#i described him as having plum brown hair

[ghost-proofbaby]

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. 

[takingchences]

𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐩𝐭. 𝟓

A descendant of a legendary quirk longs to separate herself from her family name, but first she'll have to confront villains, ghosts from the past, and her growing attraction for Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight.

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x OP!fem!oc

Warnings: mature language

Let me know if you would like to be added to the ultraviolet taglist! A big thank you to everyone for reading!

series masterlist + my masterlist

"What the hell is going on?" Sana was frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, staring uncomprehendingly at the mob of reporters loitering outside of the school gates. How are we supposed to get through?!

Any other time, she would simply boost herself over them like she did during the quirk assessment. However, since her school uniform required her to wear a skirt, flying was out of the question. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if her underwear was broadcast across every news station.

Through the sea of people, the solar-powered girl spotted a few familiar faces. It seems that a number of her classmates had braved the crowd, but none of them seemed to be making any progress in getting to the gates. Sana would've preferred to wait it out, but classes were starting soon, and she couldn't risk being late. Who knew what sort of soul-crushing punishment Aizawa had in store for such an occasion. The thought alone made a chill run down her spine.

The pastel girl carefully moved towards the crowd, trying to maneuver through the warm bodies. She narrowly avoided an elbow to the temple, only for a microphone to be shoved in her face.

"Hey, you! You sure look familiar. Are you a pro's kid or something?"

"No, sorry." the girl politely answered, trying to step around the woman. A manicured hand grabbed onto her arm, pulling her back.

The reporter, a tall woman with cropped brown hair and a beauty mark by her lip, tilted her head, lilac eyes narrowed in concentration. "No, I've definitely seen you somewhere-"

"If you'll excuse me, I need to get to class-" Sana twisted her arm out of the woman's tight grip, attempting to push past her and towards the gate, only to be stopped once more. "Let me go."

"Wait a minute! We need to interview All Might's students- Hey, kid! You're blocking the shot!" The woman yelled in a shrill voice, like a child on the verge of a tantrum. Sana turned back, only to have her view blocked by a muscular back. Bakugou now stood between her and the woman. His head was turned to the side, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets like always.

"Are you deaf or just stupid?" Bakugou asked in a low drawl, sounding surprisingly calm for, well, him. "She already answered your shitty question."

"B-but-"

"Excuse me, kid!" A shorter, bald man stepped forward, eyeing the blonde up and down with a shaky smile. "Are you in All Might's class?" The man's eyes grew large, as though he'd just realized something important. "Oh? Wait, aren't you that Sludge Villain kid?"

Sludge villain? Her plum irises trailed across the profile of the blonde, whose entire body seemed to stiffen under the man's curious gaze before he forced himself to relax.

The wild, untamed hair that had looked oh so familiar on their first day. His appearance, combined with his explosive quirk... it all fit. The student's name was never released to the public, but there was no doubt in her mind that the reporter was right. Bakugou was the kid from the news all those months ago.

"Walk away." The explosive teen hissed through clenched teeth, his sharp gaze promising a slow, agonizing death to anyone that dared to question him again.

"Bakugou," Sana murmured, gently tugging on the fabric of his blazer to direct his attention away from the nosey press. "Let's go, yeah?" She went to yank him towards her, but his feet were firmly planted, fists out and clenched at his side.

"Bakugou, Sakano." A voice called their names in a tone that could only be described as done with the world. "You're going to be late." Sana's heart nearly stopped at the warning. He won't punish us, right? It's not our fault we can't get through--unless this is another one of his tests?

"Yes, sensei." Sana bowed her head as she passed Aizawa, forcefully dragging an angry boom boom boi behind her.

If those reporters had discovered her identity, the press would've had a field day. Her father would've been annoyed with the amount of attention focused on her "silly passions." Any publicity that wasn't about him or his campaign was considered negative in his eyes. Whether he realized it or not, Bakugou had saved her.

It was only fair to return the favor.

"LET GO OF ME, DAMMIT!"

Sana rolled her eyes, releasing her iron-like grip on his collar before turning on her heel to face him. "Do you have to be so dramatic all the time?"

"HUH?!"

The girl cocked an eyebrow at him pointedly, as if to say see what I mean? Most students were already in their classrooms, so the hallway was pretty much empty. Sana brushed a stray hair behind her ear, her arms crossed over her chest in an attempt to calm her nerves.

"Thank you," she mumbled. She could feel his vibrant eyes burning through her, but she refused to meet his gaze, instead choosing to stare down the deserted corrider they'd just came from. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "For helping me out back there."

"I didn't do shit, dumbass." he replied, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "You were blocking my way."

Sana couldn't help it.

She laughed.

Of course he would say something like that! It was stupid to expect anything other than an insult to come flying out of his mouth. It didn't matter that a horde of reporters were parked outside, blocking students from entering the gates. No, according to him, she was the problem. Sana rubbed her left temple, but it did nothing to soothe the irritation that always seemed to accompany her interactions with the ash blonde. "You're a real pain, you know that?" The boy didn't bother replying. It was a rhetorical question they both knew to be true.

"What was that garbage she was spewing? About you being a pro's kid?"

Sana sucked in a breath. She was shocked, to be honest. She didn't think Bakugou would care much for small talk, or gossip, or really anything that didn't involve beating people to a pulp. She composed herself before replying. "There are no heroes in my family."

"But they're something, right? I overheard 'em talking about it in class the other day. Said your dad was on TV or some shit."

Something indeed.

The Sakanos were the closest thing to royalty their society had, followed closely by All Might. They were regarded as the founding family of quirks. Her great ancestor, the first person to ever receive a quirk, was born glowing in a small hospital in China.

Unlike today, where about 80% of the population possesses a unique ability, back then, a glowing baby was not considered normal. People were outraged, rioting against those they considered different, even when they knew it was out of their control. Her family was forced to flea the country in fear of being persecuted, which is how they'd ended up in Japan.

"You could say that," she begrudgingly admitted. "So," she carefully redirected the conversation. "About what that guy said..."

"He was confused." The words were clipped, final. Like he was ending the conversation before it had even begun.

"Bakugou," she sighed. "It's okay-"

"Shut the hell up, would you?" Bakugou's jaw was clenched tightly, his vermilion eyes burning through her. "I said it wasn't me!"

His hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, the muscles shaking. Popping filled the air as sparks flew from his hands. He looked heated and ready for battle, but under all the anger and bravado he exuded, she could see what he was trying so desperately to hide.

Fear. Shame. Vulnerability.

Katsuki Bakugou, one of the strongest in their class, was the victim of a villain attack. The boy who fought like no other, who could control his quirk and body with perfect precision, had been unable to fight back at the most crucial time. Fire and explosions didn't stand a chance against a villain with no physical body. She remembered watching the live feed as it was broadcast. How the blonde had clawed at the gunk around his mouth and nose, only for his fingers to slip right through his attacker. She'd witnessed the boy before her slowly dying as heroes stood by and watched, unable to help.

Trauma leaves marks on people. Some may be visible, while others or more well-hidden. But they exist, and make themselves known in time.

This was one of those moments.

"Bakugou," she whispered, reaching out a comforting hand, but he was already moving. Hands tucked into his pockets, feet stomping down the hall with his head hung low.

¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*

After such an eventful morning, one would think the universe would give the students of 1-A a break, but no.

Bakugou had been strangely subdued in class, though Sana contributed his out of character behavior to their uh, strained conversation in the hallway. The blonde had been giving her the cold shoulder ever since. Not that they were best buds to begin with, but the strawberry blonde had grown used to their petty arguments and banter, and she found herself missing it the longer the day went on.

She even went so far as tugging on one of his spiked locks when Present Mic wasn't looking, but Bakugou remained firm in his decision to ignore her.

¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*

Mina and the gang were already seated at their usual table when Sana stepped out of the lunch line with her tray in hand. She could see Bakugou slouched in his seat like always, a deep frown on his lips. On his right was Kirishima, who was talking to him with his brows knit in concern. On his other side were Sero and Kaminari, who were bent over the lightning boy's phone most likely watching a Minecraft video. On the other side of the table, Mina was clutching her stomach in laughter, while Jirou quietly nodding along to the beat from her headphones. An empty seat was left open between them.

The seat across from Bakugou.

It was hard enough having to sit behind him in class, but having to face him? She could still see his tortured expression from earlier as he refused to admit that anything had happened to him ten months ago. The soft plea in his stare begging her to drop it.

No, she couldn't face him. Not yet.

She knew Midoriya wouldn't mind her sitting with him for the day, but Sana had a sneaking suspicion that doing so would only cause Bakugou to retreat from her even further. Sitting with Shoto wasn't an option. Looking around, she couldn't even spot his unusual hair through all of the bodies filling the cafeteria. Even if she did somehow find him and convince him to eat with her, things were still so awkward between them. Though she wasn't sure where exactly things had gone wrong between them, it would take more than a thirty minute break and two bowls of cold soba to rekindle their friendship.

Which left her with only one option; flying solo.

They'd only been attending U.A for a short period of time, so the peach-haired girl wasn't well acquainted with most of her classmates yet, let alone students from other courses. Sana wasn't sure how great she was at making friends. She'd only ever had two before arriving at U.A, and compared to Shoto, anyone could look social.

Here goes nothing.

Holding her head high, she confidently made her way over to a small table near the corner, placing her tray down diagonally across from a guy with one of the coolest hairstyles she's ever seen.

"Uh... hi?"

"Hey," she smiled sheepishly with a visible blush on her cheeks. The boy looked so confused and almost frustrated by her presence that she nearly crawled under the table in embarrassment.

"Are you lost?" He asked, head tilted slightly as he analyzed her with hooded lavender eyes.

"No."

"Are you sure?" He leaned forward in his seat, resting his crossed arms on the table.

"Positive," she replied, raising her chopsticks to her mouth and taking a bite. Cold soba was something she'd been introduced to at a young age by Rei Todoroki. It quickly became one of her favorite dishes, and she looked forward to eating it each time the woman made it. She missed Rei, almost as much as she missed her own mother.

At least Rei's family knew where she was, and why she had to leave.

Some people were just left to wonder forever.

"Look, I don't mind sharing a table. I know this place is packed." The purple-haired boy reached back to scratch the nape of his neck. "But if you're just sitting here because you're curious, then kindly fuck off."

.

.

.

"I'm sorry, what?" There must be some mistake. There's no way he actually said that... right? Why would a complete stranger tell her to fuck off?

"Why else would you chose this table?" He scoffed, a smile with no humor behind it curling his lips. "Am I supposed to believe it was only a coincidence?"

Sana shook her head, blinking rapidly to try and make sense of the situation. "Look, I don't know what the big deal about me sitting here is, but I don't appreciate you shooing me off like I'm some annoying gnat buzzing around your head." The bored expression he'd worn since she sat down fell away as he grinned lazily.

Bastard, she grit her teeth. You think this is funny?

Sana sighed heavily, her eyes falling shut. "I'm not great at this, okay? This approaching people, making-new-friends-thing is still new to me. But I hate eating alone." During her last few months of middle school, Sana had been forced to eat lunch by herself. Shoto refused to speak with her or acknowledge her presence unless absolutely necessary. With her father never around, and Umi busy working around the house, Sana had no choice but to eat most of her meals alone.

"I figured you wouldn't mind the company, but obviously I was wrong." She stood, grabbing her tray, but a voice stopped her from walking away.

"... wait."

She eyed the boy warily. His gravity-defying hair seemed to droop a little as he released a full body sigh. He rubbed a hand across his tired eyes before meeting her gaze. "Sit down," he gestured to the seat she'd just vacated. Sana looked at the chair before turning her attention back at him, not moving an inch. He sighed again. "I would like you to sit with me. Please."

The solar girl hesitantly sat back down. "It does get a little lonely sometimes." He smirked, but the sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. He offered his hand. "I'm Hitoshi Shinso."

Sana placed her hand in his larger one, used to the warm tingle physical contact brought to her. "Sana Sakano."

The two shook hands before returning to their meals. Not much was said between the two, but neither of them minded the silence. Even if they'd just met, they understood one another. For a moment, there were two less lonely people in the world.

Then all Hell broke loose.

Alarms blared and red lights flashed overhead. A voice came over the intercom to announce that there'd been a Level 3 security breach. Students from all grades and courses began to race for the doors.

"What's going on?" Sana yelled, her hands cupped protectively over her ears. She wasn't even sure if he was able to hear her over the roar of sirens and panicked voices. Shinso shook his head, watching the chaos unfold around them with an uneasy expression. The solar girl rose from her seat, turned to her companion and motioned towards the door. "Come on!"

The two ran for the exit, quickly getting separated as they entered the crowded hallway. She was vaguely aware of Shinso shouting her name before his purple hair was blocked from view by a wall of bodies. Shoves came from every direction, frantic hands pushing and pulling at her hair and clothes in a desperate attempt to move forward. They were packed into the small space like sardines, a mass of warm bodies pressing against one another.

Suddenly, a firm, unrelenting grip seized the back of her blazer collar and yanked.

"OI, DUMBASS!" Sana released a sigh of relief at the familiar gruff voice. She was pulled back into a firm chest and guided towards the wall. The muscles against her back were tense, his arms reaching out to brace themselves against the wall on either side of her head. "Don't just stand there like an idiot. You'll get trampled!" She could feel the vibrations in his chest as he continued to grumble under his breath about her stupidity. His hot breath tickled her ear, stirring her hair. She could hear him just fine even with all of the noise surrounding them.

Sana turned away from the wall and froze. He scowled down at her, his lips pulled down in their usual grimace. Now that she was so close, she could count every eyelash. His eyes were bathed in shadows, but the occasional flash of light made them glitter like rubies. His hair, although sticking out in every direction in spiky tufts, looked soft to the touch. She was so close. How she wished to just reach out and-

"The hell are you looking at, Glow Stick?"

His pale brows were furrowed, his ears quickly turning red. God, how long had she been staring at him? Her own face warmed in embarrassment.

"What happened to 'Flashlight?'" She scrambled to ask, struggling to maintain what was left of her dignity. He shrugged, moving closer as the wave of frightened students jostled them roughly. She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Seriously, is the name Sana really so difficult to remember?" His frown deepened.

"I can't be bothered to remember the names of extras."

"Let's get one thing clear, shall we? I am not one of your extras." She sneered. "And you'd do well to remember that."

Over his shoulder, she noticed quick flashes of red and yellow hair. The ketchup and mustard duo were together and nearby, but where were the rest of their friends? She asked Bakugou as much and his eyes rolled into the back of his skull. "Those shitty extras are your friends, not mine. I can't help that you losers follow me around all the fuckin' time."

"Is it so wrong for people to like you and want to be around you?" She wondered, genuinely curious about his answer.

His strong competitive drive, cocky personality, and sharp tongue had probably ruined more relationships than anything, but Sana had a feeling it went deeper than that. He didn't seem like the type to share his deepest thoughts and feelings with anyone in fear of making himself look weak. She was sure that there was more to Bakugou than a kickass quirk and punk rock attitude.

She'd seen a glimpse of a more vulnerable side of him this morning, and she wanted nothing more than to peel back each layer one by one until there was nothing left to hide, no matter how long it took.

He scoffed, a muscle ticking in his jaw, but otherwise remained quiet. But before she could question him further, the sirens cut off.

Distantly, she could hear Iida explaining that the reporters were the cause of the lockdown. He went on to reprimand the crowd for losing their composure during a time of crisis, before dismissing them. The crowd slowly dispersed. Bakugou pushed off of the wall without a word, once again leaving the peach-haired girl with nothing but more questions.

[ragingbookdragon]

There Is Always A Reason

Lindir of Rivendell x Reader

Word Count: 1.2K Warnings: Nothing, except sappiness maybe

Author's Note: Oh hey, I made a gay elf :) -Thorne

**********************************************************************

Relationships of the same sex amongst elves wasn’t uncommon, but it also wasn’t as occurring as the opposite sex ones. The elves had noticed with more or less speculation that it was the humans who had a lack of more understanding when it came to relationships, but then again, if humans didn’t marry and produce heirs, their race would die out—for elves, copulation wasn’t necessarily a major issue as most only ever had two or three heirs. That being said, the elves welcomed love amongst their race, never shied away from the men and women amongst themselves having relationships or attraction to the same sex.

It was, exactly that that brought him to Rivendell from Lórien. A chance at seeing the attendant of Lord Elrond while he was on guard duty for Lady Galadriel, had set his soul aflame with desire. Of course, he had to get leave from the Lady of Light herself, who saw right through his excuses with a hidden, amused smile, knowing he was a youngling, trying to impress a new love.

I just think, perhaps having a messenger between Mirkwood to Rivendell to Lórien is a thoughtful idea, My Lady.

Yes, like the messenger we already have…doing the exact description you have described.

Oh…right…yes, that messenger. I had forgotten that we already had a messenger. You know, Lady Galadriel, perhaps it would be—oh who am I trying to fib? My Lady, I want to see Lindir. That’s why I want to go. I just…want to see him again.

I know.

You know?

I know.

Right…I often forget you can see far beyond our eyes.

I do need a message taken to Rivendell. This, to my dearest Arwen, a letter for only her eyes. And this one for Elrond. Make sure they get them.

I—yes, My Lady! Thank you, My Lady!

