#this could use a solid edit but it came to me in one sitting and that's always a rare gift so; there it is for now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

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

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

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

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

wc: 15.1k+

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

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

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

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

When you met him.

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?”

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

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

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

“You don’t look fine.”

“Then stop looking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The absolute biggest.”

“Bigger than the Atlantic ocean.”

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

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

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

He only nodded in answer.

“Can I ask why?”

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

“Because he made fun of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You wouldn’t have survived it without Eddie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Principal Higgins doesn’t hate you.”

“You’re right – he loathes me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A payment.”

“And what would this payment be?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His miracle. His gift. His soulmate.

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

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

“The colors.”

“Because they are.”

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

You were his soulmate.

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

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

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

“What? Used to them?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

I guess, except when it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, hold on-”

“Stay here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“O-Okay,” you stuttered out, unsure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think I’m pretty?”

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

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

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

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

“There, look.”

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

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

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

The sentiment had you choked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was right. You think you get it.

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

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

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

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

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

“As many as it takes, old man.”

“Whatever you say, kid.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t reply, only widening your strides.

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

Damn him and his newfound height.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You won’t even kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he said no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

But after three days, you had started to worry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His soulmate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he saw you, he’d shattered completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should have insisted on staying with him and Dustin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—*ash, stop reading here*—

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

You’d always wondered how it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s black and white.

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

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

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

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

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

The colors are gone.

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

Eddie.

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

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

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

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

Frozen in time, frozen in black and white.

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

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

She understands.

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

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

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

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

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

“Eddie!”

You’d always wondered how it happened.

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

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

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soldatshandler · 29 days

Text

Winter Soldier Post!HYDRA Headcannons

a/n: I was writing something earlier and it made me want to write this. It's just a random collection of headcannons I have. You bring him home after he escapes HYDRA. You have your hands full.

warnings: Bucky is still the Winter Soldier, PTSD, post abuse (physical, psychological), past SA and mentions of treatment for it, light descriptions of injuries/wounds, medical stuff. Overall angsty hurt/comfort. Recovery things. Did not edit <3

Following the events of the movies, let's pretend you bring Bucky home after CATWS. He's still the soldier. He's still Soldat. And Soldat doesn't speak. In fact he is silent for days. Uttering nothing, not a peep.

Soldat is silent, watchful, wary. He doesn't like being approached too quick. He stays in corners. He stays in small spaces. Being too exposed now makes him feel anxious. He reacts with aggression if he is anxious.

You learn all this.

He also becomes visibly irritated when he feels confused and stressed, which is pretty much constantly.

He needs you to order him around, which sounds harsh but the sudden change of environment and treatment is really confusing for him. He is too fresh from HYDRA to immediately just heal. That's now how it works. This kind of trauma doesn't just go away. This man is so severely mistreated, you aren't even sure where to start.

Simple things like telling him to shower or sleep. Otherwise he stays up for days and refuses to do anything. Free will is such a foreign concept to him.

Re-feeding and giving him nutrients and fluids is a nightmare. Luckily, you had a medic friend who could look at him without the involvement of the government since he was in hiding for now. You got all the supplies you needed, but it was still a hassle. His options were very limited when it came to food. Oatmeal, mashed potatoes, applesauce, things like that. He could barely stomach anything more solid than that.

He sits still for the IVs, but sometimes he doesn't and he puts up a struggle, assuming it is some kind of drug to manipulate him. You just have to stay close and talk to him so he pays more attention to you than what your friend is doing.

He got sick a lot. You had to be careful about that. Too much food made him sick, his body wasn't used to it.

He also was having difficulty remembering you and where he was, the fact that he wasn't undergoing constant brainwashing made all the chemicals go haywire. It made his moods unpredictable. He had aggressive bouts, though he never harmed you badly, he would grab you if you got too close out of instinct and fear.

He often broke down and during these times it was a gamble whether or not he'd let you around him. He felt so pathetic and small and horrible, confused and unsure for the first time in decades. He was used to being mindless besides the orders barked at him. Simple, easy, all he had to do was listen.

But now, things were different. He was no longer being kept in a shitty cell or in an icebox. He wasn't tortured daily, he wasn't taken into rooms where agents were greedy with him. He wasn't hurt. And...it confused him even more.

