes again and he bit back another chuckle. Getting the reference.

The cold wind picked up anew, tousling his hair and making Cassandra's body grow stiff for a moment.

"Kinda.. remember Jimin?"

"Of course," she nodded, "How could I forget that cute face."

"Cute face, huh?" he huffed out a laugh, "Don't let him hear that, his ego is already out of proportion."

She giggled, nodding. "Noted. So, what's with him?"

Taehyung sighed into the wind. His pencil pausing for a brief second. "It is a long story.."

"We got time," she shrugged, erasing a part and sketching it again, "But if you don't wanna.."

"I mean.. it's not easy to explain." He lowered the volume of his phone then. "I mean, why did you decide to be a physician?"

"Oh."

She glanced up at him, seeing his mischievious grin which caused her to huff out amused.

So that was how he wanted to play.

"In my case it wasn't anything special, though," she shrugged and went back to her drawing, "I like helping people and I love biology. And I'm interested in how things work. How these different organs and cells interact together." A small smile formed on her lips as the pencil glided over the thick piece of paper. "Between all the subjects and things that interested me, this was the one holding more meaning to me, you know? So yeah.. That was my reason. Nothing too special, really."

Taehyung observed her with a fond smile, finding her reason rather noble than as simple as she made it sound. Returning to his doodles then.

"Not the money or prestige?" he teased then, making her scoff in fake-offence.

"Please, if I wanted just money and prestige I could've studied economics or finances or something like that. Would've been way easier than all the nights studying anatomy and metabolic deseases. Believe me."

He hummed amused.

Of course he knew there was a big portion of doctors doing it for the wrong reasons, but he'd never believed her belonging to them. She just didn't strike him as such a superficial person, even if his analysing skills weren't as advanced as Jimin's, he believed that he reckoned up her character pretty well at least. And he was glad he was proven right.

The setting sun bathed everything in a sepia light. The atmosphere warm and bright despite the crisp temperature.

Although the anew dark clouds nearing from the south did concern her.

"Now it's your turn," she smirked and looked up to the afternoon view to catch more details. Planning to engrave the golden colours of the atmosphere into her memory to add them at home.

Taehyung hummed, scratching his neck with the back of the pencil while contemplating. "Well, for you to understand I have to explain my upbringing I guess," he exhaled almost in defeat then and sat back. Allowing his eyes to wander over the grey rooftops. "My earliest memories consist of a skyscraper in Mumbai, where my father brought me along to a meeting with a 'client'. I was only five back then." He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek as he chose his next words. "My dad.. he did business with shady people, so you could say the apple never falls far from the tree." A hollow laugh left his lips at the irony and he drew an abstract cartoon face. "Hence why he also taught me how to shoot a gun from an early age. I still remember when he did for the first time."

Cassandra only nodded, listening intently. She wanted to allow him opening up fully. "So it's save to assume you must be pretty good with a gun," she said instead.

Her assumptions proven correctly when she saw him nod, sighing.

"Don't wanna brag, but I'm a pretty good marksman. Yeah." His gaze fell.

It wasn't like he ever felt exceptionally proud of his remarkable skills, in fact, he was always quite indifferent about them. However, telling her about them now made an unusual nervousness rise inside him. Fearing her judgement.

"Anyway," he composed himself then, "So you can say my dad wasn't necessarily father of the year, but besides teaching me how to shoot and taking me along to business trips, he was alright and took care of me. But since we travelled and moved a lot and I never got to stay at a place for too long. Which kinda sucked."

A scowl crossed her featured. "Oh, what about school or friends?"

"I had to constantly change schools and always had to leave the friends I found behind."

"That sounds.. hard," she sighed, giving him a look of empathy.

And he nodded as an old Sinatra classic began playing, distracting him for a moment. He ran his hand through his messy waves then. "Yeah.. but it didn't last for too long, so it's okay. Really. When I turned thirteen my dad left me at my grandparents and disappeared, so.. I was able attending school frequently after all."

At this, Cassandra perked up again. Brows furrowed in confusion how he brushed over that grave information so easily. "W-what? He disappeared?"

Taehyung only shrugged nonchalantly. Masking the still lingering hurt and confusion. "Y-yeah.. The only thing I have left of him is his Magnum. He gave it to me before leaving. And I still have it, carrying it around wherever I go."

He knew that he didn't have to tell her all this, but he felt like doing it anyway. Although it wasn't something he talked about often. Or ever.

The only people who knew were his two closest and only friends, and perhaps Seokjin and his interpol agents if they had done their work correctly. However, he hoped that knowing his backstory would at least help her understand it better. And perhaps prevent her from judging him too much.

But Cassandra wasn't judging him. Rather the opposite.

She folded her lips at this, quietly processing his words. And all of a sudden a deep sadness spread inside her instead. The quiet background music coming from his phone emphasising the lingering heaviness.

Obviously she'd already assumed that his life and upbringing most likely hadn't been all sunshine and rainbows - whose really were anyway - but she hadn't expected it to be so sombre. Despite him trying brushing it off and not dissembling it. She could still tell it was a baggage he carried with him by the dullness clouding his usually bright eyes.

"Mh, it's a memento of your father," she concluded then with a nod, more to herself than him. "And that's why you became a thief?"

"No, not really. But it's what pathed the way for me, I guess," he snickered. The laugh not reaching his eyes. And her lips parted but before she could say anything more, he continued. "What eventually made me a thief was when I met Jimin, the most annoying, insufferable and sly skirt chaser at school," he sighed, chuckling under his breath. It was genuine amusement this time. "But he was also the most loyal and reliable friend I ever had."

At this, Cassandra couldn't help but coo, averting her focus from her sketch to look at him with crescent-shaped eyes. "You two are childhood friends, that's so lovely."

Taehyung smiled at her reaction. Finding it unexpected but also endearing. "Yeah, we were school friends. But not right from the start. To me he was just a rebellious and entitled lil' rich brat, a real trouble-maker. I preferred hanging out with the other kids or staying by myself."

She could tell he was holding back a nostalgic laugh and she smiled. "Sounds like a handful," she agreed, "But you still ended up becoming friends."

He scoffed, folding his arms. "I was kinda forced, to be honest. He saw me having a gun one day and then dragged us into a shootout all because he was into that woman - who was at least ten years older than us, mind you." Now getting genuinely upset when recalling the incident at the bar two 13-year-olds didn't have any business to be at. Adding with a frustrated breath, "This idiot never thinks when he sees a pretty girl and the rest of us have to carry the can for it." He shook his head then. "Anyway, I ended up becoming friends with him. We hung up and since thievery ran in Jimin's blood - it was literally his family-business - he began being on the fiddle. And I ended up helping him. And as we grew older it went from robbing liquor to banks to museums and art galleries to.. well, to actual treasures around the world. And on the way, we met Yoongi who joined us. That's the story, I guess."

Cassandra breathed out an astonished "wow", eyes gaping at him in a short silence. "That's.. an intense story," a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of her lips, "Are you sure you didn't steal that from a film plot?"

He laughed as well, looking down at his three caricatures. "I wished."

The dark blanket of clouds she had noticed earlier had come threateningly closer by now. Covering the right side of the sky completely, while the rest also had a fair amount of smaller, lighter clouds. Still not enough to completely cover it there, though, leaving enough space for the colorful sky to peak through when a more upbeat song began playing.

"You know, it's kinda funny," Cassandra said then, making him perk up. He noticed her lips curled into a small ambiguous smile. Eyes resting on the skyline before going back to her drawing. "We're so different, you and me. But our upbringings still ended up having some similarities."

He was intrigued by this. "Like what?"

She picked another pencil, a thicker one compared to the one she had sketched the buildings in. "My parents are nature photographers, you know, always been travelling around the world. Still do. I barely see them, only when they visit me once every one or two months. And back in the days, they'd take me with them to all the far places," she explained," My earliest memories are of myself chasing pigeons on the Plaza de la Catedral in Havana when I was merely four years old. I remember it vividly. It was a lively, colourful place. I'd like to revisit one day." The ambiguousness in her expression now replaced with nostalgia. "And then when I was old enough to attend school, they left me with my grandparents. Just like you, I grew up with them and suddenly I had something like a stable life. But my parents would still take me with them during holidays, so I still got to travel."

Perhaps that was why to this day, something inside her remained unsettled so she took any chance she got to travel somewhere. Whether it was during her medical internships or for vacations.

The two exchanged a look, holding each other's gaze with a smile of mutual understanding.

The similarity of their childhoods consisting of constant travelling with no real sense of 'home' up until a certain age, was comforting in a way. Although their circumstances being clearly unlike, to know there was someone else with similar experience and upbringings was maybe what really bonded them in the end, despite living so vastly different lives.

They continued sketching in a comfortable silence then.

The sun neared the mountains in the distance and the golden hue of the atmosphere soon became darker. The clouds which had now covered most of the sky above them, reflecting the disappearing sun's orangy gleam. Bright, fluffy clouds on their right contrasting dark heavy ones on their left. The sky looking like straight out of the renaissance paintings in a museum. And both stared at it in awe.

Cassandra took another paper out and began a new sketch. Hatching harsher shadows on the buildings and clouds. Trying her best to capture the dramatic picturesque view in front of her. And Taehyung observed her silently, admiring the pure concentration in her face.

Soon the darker ones absorbed more of the yellow sky in their purple shades. The sun hidden by now. Only the smaller becoming gleam behind the buildings letting them assume where it was- With pink cotton candy clouds in the far north contrasting the shades of blue around them. Only half an hour later, the sun had set completely. Leaving the buildings standing dark against the still dimly coloured sky.

Another brisk breeze passed by then and she shivered, causing her tho almost smudge the sketch.

"Are you cold?" Taehyung wondered out loud, making her frown.

"Of course. Aren't you?"

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his coat's pockets. Not because he was cold but out of habit. "Not really, no."

"You may not feel it, but your body might become hypothermic if you're not careful."

He hummed.

"You should definitely dress warmer. Put on a scarf of something."

"Is that a doctor's advice?" he smirked and she puffed out a laugh.

"It's actually a doctor's order."

"Oh, is that so?" His brows rose. Finding her lecturing tone quite amusing as it was contrasting her otherwise gentle and bubbly demeanor. "I should follow it then."

She knew he wasn't taking her serious, but she had done her duty and warned him. It was up to him if he listened or not.

"I like this song," she said then, motioning with her chin to his phone. His brows rose as his gaze fell on it. 'Unforgettable' by Nat Kind Cole was playing. And he couldn't help but beam at her. "So do I."

A tiny waterdrop landed on the back of her hand then. And another one. She looked up, seeing the purple clouds now hanging low above them. Stretching all the way to the pastel pink coloured north side. Another waterdrop landed on her cheek and she realised those weren't normal waterdrops but actual raindrops.

Taehyung had also noticed them, holding the palm of his hand against them. "I think it's raining again."

As soon as he said that, more and more drops fell abruptly from the sky and Cassandra cursed under her breath. Quickly packing up and shoving everything into her backpack. And they hurried inside, following the stairs back downstairs.

They could hear the rain picking up on volume, pattering loudly against the glass of the skylight and the windows.

The stairs led them to the house's main living room, which despite the large picture window that formed a gallery onto the rain-covered main street, was left in an eery atmosphere due to the lack of light. The huge oak doors and the wavy ceiling only adding to this.

Cassandra sat down on the floor in front of the gallery window taking off her beanie. A sigh escaping her lips when seeing the rain pouring down harsher, becoming more violent. Turning into a downright cloudburst. "And I was thinking about taking my umbrella with me, but of course I didn't.."

"I bet it's just another short downpour, it'll be over soon," Taehyung said, taking a seat next to her and resting his arms on his angled legs. He motioned to her backback then. "Are your drawings okay?"

Her eyes grew wide, only now remembering them. She zipped open her backpack, taking out her drawing pad and flipping threw the pages. They seemed alright, no wavy edges, no blurred or dissorted lines. And she sighed in relief. "Yeah, they seem fine."

Suddenly the pad was tucked out of her grip and she watched Taehyung's eyes intently browsing over them as well. His brows knitting lightly, making her wonder what he was thinking about.

"You said not to expect much, but these are incredible," he said then with a straight face, handing her the pad back. Cassandra blinked, hesitatedly accepting it and stuffing it back into her bag.