And that was how he’d managed to get back to Rivendell, somehow ending up training some of Elrond’s soldiers as well—he hadn’t become part of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn’s personal guard without skill. It was thorough and hard work, the elves of Rivendell hadn’t seen training like this for decades, perhaps centuries at least. With the threat of Sauron gone (mostly), what battle was there to fight except for the rare orc skirmish? He knew that Lord Elrond’s men enjoyed the challenge, he also knew they absolutely hated how ragged he ran them, pushing them to even the most extremes that their race could handle. It was only three days before half the group was begging for a day of relief, and he, seeing a chance at even speaking to Lindir, agreed.

He found Lindir underneath a plum tree, singing quietly to himself as he scribbled in his notebook. It was…a breathtaking sight, to see the beams of the evening sun haloing around Lindir’s crown, the soft look on his face half shadowed, brown eyes a stunning copper, gold flecks reflecting orange in the rays. He looked beautiful. And it was the weight of his stare that caught Lindir’s attention, hair standing on the back of his neck as startled and embarrassed eyes meet lovesick ones; Lindir, in a rush, snapped the notebook shut, snapping his mouth closed and stared at him while his cheeks turned crimson.

He fumbled with the words to come out of his mouth before he settled on, “I sincerely apologize, Lindir. I meant not to disturb you.”

Lindir swallowed thickly and shook his head. “No, I was not aware that someone was here. Forgive me for not noticing your presence before, my Lord.”

“Don’t call me ‘Lord’.” He laughed, walking over to take a seat on the bench a few feet from him. “I’m simply a soldier.”

“Of high regard,” Lindir retorted. “Your father was Lord Celeborn’s right hand. You were raised in fashion similar to them.”

“Perhaps,” he said, shrugging his soldiers. “But I am no one’s lord. I am simply a soldier, as I said.”

“A good one.”

“Oh? You think so?”

Lindir cleared his throat, face hot. “I mean that I have simply seen your training as of late.”

“So, you’ve been watching?”

“Observing.”

“You could do more than observe, Lindir.”

At that, Lindir laughed in a rather surprised fashion. “I am not a fighter.”

“Oh, everyone is a fighter for something,” he replied, taking the chance to get closer to him by shifting from the bench to sit next to Lindir under the tree. “There is always something that will drive a person to pick up a weapon. Love, greed, pride, rage, grief. There is always a reason.”

“What of you?” he asked, tipping his head to the side. “What do you fight for?”

He paused, thinking deeply about Lindir’s question before he murmured, “Being a soldier is all I have ever known. It is what my father did, and it is what I was raised to do.”

“Haven’t you ever wished to do something else?”

His gaze met Lindir’s, and he said softly, “I have always wished to be someone’s one and only.”

Lindir’s cheeks tinged red again, but a rather enchanted look came over his face. “Is that so?”

“Mhm. I sometimes think about laying down my duty and going with my lover across the land. Just the two of us. Traveling, experiencing things we have never seen or done before.” He smiled. “I eventually want to settle down by the water. A small cabin. Just big enough for us. With everything we need.”

“And your one and only…” Lindir started. “Has she decided to go with you?”

He blinked, looked over at Lindir, saw the hesitation in the elf’s gaze before he chuckled under his breath and replied, “Actually, he has yet to decide anything.” Lindir’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. “Most likely because I have yet to court him,” he added, scratching his jaw.

“This elf…at least an elf, I assume? Where is he?”

“Oh, he is in Rivendell. I managed to get leave from Lórien to come here just to see him.”

“Truly?”

“Well, Lady Galadriel sent me with messages for her family, but in all, I am here to court him.”

“Who is it?” Lindir asked. “Is it one of the soldiers you are training?” he seemed to think to himself. “That would make much sense if it were.”

He sighed fondly at the melodist before he rose and plucked a soft, pink, plum blossom from the branch of the tree, bent down and gently placed it behind Lindir’s ear, unable to help but trace the elf’s soft cheek as he pulled back.

“It is, in fact, not one of the soldiers I am training, but someone of much more esteemed company.” He smiled warmly at the look of pure shock on Lindir’s face that quickly changed into a giddy, almost flustered look. “I should retire for the evening though. I know training tomorrow will be much more difficult.” As he walked off, he paused, turned, and asked, “Lindir, would you like to accompany me on a ride tomorrow evening? Just the two of us?”

Lindir’s heart pounded in his chest, and he nodded his head, the corners of his lips rising into a smile. “Yes, I—I would love to.”

He smiled, nodded once, and replied, “Then I shall find you tomorrow evening. Until then, Lindir.”

[sweetestofchaos]

I Loathe You || K.NJ

✘ paring: dark elf!namjoon x human!reader

✘ rating/au/genre: m (18+), fantasy au, hate smut

✘ summary: As a Dark Elf, Namjoon hates humans...so what happens when he finds out the object of his lust is one?

✘ word count: 2.6K (rounded up 5 words lol)

✘ warnings: sex work, dubcon, unprotected sex (magic is used as a contraceptive), ass smacking, choking, cursing, hair pulling, degradation (whore), oral (m!receiving), breathe play, crying, knife play, mentions of blood, scratching, interspecies relationship, platinum haired namjoon, frenum piercing!namjoon, big dick!namjoon...namjoon isn’t nice in this, like at all. he’s an asshole

a/n: Inspired by @vvh0adie​ after they saw this wonderful piece of artwork by @/elizabesu (not tagging in case they don’t read fanfiction). I stayed up until 5am writing this...I hope you enjoy it hun! 

a/n 2: I’m really bad at describing outfits, so this is what Namjoon is wearing if you can’t visualize it.

Masterlist

Namjoon walks the streets alone. It is getting late but he is young and has time to waste. The Golden Rope is overflowing with music and laughter as the beer is passed around from patron to patron. From his current place, Namjoon can see that the brothel is packed, and he scowls at the thought of his favorite hole being unavailable to service him. Sweeping his eyes over the semi empty street, Namjoon takes notice of a woman that is watching him from across the way. One look at her brown skin tells Namjoon that she isn’t a Dark Elf like himself, he wonders if maybe she is a wolf. Which he deeply hopes not… maybe a Wood Fae. The Fae women always make such pretty sounds when Namjoon indulges in his more carnal urges.

Knowing that the rooms in the brothel are at max occupancy, Namjoon smirks to himself as he runs a hand through his platinum hair. How long has it been since he fucked under the red moons? His onyx eyes glitter at the thought, the woman’s body from what he can see is inviting enough. She has more weight on her thighs than most Dark Elves and that is tempting. How will those thighs feel squeezed around his waist as he takes her over and over again? Will her skin bruise at all or just absorb the shock? Namjoon licks his lips at the thought. Catching the woman’s eyes once again, Namjoon raises a dark eyebrow, and the woman walks into the space between The Golden Rope and the storage building beside it. ‘Clever girl’, Namjoon thinks and follows the young woman into the dark.

Seeing the woman leant against the wall, Namjoon strides right up to her and tucks a twisted strand of hair behind her ears. He sees no pointed tips, so clearly, she isn’t a Fae of any kind…pity. A wolf will have to do, with her looks, Namjoon is willing to overlook it. Her eyes remind him of fresh honey in the sunlight, warm and soft. Namjoon cups the woman’s jaw gently in his palm and smooths his thumb over her glossy lips.

“Quite the distance from your land little wench.” Namjoon stares down at the woman and she blinks up at him, her lip’s part slightly to allow Namjoon to slide his thumb between them. As she sucks on his thumb, Namjoon cannot help but think his plum skin tone compliments her brown skin nicely. “From which land do you come?” Namjoon removes his thumb from her lips and smears her spit over her lips and chin as he waits for her to answer.

“Does that matter?” The woman reaches out and touches the bare skin of Namjoon’s chest that his white blouse doesn’t cover. For it being late into the Fall the weather is still warm in Peolomos and Namjoon has no need to protect his body from any harsh conditions.

Namjoon chuckles as his question is meant with another question. He tilts her face up towards him and skims his nose along her hairline. “Name your price little wench.”

The woman shivers as one of Namjoon’s hands glides across the exposed skin of her chest, just grazing the top of her breasts. Looking at the gold rings on Namjoon’s fingers the woman licks her lips, “Three bornihn.” The woman leans in to kiss Namjoon and he pulls his face away with a deep laugh.

“Only three bornihn little wench?” Namjoon twirls a twisted lock of her hair around his finger and trails his nose along the length of her neck. “Tell me which land you were born, and I’ll give you one mihot.” The woman’s eyes widen at the offered amount and Namjoon kisses her pulse point teasingly. “What do you say?”

The woman runs her hands up Namjoon’s chest and starts to untie the black accent scarf around from around his neck. She can see thick golden lines inked into his skin and her mouth waters. “What is your name?”

“Namjoon…and yours?” Namjoon feels the woman’s body tense at his name, does she know who he is? “Come now,” Namjoon purrs as he strokes the side of the woman’s face. “I don’t bite…unless you beg for it.”

The woman pulls away from Namjoon and places her hand on his chest to push him away. Namjoon stares down at the woman and as she stares up at him something clicks as he takes her in. Her skin isn’t flawless but it’s clearly than any wolf he has ever seen up close. Her clothing is modest, showing far less skin than a wolf and her scent…there is no earthy undertone of any kind. Namjoon’s eyes harden at the realization and the woman flinches.

“You little whore!” Namjoon snaps as rage courses through his body. How dare she! How dare t-this human touch him like that! In the blink of an eye, Namjoon grabs the woman’s wrist, and she cries out from the sudden movement. Namjoon glares as he yanks the scarf from around his neck and bounds her hands together. Hands tied tightly at her wrists, Namjoon pushes the woman harshly against the wall, her head bounces and black spots fill her vision. Namjoon’s inky eyes glare at the woman as tears flood her waterline. “I should rip out your throat and watch you choke on your own blood, human.” Namjoon’s hand wraps around her delicate neck and the woman struggles to breath as Namjoon squeezes, the tip of his black nails piercing the skin and drawing blood.

“Beg for life. Even more beg for my cock. That is all you humans care about. Selfish disgusting infestations on the rest of the world!” Namjoon’s grip on the woman’s neck tightens even more and thin rivers of her blood cascade down the front of her blouse, staining the white fabric a bright red. The woman can’t speak, her voice is being crushed by Namjoon’s hand. Her tears fall as she tries to call for help and Namjoon’s free hand quickly covers her mouth and nose making it even harder to breathe.

“Beg. For. It.” Namjoon seethes, the blackened tips of his fingers starting to burn hot from his anger. He pulls his hand away from the woman’s face and loosens his hold for a moment around her neck.

“I d-did nothing wr-”

Namjoon growls not wanting to hear her voice anymore and with a snap of his fingers a golden rune appears on the woman’s lips and her voice is gone. Namjoon clicks his tongue as he watches the woman panic. ‘Pathic’, he thinks to himself and pushes her down onto her knees in front of his flaccid dick hanging partly out of his high waisted trousers. Fisting the black twists of hair into his hand, Namjoon jerks the woman forward and narrows his eyes.

“Well?!” He snaps and the woman is quick to pull his dick completely free from its confinement. He watches as she hesitates to open her mouth and Namjoon growls. “Useless fucking thing you are.” He slaps her across the face, the impact making her head turn to the side. “Do you job, whore!”

Steeling her nerves, the woman faces Namjoon’s dick and it’s big. Bigger than what she’s use to, the tip is a deep plum almost black that gets lighter towards the base that is covered is dark brown pubic hair. A simple golden hoop shines from the underside of Namjoon dick and before the woman can see anything more, Namjoon snaps his hips forward and shoves himself down her throat. The woman gages, her throat constricting around Namjoon slowly stiffening dick. Glaring at the woman below him, Namjoon starts to jerk her head up and down his dick, the imprint of it visible against her throat. Namjoon smirks at the sight and fucks the woman’s face faster. Her tears mix with her drool, and she places her hands on Namjoon’s thighs trying her best not to fall over from the sheer force of Namjoon’s thrusts. She can feel her stomach clenching with each bump against her uvula from the head of Namjoon’s dick. This shouldn’t be making her cunt wet, but she has always liked to mix pain with her pleasure.

That’s the main reason she chose to leave Appeven, the men and women there just were not doing it for her anymore. She had her fun in Eodropia, with the witches and warlocks; they are not a bad bunch, but she craves something more. Seeing that the woman is miles away in her own mind, Namjoon pulls her off him and throws her to the ground.

“Up,” Namjoon orders as the woman coughs and sputters silently, catching her breath. “Up!” Namjoon grabs her hair once again and the woman scrambles onto her hands and knees, struggling to keep her balance due to her wrists still being tied by Namjoon’s scarf. Pushing her skirt up past the woman’s ass, Namjoon feels his dick twitch at the sight of her thick thighs. The light from the moons above casts a red hue on the woman’s skin and Namjoon doesn’t miss the clear, sticky fluid on the woman’s thighs. He glares and raises his hand, sending it through the air and landing a harsh hit on the back of the woman’s thighs. The sound echoes in the night and the woman lurches forward nearly falling face first into the ground. If she could make a sound, Namjoon knows that the woman would have moaned.

Namjoon notices a thin leather band strapped to the woman’s upper thigh and he laughs. “Did you honestly think you could protect yourself with this?” Namjoon pulls the small dagger from the sheath on the woman’s leg and laughs again. “Humans truly are daft.” Pressing the blade to the woman’s skin, Namjoon watches as the flesh gives way and the woman shivers as he slowly drags the blade down the length of her thigh. The cut is shallow, a surface wound at best but Namjoon’s dick throbs painfully at the sight. The blood coats her thigh in a thin layer, making her skin glow even brighter under the red moons. Dropping the small blade and leaning forward, Namjoon’s tongue darts out and he licks the blood. Namjoon cleans the skin with his black tongue and plump lips as he sucks at the tender flesh.

The woman’s body quivers the moment Namjoon’s breath washes over her cunt and he inhales deeply before he pulls away. “Disgusting whore. So wet for me and my dick…you’re beneath me.” Namjoon straightens up on his knees and lines the head of his dick up with the woman’s clenching entrance. Remembering just who is in front of him, Namjoon snaps his fingers once again and another golden rune appears, this time on the woman’s stomach. “Don’t fret, human. I would not dare create a horrid beast such as a halfling with the likes of you.”

Gripping onto her hips, Namjoon smirks and gives a low whistle before slams his hips forward and the woman screams out as she’s impaled on Namjoon’s dick. Air rushes into her lungs and she whines as her walls stretch wildly, desperately trying to accommodate Namjoon’s size. Harsh and fast, Namjoon fucks into the woman, her screams bouncing off the buildings around them as she cries from pain and pleasure. The golden rune on her lips is gone and Namjoon bites his lip as his head drops down. He watches as her thighs jiggle with each thrust, the skin rippling like water as her ass takes each rough smack of his pelvis. ‘Body like a hot spring,’ Namjoon shakes the thought from his head and clicks his tongue. “Disgusting.”

Her velvet like walls squeeze around Namjoon’s dick like a vice and he growls, leaning over the woman’s back to wraps a hand around her throat. His lips touch her ear, and he grunts, “Why so desperate for my cock, human?” Namjoon’s voice is rough as the heat in his fingertips stings the skin around the woman’s neck; she moans. “I loathe you. Everything about your kind is…repulsive.” Namjoon’s balls slap against her clit and her eyes roll to the back of her head. Namjoon digs his nails into her skin once again, drawing more blood.

“Such a waste of a perfect cunt on a whore like you.” Holding himself up using core strength, Namjoon uses his free hand to grab the woman’s wrist and yank them both up onto their knees. The woman wails as Namjoon sinks deeper, the tip of his dick jabbing the sweetest spot inside of her. Throwing the woman’s bound wrists over his head, Namjoon drags his nails down her throat and cups her breasts into his hand while the other digs into the plump meat of her inner thigh. The woman moans his name as she loses herself in the pleasure.

“N-Namjoon! Yes! Yesss!”

Namjoon is rough with his kneading and when the woman suddenly comes Namjoon curses, throwing his head back as he fucks her through it. His stomach clenches and his breathing becomes ragged as he ruts into the woman with a harsher tempo. His body tenses and his breath escapes him for a moment as he fills her womb with his seed. The golden rune on her stomach shines brightly before the scent of turpentine and cotton fills the air.

Pulling out, Namjoon throws the woman to the ground and falls back against the building, heaving as he catches his breath. Meanwhile the woman picks up the discarded dagger and holds it with trembling hands as she glares at Namjoon. Hot tears are streaming down her face and Namjoon pays her no mind as he tucks himself back into his trousers and runs a hand through his damp hair. He frowns as he pulls his hand away and stares at the blood. There better not be blood in his hair.

“Y-You’re a monster!” The woman points the dagger at Namjoon, and he lets out a humorless laugh that makes every hair on the woman’s body stand up. “P-Pay up!”

Namjoon stands to his full height and takes a step towards the woman; she flinches and the dagger tumbles from her hands. Namjoon sneers as he picks the dagger up and grabs the woman by the back of her neck, lifting her off the ground.

“You want me to pay, you?” Namjoon twirls the dagger in his free hand and points the blade right in her face. “You are worthless.” Dropping the woman, Namjoon tosses the blade towards the ground and the woman shouts as the blade slices through the bindings on her wrists. Snapping his fingers once more, Namjoon’s outfit is completely free of any blood and body fluids while the woman is crumbled on the ground covered in blood and leaking his seed between her legs. “See you around, human.” Namjoon points to her wrist and sure enough there are small golden runes that spell out Namjoon’s initials on the inside of her wrist.