You notice he sits strange when he does. He doesn't like to sit for long. He says it hurts. He prefers to stand. You don't understand until later, and you do your best to help ease his pain.

He didn't understand why you didn't hurt him. Why you didn't hit him. Sometimes he hit himself when he felt like he deserved it, each time he felt a pit in his stomach when he saw the disapproving look in your eye and listened to the scold that came after. You were gentle...but firm. He could not hurt himself. That made him bad. Disobedient. Disobedient soldiers are punished. It was a cruel cycle that ran in his mind. You had to be the one to stop it.

When he did speak, it was simple Russian phrases. Yes, no, he addressed you as handler, his responses were monotone and recited. He had been trained not to speak. That wasn't what he was supposed to do with his mou-

Enough. The memories are invading again.

You could tell when he zoned out into his episodes, his eyes became glossy and he seemed to become a zombie. You sat him down somewhere quiet and stayed with him. Sometimes he didn't want to be touched, sometimes he let you. But you had to be careful, you never wanted him to be uncomfortable or make things worse.

It was a tender thing. But it was something you were more than happy doing.

After a few weeks he seeks you out more often. He stays close by, he even sits close to you or tries to get your attention. He's still quiet, but he speaks more now. Even in english, which you find a relief. By you you've learned the short Russian phrases he spoke, but it was good he spoke english too.

He starts to hang closer to you, he stays out of his 'hiding spots' in your home and stays around you more often. He sits on the couch beside you, starting to seek you out. It's a positive sign he's growing more comfortable.

He doesn't like being alone for very long. If you have a job, it might be hard for him. You try to get one where you can work from home, otherwise he is very anxious and clingy when you come home from your shift.

The spare bedroom is his, but he often finds himself migrating to your bedroom through the night. He needs your presence, he needs to know he's not alone. The silence is deafening, and knowing your body is beside him is comforting when he sleeps.

Speaking of, he starts off on the floor. It's a little heartbreaking, he sees the bed as a test, an awkward thing he doesn't want to sleep in. So he starts on the floor, then you move the mattress off the bed to the floor, along with some pillows and blankets. That seemed to help condition him to an actual bed before he eventually sleeps in yours with you.

You know recovery and his healing is going to be a long, bumpy road, but you are just happy he sees you as protection and comfort, and his trust is slowly building with you.

Thanks for reading.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes angst #winter soldier angst #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x you #🐞my works

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sassymajesty · 1 month

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Alycias newest post w the black pants, white button up and vest PUHLEEEEEASE !!$&! I just pictured Clarke calling out sick and Lexa coming over w that bouquet of tulips in oifan. The way Clarke would loathe the fact that she missed seeing that outfit in action all day at work 😩🤣

[grabs your shoulders] listen to me. i've been going to sleep and waking up thinking about this for the past two days. it's gotten out of hand. [grabs your cheeks] i cannot thank you enough for this.

because consider this—

—arriving at clarke's place around 4pm (ungodly early for the hectic time they're having at the company) with a target bag and takeout

raven, who by then is working with them, gives lexa her keys and tells her to let herself in because when she left, clarke was running a fever and would never get up from bed. and lexa does just that. she's been in the apartment often enough that she beelines for clarke's bedroom and finds her financial analyst/friend with benefits (yes, just that, nothing romantic happening here, no ma'am) under three blankets, barely keeping her eyes open

"oh, you're actually sick. i could have sworn you were playing rookie."

clarke's eyes get wide open, as if she's scared her fever has made her hallucinate. "lexa?" then takes her in "you brought me flowers?"

with a solemn nod, lexa places the flowers and all her bags on a dressing table, and sits beside clarke. brushes sweaty hair out of her forehead, lets out a worried hum when she feels how warm clarke is.

"you look like a dream. i can't believe i missed all this vest action."