"I mean.. they were rather casually drawn.. but thanks," she mumbled, not really taking the compliment serious. Knowing they weren't her best works considering their rushed nature and it'd been awhile since she'd last drawn.

Taehyung only eyed her for a moment and shrugged, resting his gaze on the streams of water flowing down the gallery window in front of them. "Sure, but you still captured the atmosphere and contrasts well. I like them."

At this she bit back a genuine smile.

"Oh, well thank you then." She playfully nudged his arm with a wiggle in her brows. "Didn't know you were such an 'art connoisseur'."

He laughed under his breath, sensing she only wanted to distract from the blush on her cheeks. And he let her.

"You know, we've not only stolen jeweles and artefacts. Sometimes we steal paintings, too. Some knowledge must've brushed off on me."

Nodding, she hummed. Eyes joining his in watching the heavy growing rain outside. "What paintings did you steal?"

"Some Manet's, some Rembrandt's, an El Greco.." he mused, "You know, all these portraits they've painted made me realise one thing.."

Intrigued, she peeked at him. "And what?"

He faced her with a lopsided grin. "That I'd like having one myself. Like one of these sleazy rich guys. To put it over my fireplace or something."

Cassandra couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Do you even have a fireplace?"

His grin widened. "I don't even have my own house," he said, laughing along with her now over his own absurdity, "But one day, one day I will."

And they sat there shoulder to shoulder, watching the storm pass by. For a brief second he thought about taking his phone out again before deciding against it. Somehow preferring listening to the pit-a-pat of the rain instead.

»»»

next chapter: 0.3 here

Don't forget to like, reblog & leave feedback!♡ It motivates me to keep writing :)

taglist: @lilanyxta @naoolammao345 @memna234 @tetehion @myblacklilame

52 notes · View notes

clubdionysus · 6 months ago

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[BAD DECISION #53] Imposter Syndrome

warnings: namseok aka the starluvrs biggest supporters!!, gallery date <33 starluvrs playing pretend <333 oh they luv each other soooo much :( disgusting! so lovely!

notes: remains to be one of my fave bd doodles hehe. the is the last chapter tonight bc it leads us into a lil treat tomorrow <3

wc: 5.7K

bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

So used to chasing stars, Jeongguk had almost forgotten how much he enjoys chasing sunsets, too. Sky clear, save for a few wispy, high-altitude clouds, it fades through blue, clementine, pink - until, eventually, it's overwhelmingly mauve. Has him thinking about that time on your apartment roof.

A few canvases and far too much paint, he remembers it fondly - and knows that you were right to implement that five-date rule, no matter how spectacularly you both failed at it.

"This doesn't feel like home," you say with a coy smile, Jeongguk taking a wrong turn as you enter your city.

Leaving it up to him to implement the bird, you're sort of surprised that he hasn't mentioned it for the entire drive. Hasn't even been a little provocative in his jokes or the placement of his hand on your thigh. Has behaved himself well.

It's very confusing, by all measures.

"No?" He replies, as if he isn't responsible for it.

"No," you insist. "You never go this way."

You'll still be able to make it home, it just adds a fair distance onto the journey. You live across the other side of the city; Jeongguk centrally. You haven't been out this way since Taehyung's last showing at the Ryu, but you know the area well. All the galleries worth noting in the city are in this district.

"First time for everything," Jeongguk says softly, as if he isn't taking another left turn further away from the roads that would lead you home. It dawns on you that perhaps he has a place in mind to complete the bird - but you know your surroundings. Know that there's one place this particular road leads. Can see it in the distance.

Brutalist in its architecture, the cluster of concrete ahead of you looks out of place and yet totally at home against the striking mountains that shadow your city. Coming into summer, their green leaves obscure the rocky terrain that presents itself during the colder months.

You always thought there was beauty to be found in the brutal. Have had endless discussions about the building and how it's the epitome of what a gallery should be: imposing, unwelcome, and impossible to ignore, no matter how much you dislike it.

The largest gallery in the entire city, it's home to a rotation of exhibitions, hosting both heritage and contemporary showings for local artists, as well as international showcases. That's what really sets it apart. Gets people talking. You've a yearly membership, but haven't been in months. Have been too preoccupied with your own showcase organisations for Taehyung, or busy tending to your origami children with their father.

"Gguk," you gingerly question, glancing across to find a charming smile settling on his pretty lips. "What are we doing here?"

Lights spill from the large glass windows of the entrance lobby, and the parking lot is packed. Unusual for this time of night, for it closes by dusk most evenings. Only ever stays open late for special events - of which working in an art cafe has never provided you with the privilege of attending.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Jeongguk is a terrible, gorgeous liar. "Dunno. Just thought I'd see if anything was going on."

And as you spy an incredibly animated Hoseok enthusing with Namjoon out by the front of the building, dressed far more formally than either you or Jeongguk currently are, you know for certain Jeon Jeongguk will never stop with the white lies - but you also realise that perhaps it's okay to let them slide.

Pulling into a parking spot, Jeongguk's grin persists.

"Your nose'll grow," you tell him of his Pinocchio-adjacent tendencies.

Glancing across to you, Jeongguk licks his lips. "Don't act like you'd hate it if I had a bigger nose."

The way your lips part satisfies Jeongguk like nothing else. Knows he's got you thinking about his nose in a capacity that very few people will ever get to think about his nose in. Knows you're reliving the way it feels. Doesn't help with the way his cock is ready and willing to step into action at any given moment. Has been dying for the entire day.

"I'm not dressed for a gallery," you whisper, looking over to the building, ignoring his suggestive comment.

"I've got a spare blazer in my boot," Jeongguk says. It's on a hanger with a crisp black shirt, of which he knows he'll quickly change into. "And there's like, three pairs of your shoes in there, too. I'm certain there's some heels."

An oversized blazer with heels won't look terrible with the jeans you're wearing, but you're sure it will be far more casual than the rest of the punters.

Twisting his key in his ignition, Jeongguk tells you to wait where you are as he heads out to the boot. Returns quickly with the hanger for his clothes and a pair of heels looped over his fingers.

"Here," he says, passing the shoes over to you, then rids himself of his casual wear. Is thankfully parked far enough away from the gallery that he's obscured in the settling dusk of the evening. Strips the white vest that had been clinging to his skin. Tosses that towards you, too, then begins to thread his arms through the black shirt. "For under the blazer."

Credit where it's due, he really does think about the fine details. Staying in his passenger seat, you're a little restricted, but manage to get out of your sweater and pull the fabric of his vest over your body.

Tight to your chest, it definitely wasn't made for your body, but it's warm, and it smells like him, so you think that perhaps it was. You quickly switch shoes. Are pleasantly surprised, because you've been looking for these heels for weeks, unaware they were hanging out in his boot. Left them there after Pohang. Was worried you'd left them at the vacation house.

Blazer on, as you step out of the car to smooth yourself out, you're pleasantly surprised by the switch-up of your outfit. Make a note to seriously steal his clothes in the future, instead of settling for shirts.

A whistle pierces from Jeongguk's pouty lips. "Damn."

Walking around the car to meet you, he just can't help himself. Hooks an arm around your waist. Pulls you closer to his body, and steals a kiss. Mumbles into your lips. "I changed my mind. Back in the car. You're too hot. Gotta fuck you."

"Mmm, your self-control... so sexy," you joke, so amused with how weak he gets whenever he's a little horny.

"You forget I've seen you naked," he husks. "Self-control around you is impossible."

Gently pushing him away, you glance across to Namjoon and Hoseok, who are pretending like they aren't talking about you, when you know for a fact they most definitely are.

"We've got eyes on us," you say in regard to your friends.

"Good," Jeongguk huffs as you clasp his hand, pulling him towards the gallery. "Maybe they could learn a thing or two."

"Such as?"

"How to stop beating around the bush and actually date."

"Gguk," you can't help but laugh at his sheer audacity. "Took you, like, a year, a million birds, and what? Like, four hundred non-date-dates for you to actually ask me out. And I had to tell you to do it."

"Still did it."

"You're just as bad as they are," you insist. "Worse, even."

"How?!" He protests, quite positively affronted by such a claim.

"You were shagging me for months-"

"That's neither here nor there."

"-and still didn't ask me out."

"You didn't want to be asked out!" He defends himself with a mischievous grin.

"Doesn't matter!" You laugh. Neither of you are taking this conversation seriously - which is just as well, because you're coming within earshot of your friends.

"What doesn't matter?" Hoseok asks, a brow raised. Dressed in all black, there's a sleekness to his understated formalwear. It's classy. Sophisticated. The slicked-back hair, and menacing grin on his lips, too.

"How I managed to wrangle entry for tonight's exhibition," Jeongguk replies, finally giving you a little context on why you're here, 'cause he knows it'll shut you up.

By the entryway behind Namjoon and Hoseok are vertical banners advertising the seasonal exhibition that launches tomorrow morning. Brilliant and metallic as they flow in the light breeze, the signage reads: Golden Rage - in association with Amsterdam Museum.

Anyone with a pinprick of art history proficiency will understand the reference to the Dutch Golden Age, a term now abandoned by Amsterdam Museum to be more reflective of the darkness surrounding the seventeenth century. Still, the artwork produced at the time tells stories of everyday people often forgotten about in time. Moments of history were captured in a way that reminds you of your photo booth pictures with Jeongguk. Names and identities lost, but evidence of love and desire remaining for centuries.

Namjoon just raises a brow. Smiles. "You didn't wrangle fuck all. You're committing fraud."

"And you're assisting," Jeongguk playfully banters, as Namjoon unclips his PRESS badge from his breast pocket and passes it over to Jeongguk. Hoseok does the same, but his badge simply reads GUEST .

"If anyone asks, you're giving it five stars," Namjoon tells Jeongguk. Had been invited to the exhibition as a member of the press. Mentioned it to Jeongguk in passing, and had subsequently been roped into an elaborate scheme involving identity theft and the need to ask Hoseok to come along, just so he could get a guest pass, too. Swings and roundabouts, Namjoon thought when he agreed to it all. "Don't get me fired."

Jeongguk tells Namjoon to fuck off, but also promises he won't. You bid your friends farewell, smiles all round, and slip into the ease of what it's like to have Jeongguk's hand on the small of your back. Though his blazer obscures the touch and removes some of the intimacy, it doesn't make it any less endearing.

"Head up," he whispers as you stroll past the reception area. "Pretend like we're supposed to be here."

You've badges that prove credentials, and very few people (if any) would even think to check them. You're fine, and you know it, but there is a little adrenaline that comes with sneaking in somewhere you know you shouldn't. It excites you. Makes you feel all giddy, as if you're getting a glimpse into the life you want to build for yourself.

The gallery's white walls and marble flooring are clean and sleek in a way that feels like a far cry from the cafe you work in. The Ryu offers a nice middle ground between the two, admittedly - but you've spent so many hours there now that it doesn't have the same overwhelming essence that the gallery you're in now has.

In fact, you feel somewhat at home at The Ryu.

Jina's assistant, who's filling in for her during her maternity leave, is perfectly nice, but also far too keen on taking the credit for the showcases you plan and prepare for Taehyung. There's another one in the works, two weeks from now.

It's a little different from all the others. There's a lot riding on it. In fact, it's probably the most important and ambitious exhibition you've helped organise so far. Whenever Jeongguk asks about it, you downplay it - but as you glance across to him, and slip your hand into his, you know you need to be honest with him about it all.

And you will be.

Just not tonight.

The world can wait a little longer. You wanna stay in this dream with him while you still can.

"We are supposed to be here," you sweetly hum, playing into the role you're taking on for the night. "What's our story?"

Jeongguk chirps a slight hum of confusion, his warm grip on your hand tightening, then contemplates your question momentarily. Smiles, when he thinks of that first trip to Busan, and how you had decided to be versions of yourselves that don't exist. Realises that you're wanting to do it again; to make some pretend life for yourselves.

It's not 'cause this life isn't satisfying. Quite the opposite.

It's just 'cause you like playing make-believe with the man who makes you feel unreal in the most intrinsic of ways.

He likes it when you're playful. Likes what it leads to, yes, but likes the ridiculousness that comes before it. Safe and secure, he's allowed to be a fool with you without feeling foolish.