She isn’t stupid, she knows that Namjoon has marked her with what is most likely a summoning spell. The gall, after everything that he has done to her body. The woman glares up at Namjoon and he scoffs before he leaves her alone in the darkened space. Staring down at the runes, the woman bites her lip, her whole-body hurts and she isn’t sure that she can even stand up, yet alone walk. The pigheaded ox could have at least dropped her off at her inn.

[unohanabbygirl]

Part two of four to my FMN hairstyles plus this verse’s canon hair facts thread because why not?

Just like Laena, Alicent is also a very simple woman when it comes to how she styles her hair. Its not that she’s afraid of change but that she’s simply content with her current style. This look has did her good two thousand years ago and it does her good now. A pretty brown that sometimes looks reddish depending on the light, a few nice layers and blown out bangs are all she needs. Alicent straightens her hair every once in a while but only because she likes the way it makes her layers pop out when she bumps the ends. Though she’s finding other heatless methods since Laena has been hassling her about using her blow dryer + flat iron too much.

Whenever she visits foster centers or spends time with her clients little sisters or daughters the girls love playing with her hair, happily allowing them style it in fishtail braids with little ribbons and bows.

Visenya has nearly given her a few panic attacks because her grabby little hands love trying to rip out clumps of her bangs.

She may or may not be contributing to Baela’s hair ties going missing.

If I had to use one word to describe Rhaena’s hair it would be fairycore. Bows, beads, barrettes and hair jewelry of all kinds have always been her friend. Sometimes they’re colorful while other-times they’re monochromatic but there’s always a pattern they take on. I imagine that if she were to go to the Renaissance concert that she’d wrap all of her locs in sliver hair string with shiny silver beads at the end.

Updos are her everything, her hair stays in ponytails or buns. Usually paired with a bang swooped to the side.

She cut bangs into her hair a few summers ago and reattached her locs with a crochet needle when she missed them because they’re such apart of her. But she’s sure she’s gonna do it again soon because its such a look. Not to mention that temporary hair color held such a special place in her heart in her middle school years. Especially pinks, purples, and blues. 12 yr old Rhaena used to take a few locs and go crazy with the color during the warmer months. Though she always made sure to use a vegan brand because their products washed out the easiest, two deep shampoos and she was back blonde.

She’s currently considering dying her whole head a light plum color and Is definitely the reason so many of Baela’s hair ties go missing but returns them secretly whenever her sister gets box braid or faux locs because she’s 100% gonna keep them in a ponytail the whole time before cutting them out.

Aegon iii AKA 🥚

He’s a lil emo baby and I truly love that for him. Very much into the dramatic, editorial sort of hairstyles which are veryy unconventional but is kinda scared of what Rhaenyra would think if he went that far because his mother’s approval means everything above all and is scared shitless she wouldn’t. Instead, he chooses to cut himself some choppy layers and dye the ends jet black with cheap box-dye. His bangs are way too overgrown and don’t even really qualify as bangs anymore. It’s to the point where he kinda can’t see but doesn’t make them shorter because he’s too committed to this specific look.

Doesn’t care too much about maintaining health so he’s rough with his hair and uses the crappy three in one shampoos while hardly conditioning (yes, his hair is dry asf but we love him anyway)

Will likely go fully jet black with blonde highlights one day.

Aegon’s hair is…lets just say it looks cool which is great!

Its not ugly at all, most people like the messy almost mullet look he’a got going on. However, the real problem is that it’s somehow even more dry than Egg’s. He washes it ofc, but never conditions because its too much work and lets be real here; Aegon would 100% not even bathe if it were socially acceptable to be musty. (Plus Jace is all about good hygiene and Baela will literally punch him if he comes in her face smelling like old socks so it serves as encouragement.)

Aemond has tried to get him going with a proper haircare routine several times but it’s more difficult than training a dog to do sign language so he’s given up completely.

[feyhunter78]

Six Times Helaena and Jacaerys were Soulmates (3/7)

Description: Prince Jacaerys and Lady Heleana are set to be betrothed, each unable to see the color of their soulmate's eyes. Legend states that until one meets their soulmate, the color will remain hidden from their gaze. Both Jacaerys and Heleana hold hope in their hearts that the other will bring that color to their lives.

Purple, that was the name of the one color he could not see. It went by other names as well, violet, mauve, amethyst, lilac, lavender, plum, and many others. All shades that refused to bloom before his eyes. His brother, Lucerys, said he wasn’t missing much, that purple was not anything extraordinary, but Jacaerys knew better. Purple was the color of royalty, the expensive dye made from small snails that gave their lives to create this unseen color.

He dreamed of what his soulmate would be like, and collected objects of purple, storing them all in a small chest. Dried flowers, jewelry, a pair of gloves, and other trinkets that held his soulmate’s color.

He was heir to the throne, prince of the realm, and a dutiful son to his mother. He did not argue when she informed him, he would be marrying the granddaughter of Duke Otto Hightower. Lady Helaena, the sweet-voiced daughter of Oldtown.

“I’ve been told she’s quite beautiful, and kind as well.” His mother said, her eyes were blue, clear as the sky and as ever-changing as the sea. The letter in her hand bore the script of Lady Alicent, Helaena’s mother.

“That is good to hear,” he said. Every woman would be described as beautiful by her family, especially in a letter to her betrothed.

“She enjoys gardening, music, embroidery, and reading as well.”

Jacaerys nodded, he enjoyed reading, perhaps they had some favored authors in kind.

“Does it mention the color of her eyes?” He asked. He knew the answer before his mother responded.

“No, it does not. But that’s not uncommon, many families do not wish to give each other reason to call off a betrothal before the pair has met.”

Jacaerys knew it’d had been a folly to hope, but a small spark still burned within him. Perhaps Helaena would have purple eyes, the ones that would breathe life into the world around him and finally allow him to see that ever elusive hue.

“Helaena and her family will arrive in a few days’ time, make certain your brothers will be on their best behavior.”

“I will, Mother.” He bowed and left her study.

Helaena often asked those around her about the color brown. It climbed up trees, was the color of the fresh dirt, and leather. Aegon said it was the color of refuse and commoner’s clothing. Aemond said it was the color of their mother’s hair, of training weapons, and tables. Her mother told her it was the color of warmth, and steadiness, like the logs added to a fire, and the frame of a bed.

When she’d been informed of her impending marriage she was frightened, she’d saved her heart, her affection for her soulmate, the man with eyes full of warmth, who would steady and support her. Prince Jacaerys was known for his honor, and loyalty to his family. She’d heard as much whispered by members of her grandsire’s court. He was also known for his visage, and stature, the kitchen maids would giggle and whispers stories of his prowess in battle, of his raw strength. It frightened her, she did not wish to marry a brute, no matter how handsome he might be.

“What if he is unkind?” She asked her mother, embroidery hoop in her hand.

“He is Queen Rhaenyra’s son, I was quite close with her when we were both young, she was a kind girl. I have no doubt her son will be the same.” Her mother reassured her.

Helaena was not convinced. She’d met plenty of kind women with horrid sons, they pinched her, and devoured her with their eyes in the most immodest ways. Their eyes made her feel cold, and unbalanced.

She sat quietly in the carriage beside her mother and grandsire. King’s Landing was a crowded place filled with brown, Helaena kept her eyes low, sneaking glances out the window when her mother wasn’t looking. This was to be her home now.

Jacaerys straightened his tunic, his head held high, as he awaited the arrival of his betrothed.

The carriage came to a stop and Duke Otto emerged first, eyes sweeping over the grounds with an air of disinterest. Following him was the Lady Alicent, she gave his mother a small smile that turned into an expression of surprise when his mother wrapped her arms around Lady Alicent and squeezed her tightly.

“My friend, how glad I am to see you.” His mother said, a bright smile on her face.

Lady Alicent returns the smile and the embrace. “Rhaenyra, it is good to see you.”

“I am saddened to hear of your husband’s passing, he was a good man.” His mother whispers, her eyes full of sympathy.

“Yes, he was.” Alicent whispers back, before gesturing towards the carriage. “May I present my daughter, Helaena.”

Helaena steps out of the carriage in a gown of soft pink, that extenuates her figure. She moves with an effortless grace that reminds Jacaerys of clouds, or the way wind skims across the surface of water, leaving elegant ripples in its wake. Her hair falls in waves over her shoulders, her lips a petal pink, but it’s her eyes that nearly stop his heart.

Framed by long lashes, her doe-eyes are the most brilliant color he’d ever seen. This was purple, no violet, no mauve, with each moment he continues looking into her eyes the color shifts and changes. It’s as if he’s staring into a glimmering geode, full of sparkles and dimensions, each angle casting a new and fascinating light on the world around them.

He steps forward and takes her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Helaena.” He presses a gentle kiss to her hand, hoping she doesn’t notice his own hand trembling. When his eyes meet hers, she gasps, and he knows she’s experiencing the same rush he was.

“The pleasure is all mine, Prince Jacaerys.” She bites her lip, then seemingly gathers her courage. “You have beautiful eyes; I believe brown is now my favorite color.”

He hears their mothers’ hushed exclamations.

“And purple is now mine, princess.” He runs his thumb gently along her cheekbone, admiring her ever-changing eyes.

Helaena blushes, and the pink in her cheeks is his new second favorite color.

“Well, a happy day, then. The betrothal, we planned for the good of the kingdom, is now a betrothal between soulmates.” His mother says, clapping her hands together in joy.

“Perhaps we should let the pair have time to familiarize themselves with each other, while we finish any last minute preparations?” Lady Alicent said, linking her arm with his mother’s before beckoning her father forward.

They head inside the Keep and Jacaerys is still entranced by Helaena’s eyes.

“I hear you are quite strong?” Helaena questions, breaking him from his trance.

Jacaerys scoops her into his arms, and she lets out a surprised yelp before throwing her arms around his neck for stability.

Helaena isn’t quite sure if she wishes to faint or fling herself at her betrothed—her soulmate. His eyes are warm and steady, comforting around her as naturally as tree roots burrow into the soil. There’s a depth to them that she wishes to fall into.

In the sunlight, his eyes lighten to a darkened honey tone, and his gaze radiates a heat that feels like standing by the fire on a cold winter’s day.

He is tall, tall, and strong, his shoulders are broad, and his hands are large, so large she wonders if they could span around her waist. She didn’t have a slim waist like other ladies of the court, better for bearing heirs her mother would tell her, and the way Jacaerys’ eyes drank her in made her feel like a goddess.

When he scoops her into his arms, she protests, “My prince, you truly do not need—I am much too heavy.”

He shakes his head, lightly tossing her up in his arms before catching her once more. “You are as light as a petal to me.” His eyes scan her face. “And as beautiful as a rose, perhaps that is what I shall call you, my beautiful flower.”

She blushes at his words. “But shall I call you?”

He thinks for a moment, his eyes the color of fertile soil, and new life drift to the side before returning to her. “I will not argue against you calling me husband.”

She shakes her head. “That is too common, every lady calls her lord husband that.” She thinks for a moment, memorizing the details of his face. His eyes spark in the light, a burning heat resides deep within them. “My fire? My protector?”

Jacaerys nuzzles his nose against hers, “I know it is common as well, but perhaps you would consider calling me your love?”

She cups his face, heart fluttering when he leans into her touch. “Prince Jacaerys, my soulmate, my lord husband, my love.”

He smiles, his eyes gleaming with joy, and she thinks she will never tire of the color brown for as long as she shall live.

Tag List: @nyctophilic0vitnir

[thewingedmuse]

Hi dear,

ᴵ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵗᵒ ʲᵒᶦⁿ "ᵒᵘʳ ᵉⁿᵗʷᶦⁿᵉᵈ ᵇᵒⁿᵈˢ" ᵍᵃᵐᵉ. ᵀʰᵃⁿᵏ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᶠᵒʳ ᵒʳᵍᵃⁿᶦˢᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵍᵃᵐᵉ.

💌 Name : Jes

💌 Pronouns : She/They

💌 Soulmate type : romantic soulmate. I wish to know who will understand me deeply, helping me through tough time, inspiring me to do and be my very best. My heart yearn for romance in my life but I was so afraid to get hurt again and having trust issues toward others. I know my own weakness or red flag, so I was curious if someone who willing to be with me. Teach me and encourage me to be my highest self. Someone who will help me to lift the burden in my heart. Not only as my romantic partner but can be my best friend too.

💌 concept of love : To me, love is a connection between the hearts and minds of people. Agape is one of my favourite type of love. The love is sacrificial and universal, a love that gives first and expects nothing in return. A love that you show to strangers, universe, friends and family. I think that one is the greatest love type ever. However, love can be dangerous to us when we become more obsessed with others while neglecting our self. It's like a flower, all of them are beautiful, but some of it are poisonous

🌷 take your time and remember to take care your health and energy. Stay blessed and stay happy 💖

Hello Jes! Thank you for joining Your Entwined Bonds! Here is your reading 💖

Jes, your soul - the way she appeared to me - has smooth platinum white skin with traces of soft blush on her skin. Her energy reminded me of plum trees. She's smooth with her words, she's cunning. She looks like a work of art. She has a playful, taunting personality and melodious laughter. She reminded me of fox spirits like kitsunes. She likes to recline on her seat, sort of like her throne and play with her hair.

She resides at a place that looks white everywhere, it feels like a cave with its closed-in, resounding energy, however it also has the vibe of a forest but with no trees around. The place looks and feels like it's embedded in snow but the snow is not moving, every thing, every energy in this place is stationery. There is a quality of trapped air, as if time is frozen in space.

I asked if she could give me a peek of her energy. She showed me. Her core energy is close to original point energy, close to neutral. She takes the form of a kitsune because there was a kitsune past life that she feels particularly resonating with. Without the kitsune element your soul feels like a ball of fire and air, it's a misty translucent ball and the fire isn't in flames, but encapsulated in air.

Your Soul's Message To You

"Be careful with each step. Look properly don't try to jump or you'd end up falling. Remember and put advices to heart. Don't be forgetful. If someone's words feel important to you then they are. Don't forget your umbrella."

After your soul has imparted her message, I asked her if she could lead the way to your romantic soulmate. She said yes, and gestured front. I bowed deeply, and started to go the direction she pointed. I didn't have to walk far, in fact I barely moved and a man in his hunter outfit came with a purposeful air. His outfit looked like caveman outfit. I'd try to Google an image for you because I uhh suck at describing physical things.

▲ The difference between his clothing and this picture is that there are animal stripes on his and he has a top that leaves his abdomen bare.

The man looked rugged, he had a bad of arrows on his back. He asked what's the matter, I then told him about you wishing to know more about him.

He has a deep voice, looks intimidating but appears to be a solid, honest, grounded fellow. He has light brown skin and long black hair. His energy is friendly; a gentle giant. He is aligned with wood element. He is more on the defensive side rather than combative, meaning he is not one to attack unless it's the last resort.

"Would you like to answer some questions?" I asked him.

"Yeah I would, just don't ask something too personal," he replied.

I told him if he doesn't want to answer some questions then he can choose not to.

Since this conversation progressed like an interview, my questions would be in highlight.

What makes you romantic soulmates with Jes?

"We go way back. Back when I was a troll in the forests and she was a nature spirit. We have always been supporting each other. It's like we were mated, or meant to be."

What do you remember the most about Jes in your past lives?

"Wouldn't judge, always kind. The kind to offer her shoulder to anyone especially her family (by family, he meant all friendly beings who reside in the same forest area). Very reliable. The girl I would risk anything for." He added that he wished to provide for you, tend to your every wish because you deserve it, because you make the world and his world a better place. You also reminded him of rainbows.

Did you know Jes in her kitsune past life?

"Yes, I was a hunter."

What was she like?

"Trickster, playful, would try to mess with you, loved to get too uncomfortably close to people, would play with their hair, flirty, made me scared, but has a good heart underneath but her morals and the way she expressed herself was very different from human standards. Liked to chill in the woods lazily, liked to observe and poke fun at passing humans, think humans are toys and very curious about them. Liked to play pranks on them like throwing small stones at them from on top of trees and playing hide and seek with them, like making them lost in the woods and rewalk the paths they have walked before."

What was your relationship with her like?

"To be honest she was just too otherworldly to me that I ended up very scared. She did seem to feel connected to me though, and I her. She visited me. We had the kind of relationship that's more than mortal. But I do not wish to clarify. She became more than just a friend. A friend till the days when we become old and part, till I tell my grandchildren about such a being existing. She was like, came out of storybooks altogether."

What are your favourite memories from your past lives with Jes?

“Honesty, promises, pinky promises that we will not part. Those are always sacred to me. I still find myself doing this, myself," he said and made a pinky promise gesture with both his hands. "Those promises never expire because we the persons making them are still around even though we have different faces in different bodies, our hearts are still around - beating. That's the essence of a promise, where even time stands still."

What are memories you believe Jes needs to remember from her past lives with you?

"I would say happy things but it's more than that. Her strengths, and whatever she needs to remember, that would be of benefit to her."

Can you describe the happy things you have shared?

"Us holding hands, exploring a small island by the beach. It was deserted so it was an adventure for us. We did that a day before our wedding day." I also saw a vision of you both in a food truck, you taking care of your baby beside him on the truck and he cooking. He had such a happy smile on his face. He felt like the luckiest man in the world because he got to provide for you and the baby.