"it's the only reason i came by. i couldn't let this outfit go to waste." but then she's digging around clarke's closet to find fresh pajamas (she knows where they are, she's borrowed them before) "can you take a lukewarm shower by yourself? it'll help with a fever. and have you eaten at all?"

clarke says that yes, she can shower by herself, she's not a child. and yes, she has eaten... some toast raven brought her before she left. it's the way lexa purses her lips that shows she doesn't like that one bit.

lexa helps clarke get up, take the sweaty clothes off and get in the shower. then she leaves her there with the door ajar just in case, and gets fresh linen for the bed, a vase with water for the tulips that go on clarke's nightstand and cutlery for the soup she brought.

when clarke gets off and finds her with cozy fleece pajamas and wet hair, lexa makes her sit down with her legs crossed and back towards the edge of the bed so lexa can gently blow dry her hair while she eats all of her soup. "yes, all of it, clarke."

once she's all fed and has taken more meds, lexa tucks her back in with enough blankets for her to sweat the fever out, and takes her shoes off before settling beside clarke and looking at her like she'll stay there all night just to make sure clarke is okay.

"do you want to take a nap?"

"i've slept all day, i'm more awake now."

then lexa reaches into the target bag, "i've brought you this. raven mentioned you used to play video games when you were sick in college. i thought it might be the cure." and very nonchalantly hands clarke a white, red and pink box.

"you bought me a nintendo switch?" clarke is in pure disbelief as she stares at the gaming console for a solid minute before opening it

"i figured the cozy games might be some comfort. and you can play from bed. i hope the color is okay."

"you bought me a nintendo switch. the animal crossing edition."

"the guy at the store said it comes pre installed. i figured it'd be a good start as any. i'm sure there is an array of different games for download, if that's not something you'd be interested in."

clarke knows that when lexa starts being super formal, it's because she's getting more and more nervous. so clarke just boots it up and turns to give her a soft kiss on her cheek in thanks, "have you ever played animal crossing?"

"i have no idea what it is. i didn't even know what a switch was until a couple hours ago."

"then get comfortable, you're in for a long night."

and they share a pillow while clarke introduces lexa to the world of animal crossing. lexa is happy to watch clarke play, checking her fever every now and then, bringing her teas and cuddling her even with her business casual outfits.

when 8pm rolls around, lexa finally gives in and borrows a pajama set (more lightweight than clarke's) and cooks them dinner while clarke sits at the counter, still playing. they eat, clarke takes more meds, then they go back into bed. by then, clarke is exhausted again and uses the last of her energy to create a new use in the nintendo switch for lexa to play — and lexa herself has no intention of playing, but she entertains the idea for clarke's sake.

clarke falls asleep in her arms, guiding her about what controls to use. lexa doesn't try to move her, only stay there, serving as a pillow, while she checks clarke's fever with her lips on her forehead, makes sure she's warm as she can be.

it's 2pm when clarke wakes up again, her body hurting from sleeping the whole day, but feeling good as new.

and she finds lexa fast asleep, with the console on her hand, halfway through hopping islands to find a new villager. she pulls lexa closer to her, enjoying the warmth and the way lexa reaches for her even in her sleep.

tomorrow she might actually play rookie and talk her boss into doing the same so they can spend another day playing video games in bed.

#f: oifan #anon #nina's mail #i finally had the time to sit down to type it up and i want to cry this is the most i've written in one sitting in almost a year #thank you so much for this i'm late (ish) for class and i don't even care

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irondad-defensesquad · 4 months

Text

EDIT: Posted on AO3!

“Hey, buddy,” Tony puts away his Stark Pad. “You okay?”

Peter tries not to melt inside at how parental he sounds.

“Y-Yeah,” the boy replies.

Tony is already pulling the covers so Peter can join. The latter shyly lies down on the free spot, and so Tony tucks him in. Thick blankets as well, much like the ones in Peter's room.

“You missed me?” The man half teases, half asks genuinely.

Peter hesitates and nods. Tony smiles fondly, though part of him wonders if Peter has something else in his mind that he’s not telling his mentor.

“I dunno, some nights I just… can’t sleep alone,” the teen admits. “I feel immature for that.”

“That’s not immature.”

“I mean, I’m not a kid anymore. And it’s not like I can ask to sleep with Aunt May because she’s at work, and the reason I’m alone in the first place–”

He stops right there.

He’s not ready to really talk about this with Tony.