Rounding the corner, into the hustle and the bustle of the gallery lobby, he quietly weaves a tall tale of your lives.

"I'm disgraced art critic," he tells you with conviction, and is pleased when you gasp.

The chatter and laughter of galleryists obscures your conversation. Your lowered tones can't be heard above the pianist playing in the corner of the ample open space, champagne flowing and lofty laughter echoing from wall to wall.

You've privacy in the most public of spaces; a shared intimacy never to be shared with anyone else.

"Disgraced?!" You whisper with surprise, playing into his dramatics.

"Disgraced," he confirms with a cloying smile and a thump in his chest. There's an effortlessness to your back and forth; an understanding that you can indulge in such fivotly without fear.

And so you implore a little further. "What did you do?"

"It's not what I did." Jeongguk leans a little closer to your ear, so he can really whisper, "It's what you did."

You gasp, pulling away from him to turn your head in surprise. "Me?!"

"You," he nods, looking down towards with such affection you forget there are other people in the room. Don't care for the art, nor for the networking. You care for him, and little else. The feeling is mutual. "You're an old money heiress. The bird around your neck? Tiffany. The blazer? Gucci."

You're pretty sure it's Uniqlo.

Still, he continues with his lies of such grandeur that anyone would be enthralled to hear him speak. There's a magic to Jeongguk's mayhem, a sparkle in his eyes whenever he indulges in these little fallacies with you.

He's cosmic in your company.

"You were a muse," he tells you. He thinks it should be true. Thinks artists would be mad to look at you and not paint a masterpiece. "To some of the finest artists of our time. So many of the greats wanted to paint you - and so many did."

There's lore to this little life Jeongguk is making up for you. In his head, you're way back in the Golden Age. The 1600's. Europe, maybe. He's not sure. Has let the banners advertising the exhibition inform his delusions.

You're imagining the 1920s. Opulence and indulgence at the very heart of it all. He'd mentioned Gucci after all - but your art history is far better than your fashion history. You're thinking a good forty-odd years ahead of the first clothing pieces made by the designer brand.

Accuracy isn't important here, though. You're colouring outside the lines, and are damn well having fun doing so.

"So what did I do to disgrace you?"

"Well, I became infatuated," he states all rather plainly, with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

"Dangerous."

"You were too gorgeous," He says, then presses a kiss to your hair. Reinforces, "Too damn pretty. Out of my league and out of my tax bracket. Wouldn't even look in my direction-"

"But what if I did?" You suggest a revision to his story. "But you never noticed because you were always too concerned with other people also admiring the artworks of me?"

"Well, then it proves I was right to be disgraced for my actions," he assures you.

There are large archways around the lobby, all leading off into different exhibition halls. While you could make your way into one of them, you find yourselves walking around the spacious white lobby, weaving in and out of people.

"Tell me what you did," you giggle, your spare hand coming to clasp his wrist. It's an enthusiastic display of affection; reinforcement for the holding of hands. Jeongguk bites down on his bottom lip. Tilts his head to the side and then shakes it gently to rid himself of his giddiness.

"Collected art," he says, still smiling. "So much. I'd put a gallery of this size to shame - but the issue? They were all artworks of you. Lined the walls. Had run out of space. Different angles, different colours, different styles. Had every version of you imaginable. Bordered on perverse, actually."

You picture it now, Jeongguk standing in a gallery full of your reimagined portraits, bereft at the idea of never being able to have you. Perverse in his eyes, but pure in his heart - and you find the scenario far more erotic than you should. The obsession. The yearning. The desire. The make-believe that you know is rooted in something authentic. There's a reason that painting is still up in his living room. He gets off on it. Not sexually, but mentally. His ego inflates when he looks at it.

Admittedly, he does often end up a little horny, but that's thanks to the memories. Thanks to you.

"All portraits?" You clarify.

He nods, continuing to guide you around the room even when you reach your starting point once more. "All until the one that sent me mad."

"Which was?"

"You had a lover," he tells you - and finds that his stomach does a pathetic little churn at the mere thought of it. "Some asshole, sleazebag in the upper classes. A shitty artist, but one that kept getting shows because his daddy had the money to fund it and no fucks to give about his kid."

"Your contempt sounds personal."

And it is.

In Jeongguk's head, this asshole looks a lot like Seokjin. Prick.

"I'm an art critic, baby," he reasons, as if he's not just called you baby outside of the bedroom. Your heart is in your throat. Might just throw it up onto your sleeve. Give it to him. Let him eat it up. "Just being... critical."

"Okay, so go on," you smile. "Why did you hate his work so much?"

"They were sketches," he eventually says. "Charcoal, or something like that. No larger than A4."

"But?"

"But you were nude in every single one of them."

You gasp. "Jeongguk!"

"Hey!" He defends. "Wasn't me. Blame your asshole lover."

"Was it a scandal?" You pout.

"Not really. The sketches weren't known about really, not amongst the wider audience of art appreciators," Jeongguk reassures you. "But within the circles your shitbag lover frequented?"

"Oh, what an asshole," you say, understanding immediately what he's getting at.

An old-fashioned case of revenge porn. A strange thing to think about.

"God, everyone wanted you."

"And so how did it disgrace you?"

"One was delivered to me," he says. "To the place I housed my collection, attached with the note: Look, because you'll never get to touch. I knew the asshole himself must have sent it. Something came over me. A fit of rage. So, I went to his seedy little studio and burnt the place down."

"Jeongguk!"

"What?!" He protests. "I was defending your honour."

"How?!"

"I was burning all of the nudes!"

"Okay, so fast forward," you laugh. "We're here together - how did we get from nude burning to attending galleries together?"

"Well, it caused quite the commotion within the art circles of the time. Everyone knew it was me, but it couldn't be proven at trial, so I went home a free man - and when I arrived home, who was there waiting for me?"

"Me?"

He nods. "You. You were fascinated by my obsession," he says. "As if you're not a totally reasonable obsession to have. Anyways, during the trial, you'd become just as infatuated with me as I was with you, desperately trying to understand my mind."

"Did I ever?"

"In a way, yes," he smiles. "We both just fell into this state of mutual obsession. You were ostracised for associating with me, and ever since, the rooms we walk into fall silent at the mere sight of us."

"Do we care?"

"Not in the slightest," he says. "In fact, we revel in it."

There's a certain truth to this, no matter how absurd and whimsical the story may be. You do like it when people catch glimpses of you and Jeongguk. A woman across the room has turned her head three times within the first fifteen minutes of you entering the building. Likely just checking Jeongguk out - but how can you blame her? Face like an angel, body built for sin.

Much like Jeongguk's fantasy version of himself, you're convinced that the people who gawp at Jeongguk are perverse. That they want in him in the worst of ways. The best of ways, too - though you suppose they're one and the same.

Picking up gallery guide pamphlets as you walk on by the stand, you know that you probably look out of place.

Admittedly, Jeongguk's clothes look effortless on you, thanks to the proportions. The skin-tight vest and the oversized blazer seem intentional. Tucked into your jeans, the white fabric is thick enough not to go entirely sheer over your bra, but you're a little conscious of it regardless.

Jeongguk's black shirt is formal enough for him to blend right in - but you both know you're a little out of place.

Part of him regrets not planning this aspect of his evening - but he also hadn't planned on visiting his parents when setting the wheels in motion. Had forgotten he needed to swing by with the trophies when he'd arranged all this with Namjoon.

Nodding to a dark entrance towards the rear, Jeongguk says, "The exhibition I wanna show you the most is through there."

Dark and imposing, it's a large curved arch that appears almost black beyond it.

"Y'know, we could have just come on the weekend," you say softly, so beautifully in awe of the effort he's gone to.

Sure, it's just a few pulled strings here and there, but you don't think anyone has ever done something so considerate for you.

Silly as it may be, you feel like an imposter; as if things like this don't happen for people like you. Not that you've done anything not to deserve it, but because you've never really had someone care like this before.

Jeongguk, at the root of your relationship, is your best friend. He knows you like the back of his hand. Every vein. Every freckle. Every scar; what caused them, and what had to be endured in order to heal.

Attentive in his nature, you shouldn't really be surprised by such a gentle act. If you'd have heard a similar story relayed from his time with Jiyeong, and the art gallery was replaced by something she was particularly interested in, you'd have thought: Yes. That sounds like something he'd do.

You've imposter syndrome in the silliest of ways. Feel out of place - but you're surrounded by art. Know you're right at home.

Though if you were to think about it, it's really not the art that makes you feel that way.

Jeon Jeongguk is like the first bite of a strawberry in the chill of winter.

You wait all year for the mart refrigerators to be lined in pristine punnets of crimson and cadmium. Will pay a small fortune for those early-season pickings. A little underripe, and far too much white beneath the lush green leaves, you don't care for imperfections.

By the time strawberry season rolls around, you'll have spent so long without the delicacy that every single one of them will be perfect. Bruised skin, blackened seeds, it matters not. The flaws only make them sweeter.

"C'mon," he encourages, a saccharine smile on his soft pink lips, eyes adorned with stars as he looks at you. The warmth of his hand in yours only intensifies. You're not an imposter, his touch whispers. You're right where you're supposed to be. "We'll get distracted and miss it if we don't make the effort to actually go in there."

That's the thing about you and Jeongguk. Time wasted together is never a waste, but letting it slip from you is just so easy. Rough grains of sand; hours, minutes, seconds tumble through your fingers - but just like its honey hue, it'll stick to you, too. Will forever tarnish your skin.

Lasting, is the impact of Jeongguk. On you. On your life. On the very fabric of your world.

"Us?" You grin, taking the lead, pulling on his hand as you head towards the entrance. "Get distracted? Since when have we ever done that?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

You say no. There's no need. Will natter about nonsense as you amble over to the archway, instead.

Both laughing, you're in such good spirits that it's hard to remember a time when happiness didn't sit on your shoulders like an old friend; an imp with devilish horns that you know are the result of a clumsily broken halo. No malice, just mischief.

Above the entryway, thick black text boldly declares the intention set out by the curator: Common Skies . A play on the term 'common ground', you raise a brow as you look at Jeongguk. He isn't looking at you, but he is biting down on his bottom lip as if he knows you're putting it all together.

"What?" He sheepishly mumbles through an incredibly pleased, suppressed laugh.

"Skies?" You question the choice of word.

"Common ones, apparently."

Rolling your eyes, you decide to take the plunge and enter the exhibition - and are pouting instantly .

On a central pillar is the focal point of the small gallery room: Verschuier's Tailstar over Rotterdam.

Deep, burnt oranges illuminate a nightscape of the titular city, where townsfolk watch on in awe as the great comet of 1680 passes over it. Though children are crying in the foreground - fear of the unknown, you suppose - the piece has an overwhelming sense of wonder. People stare towards the sky with navigational tools. You wonder what they were aiming for, and decide that maybe it's better not to know.

How human it is, you think, to wonder. To marvel. To fawn and theorise over the things you can't explain, and the possibilities this world could have.

When you glance over to Jeongguk, there's a depletion to your heart rate. A calmness. Contentedness. The promise that for as long as he shall live, you will always have a man who marvels at you like you're a comet worthy of the history books.

Just like the subjects of the painting, he'll fawn and theorise over you. Won't be able to explain a damn thing about you, 'cause he'll spend the entire time fighting smiles and being at war with himself over what to talk about first.

"So," Jeongguk begins, recalling the research he'd done on the topic just so that he could talk you through the exhibition. "In Europe, historically, comets were signs of huge catastrophes. People thought they were a warning. Apocalyptic, kind of."

"Same as here," you muse, connecting the dots together and understanding the concept of the exhibition as a whole. "A common ground."

"Common ground over common skies," Jeongguk smiles with a nod. "This section of the exhibition is all about stars and comets. How different cultures reacted to them. Europe and the Joseon dynasty were worlds apart during the time period, yet they shared the same sentiments. Feared what they didn't understand. Still romanticised it."

Turning on the spot, keeping a tight grip on his hand, your eyes scan over the collection - and sure enough, you're surrounded by celestial events that must have shocked worlds and changed the trajectory of lives.

Despite the volume of work, it's curious how the most stellar depiction of a cosmic entity exists not on parchment nor on canvas. It's not etched into wooden plinths or carefully traced onto ancient moon jars that sit upon them.