"When we walk we are always together, there's no like one is a leader the other is a follower, no, we walk together, if anything, we trust each other and we discuss, we walk as one. There's no distance between us."

In your opinion, what are Jes's strengths?

"Her ability to see patterns. She can be analytical so she knows what's best for her. She knows the right steps forward, she's not easy to get lost. She's got a good sense of direction and a keen sense of where she should be going. I'm proud of her."

How would you guide Jes to become her highest self?

"Unlock the maze in her heart, guide her through things she should let go of, like the past, like the burdens, and what she should keep, like her heart, her original heart that's untainted. Teach her to wipe it clean, and teach her to treasure it, take care of it properly, remove the blemishes left by those who have hurt her, and make good, healthy, happy memories with her that would leave good happy smiles on her heart, happy wrinkles. Let it be a place of goodness again. And let her be known to herself once more as the best she could be.

"To be honest she would warm my heart whichever version she is, to me I see the one and the same person as I fell in love with. But if she's not happy with herself then I'm willing to be there and guide her through the storms one by one. I don't believe there's anything you can't brave through if you're brave enough. Just wear a sturdy jacket and brave through the rain."

Will you meet Jes as your present incarnation?

"Yes, definitely. I'm dying to meet her (pun intended). I'm crossing the (place where spirits have to cross sort of like a challenge in order to incarnate, like purgatory but not in the Christian atoning for sin way, this is more neutral where most ordinary spirits will go through) to meet her.

What's your current incarnation like?

He showed me a vision. The vibes I got from his current incarnation were wood, book, library and carpenter vibes. He's youngish, in his 20s but he looks much younger. Moderate stature. "I'm sorry I can't give away much. He's someone you'd deem honest at first sight, like there's this vibe of him being someone you could trust. Unless there are misunderstandings which happen quite a lot in his life lately. That's all I'm gonna say," he explained.

What's your message to Jes?

"I know it's hard but he truthful and true to yourself in every step you take. You are your own priority when it comes to healing yourself so you are the one whose feelings you must take full consideration of."

What are your parting words with Jes?

"Take good care of yourself, until the day we meet. I promise to sweep you off your feet. Take care now," he gave a two-finger salute (the touching his forehead kind), and off he went.

I hope this reading provided you with insight and happy feelings. Please remember to give feedback! Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors! 💝

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Wooed

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader Rating: T Warnings: Cursing; Fluff Notes: I watched a supercut of Marcus Pike’s scenes and uh... Yeah. I’m in love? also i’ve never written for this man before so i’m sorry if this is awful Summary: You hadn’t been on a date since you’d started working for the bureau; truth be told, you’d been nursing a crush on Marcus for the last few months. 

When you told him, he seemed… Horrified. You couldn’t believe you were even having this discussion, but, hell, when you’re on a stakeout with someone, you run out of other things to talk about (even after you’d grilled him for the details of the band that he used to be in). Frankly, it was a wonder that it had taken you that long to reach relationships - the two of you had been in that car for nearly three hours. You’d known that Marcus had been married and divorced once; you hadn’t known about his most recent relationship, before he’d moved to DC, though. And after he’d spilled his guts, it was only fair that you do the same.

To you, it wasn’t that odd. The relationships that you’d been in had mostly started as friendships, and had grown to more. They weren’t whirlwind romances.

“So?” Marcus had asked, frowning, shaking his head. “So… So what you’re describing wasn’t, like… Part of the package,” You shrugged. “They didn’t even try?” “Try what?” You laughed. “You know, taking you out, buying you flowers, introducing you to their friends--” “I usually knew their friends already.” “Flowers?” “Allergic.” “Taking you out.” “I mean, sometimes, sure. That’s par for the course no matter who you’re dating, right?” Marcus leaned back in the driver’s seat, watching you, and you turned to eye the house that you guys had been watching. There had been no change; no car had pulled up, no one had come outside. “You’re allergic to all flowers?” You rolled your eyes. “I haven’t given every single flower in the world an individual whiff to make sure, but pollen makes me sneeze, yeah.” 

The two of you settled into quiet again; Marcus’ focus returned to the house, but you could tell that his mind was still elsewhere. “Okay, tell me something,” He said after a few minutes. “Hm?” “Your last relationship.” “Mhm?” “Started as a friend and… Became more?” “Mhm.” 

“Once that happened, you guys just, what, flipped a switch?” You considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Things were the way they had been, just with a...Physical component. Why are you so hung up on this?” You added, turning to look at him. 

“Cause, everyone oughta be… I don’t know… Wooed-- at least once.” Your brows rose. “Wooed?” You repeated, amused. “Yes. Wooed,” Marcus doubled down, nodding. 

“When was the last time you were wooed?” “It’s been a while.” “So you’re overdue and projecting,” You decided, turning back to the house. “I am not--! I am not projecting. Would I mind it? Of course not, but I’ve been wooed before. You’ve never had the experience, and that is a shame.” You rolled your eyes as the two of you settled back into an easy quiet. “... I bet you’d like it.” “Hm?” “Being wooed.” “You realize if I had a nickel for every single time you’ve said ‘wooed’ in the last ten minutes, I’d have twenty cents?” You retorted. If you had just a touch less composure, you were pretty sure you’d combust. Your very attractive, very available, very nice-smelling boss was talking about wooing in close-quarters. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him again; you could hardly stand the wide-eyed puppy-like way he’d blinked at you before when you’d told him that your ex-boyfriends had never been particularly romantic. But Marcus just chuckled despite your prickly tone. The sound was cut off by his cell phone ringing. You glanced down at it before turning back to the house. “Pike,” Marcus answered. You waited, listening for a few moments. “Uh huh… Thanks, Wallace.” You glanced over at Pike as he hung up. “Did they get a hit?” You asked. “Yeah, Wallace and Fernandez are tailing him now, so we’re clear,” Pike said, setting his phone aside and starting the car up. “Sweet,” You sat up, refastening your seatbelt. You and Pike chatted idly as he drove back to your apartment. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” You pushed down a yawn as you undid your seatbelt and reached back to grab your jacket from the backseat. “Yeah… Hey.” You stopped at Marcus’ voice, turning to look at him again. And damnit, there were those wide brown eyes again. “Yes?” You asked. “Are you busy tomorrow night?” “No, why?” “Lemme show you what you’ve been missing.” If it were anyone else, you’d be convinced that he was putting you on, and you’d shrug it off and laugh. But there was something just a little too soft, a little too sincere in the way he spoke. “...Pike, you don’t have to do this because you feel bad about my supposed lack of wooing--” “Well, maybe my reason is a little more selfish than that,” He shrugged a shoulder, a bashful smile tugging at his lips, “Whaddaya say? No pressure, either way.” 

You believed Marcus when he said that there was no pressure; he didn’t seem the type to make your life hell if you turned him down. Thing was, you didn’t want to turn him down. “Alright, Pike,” You nodded, adding, “Woo me,” Before getting out of the car. -- You wound up out of the office and tailing the suspect with Wallace for most of the following day, so you didn’t need to worry about keeping a cool head in the office around Pike. That was a relief-- you couldn’t remember the last time you felt so antsy. You hadn’t been on a date since you’d started working for the bureau; truth be told, you’d been nursing a crush on Marcus for the last few months. 

The man was sweet and incredibly considerate. He seemed to take notice of the little things about you - how you took your coffee, when you’d gotten your hair trimmed, the fact that you preferred french toast to pancakes (which he told you was just weird). Your time chatting during the stakeout had only confirmed the feeling you’d had since meeting the man: you wanted to get to know him better. You and Wallace were able to pick up the suspect and bring him in for questioning. By the time you’d filled out your report, it was nearly time for you to leave for the night. You knocked on the half-open door to Marcus’ office, holding up your report. He waved you inside. “Wallace said everything went fine,” He said. “No complaints. Guy’s in holding for now.” “Good.” Marcus took your report, but instead of looking over it like he typically did, he looked up at you. “You still up for later?” He asked. “Mhm.” “You sure?” “Uh-huh.” “Positive?” “You trying to talk me out of it?” “Nope. Just checking.” “Where are we going?” “Oh, no. It’s a surprise,” Marcus chuckled, “But I’ll pick you up at seven?” “Seven,” You nodded. -- Somehow you’d thought you’d be less nervous the closer it got to seven. You couldn’t imagine where Marcus was taking you, and you had spent way too long worrying that what you were going to wear wasn’t going to be nice enough, or would be too nice. You didn’t want to look like you’d tried too hard, or like you hadn’t tried at all.

You’d wound up in one of your favorite dresses, a quilted black leather jacket, and a pair of booties. Depending on what you saw Marcus wearing when he answered the door, you could either ask him to fasten a necklace you were considering (which would dress the outfit up a little more), or leave it. You jumped a little at the sound of your doorbell. You took a deep breath, walking over to the door and opening it. Marcus was standing outside in a plum button down, with a dark tie and a dark blazer. He was not subtle in looking you over, but you didn’t take much note of that. You were too distracted by the bouquet of flowers in his hands. Your brows rose. “First of all, you look beautiful. Second of all, before you worry about sniffling,” He raised a single finger to stop you, “I did some research. These are low-pollen, least likely to cause reactions to people that are allergic: Sunflowers, lilies, roses,” he pointed to one of each. You took in the sight of them, the delicate petals of the white roses and lilies, and the splashes of yellow from the sunflowers, and you felt an odd warmth in your chest - one that you were certain wasn’t the result of an allergic reaction. You reached out, taking them from Marcus and looking down at them. You hesitated, before screwing your face up, taking in two breaths and going, “Ah-- Ah--!” You met Marcus’ eye, quickly adding, “Kidding,” and giving Martcus a wide smile, “They’re beautiful, thank you.” 

Marcus put his hand on his chest, laughing shakily. “Okay, you-- scared the crap out of me, jeez.” “I couldn’t help myself,” You teased, grinning up at him, “And you look gorgeous, too.” “Thank you. Now come on, joker,” He chuckled, taking a step back. You grabbed your purse from where you’d hung it on the coat hook by the door, following Marcus to his car. You reached for the door handle, but heard, “Ah-ah.” You raised a brow, taking a step back as Marcus held the door open for you. “Thank you,” You said. “Of course,” He winked before shutting the door behind you. -- You held the flowers in your lap the entire ride, idly running your fingers over the petals. You really couldn’t understand what Marcus had been fussing about during the stakeout, but you had to admit, you were already feeling… Slightly wooed. Not that you’d tell Marcus that... ...Not that you needed to tell Marcus that, you were pretty sure he could tell. Especially when he parked the car. You were hesitant to put the flowers in the backseat, and he’d chuckled. “They’ll be here when we get back, sweetheart,” He’d teased, “Promise. Go on-- And don’t you dare reach for that door handle.” “Better move fast, I’m pretty quick on the draw.”

“So I’ve seen.” -- Marcus had picked an upscale American Bistro - somewhere neither of you had been before. You’d been a little worried that all you’d have to talk about was work. And work did come up, sure, but it was hardly the only thing that was discussed. The time that you’d spent together on the stakeout had gotten a lot of the awkward first date getting-to-know-you questions out of the way.

-- You found out that there was more to Marcus’ wooing game than a bouquet of flowers and some dinner. After the two of you ate (and he paid, though you’d heavily protested and insisted on paying “next time”; you’d gotten a smile from him that was wider than the Potomac), you went on a walk. Your hands had brushed together a handful of times before Marcus had caught hold of yours. It had been a loose hold at first, giving you a chance to pull your hand away. You’d tightened your grip on Marcus’ hand, and his smile had widened, gentle and generous. -- “Okay, this technically doesn’t count toward the wooing, since you paid,” Marcus argued as the two of you stepped out of an ice cream shop with cups in hand. “Maybe I’m wooing you a little,” You retorted, bumping Marcus’ hip with your own, “Thought we agreed you were past due, too. How’s the blueberry?” “Here,” Marcus held his spoon out to you. You leaned up, taking the offered treat and humming, leaning away and licking your lips. “Good?” “Tasty.” “How’s the cinnamon?” You held your spoon up to Marcus, smiling as he took his time taking a taste. He hummed. “I like blueberry better,” He said honestly. “Figures. Weirdos that prefer pancakes sure do have odd opinions.” “Alright, you’re cute, but you will not get away with insulting pancakes, sweetheart.” “Just saying, I’ve never met a pancake that I’ve liked.” “We should fix that.” “You’re just out to fix every single wrong in my life, huh?” “If you’ll let me.” “I’ve got a wobbly coffee table, you gonna fix that next?” “I’ve got a newspaper in my car that’s a couple of days old, I’m sure we could balance it out.” --

He walked you to your door, too. Dating wasn’t new to you, and what Marcus was doing may’ve been a bunch of… Seemingly little things, but you could feel the difference. “So?” Marcus asked as the two of you neared your front door. You looked up from your bouquet (you were still stunned it hadn’t made you sneeze yet) and raised a brow. “So?” You returned, stopping on your doorstep. “Was I right?” He raised a brow. “...You were not wrong. Wooing is severely underrated… And you’re freaky good at it, dude, I mean-- You should be teaching a course.” Marcus laughed, head ducking bashfully. You smiled, biting your lip a little. “I am glad you enjoyed it. And I appreciated the fact that it wasn’t one-sided,” He peered down at you from under his lashes, stepping a little closer, “Though there is… Typically one more component to wooing.” “Oh? Something you managed to forget or something we just didn’t get to?” 

 “Just didn’t get to,” Marcus backed you up against your door frame, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. “And what exactly would that--” You started to tease. You didn’t get to finish asking, which was fine - you kind of already knew the answer, had kinda gotten the hint already, but it kinda didn’t matter. Marcus had been generous all night - with his time, his touches, his smiles, his winks. He was just as generous with kisses. It felt like just a whisper at first - a caress, barely. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes falling closed as Marcus tipped his head to the side, brushing his lips more firmly against yours. You leaned up, chasing the touch, and heard yourself sigh as his lips pressed to yours. You raised a hand from his bouquet, sliding it around the back of his neck. You melted a little as you felt Marcus hum against your lips. You opened your eyes as Marcus leaned away. You licked your lips, tipping your head back against the door frame as Marcus looked down at you with dark, hazy eyes. “Would you, um… Would you like to come inside?” You offered. “Was my wooing that effective, or is this still about your coffee table?” Marcus asked, sliding his hands down your shoulders. “Well, you did leave that old newspaper in the car.” “Oh, I can go grab it,” Marcus offered, taking a step back. “Get back here!” You laughed, gripping him by the collar and drawing him back in for another kiss. 

[siken-archive]

Snow and Dirty Rain

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair, the ashtray that we bought together. I'm thinking This is where we live. When we were little we made houses out of cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly, my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw, and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it's getting cold. We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire, the gold light falling backward through the glass of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We've read the back of the book, we know what's going to happen. The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left broken in the brown dirt. And then it's gone. Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands and record stores. Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one. We have been very brave, we have wanted to know the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes. This dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstretched arms. Our father who art in Heaven. Our father who art buried in the yard. Someone is digging your grave right now. Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said, so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. It's a fairy tale, the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished halls, lightning here and gone. We make these ridiculous idols so we can pray to what's behind them, but what happens after we get up the ladder? Do we simply stare at what's horrible and forgive it? Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are the monsters we put in the box to test our strength against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's the desire to put it inside us, and then the question behind every question: What happens next? The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side of the theater where the curtain keeps rising. I crawled out the window and ran into the woods. I had to make up all the words myself. The way they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is. So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields? Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets? I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart, the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere. I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor, pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful. It really is. I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube... We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said What do you want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.

[lupinblacktheone]

"So, I was thinking": a modern college!AU:

Johnny is bored. He has already finished all of his crosswords; all of his friends are busy minding their own business and won't pick up their phones.

Classes won't begin until next Monday. Johnny arrived at his dorm last night and he doesn't know when his roommate will be there. All he knows about this person is his name: LaRusso, Daniel.

Wondering about this mysterious boy could set Johnny free from his boredom. Is he a nerd? Or a drama kid? Johnny hopes he won't sing all the time. Of course he likes music (who doesn't?), but musicals... he isn't ready for them yet.

It would be nice to have some common likings with him. Maybe horror movies or breakfast for dinner (well, Johnny is so broke that he eats it for all meals, basically).

Remembering the old times, which weren't good, not at all, tugs at Johnny's heartstrings. He doesn't miss arguing with his parents all the time, but he certainly liked not having to iron his clothes himself. And he misses messing around with Tommy, Jimmy, Bobby and Dutch after school.

Oh, and Karate! Johnny misses it so much that it hurts. He couldn't find a Karate club to join (is this a thing? In Johnny's opinion, it should be. There are clubs for everything in this campus. If he can't find one, he'll form one). Maybe he can practice with Daniel and he could be the second member of the Karate club.

"Hello! I'm Daniel!"

Johnny stares at the boy. He's short, dark-haired and has round brown eyes.

"Johnny", the blond boy gets up, approaches Daniel and shakes his hand. "Can I help you unpacking?"

"Please", Daniel sighs and rubs his neck. "My mother just dropped me off and turned the car around. I barely had time to say goodbye. Can you believe it? I think she wants to rent my room while I'm gone, but I don't think I'll be going home anytime soon. How about you?"