“... it’s… my fault.”

Peter stares at the ceiling, feeling Tony’s sad gaze on him.

“Kid,” the latter calls.

Peter tentatively looks back, fearing he might cry.

“I’m glad you came here. You don’t deserve to be alone, even if you might believe that,” Tony reassures him.

The boy sniffs.

“... Do you ever feel cold… even though you’re warm on the surface?” Peter wonders. “And you realize how empty you really feel?”

That seems to affect Tony on a much deeper level.

“... Yeah.”

Peter can see so much in his eyes.

Tony exhales, wrapping both arms around Peter, somewhat sitting on the bed so he can hug him better. There are no other words spoken. Only their breaths, their heartbeats, and their inner coldness being revealed to each other. Them trying to warm each other up.

That’s not the kind of emptiness that’s ever going away, Peter knows that well.

At least he doesn’t have to focus on it now.

Because Tony is here, holding him.

Tony is like his puzzle piece. When they’re together, they fit perfectly. When they’re together, Peter feels like he has nothing to fear on his own.

And when they fit together, Peter might have to adjust. He’s not entirely used to the feeling. Perhaps Tony isn’t, either. But it’s not that bad.

Peter is just surprised how… gentle Tony Stark is.

You’d never read that anywhere about him. Least of all about a man inside a suit of armor.

Unlike all those tabloids and headlines on the internet… Peter can actually hear Tony’s heart. Feel the way it beats. The way it’s hardened but is now loosening up. Opening up. Only the true ones know who Tony Stark is.

And Peter also knows with the way Tony hugs him, in a solid grip that is not letting go no matter what. Not giving up on Peter. Not letting anything awful happen to either, and least of all to the boy.

Just telling him, it’s okay, you can rest, and you can rely on me.

Peter takes a while but he starts relaxing significantly, wishing he could never leave. Well, that’s too idealistic. But he can pretend otherwise.

Tony might rub his back and his shoulders every now and then, sometimes he runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, or nuzzles his face against it. All the while remaining quiet. Just being here for Peter.

Deep, deep in the latter’s mind… he remembers those cold nights his uncle lent him an oversized coat. And Peter would wear them and smell like Ben.

He remembers his smell. Shampoo, some old cologne. Cigarettes but he didn’t smoke, it was mostly the smell of the city.

Peter is never going to feel that smell again.

Tony’s is coffee, oil, and sometimes sweat. He spends a lot of time working, too.

Completely different smells. Peter might not ever be able to describe them properly, regardless of his enhanced senses.

They’re not the same, but Peter being enveloped in this, getting to absorb it and call it home…

He never thought that would happen again.

It’s a coat trying to protect him from his inner cold. Peter is wearing Tony’s old MIT sweater, but he’s wearing another thicker coat now.

Peter inhales and exhales deeply, snuggling his head against Tony’s chest. He might feel Tony snorting to himself. Probably wanting to say Peter is cute, which always makes the latter embarrassed.

Tony is lying down again, but never completely releasing Peter. Then he turns off the light.

The boy tenses automatically.

“I’m here,” Tony notices. “I’m right here, kiddo. Not going anywhere.”

He can hear his smile even if he can’t see it.

Peter smiles back, slipping into the dark, knowing Tony is guiding him in the endless nothing inside Peter, understanding it, not trying to get rid of it or fix it. Because Tony loves him the way he is.

Peter can say the same for him.

In his dreams, they’re flying together, having fun. Everything is okay.

And everything will be okay, one day.

#god my stuff is so repetitive. but okay #lotus speaks #irondad #fics #my fics #drabble #(it became longer than i intended oops)#anti starker #i nearly cried after finishing this. i have issues. i know jdhdjhjfd

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sailorsenshishitposter · 7 months

Text

Otacon x Reader

Warning

Highly cursed at the halfway point. Spoilers for End of Evangelion and I wouldn't recommend that sane people watch it just to try to understand what the hell is going on. Yes there are parts where people turn into orange liquid followed by screams and upbeat happy music about suicide. Also do not look up the hospital scene for this movie (which it is infamous for). You have been warned.

_______________________________________

Otacon

Your smash main is Snake, you're a weeb or you fall in love easily and are used to being hurt by others.