Instead, they reside in your eyes and his; beaming at one another like lunar lighthouses in the midst of a tidal storm. The waves glitter and glow around you both, but your light will prevail, always.

Antares, is the way you feel for one another. The heart of the Azure Dragon. A red supergiant. Twenty-five million years in the making.

No piece of art strung up on these walls could ever compare. There are stars in abundance, of oil and acrylic, charcoal and calligraphy ink, but they don't capture the beauty of the sparks that fly whenever Jeongguk is by your side.

Strangers notice it. Do double takes. Whisper to their companions, do we know them? Are they famous? There's something familiar about them...

It won't be until they're on their way home, speckled skies twinkling in delight, that they'll realise they must have seen incarnations of shooting stars with their very own eyes. Manifestations of magic only ever seen in fantasy novels, or whispered around campfires.

Your evening is spent in an amaranthine haze of whimsical stories and unfiltered laughter. There truly is no better person to be around than Jeongguk. From hypothetic stories behind artwork that neither of you recognise, to the genuine, considered thoughts he puts into analysing the works you're keen on with you, he's the best gallery partner you've ever had.

The only one you've had, really. Seokjin never cared much for art, only for the superficial monetary value of mundane canvases. You've had a handful of museum dates over the years, but they were always awkward and forced.

And so galleries have been a place for you to indulge in introversion; a recharge for your batteries.

Something about Jeongguk stems your batteries from ever running low. He's like Duracell bunny. Go, go, go. The conversation never needs to cease - and it doesn't, or at least not until you're back in Jeongguk's car.

He's driven a little further into the city. Parked up at his favourite vantage spot on a small mountain not too far from the centre. The starlovers playlist hums quietly in the background, lights from the city glistening beneath you.

With your back to the door, heels off, your foot rests on the pad of the passenger seat. Anyone else, and he'd tell them off. Say something about how you should be more careful with the upholstery. Would reach over. Knock your foot down.

But he's too dumbstruck to muster any words. Just giggles when he looks at you. Bites his lip. Lets his piercing do the thing. Shakes his head. Eventually, tenderly says, "This is so stupid."

"What is?" You beam right back, so pretty in your shared happiness.

He shrugs. "All of this. You. Me. The fact we're a couple . What we're about to do. So stupid."

Not stupid bad. Not even stupid good. Just stupid in how giddy it makes him feel.

"You're thinking too much," you tell him with unbridled fondness. Know exactly what he means. Feel it too; foolish in the frivolity of it all. "But a word to the wise, Gguk - most girls wouldn't take too kindly to being called stupid."

"You know I didn't mean it like that," he assures you - and he's right. You do know. You just like winding him up.

"Too late," you feign over-dramatic insult. Pout. Wipe away a faux tear from your sparkly cheek. "Can't believe my boyfriend just called me stupid ."

Boyfriend .

Yep. He's still not used to it. Still gets ridiculous butterflies. Confirmed.

"I would never," he protests, reaching out to pull on your wrists. Drags you closer. Ignores the awkwardness of leaning over the centre console, as his hands find your cheeks. Faces no objection when he presses dumb, nonsensical kisses against your lips. Is dopey and obtuse and ever so simple in the way he giggles, even now. Doesn't stop smiling. Not once. "Not stupid."

Deep down, you know you both are, even if just a little bit. It really doesn't matter if you're a bit ditzy in each other's company, for you still managed to work out that all of your puzzle pieces perfectly align. Pretty smart, if you do say so yourself.

"Know what is stupid?" You hum against his lips, not pulling away. He punctuates your question with a tender kiss.

"I'm sure you're gonna tell me."

You smile. Punctuate his sentence, now, with dainty acts of devotion. Whisper, "The fact we're not on the backseats right now."

And while Jeongguk will gladly be a fool for you, he knows better than to keep up the dense facade.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" He smirks, pulling away. Is arrogant as he cocks a brow, back inclined up against his door. He knocks his head to the side, indicating where he wants you. "Ladies first."

"On one condition," you bargain, playing into his flirt. Will give him what he wants, but won't give it to him easily.

"I'm listening."

"Ladies first in all aspects of what we're about to do."

"Is that not always the case?" He ribs, using his tongue to toy with his lip ring. Knows exactly what you're insinuating. "Do I not always make sure ladies come first? In all aspects."

You shrug. Flirt. "Just a friendly reminder."

But Jeongguk has spent a day thinking about all the things he wishes he had done to ruin that damn friendship with you months before he mustered up the courage to actually do so.

"There's nothing friendly about what I'm gonna do to you, B," he assures with a cocky grin, then corrects himself. "Do with you. Now, get that pretty ass of yours in the backseat."

"Say please ."

He shakes his head. Presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Smirks. "Don't make me ask again."

"Say please," you reinforce, just to rile him up a little more.

But Jeongguk is in no mood to let you take control of the situation. You're in his clothes, and he wants to be in you. Thinks it's a fair trade. Knows you'd agree.

"Backseat, baby," he instructs, jaw sharp, eyes dark, determination unwavering - and how can you refuse? "Now."

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valentine-cafe · 5 months ago

Text

. ˚◞♡ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓◞ ₊˚

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ( verse 9819 denara ) sorcerer x reader, healer x reader ⊹ ۪ ࣪

𖹭. you fall in love with the pretty sorceress who keeps visiting your flower shop

oh. . . thinking of working in a flowershop and greeting each and every familiar and new face you see everyday when you open it.

you adore your job, through thick and thin.

even when those with saddened frowns came to get their flowers for lost ones. or those with big smiles who came for flowers to their new babies. some came because of married, some found someone. . .

but most times, customers simply wished to buy flowers for friends, familiy, or themselves.

you had memorised by now what people would come to get.

mrs. lilian would adore having her bouquets decorated in bluebells and white lilies and blue wisteria.

while the young mr. ulrik would enjoy his sunflowers and lady's bedstraw

you loved it. you loved the community it created.

the establishment had been passed down to you by your parents, who had raised you with loving arms. now old, but still supporting your every step and decision you make in life. it was their unconditional love that got you here.

and they certainly also were supportive of you when you had fallen for one of your new frequent customers. a woman with pitch black hair, gothic makeup and style. she was so pretty it hurt. everytime she greeted you with that soft and chiming voice you felt your heart stutter and squeeze.

you’d seen her around here for a month now. her eyes black but full of so much life. you’d get flustered when she looked into yours. your fingers fiddling with the bouquets awkwardly.

lucky was the lover who had someone like her. she composed the most lovely bouquets.

white and pink camella, pieced together with a touch of calla lilies and red chrysanthemum. and one of your own favourite bouquets she recently ordered: white clover, irises, pink roses and blue salvia.

Denara, is her name. gods. it is beautiful.

you could have sworn that even the mention of it made all of the flowers bloom in relief of her name. and whenever she walked in, you saw how the room lit up in such a way you couldn’t describe. you felt as though you walked on clouds.

“thank you so much for making all of these bouquets each and every day,” she had hummed out with that soft smile of hers. beautiful, it made you slack as you leaned against the counter. clearing your throat.

“sharing them with all around the city and helping decorate for festivals.” she continues, handing you over a small box. and with your eyes flicking down to it and looking up at her again in confusion. you stood up straight again and smiled sheepishly.

“ah uh— you don’t have to, really. it’s always been a passion of mine-” you chuckles, rubbing the back of your neck and taking in a deep breath. only for it to stutter when her hand extends out, asking for yours.

“you do not have to hold it if you do not want to, but please. take the gift.” her giggle, that giggle. your knees wobbled at the sound of it, face flaring with a newfound red heat and hue.

very slowly you take her hand. yours trembling, while her one remained still as it guided you down to the box to help you unwrap it.

“I got it for you, because it reminded me of you and your lovely presence. I would love to get to know you more.” she hums softly, watching as you neatly open the box. so carefully, it made her chuckle. look up at you fondly.

“my boyfriend—” your heart dropped, brows twitching a bit. “— he says he’d really like to get to know you too. if you would be alright with that.”

confusion hit you like a trolly, and you looked up at her with such expression too. “what?”

she smiles and nods down at the gift.

“i’ll continue. open it.”

you look back down at your hands holding the delicate, small black box. opening it slowly and gasping when you saw a pair of red tulip earrings, with goldleaf covered edges of the leaves and small teadrop shaped black jades hanging at the ends of the tulip.

“we both commissioned this for you.”

at those words you felt yourself and the way you had forgotten to breathe, a small awkward laugh leaving you as you raised an index finger up to signify you needed a moment before fainting into a chair. leaving her a confused and slightly panicked mess.

#⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ daydreams — denara 9819 ꒱#wlw #wlw concepts #teratophillia #terato #sapphic yearning #sapphic #female reader #monster x reader #original character x reader #monster oc #monster girlfriend #oc x reader #sorcerer x reader #healer x reader #denara 9819 #asterism

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eri-pl · 28 days ago

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Silm Advent calendar 18: Dream

Elros fell asleep. Unlike Men, he was fully aware of this, but unlike Elves, he no longer perceived the warmth of his tent or the camp noises.

He was home, but it was not destroyed. Just empty. No people, no animals, no dust. Silence.

Vingilot came to the shore—shining but carried by water, not by air—and Earendil left the ship. Even though it was just a dream, the lack of the gem on his forehead filled Elros with relief.

His father's shape changed like a mirage, now resembling Elros’s own looks, but as a Man.

“Why do you cry?” asked Earendil-Elros.

“Because I dream of something I cannot have.”

“‘Has been just offered to me’ is quite a peculiar definition of ‘I cannot have’.”

Dreaming Elros turned to the other one and gave him an angry look, but it had no effect. The phantom’s face was still his own, but also not his. And he was smiling.

“Who are you?” demanded real Elros.

“A dream. Come.”

They entered a cave—the cave. The air still smelled of the sea.

“What do you see?”

“My past. My pain. A dome of stone. Splashing water.”

“What happens to the drops of water?”

Elros shrugged. “They land on the floor and on my shoes, and everywhere.”

“And then?”

It was a strange dream, and not a very useful one.

“They evaporate, I suppose.”

“Tell me, is water useless?”

Elros tried to wake up, but it was harder than usual.

His dream companion—now looking more like a wisp of pink smoke than a person—stepped back. “Please, don't. I apologize for my directness, or maybe for my indirectness, but please, let me get to the point.”

Elros squatted on the ground, one hand in the water. The memories weren't as painful as he'd expected. He looked again at the visitor. “Fine. So what is your point?”

“I need you to make it. This is your dream, after all. So is the water useless?”

It felt like Maglor teaching him science. Boring. Frustrating. Pointless. Still much better than other things he'd brought into Elros’s life. And less complicated.

“Of course not. Water is necessary for life, and it's singing the themes of the Great Music, and seawater isn't good, but it evaporates and leaves the salt on the ground and then it condenses into clean water.”

“And still, stone is much better.” The visitor looked at Elros with a glint in his eyes. Was there a joke somewhere? If there was, he didn't care.

“It's good for building cities, but when you're thirsty…” He shrugged again.

The visitor nodded. “Exactly. So why do you feel obligated to be a stone?”

Oh. So that's what this whole riddle was about.

Elros stood up. “Listen, I don't know what I did wrong with falling asleep to end up here, but you're the most stupid dream I've ever had, and I've had many. To be a stone, really? Make it a pun on our names? As if it was just— water has no friends! Nobody to miss it when it goes away. Nobody who had already lost both his parents and then some more people to whom he shouldn't have gotten attached. To whom I shouldn't have gotten attached. I'm not even sure if it's more that I don't want them to grieve one more person, or that I don't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing yet another of Luthien's line dead... I can't. Even if it wasn't for them— I can't do this to Elrond.”

The visitor withstood the whole argument calmly, and bowed. He looked like an elf now, most likely a Sinda, but his hair had a pearl sheen and in his eyes danced clouds of colors. “I apologize. I have—that's not the best point in my life either. I'm usually better at this. Maybe let's go sit somewhere more comfortable?”

“Where?”

“You lead. It's your dream. I probably shouldn't have been so forceful before.”