Obviously, the first thing Johnny learns about Daniel is: he's a chatterbox. Second thing: he's from Jersey. He lives with his mother and would love to learn martial arts, but her mother wouldn’t let him because she’s afraid he will get hurt.

"I know Karate", Johnny confesses with a little smile.

***

Sometimes, Johnny regrets having told Daniel about his passion for Karate, because the kid didn't stop begging Johnny for some classes until he finally gave up.

Their dorm is too small and they would destroy it sparring there, so Johnny decides to have the class outside, behind the gym. Daniel said he would meet Johnny there after dinner (and yes, Daniel also has breakfast for all meals, since he is just as broke as Johnny).

December is on the way, so Johnny is wearing as much sweaters as he can (including his Cobra Kai jacket). He leans his back against the red brick wall and puts a cigarette between his lips.

Daniel shows up some minutes later, carrying a heavy messenger bag on his shoulder and wrapped in hoodies and coats (he has lots of cool hoodies; Johnny loves to borrow them and he is using the baseball one right now).

"Ugh", Daniel puts the bag down, massaging his shoulder.

"Are you ok?", Johnny asks with a worried look on his face.

"Perfect. Let's do this."

They get on fighting positions and spar for a while. When they get tired, they walk back to their room, peacefully talking about the day.

"Let me carry this for you", Johnny picks the messenger bag, even though Daniel has already bent to pull it.

He places it over his shoulder and Daniel walks beside him, ranting about his lame Calculus professor.

"I couldn't convince Mrs. Warter to postpone the paper's due date", Johnny complains when Daniel asks about his day. "I'll be lucky if I get a C on it."

"Do you want me to help you?"

Yes, please, he almost answers. Johnny enjoys having Daniel around. They don't have many common likings besides Karate and breakfast food, but he really enjoys staying up late with him, sharing their only desk (Johnny begun to work as a cashier in a store near the campus and Daniel writes other people's assignments for money and they are saving money to improve the place) and laptops on study sessions. Or to spend rare and lazy Sundays in their room, doing crosswords (Daniel bought some magazines and gave to Johnny). Or to share breakfast meals in the middle of the night because they can't sleep.

"Are you free tonight?", he asks, his voice sounds desperate, just as his eyes.

"Is this a study session or a date?", Daniel replies jokingly and raises an eyebrow. "Sure. I can help you."

Johnny opens his laptop and shows Daniel what he's working on.

"I mean, it's not bad, but could use some adjustments here and there. Let's get to work."

Daniel presses the keyboard keys hard with strong movements that emulate a pianist, but with perfectly tied hair. His brain is formulating what should be in the text and getting rid of what shouldn't be read by Johnny's professor.

"I think we're done here", Daniel declares.

"Thanks. I'm gonna buy you a coffee tomorrow, with extra cream."

"Much appreciated", the boy winks and Johnny's heart skips a beat. "So, I was thinking..."

"What a miracle", Johnny teases, smiling to distract Daniel from his blushing ears.

"Anyway, are you going home for Christmas?"

"I don't think so. You?"

"Also no. I don't have enough money for a ticket to Parsipanny."

Daniel looks at Johnny for a moment. His blue eyes are usually shiny, but now... he's more than just sad. Johnny looks depressed and scared.

"Are you alright?", Daniel reaches for Johnny's hand. "You can talk to me. I'm here for you."

Johnny doesn't talk. Instead, he goes for a hug. A big and warm hug. He clings onto Daniel as if he was the only thing keeping him from being blown away.

He doesn't want to cry. However, he can't fight the tears anymore. Daniel holds Johnny, trying to keep him together only with his bare hands. He doesn't try to whisper comfort words in Johnny's ear, he just stays there, providing his roommate all the support he can.

That night, Johnny falls asleep in Daniel's arms. He has never felt this safe before.

The next morning, Johnny rushes to the closest cafe shop to get the nicest cup they have. He drops by the dorm to put the coffee on the desk with a note: To the best roommate ever. Thank you for everything. Love, J.

He sends the paper to Mrs. Warter as soon as he takes a seat in the computer lab for his first class, hoping Daniel's help can save his poor ass from failing Warter's class.

A few hours later, Johnny is waiting for the last class to begin so he can get to work. Not that he likes standing up by a counter telling old people where they can find raisins, plum juice and other things old people buy. But at least, he gets to listen to his music and does little pieces of homework between a client and another.

There is something Johnny can't do at the store: see Daniel. Too bad they don't take many classes together, because every time Johnny sees Daniel entering the classroom, the world changes. It becomes brighter and more beautiful. He knows it's clich��, but Johnny is tired of pretending to be the perfect son, athlete... he just wants to be Johnny.

And Johnny is brave.

"So, I was thinking...", Johnny says when Daniel sits by his side.

"That's unusual", Daniel lets out that amusement air through his nose. "What is it?"

"Do you wanna go out? With... with me?"

That is really unusual. Johnny never was this reticent before. Not even when he noticed he had a crush on Ali Mills.

“Yeah, sure. When?”

“How about Friday? My shift ends at 5:30.”

“Sounds great.”

***

Johnny spends Christmas in his dorm, with Daniel. They curl up on Johnny’s bed, wrapped in Daniel’s hoodies, solving crosswords puzzles and drinking tea while listening to Johnny’s music. Neither of them wants to talk about their families.

Growing up as an only child, Johnny never had to share his things. He wouldn’t even allow Ali to read his poetry (he wrote some about her, tho), or let his friends go through his Spotify playlist. Not because he's embarrassed to like these songs, but because the lyrics describe him so perfectly that he's not comfortable with someone listening to it in front of him.

When he met Daniel and found out they could be good friends (maybe more than that? Johnny certainly hopes so), he felt an urge to take the boy on a journey through his world. First, they shared Karate, then crossword puzzles and went on and on, discovering little things about one another.

“Huh… I couldn’t get you anything for Christmas, so I wrote you a poem. Wanna hear it?”

Daniel doesn’t say anything, just gets closer to him as Johnny clears his throat and searches his notebook for his newest composition. Once he finds it, he puts the paper in front of his eyes (he was brave enough to ask the boy out, but not to have that lovely brown eyes gazing at him while he reads his feelings out.)

“I loved it, Johnny. Now get ready for your present.”

Johnny doesn’t close his eyes when his lips are pressed by Daniel’s mouth. It feels so good that they do it again and again until they fall asleep, holding each other.

***

Graduation is almost here. Most students have moved from the dorms or plan to do it soon. Daniel and Johnny, on the other hand, haven’t mentioned the matter yet. As you can imagine, they don’t want to live with their families again. The only thing Johnny wants is to stay with Daniel and he wonders if Daniel wants the same thing.

“Hey, Danny”, it was supposed to be a nice and quiet study session before the finals, but Johnny can’t hold this down any longer. “I was thinking… do you wanna live with me?”

“Are you kidding me? You’re never getting rid of me, blondie.”

[horrorslashergirl]

Slasher OC: Decebal Avram Chirilă

Full Name: Decebal Avram Chirilă

Nickname(s): Dacia, Dece, The Impaler, Vladislav, Tiger, Lynx, Dracula, Casanova

Age: 38

Gender: Male

Nationality: Romanian

Place of Birth: Bucharest, Romania

Current Location: Travels from country to country

Occupation: Former Romanian Soldier; Now Hitman

Languages: Romanian, English, German, French, Italian, Hungarian, Russian, Turkish

Appearance:

Height: 6'8

Weight: 240lbs

Body Type: Middle Bulky and Atheltic

Skin Color: Warm Beige

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Hair Style: Short on the sides and longer on top, wavy

Eye Color: Pale Grey, almost white, giving the impression he is blind

Face Claim: Stephen James

Clothing: He opts for comfortable clothing mostly because of his job as a hitman and because he is always on the run. He mostly goes with black T-shirts or shirts, a khaki army coat with many pockets, along with camo army pants again with many pockets and black combat boots. He has a long black scarf with the colors of the Romanian flag trimmed along that belonged to his father.

Other features: He has many scars on his broad back and down his arms; his back's scars are covered by tattoos of an eagle and a grim reaper with two swords in an X shape. His has full sleeve tattoos down his arms, picturing all kind of nature scenarios from his country, mountains and wild animals and AK-47's on each forearm. His neck, chest and legs are also covered by tattoos along with his hands. This guy is all inked up. He also has a silver earing on his right ear. He also wears an eyepatch that is covering his scarred eye that he got from a fight with his brother Alexander, the scar mimiking the ones Alexander has, coming from his eyebrow down his eye and over his cheek.

Weapons: Twin Swords, Twin Guns, and throwing knives.

Power/Skills:

Murderous expertise

Brute strength

Skilled usage of weaponry

Skill in hand-to-hand combat

Knifesmanship

Swordsmanship

Multilingual

Cunning Nature

Charisma

Driving expertise

Ruthlessness

Fearlessness

Manipulation

Marksmanship

Master tactician and strategist

Stealth mastery

Symbols: Here is the link to Decebal's symbols

History/Bio:

Decebal was named after a Romanian king by his parents, father Apostol Chirilă, and his mother, Maria Stratulat of Moldovic heritage. They were a poor family that lived in Bucharest during the communist times, a hard period for them. Decebal's father, Apostol was one of the rebels that were against this form of a system of social organization in which all property is owned by the community and each person contributes and receives according to their ability and needs.

Because of this Apostol and Maria, along with their three years old son, Decebal, were dragged into the communistic jails where they were tortured in all kinds of ways from whipping to starvation to being chained into coldness.

Decebal tried to protect his parents even though he was a small child and the army warden that took care of the horrific jails was surprised by the child's braveness and he took him away from his parents, not before forcing him to watch how his parents were killed brutally.

During the rest of his childhood and teenage years, Decebal spent most of his life in the dark underground jail, training with the soldiers, doing hard work. Despite that, the warden thought Decebal about all kinds of languages, cultures, and history. 

'Just because you're a stray dog that doesn't mean you cannot learn to bark and bite.'

In his late teenage years as he grew into an adult man, he got more to the light outside, following the warden wherever he went and did was his so-called 'father' figure did; smoke, drink and got laid with all the ladies.

The warden's words during a drunken late-night:

'You know boy, you will do something big, much bigger than you can imagine. I saw how all these sluts looked at you... You make them fall into your arms like they are desperate whores.'

'Use everything you got; charms, brains, muscles. In this world, there are the ones that walk every inch of the ground as they own it and the ones that follow, all chained. Tell me, boy... Which one you are?'

One of the greatest abilities that Decebal earned during years in the darkness was that he got so used to it that now as an adult, he sees perfectly into the darkness, just like cats do. 

Some people called Decebal 'Lynx'; the moniker originates from the fact that Lynx has exceptional night vision, remarkable hearing, and incredible instincts. The spiritual lesson Lynx carries to you is a reminder to partake of quiet observance, remembering there’s more to the world than what’s accessible through the physical eyes and ears alone.

After communism fell down in Romania, Decebal still maintained the attitude he grew up around; being sadistic, cold, and cruel. People weren't too fond of his attitude; his habits including fighting and torturing people that opposed him, getting laid with other men's wives, strolling down the streets like he owned everything.

He disappeared from Romania when there was a reward on his head to be finally executed. The Romanian army was hot on his trail, turning against him, but he simply vanished.

He strolls from country to country, not having a definitive home and working as a rogue hitman to earn money and to survive.

After a brutal fight between him and his twin little brother, Alexander; the two brothers which resulted in both of them almost dead, they get on an agreement of peace between them, with the help of their third part, their little sister Nadia.

Family: His little brother Alexander Chirilă and his little sister Nadia Nikolina Chirilă

His favorite killing style:

He prefers a kill that will put on a good show, he will shot his victims in both their knees, then he will dismember them with his sharp twin swords.

Personality:

Decebal has two paths of personality; the civilian one and the hitman one, that sometimes cross path depending on the situation at hand. In hi day to day life, he is a charming, handsome man, confident and sure of himself, but also having a modesty edge, just to draw people in closer, because he loves the attention, having a God-like complex.

Despite his childhood, he is a very educated man that speaks many languages, sometimes taking people by surprise, he can even put on fake accents. He also has vast knowledge about other countries history, mostly because that's what his 'father-figure' talked a lot about.

He is a flirt, he simply adores to make women swon by his charming looks and mysterious persona wherever he goes, people always wondering from where he comes. He knows how to sweet-talk people, being extremly manipulative. His looks; big and strong, in his eyes a flaming white glow.

You will rarely see Decebal without his charming smile or dark smirk that makes the ladies sigh and faint. He always puts on a winning attitude, knowing for creating many divorces along his travelings. 

Here goes his saying: 'If the female raised her tail, who I am to deny.'

He has a romantic side, after all he does speaks the romance languages, but it's highly influenced his his Casanova attitude.

He is blunt; this man will tell if you're damn gorgeous or if you're down-right ugly or stupid. He has no problem putting his opinions straight on the table.

His favorite drink: Țuică- is a traditional Romanian spirit that contains ~ 24–65% alcohol by volume (usually 40–55%), prepared only from plums.

His favorite food: Sarma is a dish of vine, cabbage, monk's rhubarb, kale or chard leaves rolled around a filling of grains, like bulgur or rice, minced meat, or both. It is found in the cuisines of the former Ottoman Empire from the Middle East to Southeastern Europe.

His scent: Decebal's scent could be described as a 'game of seduction' with an "exciting rush" of citrus and cool spice top notes. Pungent bergamot "bites" with freshness, revived by cardamom and lavender. Caviar gives a provocative and erotic touch “like a trickle of sweat on a man’s chiseled body.” Masculine and rough notes of tobacco and orris root facilitate the heat of the composition. He has that scent that could be described as smoky confidence irresistible to women.

Other Characteristics:

He is a very good dancer, especially traditional ones and he also knows singing. Attending important parties with his 'father-figure' he learned from the women how to dance and sing. The women basically made him such a charismatic man.

He is a heavy drinker and holds his alcohol like it's water; his moldovic genes showing off. 

He is more of a night person that a day one, mostly because of his very good nocturnal sight.

He is pretty much an Outlaw.

His accent sounds like italian, latin, but with a little bit of russian or another slavic accent. (That's how a Austrian woman described his accent one night)

He is a master at Poker. Another way he earns a lot of money is through poker and plus, he is a master cheater. FUN FACT HERE: He won a man's wife through poker for one night.

He is a sword swallower, bonus he has no gag reflex.

He also loves to smoke from his pipe.

============================================

There lived a certain man in Romania long ago

He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow

Most people look at him with terror and with fear

But to Bucharest chicks he was such a lovely dear

He could preach the Bible like a preacher

Full of ecstasy and fire

But he also was the kind of teacher

Women would desire

DE DE DECEBAL

Lover of the ROMANIAN queen

There was a cat that really was gone

DE DE DECEBAL

Romania's greatest love machine

It was a shame how he carried on

He ruled the Romanian land and never mind the Tsar

But the kazachok he danced really wunderbar

In all affairs of state he was the man to please

But he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze

For the queen he was no wheeler dealer

Though she'd heard the things he'd done

She believed he was a holy healer

Who would heal her son

DE DE DECEBAL

Lover of the Romanian queen

There was a cat that really was gone

DE DE DECEBAL

Romania's greatest love machine

It was a shame how he carried on

(This is an interpretation of the song ‘Rasputin’ by Boney M, mostly because the song inspired me into creating him)

For power became known to more and more people

The demands to do something about this outrageous

Man became louder and louder

"This man's just got to go!" declared his enemies

But the ladies begged "Don't you try to do it, please"

No doubt this Decebal had lots of hidden charms

Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms

Then one night some men of higher standing

Set a trap, they're not to blame

"Come to visit us" they kept demanding

And he really came

DE DE DECEBAL

Lover of the Romanian queen

They put some poison into his țuică

DE DE DECEBAL

Romania's greatest love machine

He drank it all and said "I feel fine"

DE DE DECEBAL

Lover of the Romanian queen

They didn't quit, they wanted his head

DE DE DECEBAL

Romania's greatest love machine

[Spoken:] Oh, those Romanians...

=======================================================

But when his drinking and lusting and his hunger

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Hello I’d like to request a matchup for blue exorcist and demon slayer

Apperance:

I’m lightskin and have freckles splattered across my nose and cheeks. Currently I’m 4’10-5’0 at the moment and have acne scars on my forehead. I have dark brown sleepy looking eyes with slight bags under them. I’m on the muscular side when it comes to body shape, oh and I have noticeable hip-dips. My hair is black and blond butterfly locs with one loc resting on my nose. (I’m bigender and omnisexual with a pref for guys)

Personality:

Personally I would describe myself as quiet but it’s mainly because of my social anxiety. But once you get to know me I’m kinda weird in a funny way due to my “interesting” jokes. Also I believe that I don’t quiet have a censor on what a say, sometimes I could say the most random thing or curse for no reason.I often find it hard to talk to people. Sometimes I think I’m a gross individual due to the stuff that comes out of my mouth but I’ve been told nobody else sees me that way. Once you really get to know me I talk a lot and text a lot,overall in a quiet yet incredibly active person.

Dislikes:

-butterflies

-my round nose

-my scarred legs

-pasta sauce

Likes:

-cats

-plums

-trees

-parks

Hobbies:

-baking

-drawing

-track/running

Hello! Thanks for your request! As soon as I saw your info, I immediately knew who to match you up with. Hope you enjoy.

Alright. Let's do this!