First Date:

None. This man is busy raising a child with Snake.

Second Try:

The two of you meet on a fan board and quickly exchange numbers. Soon he invites you over to his house for a date. You asked where he lived but he said he would prefer to pick you up. You wait outside until you feel what seems to be an earthquake. You go to run but then you look into the sky. "IS THAT A GIANT ROBOT!" The "vehicle" pulls up and sure enough, Otacon is waiting for you. "Good evening. You look wonderful..." He then handed you a bouquet of flowers and you came inside.

Man, he really was an otaku. His home consisted of a bedroom that was really more like a storage space, a bathroom and a kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable, I'm going to bring some refreshments." You looked around for a spot to sit down, his room being like that one photo of Yoshihiro Togashi but notably much cleaner. The walls were stacked from the floor to the ceiling. You would have to tell your date that piracy was also an option. Most of it was just anime so you knew better than to touch it.

There was a small CRT and just about every console you could think of. Even the bad ones.At the far end of the room was a computer. You didn't really understand how that stuff worked but you figured his setup must be very expensive since all you had was Windows 95. You saw a purple creature on the desktop. "What's a bonzi buddy?

"You then noticed that Hal had come back. "I brought you a bento and some pocky. Only the best for my little waifu." He then blushed and turned the television off. "Sorry. I forgot that I was playing Policenauts on my Saturn earlier.."He then asked Alexa to play his spotify playlist which consisted of nothing but Hatsune Miku.

After you were finished eating, he took you by the hand. "Allow you to show you my prized collection." He brought you to his glass stand filled with various figures. It had a little bit of everything. Transformers, all the Gundams, some Code Geass. Even this weird one he called Zone of the Enders? "Yeah, I'm a huge fan!" He then looked around to see if the almighty Mr. Kojima was watching."

But this... This is my favorite." It was a giant build of EVA 01. "I never knew you liked Evangelion..." He then pulled out a copy of End of Evangelion. "Would you like to watch it with me? I have the renewal edition..." You gazed into his eyes and kissed him. "Wow..." He then turned on his hello kitty DVD player and inserted the disc.

The two of you started frenching during the komm susser tod sequence. You began to stroke him while the lyrics "It all returns to nothing" played. "Looks like someone's snake is solid..." He then thought to himself while the screams of those being turned into orange juice could be heard. "It's just like one of my Japanese amines!" You gave one final pull, yelling "It all CUMS TUMBLING DOWN, TUMBLING DOWN, TUMBLING DOWN"

________

Having finished, Hal shut off his VR machine. Ever since David had left him to go on a date with a woman, he hadn't felt the same. He thought back to when he asked him if love could bloom on the battlefield and then started to sob into his arm. "WHY DOES EVERYONE I LOVE LEAVE ME!?" Little did Snake know but Otacon had created a program where he could be with him in a dating sim. He would later sell it on steam and become as rich as Snake did from the fortnite cameo, bringing him into the spotlight. They would later get back together and become the ultimate power couple.

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bellaxgiornata · 1 year

Text

Safe Haven [Chapter Six]

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Word Count: 4.2k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+ for this series; contains violence, drug use, domestic abuse, smut, hurt/comfort, angst, mutual pining, friends to lovers

a/n: This one brings some fluff and intrigue! And Birdy being Birdy... I always appreciate feedback so feel free to chat with me! And hopefully I didn't mess anything up, I did a fast edit so I could post!

Tag list: @loveroftoomanyfandoms @farfromstrange @rotscinema @1988-fiend @shouldbestudying41 @shiorimakibawrites @norestfortheshelbywicked @mattmurdocksstarlight @acharliecoxedfan @roseallisonparker @yarrystyleeza @dramaholic18 @mattkinsella2 @ms-murdockswift @theetherealbloom @24hflower @mattmurdocksscars @schneeflocky

Bright light hitting the back of your eyelids caused you to stir, a faint groan falling out of you. Tightening your eyes closed further, you burrowed into the warmth beside you, nuzzling your face further into your pillow. You’d had a peaceful sleep for once, this time not waking up with a headache from the wine you usually drank to achieve a sleep so undisturbed, and you didn’t want to wake up. You were comfortable. But the warmth around your waist unexpectedly squeezed you in return and your eyes flew open instantly.