A tension that Elros hadn't noticed before loosened, and the dream became more bendy, as they usually were. He imagined them in a sitting room — not a memory, but something safer: a fantasy based on a painting. A bowl of fruit on a table, surrounded by wine glasses. Carved wooden furniture.

The visitor took a small pear and bit into it. It smelled more lively than in most of the dreams. “You mentioned Lúthien…”

“She was in love. I have no good reason.” Elros looked at the fruit in the bowl. All of them were more detailed than he'd expected. Maybe it wasn't such an unpleasant dream after all. He would have to remember this room, it was a nice place to dream about.

“So, being in love is a good reason. What's a bad reason then?”

Elros shrugged. “It just… feels right. That's not even a reason. Not anything I could explain. What kind of reason is that?”

“So what kind of reason is it?”

“Foolish? Mine? Why are you so stubborn about it? Why am I —or whatever you are, whoever—why would anyone need that?”

The visitor finished his pear and looked at Elros. “I'm not saying that you should choose the fate of Men. Not this for it's own sake. But I'm saying: please, make the choice that your heart leans into. Are those two the same, it's up to you to tell.”

“They are. And yet, I can't. I can't do this to Elrond. To everyone.”

“And can you do to them whatever shall come from you making the wrong choice?”

Outside, rain started falling, and also in the room drops of water fell on Elros’s head and at his cheeks, fell down, and evaporated.

“And what do you know about any of it? Do you know pain? Do you know how it is to love someone whom you hate? To hate someone whom you love? Do you know death?”

The rain turned to hail, then to snow. “I know as much as you, Elros. Which is still too little, I'm afraid. And yet, we have to make choices. Even if they mean learning more of what we wouldn't want to learn. I wish I had more comforting words for you. I wish I could tell you to not be afraid. And yet, I am also in fear, because the world still hangs in balance.”

Elros looked at him, puzzled. “We won the war.”

“We won a war.” The snow stopped falling and melted, but black clouds still hung in the corners of the room, hiding behind shelves and curtains, twirling. He watched them for a while, until his face was dry again.

“My heart tells me to choose the Secondborn. And yet… What shall I tell everyone? How can I explain it?”

“Tell them what you told me. Your heart calls you there.”

“Will they understand?”

The visitor played with an apple for a while, then put it back in the cracked bowl. “I don't know. I hope your brother will—I believe that he will. Earendil almost chose the same, so I think your parents will too. And while the personal feelings of kinslayers are surely an important factor to consider—”

“Are you trying to provoke me to do it out of spite?”

“I'm trying to help you to choose freely.” The visitor smiled. “Well, maybe provoke you a little. I must admit that I'm not entirely displeased with the thought of a certain singer learning that some people actually can make difficult choices. But that's just a small and secondary benefit.

Elros stood up and came to the window. Behind it now was only darkness, pricked with stars. “I know what I should do. I simply don't want to have to handle what everyone does about it.”

The visitor put a hand on Elros's arm. “You can do it. Or at worst you can leave them and go for a walk. That's what I do when I can't handle more stupid people.”

“Fine.” He opened the window. I'll do it. I'll—”

He woke up with tears. Beside him, Elrond was also crying, but when he embraced Elros there was no anger in his touch, only sorrow.

#silm advent calendar #silm #silmarillion #tolkien legendarium #the silm #the silmarillion #silm shortfic #eri draws #elros #elrond #kidnap fam but only mentioned and it's... complicated (neither very critical nor very fluffy)#olorin #having a burnout #and cool hair #no warnings today #also i accidentally grew some peredhel sleep headcanons

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ros64 · 23 days ago

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From @dianagabaldon site

⚠️⚠️ATTENZIONE SPOILER PER CHI NON HA LETTO TUTTI I LIBRI FINO A BEES ⚠️⚠️⚠️

Today is the Fourth (and final) Sunday of Advent. The waiting is almost over, but the anticipation is still to be enjoyed. The final candle (since we’ve used the other labels) is Peace.

Peace is one of those things that you can’t really define (not that people don’t, but—like love—it has depths and shimmering facets of meaning), but you know it when you encounter it. Hence the Biblical quote, “The peace that passeth understanding.”

Peace often comes and finds you in the midst of Things (like realizing you’re leaving for the journey to another city for Christmas in two hours, and you haven’t yet wrapped the presents that you need to drop off at FedEx on the way…), and we often don’t realize that this happens because we carry peace with us, all the time.

Peace is part of our nature, just as we’re part of nature.

Now, I’m a biologist by training, and am also one of those people who (as my father disapprovingly said (manymanymany times), “have your head in the clouds!” (Like this was a _bad_ thing…) Yep. Also on the ground.

Rocks come and find me, and it’s rare for me to come home from a walk _without_ a rock in my pocket. So a few days ago, I was walking with Lucy the dachshund, to whom “walk” means “sniff everything in sight, pausing occasionally to pee on it”, and as usual, glancing over the ground we were walking on, which—being a desert front yard in Scottsdale, was mostly crushed granite. But in the midst of this layer of pinkish rock was the little gray visitor you see in the photo above.

This is a tiny survivor of a volcanic explosion that took place many miles away. Plainly, it’s a rock—but one that’s been through Stuff. It’s been melted by the heat of the Earth’s core, and blown far abroad, with those little holes the scars left by the violent gasses that propelled it.

What could be less peaceful?

And yet, there it is. Basking in the sun, resting among strangers.

No matter what’s happened to it, it remains what it is. It carries peace, because peace is its nature—as it is ours. Wait, and listen for the peace that lives within you to whisper your name.

Merry Christmas!

William washed his face—it was thick with stubble, but no point in trying to shave without mirror or soap—and made his way downstairs.

The smell of food reached him at the top of the stairs and drew him down like a mosquito scenting blood, single-minded in his voracity. And a good thing, too, he realized as he entered the kitchen. He was so hungry that he’d suffered no hesitations regarding his welcome.

In fact, while everyone at table turned to look at him, all the faces bore smiles, whether shy or broad, and he bowed to them, smiling back.

“Good morning,” he said, and the smallest girl—Amanda, that was her name—giggled and pointed her spoon at him.

“Your beard looks like Grand-da’s!”

A ripple of stifled amusement ran round the table, but before he could think of something to say, Mother Claire rose and took him by the sleeve, showing him to a place on the bench beside Frances, who looked up at him demurely.

“I hope you thl-slept well?” she said. Her cheeks were pink, but she met his eyes straight on, and he felt a slight jolt; her eyes were very much like Jane’s.

“Immensely well, I thank you,” he assured her. A trencher appeared before him, piled with toast and bacon, and Amanda’s brother—James? No, Jeremiah, Jem, that was it, a tall, red-haired boy, thin as an oak sapling—shoved a pot of strawberry jam across the table.

“What do we call him?” the boy asked, turning to his grandfather. “Uncle Billy?”

William choked slightly on the mouthful of beer he’d just taken. Frances, Claire, and the three little girls _all_ giggled, and he thought Fraser might have done as well, were he capable of making such a sound. As it was, Fraser kept a relatively straight face, and replied, “Not unless he asks ye to. ‘Til then, ye can call him Mr. Ransom, aye?”

William cleared his throat.

“You may call me William for the present, if you like,” he said to Jem. “I haven’t had a great deal of practice in being an uncle, as yet.”

“Don’t pester your uncle,” Mother Claire said, setting down a dish of succulent, glistening sausages, smelling of sage and onion, in front of William. “Let him eat.”

He ate like a ravening wolf, listening to the conversation with one ear, but making no effort to join it. His cup was filled—and refilled—with the very good beer, and he finished the meal replete—well, stuffed like a goose—and wondering whether he might go find a tree to sleep under for a bit.

“I’ll be goin’ to and fro on the Ridge today, fettling my tenants,” Fraser told him, brushing crumbs off his lap. He handed a fragment of toast to the big bluetick bitch who had been waiting patiently by his feet, and rose. “D’ye want to come with me?”

“I—yes. I suppose so,” William replied, taken aback at the invitation. He remembered Mac the groom saying “fettled,” with regard to grooming and feeding horses, but he supposed that Fraser merely meant that he proposed to tell his tenants that he would be gone for some time, and arrange for payment of rents to some factor.

Fraser nodded.

“Aye, good. I’ll say you’re my son, though most of them will ken it already, after yesterday.” He cocked a brow in question. Was that agreeable to William?

That made his full stomach drop another inch or two, but he nodded back.

“Of course. May I take time to shave?”

“Aye. Use the soap and basin in my room. It’s the one in front, on the left as ye go up.”

The room was large and pleasant, the window opened for air, but screened with muslin to keep insects out, and the diffused light gave the room a pleasant, quiet feel, like being inside a cloud, despite the muffled racket from the kitchen below. William found himself breathing shallowly, aware of the unfamiliar, intimate scent of the room. The bed had not yet been made, and while the thrown-back sheets were clean, they held the faint, disturbing musk of recent bodies.

If the intimacy of the Frasers’ bedroom was disturbing, the intimacy of using Mr. Fraser’s shaving soap was more so. It was soft, white Castile soap, and smelled of olive-oil, but also of basil and what he thought was marjoram, and…could that possibly be geranium-leaf? He hadn’t seen or smelt a geranium plant since he left England, and it gave him a brief sense of dislocation, a vivid sense of his Aunt Minnie’s conservatory, redolent with foreign flowers and writhing exotic greenery.

The thought made him feel more settled in himself. No matter what the future held, he still had both a past and a present, and those must be sufficient to keep him in countenance for what might come.

Refreshed and clean-shaven, he came downstairs, ready to see exactly what “fettling” might involve.

Oggi è la quarta (e ultima) domenica di Avvento. L'attesa è quasi finita, ma l'attesa è ancora da godere. L'ultima candela (dato che abbiamo usato le altre etichette) è Peace.

La pace è una di quelle cose che non puoi davvero definire (non che la gente non lo faccia, ma, come l'amore, ha profondità e sfaccettature scintillanti di significato), ma la conosci quando la incontri. Da qui la citazione biblica, "La pace che passa la comprensione".

La pace spesso arriva e ti trova in mezzo alle cose (come renderti conto che stai partendo per il viaggio in un'altra città per Natale tra due ore, e non hai ancora incartato i regali che devi lasciare da FedEx sulla strada...), e spesso non ci rendiamo conto che questo accade perché portiamo la pace con noi, tutto il tempo.

La pace fa parte della nostra natura, proprio come noi facciamo parte della natura.

Ora, sono un biologo di formazione, e sono anche una di quelle persone che (come ha detto mio padre con disapprovazione (molte molte molte volte), "tai la testa tra le nuvole!" (Come se questa fosse una cosa _brutta_...) Sì. Anche a terra.

Le rocce vengono a trovarmi, ed è raro per me tornare a casa da una passeggiata _senza_ una pietra in tasca. Quindi qualche giorno fa, stavo camminando con Lucy il bassotto, per la quale "camminare" significa "annusare tutto ciò che è in vista, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per fare pipì sopra", e come al solito, guardando il terreno su cui stavamo camminando, che, essendo un cortile del deserto a Scottsdale, era per lo più di granito schiacciato. Ma nel mezzo di questo strato di roccia rosata c'era il piccolo visitatore grigio che vedi nella foto sopra.

Questo è un piccolo sopravvissuto a un'esplosione vulcanica che ha avuto luogo a molte miglia di distanza. Chiaramente, è una roccia, ma una che è stata attraverso Stuff. È stato fuso dal calore del nucleo della Terra, e soffiato lontano all'estero, con quei piccoli buchi le cicatrici lasciate dai gas violenti che lo hanno spinto.

Cosa potrebbe essere meno pacifico?

Eppure, eccolo lì. Crogiolarsi al sole, riposare in mezzo agli estranei.

Non importa cosa gli sia successo, rimane quello che è. Porta la pace, perché la pace è la sua natura, come è nostra. Aspetta e ascolta la pace che vive dentro di te per sussurrare il tuo nome.

Buon Natale!

Traduzione a cura di

Rilasciato sulla pagina fb di diana per la QUARTA DOMENICA di AVVENTO

William si lavò il viso - la barba era folta , ma non aveva senso cercare di radersi senza specchio o sapone - e si diresse al piano di sotto.