For Blue Exorcist I match you with...

A baking and cooking due? You two are unstoppable. Except when you make a mess in the kitchen and Yukio finds it before you can clean up. Then, you may be stopped.

You two  would have so many kitchen dates where you each make something new and get to try the recipes out together.

Ooh, you can teach him to bake your favorites and he can teach you to cook his favorites and you can surprise each other!

Yukio likes you as well. He thinks you’re a good match for his brother (especially when he gets to try out the results of your time in the kitchen).

You like cats it hear? Kuro is going to love you! He’s going to mercilessly tease Rin though.

This boy loves your hair so much! He likes watching you do your hair in the morning, whether that’s a long process or just a few minutes spent tying it up. He just really likes how it looks okay?

If you’re feeling anxious in social situations, Rin will be there to help. He doesn’t really get why you’re so quiet (since he’s pretty loud himself) but he’ll respect your feelings and give you support when you need it.

He’ll also try to bring you out of your shell a bit (but only as much as you’re comfortable with).

For Demon Slayer I match you with...

You two are actually a really good couple.

I can imagine training dates where you two compete and race each other.

Inosuke struggles with talking and interacting with other people as well so you can work together to get better with that. I think he might need a bit more work though...

It was a really close call for me to chose between Inosuke and Tanjiro but I think Inosuke works a little bit better.

Speaking of Tanjiro, he has double the work now since neither you or Inosuke have much of a filter. His diplomacy skills are working over time. Poor Tanjiro.

Inosuke is also a super bit fan off all of your cooking. I have a personal headcanon that, since he was raised by boars, he didn’t have a lot of sweet stuff to eat growing up and now that he has the chance to, he has a huge sweet tooth.

So yeah, make anything sweet for him like cupcakes and he will love you so much. You may even find something left behind in return. Like an acorn or a nice rock.

It’s not much but it’s his way of trying to pay you back for the delicious treats.

[speedypandaweasel]

Top Hats and Silks - A Laurie and Amy Short Story (694 Words)

Inspired by “Moon River” 

This is for @anotheryoutubekid - I am so sorry this took so long! But I do hope you enjoy it!

If you would like to submit a request, see the information at the masterlist and submit through the Q and A!

Amy March smoothed down her aproned dress and sat daintily at her Aunt March’s Balcony, her trustful easel stood beside her like a rock of creativity just ready to be chipped a little more. The gorgeous glowing afternoon filtered through the Paris Scenery, its infamous landmark peaked its silhouette from a distance. 

Her small, paint-covered hands rested themselves on the balcony edge, and she peered below her. Her eyes were greeted with a young lovely couple, their hands intertwined as their laughs drifted through the warm summer air. The lady had lovely long brunette locks and suited a plum purple frock, Her hand was intertwined with her lover, who fashioned a dusty blonde hairdo and a blue waistcoat, his sleeves rolled up.

Amy’s mouth escaped a small sigh and her blue eyes lit up. He looks just like Laurie...

Laurie. The buzzing gentlemen that made Amy feel at home again. Her proper home. The house where she and her three other sisters had not a care in the world for money, or love, well, for her sisters anyway. They could just enjoy the time they had at the time and their only trouble would be when father was coming home. 

But people change and when opportunities arise, one must take them. She’ll never forget the joy that she felt when she was offered to go to Paris. Paris, the city of love. The city of blissful romance. She never would have thought that after all these years she would see him again. Just casually walking by. His mousy brown hair unkempt as usual and his burgundy hanging loose around his neck. Yet in his eyes, she remember seeing a flicker of something more. Something that was new, something that she had never seen before...

Her mind drifted from her sweet daydreams to her paintbrushes that were prepped to be painted with and glancing back over her landscape, she rolled up her sleeves and set to work. 

Her brush danced across the canvas as her porcelain skin became decorated with an array of hues and sun-kissed rays. The French Sun was dimming and the couple was still in her line of view. The light around them was just right, their long shadows that trailed behind them told a story of l’amour, that she desperately wanted to capture in her painting as much as possible.

Her focus never left the couple as she scrawled trying to draw as much detail and precision of the young couple as possible before they continued their journey. 

Sometimes, she wished she never left for Paris, and this was Jo in her space. Yes, she never was the elegant type but it would be just been her and her Laurie if she was gone. Who knows what they would have gotten up to? It would not have been as bad as the ice skating incident but then again, she probably deserved that. His compassion was so admirable and his hands that instantly grabbed her felt like they had always been there, she just couldn’t describe how much that boy, now a gentleman, meant to her.

Now he was going to be at the gathering tonight! She imagined him in his Top Hat and Silk and how she would dance in his arms through the evening all through the night. His infectious smile being her only view and maybe that would not just be the only view that she would see tonight.

She started to hum a little tune her mother taught her. She could remember all the words but she liked how the melody went. It was almost, like a lullaby.

Two drifters, off to see the world, there’s such a lot of world to see.

We're after the same, rainbows end. Just around the bend,

My huckleberry friend...

Her cheeks, now rosy from her hard work blew away some strands of yellow hair that escaped the simple ballet bun that she tied up earlier this morning. Amy sat back and admired her scenery painting. She beamed as she realised that whilst daydreaming, she had accidently painted the couples’ wrong and instead, in their place, painted her own vision of young love.

[thestraggletag]

The Game, a Rumbelle Chess AU

Summary: Inspired by The Queen’s Gambit. When Arran Gold first lost a chess game against Belle French, he thought that nothing would feel better than wining against her. But the more he lost, the less he minded, and more eager he was for their next game.

AN: Look, it’s a bad summary but a good fic, I promise. Also both games described in the fic are real games that can be played. Here, for example, is their last game.

Rating: Explicit.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the tradition had begun. Long ago, when he had only owned about half the town and had yet to adopt his more refined image. A tenant, a once-wealthy businessman who had once had “old money” and had wasted it away in reckless business ventures, had challenged him to a game of chess in lieu of the rent. He had likely thought that Mr Gold, a lowborn Scotsman with a thick brogue and brusque manners, was unlikely to even know the rules of chess. He had trounced the fool in less than twenty minutes, and only because he had toyed with him first.

Chess, after all, was something he knew well. His aunties had taught him as a child, but it hadn’t been till university that he had gotten to love the game, after finding out there was a veritable underground circuit of contests and tournaments that could pay his way through law school. He had developed an irreverent yet aggressive style, completely unpolished but completely brutal. In spite of his quickly-gained reputation he had never lacked opponents. There were always posh idiots who were sure their sophisticated gameplay could beat his street smarts. They were never correct. He had developed a nickname, over the years, given to him in honour of his savage style of play and his ruthless approach to the game: Beast. He considered quite a compliment.

He had thought about going pro, entering formal tournaments and acquiring a ranking, but the life of a chess player, and even that of a grandmaster, wasn’t particularly profitable compared to practicing law or going into business and he aimed to accumulate wealth and power as much of it and as fast as possible. He had kept up with his secret hobby, though, sometimes catching televised tournaments or reading about them later, enjoying the process of dissecting a game, sometimes thinking of how he would have won against a particular opponent. But it had never occurred to him to play against anyone in Storybrooke till the challenge came. It had attracted lots of attention at the time and people had turned up at the library that Sunday to watch them play.

Though he won, other people sought to challenge him, to the point where he had decided to establish an event of sorts. A chess day, once a year, in which anyone could challenge him. If they won he would forgive their rent for an entire year. There was no penalty for losing, at least none outright, but the shame of defeat meant most people challenged him only once. Besides it kept everyone from complaining during rent day for the rest of the year. And, he had to admit, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed playing cat and mouse with people, exerting power over them, watching as people’s confidence shrunk down and melted away.

He always looked forward to chess day, though that year perhaps less so. Storybrooke had acquired a new librarian around eight months before and, in spite of all of his efforts, she did not think ill of him. Belle French was, apparently, immune to the gossip of the town about him and his own brusque manner and dark humour. She even seemed to enjoy the later, which made him uneasy and… nervous. A strange, unsettling form of nervous.

It didn’t help that she was insultingly kind, surprisingly sarcastic and delightfully witty. The sort of person that could spar with words and make it look effortless. And smart enough to know that though he pretended to hate it, he loved it. She was also, regrettably, gorgeous. Smaller than him, with reddish brown hair and electric-blue eyes. An accent that wrapped around his name like a lover and an actual sense of fashion, which was almost unheard of in Storybrooke and the only thing most people seemed to hold against her, the town matrons disapproving of her short skirts and high heels. There was also a disarming quirkiness about her, a sense that she was somewhat otherworldly, like she belonged half to the mortal plain and half to the realm of stories and fantasies. He had seen her more than once walk around town lost in a book, dreamy-eyed and clearly miles away from the little town. He was always fascinated by how dreamlike she looked, how otherworldly.

Though he had tried to make her hate him for the first few months of their acquaintance, he had grown used to failing, and admitted to himself that it felt nice to have someone who would smile genuinely at the sight of him, who would treat him with kindness, who would be eager for his company and did not consider talking to him to be a chore. So he wasn’t looking forward to Miss French being exposed to angry tenants who called him names when he beat them, and wasn't really looking forward to her seeing him dash people’s hopes ruthlessly.  

It couldn’t be helped, though. And perhaps it was for the best, to have her see what everyone else saw. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. So he washed and shaved carefully that day and had a hearty breakfast- chess day tended to take up all of his morning and most of the afternoon, and he did not like having to take a break to eat, knowing that his stamina added to the image of him as some larger-than-life monster. He dressed with care, picking his favourite purple striped shirt and matching paisley tie. He added his sleeve garters and square cufflinks, though he was not expecting those to be visible at any point during the day. It still felt nice, empowering, to be impeccably dressed. 

By the time he reached the library there was already a crowd there, as well as the customary barren table, awaiting his chess set. He always played with the same set, an ebony and boxwood one from House of Staunton. It had the classical Staunton look and the hand carved pieces had a nice heft to them. He had bought it years ago, one of his first purchases after beginning to make serious money, costing him well over a thousand pounds back in the day. Not by any means among the more costly of chess sets, but the price spoke of its fine quality. 

He set the board down and opened the box with his pieces, arranging the whites on the side of the board furthest from him and setting the blacks on his side, careful to properly align the knights and position the pawns at the centre of their squares. He took out his clock next, which he had cleaned and serviced the day before, and sat down on his customary, throne-like bergère, the one that usually was the focal point of the Ancient History’s reading nook. In contrast the chair opposite him was one of the plain, serviceable ones that populated the study room at the library. He hoped, for his own amusement, that whoever had set up the place had picked the wobbly one.

It wasn’t long after he settled that a crowd formed around him, but it took almost half an hour for the first challenger to present themselves. It was, surprisingly enough, Dr Whale. The good doctor was one of the few people in town that made a nice, tidy six-figure income, mostly from his private practice. Whale, whoever, did like to live above his means, and it seemed it had finally caught up with him. Though he did not rent a house from him, he did rent his private office from him. It was large and well-located, and likely to detract quite a bit from his overall profit. 

The doctor looked cocky, in spite of Mr Gold’s infamous reputation around town as a chess player. And he didn’t even have to speculate as to why. Victor Whale was the prototypical Ivy-league alumnus, likely played chess for Dartmouth, his undergraduate alma mater, or Brown, where he had acquired his MD. He may perhaps once been ranked, if his smug grin was any indication. He took pains to hide his own savage smile, not willing to give his prey any hint of the carnage to come.

He drew it out, both for the audience and for the sheer pleasure of watching all of the doctor’s confidence and arrogance melt away, leaving an increasingly obfuscated and delightfully sweaty mess behind. And once he knew that he had pushed him as far as he could go he had gone in for the jugular, watching in delight as his opponent toppled his king. The crow murmured, unhappy. When he dragged a game out sometimes people got the idea that he might be struggling, that his challenger might actually have a chance. He enjoyed dashing that hope every single time.

As he rearranged the pieces back to their starting positions he caught a glimpse of a tweed flare skirt swishing about a familiar set of tight-clad legs. Miss French, as always, was impeccably dressed, the black sheer floral blouse a bit daring, perhaps, but carefully hidden by the demure cardigan she had over it. Her hair was in a French braid, the end tied together with a lovely silk ribbon in the same muted plum colour as her cardigan. He wondered at her clothes, which he recognised as high quality, likely expensive as hell. It cemented his idea that she came from money, and likely worked out of a genuine passion for books rather than necessity. Just as he studied her earrings-lovely gold studs in the shape of blooming roses, she turned her head, catching his eyes. He saw interest and curiosity, but no fear or disgust. Perhaps Whale was too unlikeable a victim to elicit sympathy from her.

Frederick Knight was next, playing not for a reprieve from his own rent- his teacher’s salary might not be impressive, but his wife pulled some major money working from home for a law firm in Boston- but for the pet shelter he volunteered out. Briefly he wondered how it all worked, how he could volunteer at the shelter run by his wife’s ex-husband, who had cheated on her with one of Knight’s own colleagues, causing the divorce that would eventually leave her free and available for them to meet and fall in love. Gold thought it was all rather unseemly.

The lad was smart, he would give him that. All that strategizing for baseball clearly carried on to chess, to a certain extent. Mr Knight clearly saw at least a few moves ahead, even if he did not have the skill to plan and anticipate more than that. In the end, because he was a decent enough bloke, Gold put him out of his misery quickly. It felt bad to drag it out unnecessarily. The man was gracious about defeat as well, something that was rare, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake, before leaving the board, no doubt to sink into the welcoming arms of Ms Midas. Though married, she had chosen to keep her last name, after the hassle it had been to change it back after the divorce. And yet there was no doubt that she loved her new husband more than she tolerated her ex, which even the strictest traditionalist in Storybrooke had to acknowledge. 

More people challenged him, as was the norm. Out of all of them only Mr Prentice put much of a fight. Gold could tell he was a man of some talent, and an old hand at the game, but too by-the-book to beat him. He implemented moves and strategies well, but did not have a creative bone in his body. A pity, really. He was the only one after Mr Knight to be mature in defeat, sadly. By the time four o’clock rolled around three people had upended the board after they had lost and at least one had made a move as if to punch him in the face. 

He reset the board with little expectation of playing again. It was late, the crowd was thinning, and people’s enthusiasm had died down considerably. He excused himself to go to the restroom, enjoying the brief walk after hours of sitting down. When he went back to the board, however, he froze up. Sitting on the challenger’s chair was the librarian herself, carefully unbinding her hair as she half-listened to something Miss Lucas was telling her.

He hadn’t foreseen this, the notion that the librarian might wish to challenge him. He had become resigned to having her smiles dimmed when they were directed at him, but nothing more. Certainly not this. 

“Miss French, I didn’t know you played.”

His voice was, by some miracle, even. The librarian smiled, shaking her hair out and wrapping the now unused ribbon around her fingers.

“I used to, some time ago. Still do, sometimes. In my head.”

She said that last part quietly, only for his ears.

“Well, what are the stakes going to be? Rent forgiven from the library for a year?”

“Oh, not, that would be too much. And I’m not sure that would be good for the library. That much money would surely go to what the mayor considers more… lucrative pursuits. But I thought, perhaps, that you could lower the rent of the library by a certain percentage, enough to cover for my apartment. I could use the extra money to refurbish the children’s section, and replace some stock. I could do without another brawl about who gets the last copy of The Polar Express come Christmastime.”

He smiled in spite of the cold spreading across his chest, constricting his lungs. He would be quick, he decided, better to have it over as soon as possible, so that afterwards perhaps Miss Lucas could coax Miss French into a consolatory drink or a slice of apple pie, her favourite. It wouldn’t be too bad, he convinced himself, and it would endear her to the other townspeople, that she braved the beast in pursuit of better reading experiences for their children.

He started her watch, a bit surprised when she moved right away, dragging a pretty white pawn to e4. He counted with his opposing pawn, and in his next move he captured his first piece, another pawn she had likely moved unsuspectingly into the line of his attacking one. She took out her knight then, and later a bishop, but he played more conservatively, using mainly his pawns, waiting for the moment where he could unfurl some of his more devastating attacks. He was startled by her castling her king. It gave him a firm idea that she was no amateur, and he adjusted to this new insight accordingly. He advanced his pawns further, seeing little overall sense and reason to her movements. She had her queen out, as well as a bishop, but had taken her knight back in and her pawns were scattered about, presenting little challenge.

And then she moved her bishop, lightning fast, and suddenly he was in check and the game did not look as it had a second before. He studied the board more carefully, instincts telling him there was danger in there. What once had looked devoid of logic now seemed elegant and strangely coordinated.

Like a dance, he thought. And somehow familiar.

He moved his king, and noticed people suddenly paying attention. She took her bishop away, looking amused, and he pressed on with his queen’s pawn, losing his first piece one move later. Feeling his hackles rising he took one of his bishops out, losing another pawn a second later after she took one of her knights out again. He disposed of it in the next move, thinking he had finally seen her make a mistake, but her rook advanced, threatening his king and bishop. He moved the former, thinking he was sure to lose the other piece, but surprisingly she moved her queen instead. Far from putting him at ease it was that move that made him aware that he was in front of a person that could likely beat him. And, almost against his will, the thought rose the competitive beast in him. 