You were met with the sight of a blue and white striped sweater, your mind quickly falling back to the previous night. You had come over to check on Michael after you’d seen him break down in his room through your bedroom windows that faced each other. He’d told you how he’d been there when his nephew–no, his son , you reminded yourself–had been accidentally shot and killed. He’d also told you how no one else in his family had been there for him.

Which remained true last night, too. You had told Michael you’d be there for him as long as he needed you, and that had turned into the pair of you staying up for quite awhile talking last night. Generally about not much in particular–certainly nothing personal on either of your accounts–but the conversation always managed to loop back to Jamie. And Michael had broken down each time the topic of his son’s passing was brought back up. Through the hours you’d been sitting on his sofa with him, not once had someone called him or came to his door to check on him. Not a single time.

Your heart had broken at that knowledge, which was probably why you’d stayed so late here that you had apparently fallen asleep on Michael. Now your cheeks were heating up with embarrassment realizing you were about to experience another awkward moment with him. Biting your lip, you tried to glance up and see if he was awake, but all you could see from where you were positioned on his chest was his dark beard and his mouth. And for a moment your eyes lingered on his lips, becoming all too aware of the solid feel of Michael beneath you. Eyes closing, you breathed in the warm scent of him that seemed to envelope you. He smelled like something earthy and smoky, the scent reminding you of the many birch trees you’d seen around Ireland when you arrived, but also something warm, too, almost like cinnamon. The scent of him reminded you of a bonfire on an autumn day–comforting and peaceful.

His unmistakably large palm ran up the length of your spine as beneath you Michael apparently stirred awake himself. He inhaled a deep breath, your head rising up with the movement of his chest, as his hand slid up your back. You fought the urge to physically shudder under his palm–his touch had felt too good. And it was wrong in so many ways for you to have enjoyed that as much as you had. But then Michael’s hand abruptly stopped just between your shoulder blades as if he, too, realized the situation the pair of you were in.

Very slowly you pushed yourself back from Michael, realizing you had one arm wrapped around his waist and one hand gripping his shoulder. You removed them both quickly, your eyes awkwardly meeting his as you did. His own arms immediately slid their way off of your waist, returning to his lap as he sent you a sheepish smile.

“Well this is certainly…” you muttered, voice trailing off as you glanced away.

“Awkward?” he supplied.

You nodded, tucking some hair behind your ear as you did. “Yeah,” you agreed. “Just a–a bit. I uh, I’m sorry for–”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, cutting you off.

Your eyes flew back up to meet his, taking in the gentle expression on his face. The smile on his mouth was still there, though it looked slightly less timid than it did seconds ago.

“I uh, I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep,” you mumbled.

“Neither did I,” he admitted.

Silence fell between the pair of you as you shifted a little bit away from him on the cushions. Your eyes fell down towards your feet, taking in the sight of your mismatched socks. Heat was still burning at your cheeks as you sat there incredibly aware of his presence beside you. Sucking in a sharp breath, you turned to Michael and spoke at the exact same moment he did.

“I should go.”

“D’ya want some coffee?”

The both of you sat there, trying to catch what the other had just said. Your lips parted, eyes going wide at his offer. Meanwhile Michael’s expression returned to sheepish as he ducked his head, running a hand over the back of his neck. He nodded solemnly.

“I understand,” he whispered.

“I mean I–” you began slowly, stopping to nervously bite your lip when he immediately looked up at you from under his lashes, his hand pausing on the back of his neck. “I could…go for a coffee,” you finished lamely.

“Yeah?” he asked, his hand falling down to his lap as he perked up. “It’s probably not anythin’ fancy to ya, I’ll admit.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “As long as it’s not decaf I’ll happily drink some caffeine right now,” you replied. “I just uh, should probably call Megan. If you don’t mind? She had that shift last night and is probably wondering what the hell happened to me now that I think about it…”

Michael waved a hand as he rose from the sofa. “No, go ahead. I’ll get a pot brewin’ in the kitchen. Which is just down the hall there,” he said, pointing down his hallway.