L'odore del cibo lo raggiunse in cima alle scale e lo attirò verso il basso come una zanzara che fiuta il sangue, con la sua voracità. E fu un bene, se ne rese conto entrando in cucina.

Era così affamato che non ebbe nessuna remora riguardo alla sua accoglienza.

Infatti, mentre tutti i commensali si voltavano a guardarlo, su ciascun volto compariva un sorriso, timido o ampio che fosse, ed egli si inchinò a loro, ricambiando il sorriso.

"Buongiorno", disse, e la bambina più piccola, Amanda, questo era il suo nome, fece una smorfia e lo indicò con il cucchiaio.

"La tua barba assomiglia a quella del nonno!".

Un'ondata di divertimento soffocato fece il giro del tavolo, ma prima che potesse pensare a qualcosa da dire, Madre Claire si alzò e lo prese per la manica, indicandogli un posto sulla panca accanto a Frances, che lo guardò pudicamente.

"Spero che tu abbia dormito bene", disse. Le sue guance erano rosa, ma lo guardò dritto negli occhi e lui provò un leggero sussulto: i suoi occhi erano molto simili a quelli di Jane.

"Immensamente bene, grazie", le assicurò. Davanti a lui apparve una teglia, piena di pane tostato e pancetta, e il fratello di Amanda, James? No, Jeremiah, Jem, ecco, un ragazzo alto, dai capelli rossi, magro come un alberello di quercia, spinse sul tavolo un vasetto di marmellata di fragole.

"Come dobbiamo chiamarlo?", chiese il ragazzo rivolgendosi al nonno. "Zio Billy?"

William quasi soffocò con il sorso di birra che aveva appena bevuto. Frances, Claire e le tre bambine ridacchiarono tutte e pensò che anche Fraser avrebbe potuto farlo, se fosse stato capace di emettere un suono simile. Invece Fraser mantenne una faccia relativamente seria e rispose: "No, a meno che non te lo chieda lui. Fino ad allora, potete chiamarlo signor Ransom, d'accordo?".

William si schiarì la gola.

"Per ora potete chiamarmi William, se volete", disse a Jem. "Non ho ancora fatto molta pratica nel fare lo zio".

"Non infastidire tuo zio", disse Madre Claire, mettendo davanti a William un piatto di salsicce succulente e luccicanti, che profumavano di salvia e cipolla. "Lascialo mangiare".

William mangiò come un lupo famelico, ascoltando la conversazione con un orecchio, ma senza fare alcuno sforzo per unirvisi . Il suo bicchiere fu riempito - e riempito di nuovo - con dell'ottima birra, ed egli finì il pasto sazio - anzi, ripieno come un'oca - chiedendosi se poteva andare a cercare un albero sotto cui dormire per un po'.

"Oggi andrò in giro per il Ridge a "sistemare" i miei fittavolii", gli disse Fraser, spazzolandosi le briciole dalle ginocchia. Passò un pezzo di pane tostato al grosso cane bluetick che aspettava pazientemente ai suoi piedi e si alzò. "Vuoi venire con me?".

"Sì. Suppongo di sì", rispose William, colto di sorpresa dall'invito. Ricordava che Mac lo stalliere diceva "fettled/sistemare", riferendosi alla strigliatura e al nutrimento dei cavalli, ma immaginò che Fraser volesse semplicemente dire ai suoi affittuari che sarebbe stato via per qualche tempo, e organizzare il pagamento degli affitti a qualche fattore.

Fraser annuì.

"Sì, bene. Dirò che sei mio figlio, anche se la maggior parte di loro lo saprà già, dopo ieri". Aggrottò un sopracciglio in segno di domanda. William era d'accordo?

Questo gli fece stringere lo stomaco pieno di un altro paio di centimetri, ma annuì.

"Certo. Posso avere il tempo di radermi?".

"Sì. Usa il sapone e la bacinella nella mia stanza. È quella di fronte, sulla sinistra salendo".

La stanza era ampia e piacevole, la finestra si apriva per l'aria, ma era schermata con una mussola per tenere lontani gli insetti, e la luce diffusa dava alla stanza una sensazione piacevole e tranquilla, come se ci si trovasse all'interno di una nuvola, nonostante il frastuono ovattato proveniente della cucina sottostante.

William si ritrovò a respirare superficialmente, consapevole dell'odore intimo e sconosciuto della stanza. Il letto non era ancora stato rifatto e, sebbene le lenzuola gettate all'indietro fossero pulite, contenevano un lieve odore persistente di corpi .

Se l'intimità della camera da letto dei Fraser era inquietante, l'intimità dell'uso del sapone da barba di mr Fraser lo era ancora di più. Era un sapone di Castiglia bianco e morbido, che profumava di olio d'oliva, ma anche di coriandolo e di quella che pensava fosse maggiorana, e... poteva forse trattarsi di foglie di geranio? Non aveva più visto né annusato una pianta di geranio da quando aveva lasciato l'Inghilterra, e questo gli diede un breve senso di dislocazione, una vivida sensazione del giardino d'inverno di sua zia Minnie, profumato di fiori stranieri e di una contorta vegetazione esotica.

Il pensiero lo fece sentire più stabile. Non importava cosa gli riservasse il futuro, aveva ancora sia un passato che un presente, e questi dovevano essere sufficienti a fargli mantenere la calma interiore di fronte a ciò che sarebbe potuto accadere.

Rinfrescato e ben rasato, scese le scale, pronto a vedere cosa esattamente implicava questo “sistemare”.

#sam heughan #outlander #jamie fraser #outlanderedit #diana gabaldon

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sometimes-love-is-enough · 9 months ago

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Syzygy: Some Closing Thoughts

I'm writing this at 8pm on my backyard porch, under the wavering light of a distant full moon. Hello, moon! Please don't kidnap me. I just wanted to hang out with you for a while as I collect my final thoughts. It's a pretty cloudy night tonight, so it's not properly visible, which I suppose is the cloud cover shielding me from a terrible lunar fate. It gives a deliciously hazy atmosphere for the absolute essay I'm about to write.

Apparently, the Farmer's Almanac says that tonight's full moon is a 'Pink Moon', which sounds like it'd be a very pleasant viewing experience. I imagine pastel frangipanis spontaneously sprouting all over the moon's surface, covering every inch of its rocks and crags until the soft pink glow is visible from all the way down here on Earth. Unfortunately it's not named 'Pink Moon' because of that; there's some American environmental factors, etc.

I think it's kind of charming that there's a list of names for every possible full moon, as if the moon's putting on different masks or incarnations every time it tilts just enough that we can see its full face. I'm looking at a list of them now instead of writing these final notes like I probably should. The names are so delightful. Strawberry Moon. Sturgeon Moon. Apparently last month's full moon was Worm Moon. WORM MOON. I could go on. I won't. Let's talk about Syzygy instead.

Syzygy is... Man, where do I even start with this? Let's try the beginning. I started writing Syzygy in February of 2021, after ruminating on it for probably a few months before that, as I often do. That's three years ago, so my memories of the reasons why are a bit fuzzy, but I think I did it for two reasons: one, a desire to have a long-form meaty slowburn fic for a beloved rarepair in the tag so other people could enjoy it, and two, a fascination with the idea of fractured identity, what it means to be a Side without a Centre. The whole thing with the alternate-history steampunk swapped-around Earth came about naturally from that.

Except that's actually kind of a lie, because that's not the beginning, this began in 2020, when I wrote a pitch for a local station that was accepting radio play submissions (rejected, of course) featuring a hardboiled noir detective in a starlit city whose latest client was a tiny shiny girl asking him to solve her father's murder. And that's also a lie, because I think it really began when I tried to write an original novel in high school where the protagonist's name was Avery Allen, because I liked the way the name tripped off my lips.

My stories are always built on each other, especially stories I never get to write. They all recycle into each other in a weird blend of concepts and characters. 2021 was when I sat down and told myself I was going to write the Thomceit time loop fic, and I dove into it with aplomb. I can't recall the exact timeline of events, but at some point I underwent some truly gnarly health problems that left me unable to use my hands for extended periods of time, and so the fic that was meant to be for a Big Bang ended up... Just sitting in a folder for a while. But me and my beta managed to pull it the fuck together, and after adding some extra bits and pieces (the cutaways were a LAST MINUTE ADDITION even though I think they're some of my favorite bits in the whole thing) I started putting it all up.

Okay, there we go, that's enough of an abridged history of this thing. Let's just say: I never expected as many people to like it as it turned out, I thought that it would be a niche little fic for a rarepair, and I was honestly pretty content with that. So it was delightful to see so many people getting so into it, I have enjoyed the FUCK out of all of your comments and theories and predictions. It's been delightful when people predicted a plot point correctly, and honestly even more delightful when they predicted incorrectly. I've had such a blast.

As for the writing... Suffice to say I have many notebooks full of notes and thoughts, more than one spreadsheet to keep track of time loops and lore, and a semi-complete list of all of Virgil's tarot cards, which one day I'll probably polish and share properly, because I think the concept is neat. But that's kind of how it always goes with my writing.

Naming every inspiration for this would take forever and I'd still miss a few, but I'll just throw out a key few ones, because I gotta:

17776: What Will Football Look Like In The Future, because when I first read it I got the wrong idea and thought that Juice (Jupiter Icy Moons Explorer) was short for Betelgeuse (the star), and that sparked a whole thing about living stars in my brain. Also, just the general way that the worldbuilding and absurdity is handled in that world, it scratches my brain just right.

Welcome To Night Vale. I don't think I need to explain this one.

Madeleine L'Engle's writing, particularly A Wind In The Door, particularly-particularly the bit of it where Proginoskes explains why, precisely, he has to remember and Name every star in the universe. Fucking beautiful book.

A particular Untamed/Mo Dao Zu Shi fic I read years ago and haven't been able to track down again, which also features two people stuck in a time loop who are initially unaware that they're in it together AND dying at the same time. I believe they also meet on a bus? The details are fuzzy. The worldbuilding and descriptions of that fic were so stunning to me, it had me unable to read anything for a solid few weeks, it is definitely a superior work to mine in every respect. If anyone finds it, let me know, I don't think I finished reading it and want to know how it ends.

An unpublished fic that I had the privilege to read while it was being written, that changed my brain chemistry re: the Sides unknowingly existing without Thomas. The Flowerwall Cafe originally hails from this one, too, graciously borrowed and greatly beloved.

Both Ghibli films in general AND Dianna Wynne Jones books in general, and obviously the intersection between the two, Howl's Moving Castle, which is fascinating in how both mediums handle the setting.

The Doctor Who audio drama Scherzo, which is a wild ride, and there's a major plot point revolving around the two main characters holding hands and fusing gruesomely into each other - and another involving an in-story fairy tale.

There was no huge inspiration for the clockwork city and weird steampunk carriages, apart from (perhaps) Fallen London. Certainly, the idea of a background organization that wants to kill the sun, who also happens to be a sentient being, is cribbed from the Liberation of Night.

Syzygy also happens to be packed full of many obscure references to... like... personal projects of mine, some published and some unpublished, as well as a lot of my friends and co-writers, and some really REALLY niche stuff that only I will ever properly understand. I buried a lot of myself into this story, is what I'm saying. Juice hails from a completely different project (a TTRPG with my friends, of which she is a beloved and cherished NPC), the in-universe author for Avery Allen (and Mallory Wynn too) are named for a fictional TV author I created when the writing discord was making a nonexistent fandom, Logan's dumpling recipe is my favorite recipe of all time.

I have an apartment ghost, too. I talk to it regularly.

Final thank-yous, because I want to post this very very soon, I've been typing for too long and the mosquitoes are starting to get to me. Thank you to:

Everyone on the TSS writing server who listened to me complain while I was writing it the first time round, and has subsequently listened to me complain while editing it these past two years. So many people in there are responsible for little bits and pieces - phrasings, words, nicknames, jokes - and I couldn't begin to name everyone who helped.

Saphira and the rest of the people who are currently working on making a full-cast audio drama out of this fic (???) (???!!!!??) (!!!!). It is SO baffling to me that it's happening, I'm in complete disbelief whenever we talk about it or I see the script or I get asked logistics questions, I'm terrified and thrilled to see how it turns out, what the fuck! The very existence of that project has ended up influencing a few things about this fic's endgame, too.