He went savage, increasing the aggressiveness of his moves to an obscene degree. A chance look at Miss French, however, let him know that she found it amusing. She leaned over the board with interest, head tilted to a side and the fingers of her non-dominant hand tangled in her hair ribbon. Her eyes, barely visible from beneath her thick lashes from the way her face was tilted towards the board, sparkled, letting him know she was enjoying herself. Thoroughly.

He, on the other hand, felt strangely angry. Defensive. Exhilarated. He watched her as she made her bishops dance across the board, forcing him into another check and into a few defensive moves with his rooks, before her queen made her presence known once again, sliding across the board with both elegance and devastation. He took off his jacket, feeling too hot, and looked at the board again.

It was all so familiar. The style of play, he had seen it before. Like a dance, spontaneous yet choreographed, forcing him to respond in a certain way, backing him into a corner. He took one of her bishops and then a rook, when it came sliding into his side of the board, but it only made him feel more anxious, more like a creature trapped. Soon he was without his rooks and both his queen and his one remaining knight were in peril. But as he focused on them he missed the slow advance of a white pawn along the side of the board, flanked by the white queen and the remaining white rook. He sent his own queen out, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there wasn’t much the piece could do. In the end it was the queen, aided by the unassuming pawn, that forced his king into a checkmate. 

“I believe the game is over, Mr Gold.”

The librarian’s accent softened the blow of those words. She looked up at him, happiness and excitement written across her face, as if she had gone through some marvelous experience. But it wasn’t the smile of a winner, but rather the smile of a conspirator.

“I believe the game was over ten moves ago, Miss French.”

He could admit that now, even as people cheered around him, rubbing salt on the newly-opened wound. He watched as Miss Lucas briefly enveloped the librarian in a side-hug before turning her attention to other people celebrating. Miss French, however, didn’t seem to want to join. She simply stared at the board and then at him as if this was their own private thing, their shared, secret joy.

It felt too intimate, and it made him even more angry, that she seemed to think that he had somehow enjoyed getting his arse thoroughly kicked by her. Brusquely he stood up, putting his jacket and coat on quickly before a well-placed snarl opened a way out from the mass of people gathered around the chessboard. He would go home and lick his wounds and figure out a way to repair the damage to his reputation after he reached the bottom of his half-drunk bottle of Balvenie Tun 1509. 

It wasn’t until he was well and truly hungover that he realised, with a shock, that he had left his chess set behind. He left a message in Dove’s phone to have him call him back on Monday, so that he could instruct him to retrieve it for him. No need to go into the library for a few days. Or weeks. Might as well not step foot in it for the rest of the year, really. And no need to ever again think about the game, ever.

But after a couple of Tylenol and a lot of water, he found himself rethinking that last decision. There was something nagging at him about that game, and it would not let go of him. He knew he had seen that style of play before, but he could not recall where. He pulled up his collection of saved games, recreated from tournaments and world cups, and began analysing each of them, trying to find the same dreamlike, flowing style of play, like dancing. It wasn’t in the latest World Cup, or the one before, or in any of the recent tournaments. Not in the London Classic, or the Sinquefield Cup, or the Tata Steel. Not in any of the major American or European tournaments, so he branched out, looking at the Asian championships, the ACF Grand Prix and-

Something about the ACF gave him pause, so he went back through the tournaments he had saved, year after year. It wasn’t until he hit the 2006 Grand Prix that he saw it, a match where the blacks moved like in a ballet. He saw the name of the player, I. Avon, and did not recognise it at first. Then he searched for the recorded video of the match and realised why: I. Avon was Isabelle Avon, and she was usually known in internet circles by her nickname, Beauty. And the 2006 ACF Grand Prix had been her last major tournament. She had disappeared shortly after, and had caused a bit of a stir, specially amongst Australian chess enthusiasts, who thought she had the makings of a Grandmaster and even a top five world player. 

And yet, somehow, she had ended up as a librarian in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, living under a different name, for some fucking reason.

He wouldn’t let it go once he knew, trying to piece the puzzle together. He had never seen pictures of Beauty, there were no headshots to be had, likely because she had been an up-and-coming player at the time and a minor for most of her active years. He had seen videos of her playing, but her hair tended to obscure her face in most of them. She had not won her nickname on account of her looks- though how painfully fitting it was, considering how attractive she was- but because of her playing. People praised her for her beautiful moves, how she built this gorgeous ballet of a strategy that was as effective as it was enchanting.

She had been described, in the few articles that talked about her personality, as quirky. Odd. A calm player, given to the occasional smile and never able to lift her eyes off the board, a dreamy look on her face. Quite unsettling, some people had said. 

She had dropped off the face of the chess world at age twenty, in 2006, and no one had heard from her again. Some people claimed to have played against her in an online tournament, but there was never a way to know for sure. He was sure now that at least some of these people were likely right. He delved more into whatever he could find about Isabelle Avon, but there wasn’t much. Though she had been at the time considered a chess prodigy she had been sheltered from press scrutiny likely by her parents, and had not given many interviews nor posed for many photographs. The few that circulated on the internet were of her as a very young teen, likely fifteen, when she had made her debut. He recognised her electric-blue eyes immediately, but the librarian’s fine bone structure was hidden behind layers of baby fat still not ready to peel off and her hair was a few shades lighter than it was now. Her mother was always with her in the pictures, as good-looking as elegant as her daughter had grown up to be, but her father was only in one of the pictures, a rather portly man that was rendered striking rather than dumpy by his height, which was considerable.

He found nothing to explain her retirement from chess, at least nothing official. He did find, however, a funeral notice in The Australian for a Colette Avon, neé French, dated December 2006. He felt sure that he had stumbled across the reason for Beauty’s fall from the chess circuit, and the origin of her new name. Why she had felt the need to create a completely new identity was, however, still unexplained.

And it bothered him, he found out soon enough. The more games of hers he saw the more he could appreciate her artistry, her craftsmanship. He could not conceive anyone having such talent, such passion for the game, and quitting, even over a personal tragedy like the loss of a beloved parent. He remembered how she had looked when she had played him, alive and excited, her pleasure obvious, and it cemented the idea that there was something he was missing. And he didn’t much care for it.

That’s how he found himself in the library weeks after his defeat, confronting the librarian. She was wearing a pretty burgundy shirtdress, prim and proper if not a wee bit short, and her hair tumbled down her back in a mess of curls, which was to be expected, since the library hours had ended twenty minutes ago. She wasn’t surprised to see him, nor did she appear hostile or otherwise on edge. Quite the contrary.

“Mr Gold, I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled up at him, and it felt a bit different from her previous smiles. Those had been lovely but this one felt more… personal. Intimate, somehow. Like they shared a secret. He supposed, in a way, they did. “You left your lovely chess set here. I’ve been holding onto it for you, keeping it safe. It’s in my office, do you want me to go get it for you?”

“Why did you change your name?”

He didn’t mean to blurt it out. He meant to build up to it. But there was something about her that utterly unsettled him, made him anxious in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Her smile turned somewhat cautious and sad, and he hated himself for provoking that reaction out of her.

“That’s a rather personal question.” 

“You owe me.” He tried to stop himself, but he found he somehow couldn’t. “You played against me under false pretences. You owe me at least an explanation as to why.”

Miss French raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed at his emotional outburst or the questionable logic of his assessment. A moment later, however, she tilted her head to a side, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes, as if considering something.

“It’s a rather big secret. Would you play me for it?”

That sounded very much like a deal, and it made him feel more comfortable with the situation, more in control. Deals were his specialty, after all.

“And what would you wish for if you win, Miss French?”

She smiled, the picture of innocence.

“A secret for a secret sounds fair. Let’s say… your name.”

Nobody knew his first name. He appeared in all legal documents as “A. Gold”, which caused all manner of speculation around town. His name would be a high price, indeed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell others, just as I trust you would not tell others what I told you if I lost. I just want it for myself.”

Her words sent a frisson of something down his spine, leaving him tingling and on edge.

“That sounds acceptable. Do fetch my set, if you please, and I’ll get the board.”

They had the board set and ready in no time, flipping a coin to decide who would be whites. Miss French, having won, started the game, and from the beginning he read her moves differently from before, knowing they were those of a chess prodigy. He moved aggressively, trying to create too much chaos to allow her to build her beautiful moves, but soon began to second-guess himself, struggling between being too bold and playing it safe. He lasted longer, forcing her to pause and consider her next move once or twice, which she had not done during their first game. He took in those few seconds of uncertain contemplation with eager interest, watching as she bit her lip and furrowed her brow, the apple of her cheeks red with an enticing blush.

In the end, however, her rooks trapped his king too soon, forcing him to topple the piece. She smiled at him, offering her hand for him to shake. He did so, marveling at how delicate it was. And cold. The whole building was cold, he realised. Apparently the mayor demanded the heat be turned off the library the moment it closed, to save on the heating bill. 

“We can do this again sometime, if you still wish to know, Mr Gold.”

He nodded, leaning on his cane in order to rise from the chair, making no move to gather his chess pieces.

“I’ll take you up on that, Miss French. And the name’s Arran.”

.

He returned a week later, with a tin of oolong tea to keep the cold of the library at bay. Though the librarian seemed to have been expecting him, with the board and chess set already laid out at the customary table, she did not seem to be in the mood to play right away, inviting him instead to her office so she could prepare and pour them both a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchenette. Though she did not seem to want to speak of whatever had happened to her in 2006 she did not seem reluctant to talk about her chess career in general. She told him about learning the game at six from her mother, and playing in the park against adults as a ten-year-old, shortly before entering her first tournament, for children. She would soon outgrow those, reluctantly.

“Children are more creative players, I find, and I missed that in professional adult tournaments. It’s what I like about your playing.”

He told her in turn about his own chess experience, so vastly different from hers. It was a part of his life he had not shared with anyone before, and it felt nice to do so, especially with someone who could understand chess like he did, could see the beauty and the sense of it.

By the time their tea was finished over an hour had passed, and it was getting almost too late for a game. This one lasted a bit longer, and felt more… playful. Though he lost, he enjoyed himself more than he should have. He could make more sense of her playing style now, and it made him respond in kind, to soften his moves a tad, make them less savage and more complimentary to hers. It was the first time in years he altered his playing style, but it gave him more of a fighting chance and it seemed to amuse and thrill her to no end. In the end when he lost she asked about his aunts,  and he told her about how in love they were, even though the times were different and they could not express that love in the open like people could now. As he talked he realised how much he missed them and how nice it felt to share a bit of their memory with someone else.

Though he left the library defeated, it was difficult to conjure any negative feelings about the evening.

At some point, he realised he had stopped playing to win. Well, not necessarily. He still played with the intention of seeing her king toppled and extracting the secret of her retirement from her, but it was about more than that now. Perhaps it was their now customary tea break right before the game, which lasted up to an hour and now included cookies and several cups per person. It was a strangely-relaxing ritual and led them to talking about things that he would usually not discuss with anyone else, things that felt too personal. She shared in kind, with the exception of talking about her father, which he understood tacitly was a no-go subject. To be fair so was his, and she took pains to never ask him anything about him. 

Playing her, he had to admit, had become exhilarating. Once the sour taste of defeat had been taken out of the equation- it didn’t feel like losing anymore, or at least not the way losing usually felt to him, cloying and humiliating- all that was left was the thrill of the game, the excitement of thinking on one’s feet and seeing long strategies come to fruition on the board. He caught her chewing on her bottom lip more and more as he learned to thwart her moves and bring a sort of organised chaos to the board that she found difficult to navigate around.

He got so used to losing, and so comfortable in it, in the notion that losing only meant he got to return to the library, have tea and spend a few pleasant hours with someone who was interesting and treated him with kindness, that he did not consider the fact that he might win at some point. And when it happened, one evening he saw it, checkmate in two moves with his remaining knight and one of his rooks, plain to see. He had been working at leaving her king adrift, too exposed and with her queen distracted enough to not be able to stop the attack. She saw it too, he realised, and there was a bittersweet smile when she toppled her king. The sound the small piece made was deafening in the sudden silence of the library and he stared at the board for the longest time, as if he had been struck dumb by his win. In reality he was trying to process how disappointed he suddenly felt, how utterly unhappy he was about having won. It made no sense.

“As you perhaps know my mother died in 2006.”

“Miss French, please, you don’t have to-”

“Belle, please. I’d like to believe we’ve transcended such formalities. Especially considering what I’m about to do.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch between them. Though she seemed determined to tell her tale, whatever it may entail, she did not seem to know where to start, or even where to look. He thought about getting up and downright refusing to listen to her, anything to take away the sudden air of vulnerability about her, but stopped himself. She was a grown woman who would not appreciate him trying to decide things for her.

“You must know my mother died in 2006. It was very sudden, a stroke, and was very hard to accept. We were very close, especially because my chess career kept me from socialising much with my peers. I was sad for a long time after her passing, kept recreating some of our favourite matches on the chessboard she had given me for my twelfth birthday. I didn’t want to eat, or go out much, and I guess… My dad grew worried. We had always struggled to communicate, never had much in common. He didn’t get chess or me, so he didn’t know how to reach me, or talk to me, or even understand what I was going through.”

She paused, picking up a white pawn and staring intently at it. He itched to reach out to her, though he was not very good at comforting people.

“He thought I needed professional help. And he was right, I did need to speak to someone. But he thought it best to-” Another pause, where Belle looked like she was trying to find the words to explain, or excuse, what came next. “He had me hospitalised.” He did not need to ask what kind of hospital she was referring to. “It was a nice place, on spacious, green grass and under the supervision of an order of nuns. I’ve read that other places can be more… unpleasant, and less safe. Still, I don’t remember much of it. I was drugged most of the time, they were pretty liberal when it came to medication, and I hated it. Took me a while to figure out how to behave in a way that was considered normal, how to grieve within the bounds of acceptable behaviour.”

He was surprised by the white-hot rage that took over him. He tightened his grip around the handle of his cane, eager to hurt someone with it. Belle’s father seemed like a prime candidate, or any of the doctors involved in her care, who could not see that what they had in front of them was a woman trying to grieve in her own way. He ached to do harm, to hurt, in a way that unsettled him, that spoke about primitive instincts he had spent years mastering, or at least trying to. He tried to calm himself, focusing instead intently on her, watching her walk the pawn across the board and exchange it for the white queen after it reached the other side.

“Once I was out I changed my name and applied for university in the US. My chess career and my mother’s care of my finances gave me financial freedom, so I went to school, then did my masters at Columbia, and took on as librarian here when the position opened. And I never participated in a tournament again. At first it was because being active in professional chess circles left me exposed, made it so my father would likely know where I was, but later on I discovered I just did not have the temperament for big tournaments anymore. Crowds of strange people looking at me make me nervous, and playing chess in public makes me feel… unsafe, I suppose.”

Her fingers closed over the white queen, as if testing the strength of the piece.

“I still love it, though. Used to play at Bryant Park when I was a college student, though never in tournaments. And I still play online, sometimes for money, because it’s safe. But it’s been nice, playing face to face against someone again. I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

She put the white queen back with the rest of the pieces inside its box, closing the lid securely before offering the set to him. Instead of taking it he stood up, taking a few steps backward to make sure she knew he had no intention of taking his chess set home. 

“I thank you for your candor. I will keep what you have told me in confidence, of course. Same time this Saturday?”

She looked up at him, confused for a second before a wide smile spread across her face.

“It’s a date.”

.

Though he had made the journey to the library dozens of times in the past couple of months it felt different that day. Instead of the customary tea he brought he clutched a tote bag with an unopened bottle of Highland Park 18 and two crystal tumblers. It was a particularly cold afternoon, which he told himself called for something more bracing than a strong cup of tea.

Belle did not seem against the whisky, though she did warn him that she had no affinity for it and would not know good scotch from bad.

“You’re calling it scotch, so that’s a good start.”

She seemed more intrigued about the tumblers, running the pad of her thumb across the designs on the glass.

“Thistles.”

“I’m nothing if not a walking stereotype.”

She laughed, telling him to pour while she set the board. By the time they sat down to play it was dark out, and Belle had turned off the zooming fluorescent tubes, leaving instead the soft, warm light fixtures in the reading room on. It was a cosy, relaxed setting, and yet the air felt strangely electrified, like something was going to happen, something big. His nerves felt raw, exposed, but the feeling wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“So, what should we play for tonight?”

He startled, the tumbler halfway to his lips. She was right, there were no preconceived stakes anymore. Before he had wanted to know something about her, something valuable, so they established an arrangement whereby whoever won could ask a question of the other. That arrangement no longer applied. A sudden flare of panic travelled down his spine. What if he couldn’t think of anything? What if they both discovered that, without stakes, there was no sense in playing again at all? What if-

“I have an idea. It’s… a bit unorthodox. Always wanted to try it, but never got the chance to.”

The librarian looked intently at her glass of whisky, running a finger across the edge, but there was a sort of mischievous air about her. Playful.

Flirtatious, almost.

“Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve read about strip chess. Obviously I never actually played strip chess before because for most of my years playing chess in front of people I was a minor. But I always thought it sounded… fun.”

She chanced a look at him from beneath her eyelashes, biting her lower lip the tiniest bit. He must have looked rather stupid to her, sitting ranmrod straight and wide-eyed, with the look of a rabbit that has just spotted a wolf nearby. A man a few years shy of fifty looking stupidly terrified of a woman more than ten years his junior.

“What would be the rules?”

“A piece of clothing for every captured piece. Something small for pawns is allowed, but bigger pieces merit more important sacrifices. Things in pairs are to be removed in pairs. Jewellery and such are considered pieces of clothing. We play until either someone wins, or someone is completely naked.”