You nodded, sliding your phone out of your pocket as Michael turned and exited the sitting room, making his way towards the kitchen. Immediately you noticed you had a few calls and texts from your sister. The last one was from ten minutes ago. Heart sinking at having worried her, you quickly dialed her number and waited as the phone rang. But it only took two rings before she picked up.

“Fucking hell, are you okay?” Megan asked, voice full of concern.

“Yes, I’m so sorry, Meg,” you told her in a rush. “I would normally have sent a text or something but it was late and I guess I fell asleep without realizing it. I just woke up and figured I’d give you a quick call so you wouldn’t be worried. I’m so, so sorry.”

Megan blew out a rough breath on the other end of the line. You felt awful for making her worry like that, especially with the two shifts she’d had to work at the hospital and especially with your situation. She’d probably gotten shitty sleep last night and it was all your fault.

“I thought you were fucking gone,” she whispered. “Or–or dead .”

“I’m so fucking sorry, Meg,” you repeated. “I really am. It won’t happen again.”

“Where are you?” she asked. “If you’re not here, where the fuck did you fall asleep?”

You cleared your throat, your eyes darting towards the partially open door of the sitting room. Briefly you wondered if Michael could hear you. Would he be listening in?

“I’m uh, next door,” you said awkwardly.

There was a moment of silence before Megan let out an ear splitting shriek. It was so loud that it startled you and you had to pull the phone away from your ear until she was done.

“Christ, thanks for that,” you muttered.

“You fucked him didn’t you?” she squealed. “Oh my God, you took my advice!”

“Pretty sure that wasn’t your advice,” you said, lowering your voice. “But no, I did not do that.”

Megan scoffed over the line. “Yeah, okay. As if there’s any other reason you’d be there the whole night,” she said.

“He was grieving ,” you snapped, your voice a quiet hiss. “I saw him through that damned bedroom window and I couldn’t just–just ignore him. So I stopped by and we talked. Ended up falling asleep on his couch with him. Nothing of that nature happened.”

“So you’re coming back over now?” she asked slyly. “Because if you’re calling me instead of just coming back home, I’m guessing the answer is no.”

Eyelids dropping closed, you knew she’d caught you there. Your shoulders fell as you sighed.

“He’s making me coffee,” you admitted. “So I’ll be back after that.”

“Oh, you’re staying for morning coffee?” Megan teased. “He’s not trying to kick you out already? Damn, sis, he wants you bad .”

“Stop it,” you warned.

“Come off it,” she replied. “You know you want him. Stop trying to hide it from me. I’m not an idiot.”

“I’m hanging up now,” you said.

“Just undo that man’s zipper, get on your goddamn knees, and ta–”

You hit the ‘end call’ button in the middle of her comment, already knowing exactly where she was going with that. More than likely she’d be repeating all of that to you when you went back home after that coffee. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t about to go into Michael’s kitchen and try to not think about his cock.

“Fuck,” you breathed out.

The memory of his strong arms around your waist just moments ago resurfaced. It had felt so incredibly good to be wrapped around him when you’d woken up, your head resting on his firm chest. He’d smelled good, too. Better than you could have imagined. You knew you weren’t going to be able to forget about that now–any of it.

Shaking your head, you tried to push all of those thoughts aside for the time being. Now wasn’t the time to make sense of them. Michael was probably wondering what was taking you so long. Rising to your feet, you slid your phone into the pocket of your sweatpants and shuffled your way around his coffee table and towards the hallway. As you walked, you realized his kitchen was the same distance from the sitting room as Megan’s was from hers. You figured he'd probably heard at least some of that conversation and that thought had you blushing.

When you rounded the corner and turned into the kitchen, you spotted Michael already pouring coffee into mugs on the small island counter. His eyes darted up to you, a small smile on his lips as you stepped over towards the kitchen island. Gradually you came to stand at the opposite end of it, leaning your hands against the black countertop.

"How d'ya take your coffee?" he asked.

"I'll drink it black," you answered. "I don't need all the extra in it."