Everyone who's commented extensively, commented entire academic analyses, commented numbered lists, commented laconically, left a single emoji in the comments, left kudos, bookmarked it, sent me asks on Tumblr, given me thumbs-ups on Discord, or even just silently read the fic without interacting at all. Your witness brings my words to existence. Love you love you love you.

And Len, who lives in my brain and my body and my heart and my throat, and who is honestly singlehandedly responsible for dragging this fic out of the depths of Google Docs and into the arms of AO3. They've already said I don't need to thank them, but come on, I totally do. Len is the best beta, and puts up with all sorts of deranged nonsense from me, because I have an unhinged writing process where I don't think about anything before I put it down on the page, and I use way too many connecting-dashes and not enough semicolons. Kisses kisses kisses. Thanks for doing this with me, and I can't wait to do it again.

Myself. I managed to write this and I managed to finish it. That makes me a pretty cool person, all things considered. I'm glad I did this.

What next? I've got to rest. Well, I need to get some things done... and then rest. I've been juggling a hellish amount of projects for a while now, and now Syzygy's finally cleared from my plate, I'm going to try to let the others get cleared too so I can take some time and be less stressed. The Locked Tomb AU will be ongoing, as I get through final edits of chapters, so keep an eye out for that - if you're interested in a fic that's rather less starry and shiny, but very much Thomceit and death themes, check it out - and then....... Well, whatever comes next, whenever I have the energy to do it. I adore writing in this fandom. I'll be back with something weird soon enough.

Ad astra, baby! It's been a blast.

- Min (2024)

#Syzygy #author's note

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goosewriting · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! First of all, i love your writing! I wanted to request Leo with scenario 24 and pink prompt 45 where the first line is Leo's and the second one is the reader

When realisation hits you (literally) (rottmnt Leo x reader)

scenario 24: Cloudgazing or Stargazing together, as you lie next to each other, their hand slips into yours. prompt 45: “I think I’m falling in love with you.” “I think I’m okay with that.”

summary: Leo confesses to reader after a tiring day.

relationship: Rise!Leo x GN reader

warnings: none, fluff!

word count: 1.1k

A/N: not entirely sure if this one makes sense but i think it’s cute!

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

— — —

After a long and tiring week, you finally got to kick back on Friday night. The turtles had been on a mission all day, and you were looking forward to when they’d come back, so you could have your usual start into the weekend, which consisted of eating, gaming until ungodly hours, and sleeping in a cosy pile with your favourite reptiles in the projector room, with no set alarms the next morning.

You were already waiting at the lair, watching some Japanese show with Splinter, when you heard the steps and shuffling at the entrance. Scrambling to your feet, you quickly made your way to the turtles. You were about to greet them, but the moment you took a look at them you couldn’t help but notice how exhausted they looked. They were super beat.

After cleaning themselves up, they excused themselves and went straight to bed, they didn’t even have the energy to eat. Since you had ordered takeout, you wrapped it up and placed it in the fridge, leaving a post-it note in each room, telling them to get food when they woke up.

It wasn’t rare for one or two brothers to go to bed if they were super tired, but you’d at least stay up with one of them. At this point the lair was like your second home, but even so you felt a little silly to be the only one awake at someone else’s house.

As you made your way into Leo’s room to leave the note, you saw him sitting on the bed, head in his hands. Your heart skipped the tiniest beat at the prospect of getting to spend the night with your favourite turtle after all, but he looked just as tired as his brothers. Why wasn’t he in bed yet? You approached Leo and noticed he was trembling slightly. Of what exactly, you didn’t know.

“Are you okay?” you asked, sitting down next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think I can sleep yet” he said, voice laced with exhaustion, and lifted his head to look ahead at the wall of his room. “I’m way too wired.”

With a deep sigh, he then turned to you.

“I’m sorry you came over for nothing. There won’t be any games tonight it seems” he apologised and rubbed his face.

“Hey, it’s no problem” you said genuinely, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “The others need the rest. And so do you, honestly.”

“Do I look that bad?” he asked, to which you nodded and he chuckled.

You removed your hand from him and placed them both in your lap, waiting for him to say something. You wanted to wish him a good night and let him rest, but you also didn’t want to leave just yet.

“How about we do something low-key?” you asked after a while of him still staring ahead in silence. “Since you can’t sleep and I’m already here. We could go to the rooftop across the street and just chill for a while?”

Leo thought about it for a moment, then agreed to your suggestion.

You made your way to the roof in comfortable silence, and once you got there, you both lied down next to each other on the fluffy throw blanket you had picked up on your way out.

There wasn’t a single cloud in the night sky, the stars shone brightly, surrounding an almost full moon. From below you, you could hear the jostling of the city night life. Breathing in the cool air, you made a mental note to come here more often at night; it felt really peaceful.

Stealing a quick glance at Leo, you could see his furrowed brows, like he was deep in thought. You assumed it was about something that went bad in the mission or the like, so you decided to distract him a little, if only to help him calm his mind so he could sleep.

You started pointing at different stars, telling him their names and some facts and stories you remembered about the constellations.

As you were almost running out on info, you looked at him again. While he was listening, there was still something clearly troubling him. You stopped what you were saying, which caught Leo's attention since you suddenly went silent, and he looked back at you.

“You wanna talk about it?” you asked, referring to the mission.

He merely hummed in response, still lost in his thoughts. Then he turned on his side, so that he was facing you completely, and you mirrored him. Suddenly aware of how close you two were, you tried to control your pounding heart while he looked for the right words to say whatever it was he wanted to say.

You studied his face in the meantime, and that’s when you realised there was a slight bruise on his jaw. Without thinking, you instinctively reached out to hold his face, running your thumb over the darkening spots on his skin.

Physical touches and caresses weren’t very rare with him, but something about this moment felt different. There was some unspoken tension between you, and you hoped you weren’t wrongly reading something into it that wasn’t there (because you wished there was…). Your train of thought was interrupted though as Leo took your hand in his, closing his eyes. Your breath hitched at that, and you waited expectantly for him to talk.

“You know” he started, still with his eyes closed. “I realised something today.”

You didn’t answer just yet, waiting for him to continue.

“In fact, I got punched in the face because I was distracted thinking about it.”

For a second, an amused smile appeared on your lips as you wanted to make a joke about it, but there was something about his tone that was so uncharacteristically serious that you stopped yourself. There was no trace of sarcasm in the way he spoke, no mischief, no smirk.

“What were you thinking about?” you asked instead, almost in a whisper.

That’s when Leo opened his eyes, and even in the dim moonlight, that painted everything with pale and cool hues of blue, you saw the spark in his gaze and light blush prickling his cheeks.

“You.”

“Huh?” is all you managed to answer, but it sounded more like a squeak than a question. Despite the cool night breeze blowing over you, your whole body felt like it had been set on fire.

“I think… I think I’m falling in love with you” Leo said with a loving squeeze to your hand, and gave you the softest and most earnest smile you had ever seen on him.

You mirrored his smile, and propped yourself up on your elbow. Leaning down, you saw Leo’s eyes go wide for a moment as you placed a gentle kiss to the bruise on his jaw. Without leaning back completely, you looked back at him with flushed cheeks.