He took a gulp of scotch, hiding a grimace as the liquid burned a path down his throat. He took a quick stock of the librarian, taking in her few pieces of jewellery- earrings, a ring, and a simple necklace-, and her clothing. A skirt, no belt, a shirt tucked into it, a cardigan, stockings and a pair of booties. He imagined all of it on the floor at his feet and his blood simmered.

“That sounds… acceptable. You got the coin?”

He was glad he sounded unbothered by the new arrangement they had just entered into, nonchalant. He lost the coin toss, so it was Belle who opened, moving the queen’s pawn two places. He moved more conservatively, a pawn to c6, and a couple of moves later she took her first pawn, leaving the piece to be taken by another pawn of his.

“My earrings for your cufflinks?”

It was a fair exchange, so they paused to relieve themselves of their pieces of jewellery. Belle’s next move gave him a chance to capture another pawn and he discovered that he had to physically restrain himself from making the move, reminding himself that he was supposed to be playing for win. It added something extra to the game, the tension between what the best move was according to whatever strategy he was struggling to make, and what could get him more pieces. It made the game tense, as they both considered their moves and braced themselves for the possible occurrence of another piece taken. 

When it finally happened, a white pawn taking the place of a black one, he surrendered both his shoes, but not before using one of his knights to take the place of the newly-moved white pawn. Belle bent down to unlace her booties, removing them and placing them to the side with care, letting him know that she did have a thing for shoes, as he had always suspected. 

Nothing else happened for the longest time, the game unfolding without much action. They both moved their bishops and castled their king, pretending for a while that there wasn’t a likelihood that one of them would end up naked before the night was out. He kept the scotch nearby, refilling the drinks every now and then to give himself something to do other than think about all the exposed white pieces. Finally, when he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t do it, he took a white pawn with his knight. 

“Wondered when you were going to do that.”

He watched her as she shimmied out of her cardigan, letting him see more of the blouse she was wearing. It was slightly sheer, letting him know she was wearing a black bra. He wondered if he would get to see it.

“It’s a pity about your knight, though.”

She moved one of her own knights to take his, making it the first major piece to be taken. She held it in her hand for a while, studying it.

“I’ll accept your jacket and tie, if you have no objections.”

He reached automatically towards his neck, tugging on the silken knot around his throat. He must have drunk more than he realised, because his fingers felt clumsy, uncoordinated. After a few ineffectual tugs and some choice expletives muttered under his breath Belle rose from her chair, gently pushing his hands away and untying the tie herself. She tugged on it until it was off and tossed it on the back of his chair. She then wordlessly prompted him to remove his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair as well. 

“That’s a lovely colour on you.”

She ghosted her fingers across the silk of his shirt. It was one of his favourites, a deep navy blue silk jacquard with a contrasting pattern of leaves. He had worn it because he had noticed she tended to favour blue, which had felt stupid at the time. Now it felt inspired. Emboldened by the touch and the compliment he dragged his bishop across the board, knocking her knight off its place.

“I’ll take your necklace and stockings, if you please.”

His voice was rough, with little of the cultured diction he usually employed, but between the alcohol and the simmering sexual tension there was little he could do to change that. She took her necklace off without much protest, making sure to fasten it close before she looked at him right in the eye, smiling innocently and extending a leg till her silk-stockinged foot found his knee. 

“Help me?”

It was embarrassing how fast he dragged a hand across her leg, pausing only to notice the quality of the material, and reached beneath her skirt, till his fingers came across the scratchy lace of the top of the stocking. With slow, steady precision he peeled the stocking off her leg, letting the tips of his fingers slide across the soft underside of her thigh and calf, trying to memorise how soft and warm her skin felt, so he could replay it over and over again each night. He repeated the process with the other stocking, delighting in the goosebumps the dim light of the room revealed in Belle’s skin. After it was done he folded the stockings neatly and presented them to her.

She moved her bishop next in a direct challenge to his castled king, meaning he had no other choice but to take it. He did it with shaky hands, trying not to look as eager as he felt.

“Shirt or skirt, I suppose. May I choose?”

Her voice was soft, playful, undeniably coquettish. He nodded, following her movements as she stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall open around her legs. Her shirt was long enough to cover anything but the barest hint of her underwear, something black and lacy and the slightest bit sheer that had him reaching for his glass. A second later she sat down, dragging her queen to take his bishop.

“Quid pro quo?”

With all the grace he could muster he stood up, refusing to show even a hint of apprehension or shyness as he undid his belt and pushed his trousers down, carefully stepping out of them before sitting down and reaching for the scotch bottle, filling up their glasses again. He took a long, fortifying sip and moved his knight to take her remaining one.

“That lovely blouse is gonna have to go, dearie.”

Belle smiled, looking bold and strangely pleased, and made sure to look at him square in the eye as she plucked every little button free of its hole. It was an invitation to watch, and he accepted it greedily, leaning forward and holding tightly onto his cane to keep himself from doing something stupid like try and touch every new bit of soft, pale skin that was slowly revealed to him. When she reached the last button she shimmied out of the shirt and carelessly tossed it at him. He caught it one handed and tried to not notice how the fabric retained the warmth from her body and the scent of her skin. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’re about to get even.”

She moved her queen to take his knight and leaned back on her seat, one hand cradling her tumbler of scotch and an expectant look on her face. He reached up and unfastened the buttons of his shirt with practiced nonchalance, trying to keep the shaking in his hands from being too obvious. When that was done he paused for a second, trying to gather up his courage, before shrugging out of the shirt. With a gallant little gesture he handed it to her.

The next few rounds were intense, but no pieces taken. Arran was having a hard time concentrating on the board and not on the way Belle’s fingers caressed the silk of his shirt, tracing the pattern of leaves absentmindedly. It was a safer bet than focusing on her balconette bra, a delicate, impractical little thing made almost entirely out of leavers lace, with dark flowers woven into the pattern to keep him from seeing the rose pink of her nipples. He wondered if she had worn the set with their game in mind, if she had selected it just so he could see it.

At some point he took his queen out, and she did the same with one of her rooks, both of them seemingly in agreement that the status quo was not to be borne. It wasn’t until her rook put pressure on his king, forcing him to set his queen in the middle, that he began to feel cornered. When her bishop got too close he had no other option but to take out her rook. Though from a strategic point of view that was a desperate last-ditch effort, he could not help but feel strangely ecstatic over it.

“Oh, dear.”

Belle moved her hands towards her back, seeming to struggle with the fastenings of her bra. 

“I think one of the hooks is snagged on the lace. Will you help me?”

He narrowly avoided biting his tongue. He managed a croaked, barely-intelligible “aye” before she stood up and turned around. He tried not to look down, but it was almost impossible, taking into account the panties she was wearing were made almost entirely of sheer black lace- leavers as well, clearly she was wearing a matching set-. With hands that felt clumsier than usual he felt around the clasp of the bra, delicately pulling the offending hook from the lace before unclasping the bra altogether. Slowly he lowered the straps from her shoulders, noticing the red indents they left behind on her skin. Then she was turning around, bra safely in her hands and her glorious breasts bared. He hoped that she wasn’t expecting him not to look, because it felt impossible to avert his eyes. As he had imagined- and he had not realised how often until then- her nipples were the perfect shade of dusty pink, framed perfectly by pale skin a shade lighter than the rest of her. 

“I know I’ve lost on the board, but right now I feel like a winner. Like the luckiest bastard on Earth.”

His accent was shot to hell, thick and incomprehensible, as if he had never left the dodgy part of Glasgow. But it did not seem to be a problem for Belle, who kissed his cheek, tugged on his hair a bit, called him a “sweet boy”, and thanked him for the compliment.

“Let’s finish this, Arran.”

Her Australian lilt turned his name, which he always thought rather charmless and rough, into a soft caress. He sat down, something considerably uncomfortable to do all of a sudden, taking into account his painful state of arousal, and struggled to focus in the game. He was done for, he knew it, but he owed it to her to try. To lose with as much dignity as possible. Or so he thought, till her queen took his in one simple move.

“I’m afraid your underwear must go.”

The silk boxers were doing a pisspoor job of hiding his raging erection in any case, but it still felt uncomfortable to peel them off and be naked in front of another human being for the first time in years. Well, nude, technically, since he still had his navy socks on.

“Let’s finish this, then.”

He took his rook out, forcing her queen to retreat and then getting his other rook to cover for his king. For the next few moves they danced around each other on the board, with Belle trying to close her trap and Arran fighting tooth and nail to remain standing. His moves weren’t elegant at all, more like the savage swipes of a cornered beast, but they were effective. He managed to snag a rook, which gave him the pleasure of sitting down and staring intently as Belle shimmied out of her useless little panties. She flashed her watch at him to remind her she was not completely naked as per the rules of the game and continued to press him. She had only her queen and a few pawns, but the board was laid out in her favour all the same. Still he gave her a run for her money, and it took her twelve more moves to checkmate his king. Feeling irrationally expectant he toppled the piece, watching it roll around the board for a few seconds before coming to a stop.

“That was exciting. Though I’m afraid we forgot to agree on what the winner got. Quite an oversight on our part.”

He watched her as she reclined on her chair and stared at the board, a rosy tinge on her skin that he realised travelled past her neck and to the tops of her breasts. She looked at ease, comfortable in her own skin, and surprisingly he noticed that he did not much care about his own nudity either. In the low, almost romantic light of the library his skin acquired a golden colour that he thought rather becoming. He was tanned for a man who spent most of his time indoors, a direct consequence of his propensity to laze about in the sun whenever possible in the privacy of his backyard or his cabin. And in such a light his wrinkles were less obvious, his scars less visible. He felt anxious, yes, tense, but it was not an unpleasant sort of tension.

“What is it you want, Miss French?”

He affected the persona of the devious dealmaker, noticing the spark of heat in the librarian’s eyes when he called her by her last name. She made a show of thinking about it, though he had the distinct feeling she had thought about something ages ago.

“How about a kiss?”

He took her left hand, kissing the back of it.

“Like this?”

When she shook her head he reached further, kidding the underside of her elbow.

“Higher, Arran.”

He tugged her closer, trying to disregard the rapid beating of his heart, and softly kissed her shoulder. Her skin was soft and smelt faintly of something citrusy, something that somehow managed to tug both at his heart and his groin. 

“Higher, please.”

She took his head in her hands, tilting it upwards till their lips met. It was a soft, tentative press of the lips at first, unhurried and unassuming, but it grew firmer and more insistent. When he pressed her she opened her mouth to him readily, letting him curl his tongue around hers with a moan of approval. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders at some point, fingers sinking into his hair to pull him closer till he was flush against her, skin against skin. His hands roamed her back, tracing the ridges of her spine, pleased at the way it made her shiver.

Reluctantly he let go of her lips, pressing his mouth against her sharp jawline, down her long neck until he was tracing her collarbone with his tongue and dipping down further into the swell of her breasts. He felt her fingers dig into his scalp, pressing him closer, tugging on his hair to guide him towards a puckered nipple. He accepted the unspoken invitation gladly, closing his lips around her flesh and sucking with embarrassing enthusiasm. His hands roamed the rest of her, one caressing her back while the other pressed against a soft, round thigh, aching to move just a few inches and cup her sex. 

When she stepped backwards, out of his arms and the reach of his mouth, he felt a flare of panic that she was having second thoughts, or he had done something wrong. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologise- for fucking whatever, he didn’t care- when she tugged on his arm, urging him a little ways across the room to a reading nook next to the folklore session. There was a faded divan in there, usually full of pillows and throw blankets meant for readers to take to their seats if they were uncomfortable or chilly. It was old and likely uncomfortable, the type of couch that looked like it had lost most, if not all, of its padding and most of its support capabilities a long time ago. At the moment, however, it looked to Arran like the most luxurious of beds. He let her push him onto it, glad when the springs beneath him groaned but held steady. A second later she was on top of him and all thoughts of structural stability fled from his mind as he kissed him thoroughly, asserting a dominance he was more than happy to submit to.

He had to struggle to concentrate between the kissing and the groping to understand her when she asked about protection, muttering that she was clean and on the pill but she had condoms just in case, from the sex-ed talks Miss Blanchard gave every now and then. Briefly he contemplated the notion of using one of those condoms, thinking of Miss Blanchard’s absolutely scandalised look if she ever found out, but the idea of being bare inside Belle was too good to pass. He told her he was clean in as clear a voice as he could muster that he was clean too- he recalled his last annual check-up, which he drove to Boston for, since he would rather die than let Dr Whale anywhere near any part of him- before she was straddling him, grabbing his stiff, aching cock with one hand and guiding it to her entrance. He could barely register the sudden wet heat on the tip of him before his entire member was engulfed in it. He sunk his blunt nails on Belle’s back, trying to call forth every last shred of self-control he possessed not to come then and there. Thankfully Belle didn’t move, looking overwhelmed and in need of a moment to adjust.

“You’re big.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t tell me something like that if you want me to last.”

It was taking everything he had not to come like a fucking schoolboy. Later, much later, he might me in the right frame of mind to replay her involuntary compliment. Over and over. He tried to recall the names of all the subs of the Celtics, in fucking alphabetical order, till he somehow felt more in control. Slowly, lovingly, he captured her lips with his own for a long, lazy kiss, feeling as her own tension melted away, leaving only a simmering sort of excitement. Tentatively she began to rock, trying to find a comfortable angle and motion in the restrictive confined of the divan. He tried to help her as much as possible, holding onto her hips and trying to thrust up as much as he could, given his precarious perch on the furniture and his lame ankle. Slowly but steadily they found something that worked, a rhythm that had him hitting a sport deep inside her that he could tell was, blessedly, the right one, given how Belle sunk her nails on his shoulders and tried to muffle her cries against the side of his neck. He tried to talk, to tell her how gorgeous she was, how wet and warm and perfect she felt around him but it all came out as unintelligible grunts and low, feral moans.

When he felt himself near the edge he gritted his teeth and gathered all of his remaining willpower, dragging his right hand down her stomach to the small nest of curls that framed her dripping cunt, delving inside till he found a spot that made her gasp when he touched it. 

“Come for me, sweet girl.” He didn’t know whether she could understand him over the thick mess of his accent, but he hoped at least the cadence would convene his meaning. She keened in response before he felt her flutter around his cock, the rest of her tensing with the force of her release. When he muffled her scream against the side of his neck he let go, his own orgasm almost uncomfortable at first, too much at once. He clutched her close, hoping against hope he would not send them both toppling to the floor, feeling like he was walking a fine line between pleasure and pain. Pleasure won out in the end, sizzling on his veins before slowly fading into a pleasant simmer. Tiredly he wrapped his arms around a barely-awake Belle, feeling the cooling sweat on her back and grunting in protest. He looked around, spotting a throw on the floor in his reach. He grabbed it quickly, managing to wrap it snug around both of them. Later, much later, when he could remember his name or how to walk, he would insist on them finding some better place to sleep, for her sake. At the moment, however, that seemed beyond him, a faraway concern to be dealt with at a later time. He was loath to give up his queen too soon into the game, in any case.

[migran666]

Snow and Dirty Rain

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair, the ashtray that we bought together. I'm thinking This is where we live. When we were little we made houses out of cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly, my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing for blood, but we are at the crossroads, my little outlaw, and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it's getting cold. We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and a gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. The lawn is drowned, the sky on fire, the gold light falling backward through the glass of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We've read the back of the book, we know what's going to happen. The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left broken in the brown dirt. And then it's gone. Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands and record stores. Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one. We have been very brave, we have wanted to know the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes. The dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstretched arms. Our Father who art in Heaven. Our Father who art buried in the yard. Someone is digging your grave right now. Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said, so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. It's a fairy tale, the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished halls, lightning here and gone. We make these ridiculous idols so we can pray to what's behind them, but what happens after we get up the ladder? Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it? Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are the monsters we put in the box to test our strength against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's the desire to put it inside us, and then the question behind every question: What happens next? The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side of the theater where the curtain keeps rising. I crawled out the window and ran into the woods. I had to make up all the words myself. The way they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn't the kingdom then I don't know what is. So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields? Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets? I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart, the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the spaces between the trees, swimming in gold. The words frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere. I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor, pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful, it really is. I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube...We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said What do you want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.

- Richard Siken

[lavndrmenace]

snow and dirty rain, richard siken

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair, the ashtray that we bought together. I'm thinking This is where we live. When we were little we made houses out of cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly, my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw, and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it's getting cold. We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire, the gold light falling backward through the glass of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We've read the back of the book, we know what's going to happen. The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left broken in the brown dirt. And then it's gone. Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands and record stores. Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one. We have been very brave, we have wanted to know the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes. This dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstretched arms. Our father who art in Heaven. Our father who art buried in the yard. Someone is digging your grave right now. Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said, so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. It's a fairy tale, the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished halls, lightning here and gone. We make these ridiculous idols so we can pray to what's behind them, but what happens after we get up the ladder? Do we simply stare at what's horrible and forgive it? Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are the monsters we put in the box to test our strength against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's the desire to put it inside us, and then the question behind every question: What happens next? The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side of the theater where the curtain keeps rising. I crawled out the window and ran into the woods. I had to make up all the words myself. The way they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is. So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields? Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets? I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart, the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere. I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor, pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful. It really is. I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube... We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said What do you want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.