“I think I’m okay with that.”

~~~~~🐥 taglist: [more info in my pinned post!] @hearteyedracoon, @koalaray, @maribatshipper, @whygz

#goose feathers #500 goslings event #rottmnt #save rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the tmnt x reader #tmnt x reader #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt leo x reader #leonardo x reader #tmnt 2018 #rise leo x reader

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monsoon-of-art · 1 year ago

Text

Donut Hole - Chapter 18

It's Alright

I got a baseball bat beside my bed

To fight off what inside my head

To fight off what's behind my meds

I'm lonely, lost in pain

It's alright, it's okay, it's alright, it's okay

You're not a monster, just a human

And you made a few mistakes

- It's Alright, Mother Mother

[hi guys :) we're almost done. Also if the format seems. Weird, it's bc I'm posting from my phone! Ao3 link might be delayed bc of that]

[ao3 link]

Barry just wanted to close his eyes for a second. That's all he wanted. Mystery was perfectly capable of flying on its own, he just wanted to rest his eyes.

For a brief, beautiful moment, he was on the back of his staraptor. He was back home. Soaring through the pecha colored clouds, the towns and cities below merely a speck.

And to his side was [____] on her Crobat. She smiled at him, as warm as the sun, and just as imperceivable as staring directly at it.

The moment didn’t last.

Because the next thing he knew, he was lying in a pile of broken tree branches with a hurt back, Mystery was loudly cawing, and some kid was yelling at them.

Despite being dressed like the new Galactic groups, this kid seemed harmless. Barry absolutely couldn’t say the same about the rocky behemoth that stood behind the boy, but the pokemon made no move to attack them, so Barry chose not to acknowledge it.

Clearly, General Irida didn’t brief this kid well enough.

(Definitely General Irida, because he was wearing pink. And a strange hat that Barry swore he saw somewhere else…but couldn’t remember specifics for the life of him.)

But the kid willingly gave him directions to Jubilife and let the two leave, like an idiot, so Barry did just that.

“Past…deertrack heights…” he repeated to himself, realizing he didn’t know what a ‘deertrack heights’ was. “...cross the river, then cross it…again.”

That didn’t make any sense. Maybe the directions were wrong, or maybe the kid lied to him. But Barry definitely needed to get out of this forest first.

The two eventually stumbled upon a creek, gently winding through the forest, psyducks and bunearies splashing in the crystal clear water. Combees buzzed around small patches of flowers, wurmples creeped and crawled through the underbush, burmies hung from trees.

“This isn’t a river…but it should lead to one.” Barry thought aloud. Then, he paused, turning to Mystery. “...let’s give you a break, bud. I think it might be a bit hard for you to follow me anyway.”

He recalled Mystery to its pokeball and, because he didn’t feel totally comfortable walking without a pokemon, he let Pest out of his.

“Hey buddy!” Barry cooed, scratching the side of the Mothim’s head. “Keep me company, OK? We’re looking for a river. And maybe if we run into any trouble with the bugs, you can let them know I don’t mean any harm, sound good?”

Pest chirped and chittered, fluttering around the boy affectionately.

The two followed the creek closely, Barry taking a moment to appreciate the calm of the forest and the fresh air. The pokemon seemed more skittish than he was used to back home, most fleeing from him immediately.

The exception were a few beautifly that flew over to examine him, but a few chirps and trills from Pest was enough to return to their flowers, uninterested.

Barry and Pest finally saw the forest start to thin. In no time at all, the soft soil of the forest was now the white sand of a beach, and the small creek flowed into a large river. A large dam was built over the river mouth, with several bidoofs tending to it.

Overseeing the bidoofs was a very large bibarel, it turned to the boy and his bug, pushing itself to stand on its hind legs, looming over the two with a snarl. Saliva dripped from its maw, its eyes glowing red.

Barry, at this point in his travels, wasn’t phased. He watched the bibarel with a tired expression, waiting for it to finish the threat display.

He reached into his bag for a pokeball, not taking his eyes off the enormous rodent. “Man, I’m not dealing with this. Snacks, take care of this guy.”

Snacks burst from its pokeball with a debatably fearsome squeal, pelting the bibarel with energy balls.

And Barry turned away, confident that Snacks could handle an overgrown rodent. He didn’t go far, just to the river bank, where the bidoofs fled from his presence.

He released Fern from its pokeball, and Fern - still under the influence of the hypnosis from that weird deer - promptly slumped into Barry’s arms, asleep. Under normal circumstances, Barry would love to let Fern keep sleeping, but they were so close.

Carefully laying Fern onto the soft sand, Barry scooped up a handful of water and splashed its face. “Sorry Bud, we gotta keep moving! You gotta wake up! We’re almost there!”

Fern sputtered and coughed, immediately sitting up and pawing at its face. It shot Barry an annoyed frown, and he sheepishly patted its back. “H-Heh…sorry.”

Snacks returned with a triumphant squeal, pointing at the now-unconscious bibarel, concerned bidoofs swarming around their leader. And at this, Barry smiled.

His pokemon were getting stronger. They were capable of winning battles on their own, capable of protecting themselves and him.

Of course, taking on the horde of Galactic Members that were likely on his tail was still a no-go. They had more pokemon, a defected Battle Facility Head, and Barry was fairly certain they’d find a way to cheat.

But this was good.

Now, Barry’s plan was to release his pokemon, have a quick meal, and continue their journey. But as he reached into his bag for Mystery and Jen, a tree fell in the forest.

And another. And another. When Barry looked over his shoulder, he could see the treeline shifting. Getting closer and closer-

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Barry began shoving things back into his bag, quickly recalling Snacks and was about to recall Pest when the thing chasing them finally broke through the treeline.

It was the rocky, insectoid behemoth from the woods, the little boy with the hat riding on his back. “There he is, Lord Kleavor! Prepare for punishment, troublemaker!”

Well, Barry wasn’t stupid enough to stay around to see what that entailed. With Pest clinging to his head and with Fern by his side, they ran. Splashing through the river, using the bidoof dam as extra footing.

It felt like all of Sinnoh was trying to track him down, at this point. Part of him was tempted to try and fight the thing head on, but when he glanced back, he could see ‘Lord Kleavor’ preparing for a charge attack.

“Outta the way-!” Barry pushed Fern and himself onto the opposite bank of the river just as the behemoth charged, smashing through the dam and crashing into a tree.

The ‘Kleavor’ took a moment to reorient itself, part of its rocky beak currently embedded into the tree it slammed into.

“It’s OK, Kleavor! Try again!”

“No-No, don’t, Kleavor! Don’t try again!” Barry said, already scrambling up from the beach and onto the more rocky terrain. His current theory was that this Kleavor pokemon could charge in a single direction, similar to the rampardos from before.

If he kept zig-zagging around, he should be fine.

Hopefully.

It was better than the group from before, that was certain.

"Stop running, scoundrel!" The little boy shouted, trying to sound as serious as possible. "You will face justice!"

Honestly, he sounded so…genuine. If Barry didn't know any better, he was almost convinced that he was doing something wrong.

He hadn’t done anything wrong…right? He just wanted his friend back, and Team Galactic was getting in the way! They were trying to stop him - weren’t they? They were trying to take over the world - weren’t they? They were going to kill him!

…weren’t they?

A horrible wave of nausea nearly overpowered him.

He had to be right. He couldn't afford to be wrong.

Besides, this kid was brainwashed by Team Galactic. Of course he'd get the facts wrong!

Kricketots and pichu scattered as Barry and Fern darted through the small foothills. He could hear the rocky pokemon behind them, stomping and smashing through trees to chase after them.

Slowly. Rock pokemon were generally not fast, and Barry thanked every God he knew for that.

They just needed to gain some more distance, then they could hide out and wait for the rock pokemon and the little kid to give up.

Then Barry could finally go to Jubilife. He'd finally end this. He’d punch Cyrus in his stupid, emotionless face, he’d fine him bajillions worth, he’d fine every single person working under him, he’d burn the place down-

Maybe that was too far. Maybe punching him was enough.

In the end, he just wanted Her back.

They were awfully high up in the hills now. Barry could see miles: the waterfalls, a Gyarados protectively snaking around the waters below, he could see a trail lined with unlit torches, a small bridge, and a tent.

But then he felt it. The rumbling of hoofs and paws against the earth.

Just up ahead, across a naturally formed land-bridge, the group from up in the mountains had caught up with him.

A screeching caw from above. The giant bird was circling around like a mandibuzz, the girl with green braids riding atop. "He's over here! Over here!"

Barry shouted the first thing that came to mind.

“HEY! SNITCH!”

Barry hadn't even realized he had stopped moving, only noticing when Fern began anxiously trying to nudge him forward. His legs had turned to stone. Once the feeling in his legs returned and once the adrenaline began coursing through his veins, he ran.

He thought he had more time! He thought they wouldn’t catch up that fast!

Maybe this was just his life now. Running forever. Team Galactic nipping at his heels for eternity.

Or until they killed him.

Barry turned, instinctively going back to try and retreat, only to be met with the Kleavor. It slammed its axe-shaped claws into the earth, bellowing loud enough to rattle his very bones.

Fern darted forward with an uppercut to the jaw, Kleavor stumbling back with a pained croon.

Barry started to cheer, pausing when noticing Fern wince and seeing sharp stones embedded into its fist.

“Hey, HEY! You hurt Fern!” he snapped.

“You ATTACKED a LORD?!” the boy snapped back, equally enraged, confused, and terrified.

That was the second time someone mentioned a Lord pokemon. The only thing he could think of were the Totem Pokemon from Alola. But they were meant to be challenged, weren't they? What was the issue here?

Every time he thought he had an idea of what was going on, a new, strange puzzle piece would spring out of the box and try to punch him in the face.

There was something different about this chase. The others seemed more…organized. Coordinated.

Barry's first instinct was to run down the mountain on a worn path, greeted with Irida and Gaeric riding Ursaluna. But when Barry tried to backtrack, the strange, white deer tried to cut him off.

Luckily, there was a tree Barry could climb on to escape, but he was immediately attacked by the giant bird. He had to duck and roll out of there to escape.

Upon ducking into a small crevasse, he was met with the long sneasel’s glowing eyes. It yowled as it approached, pointing at him with its long talons.

Barry bit back a yelp as he scrambled backwards, attempting to look elsewhere to hide. Every nook and cranny was crawling with the Galactic forces.

Before in the mountains it was a confused scramble; but this was planned.

He was being herded.

The thudding of hooves and paws and the yelling of Galaxy Commanders buzzed in his brain like a swarm of beedrill.

Despite all his efforts, all of his tricks, and all of his escape attempts, Barry had found himself being guided into an almost bowl-shape in the hill, the remains of a campfire and a tent laying in the middle, an enormous spire towering above.

Between a literal rock and a hard place, Barry reached into his bag and released all of his pokemon. The five placed themselves between him and the group slowly circling around, intent on fighting if need-be.

“You're not taking me." He said, voice low.

“You’re not exactly in a place to say that.” General Adaman said. “Come with us. We want to help you.”

He scowled at that.

“...ry!...”

Like being submerged underwater, every single other sound faded from Barry’s focus. The bickering between commanders, the various sounds of pokemon (both his and not), the very world around him; all drowned out.

Except for one, singular thing.

“...rry! Barry!...”

All of the air left his lungs in a shaky, wheezing breath.

The commanders had heard it this time, speaking quickly amongst themselves. Not that Barry could hear, nor could he bring himself to care.

He stepped forward. He stepped again. It was like wading through the murkiest of waters. Slowly stepping past the protective wall in his pokemon (much to their confusion) and out into the clearing.

“Baarrryy!”

There was a path that cut through the mountains, winding through the rocks with delicately carved statuettes on the sides.

He wasn't even really walking anymore. More stumbling forward, barely able to catch himself with the other foot before he fell on his face.

Nothing else mattered. Not the confused geodudes he passed, not the muffled calls of his pokemon, not the shouting from the Galactic forces-

Nothing else mattered.

Finally passing through the last of the hills and rocky cliffs, Barry saw a bridge. Made of wood. Unimportant.

Crossing the bridge, running at full speed, was a girl. She wore a blue outfit with a black sash around the middle, and she had a white covering for her head. Her long, black hair flowed as she ran.

She paused at the other end of the bridge, huffing and puffing, limbs shaking from the exertion. And she looked at him, a tired, hesitant smile on her face.

“Barry?”

Barry was thirteen. The police came to tell his mom and dad they were calling off the search soon. He had ran out of the house right then and there, despite his mother's pleas and father’s protests. He wasn't going to accept this. He wasn't.

Barry was twelve now. [___] had to be appointed as champion. It was really an excuse to throw a celebration, as Cynthia had explained, but it was still new and strange. He hated how he looked in a tuxedo, even as his mom fawned over him. [___] scrunched her nose as her mom squished her cheeks, praising ‘her little girl' for accomplishing so much. She had asked for Barry’s specifically, to stand by her side during the event, something that he was going to take very very seriously. A new champion doesn't happen every day! And once their parents had their attention elsewhere, he nudged her arm with a wink, and a promise to come fight her as champion soon.

Barry was eleven now. Pacing just outside of Hearthome. She was supposed to be here hours ago! What had taken her so long? He'd get his answer soon enough, when she'd sheepishly approach while holding a ralts. Oh, he was so mad at her. They had planned! They had arranged to meet! He was on time for once! He was never on time for anything!! But she could only hold up the ralts a little higher with a shy smile, and Barry had to reluctantly agree - that ralts was pretty cute.

Barry was ten. He held his new turtwig high into the air, smiling from ear to ear. Upon soaking in the feeling, the realization that he was indeed a pokemon trainer, he spun right around and insisted on a battle. [___] was hesitant. She wasn't totally sure if her piplup was ready. But he was quick to assure her that she was. They wanted to be trainers, right? And he would be by her side as her best friend and rival. If she was ever unsure, or ever scared, or ever alone. He would be there. And with that reassuring, she agreed to their first ever battle.

Barry was nine. He hated fourth grade. In order to prepare them for secondary school, he now had a rotating class schedule, and it was a nightmare. Now he had four classes! And all of them had homework! How was anyone supposed to juggle this?! And so [___] came to his home after school, choosing not to comment on his red cheeks and audible sniffles. She told Barry that she, too, was having issues with the multiple classes. But that was OK. This was just so they could practice for when they moved to secondary school. And she pulled all her books onto his desk, and suggested they work on homework together.

Barry was seven when his mom suggested he go over to her house across the street. He was greeted by her mother, warm as always, but there was a strange air he couldn't place. Her mother requested he go right upstairs, as she had private matters to attend to. When he walked into her room, seeing [___] sitting completely still on the bed. She told him, voice devoid of emotion, that her daddy wouldn't be coming back to visit. Ever. Even at a young age, Barry knew, intrinsically, that this was a grown-up thing, and that he couldn't solve this problem. Instead, he wrapped her up in blankets, made his best ever pillow fort, and told her stories that he made up off the top of his head until she smiled again.

Barry was five now, on the playground, trying to stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks. He was a big boy now, his daddy had said so, and big boys don't cry just because the other kids on the playground won't play with you. He had always had an inkling that the other kids didn't like him; sure they tolerated him at school, under the watchful eyes of grown-ups, and yes, he received birthday party invites out of obligation, but the exclusion was still glaringly obvious and very painful. He was too loud. He didn't understand the rules of the game. He was too rough. There were so many rules. He couldn't remember them all. Then, a little hand grabbed his sweater sleeve. [___] held a bucket and shovel, and held it out to him, asking if he wanted to play in the sandbox with her and make things. He could even smash them down when she was done. Barry wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded.

Barry was four when he moved to Twinleaf town. He wasn't totally sure why. He knew that daddy had a new job, and that daddy and mommy were ‘taking a break', but that still didn't really explain anything. Not like he had much of a say, no matter how often he tried to argue. And now, he was standing on their new neighbors porch with his mom, pouting as hard as he could. But his demeanor changed when a woman opened the door with her young daughter, looking the same age. Barry and his mommy introduced themselves, then the woman. The woman placed a gentle hand on her daughters head, encouraging her to say her name. And with a quiet murmur, she said her name was-

“DAWN!”

Barry broke into a full sprint now. Tears streaming down his face, smiling as wide as he could muster. “DAWN! DAWN!”

Dawn opened her arms for him, so used to his usual method of greeting. And when he tackled her into a hug, she barely managed to stay on both feet.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, burying his face into the crook of her neck and jaw, “Dawn, Dawn, Dawn…Dawn…” he whispered, fearful of forgetting once more.

“Barry! Barry how, how did you- How did-” she stammered, hugging him right back, the two of them slowly spinning, orbiting around one another, locked so tight. “When Palina came to tell me-”

“I-I found you. I found you. I found you.” was all he could manage to say, burying his face deeper. “I found you…I found you….”

Dawn squeezed him tight. “You found me. You found me.”

“I…found you….I found you….found you…” he whispered, his voice growing tired. Distant. His grip started to loosen.

“Barry? Barry, you're slipping.” She said, trying to shift him back into the hug.

But Barry continued to slip, until he slumped into her arms, unconscious.

And Dawn screamed.

“Barry?! BARRY! Barry please wake up!!”

#pokemon legends arceus #pla #rival barry #donut hole #barry in hisui

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