He picked up one of the white ceramic mugs and took two steps towards you, holding the cup out to you. You whispered a soft 'thanks' as you accepted the steaming mug from his hands before drawing it to your lips. Swallowing the hot liquid down, you eyed the coffee mug in your hands in surprise–it was better than you'd expected.

"What? Not good?" Michael asked curiously.

Your attention turned to him over the top of the mug and you immediately shook your head. "This is actually better than those coffee pods Megan has," you responded. "You apparently have good coffee."

You thought you saw pink tinge his cheeks as he turned towards his fridge, opening it and pulling creamer from a shelf. He poured some into his own mug as he shook his head.

"Can't actually take the credit," he admitted. "Birdy was the one who picked it out." His eyes rose up and fell on you as he put the cap back on the creamer. "Ya met her already, from what I've heard."

"Ahh, yes," you replied, bringing the mug back up for another drink as you carefully thought out your response. "She did pay me a welcoming visit the other day," you continued after your sip. "Seems like a sweet woman. Apparently she knows good coffee then."

That seemed a safe reply.

Michael chuckled, nodding as he turned and opened the fridge door again to put away the creamer. "She's certainly somethin'," he mumbled.

Both of your hands held onto the warm mug, oddly enjoying the coffee and the light conversation with Michael this morning despite the awkwardness of having woken up on top of him. Across the small kitchen island, he raised his own mug to his lips, his eyes on you. With the bright sunlight pouring through the large window just to your left, you could see the varying flecks of green and brown in his eyes. They still seemed to hold a lot of pain in them, but they also somehow looked lighter this morning than any other time you’d run into him yet. A little less mournful, somehow.

“Thank ya for stayin’,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You shrugged, fingers nervously fidgeting against the mug in your hands. “Wasn’t a big deal,” you mumbled.

“It was to me,” he replied.

His eyes held yours and it felt like his gaze had somehow pulled you in yet again; you couldn’t seem to look away from him. His elbows were resting on the countertop as he slowly leaned in further towards you, and even though he was still a few feet away, the little gesture felt somehow intimate. Your pulse quickened when his mouth opened, as if he was about to say more but he was still trying to process how to put it into words. Movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention though, and somehow your focus finally shifted away from his and down towards it.

And then you screamed, jumping backwards and almost spilling your coffee when you registered what you’d seen. Michael instantly tensed, pushing off of the countertop and immediately making his way over towards you. He was anxiously looking out of his front window, his back to you as he came to a stop just in front of you.

“What?” he asked quickly, eyes still searching out of the window.

You shifted around him a bit, your finger pointing down at the kitchen island. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Michael’s brows furrowing as his gaze followed to where you were pointing. It took him a moment but when he saw what had startled you, you saw his shoulders visibly relax. He looked over his shoulder at you, a grin sliding across his lips. There was a glimmer of amusement lighting up his eyes and quickly replacing that hint of panic you’d picked up on.

“A spider?” he asked.

“Yes!” you said, taking another step back and cowering around your mug. “I fucking hate spiders!”

“It’s a little spider, Grace,” he said, amused. “It’s not goin’ to hurt ya.”

Peeking back around Michael, your eyes dropped down to where it was crawling towards you on the countertop. You cringed, taking another step back. Michael’s brows rose high onto his forehead as he turned fully towards you, his lips curling into an even wider grin as he took in your reaction.

“Okay, well either it goes or I go,” you told him. “So on that note–”

His amusement quickly vanished at your words before he abruptly cut you off.

“I’ll get rid of it,” he stated.

Gaze flying back up to him, you watched as he turned and searched around the counter beside the pair of you for a second. He grabbed an unopened envelope from a stack of mail sitting in the corner and turned back around. You had expected him to smash the insect with it, but instead you watched as he very gently placed the envelope down in front of the spider. Ever so carefully he coaxed it onto the piece of mail and then gingerly he lifted it from the countertop. You backed up almost entirely down the hallway towards the sitting room as he made his way out of the kitchen. He chuckled softly as he turned to the right, making his way to the front door. You watched in curiosity as he unlocked the door and stepped outside, crouching down and releasing the spider out there instead of simply just killing it on the counter.

He stood back up before turning to face you where you were still cowering in his hallway. He was grinning just outside the front door at you, the amusement back on his face.

“Does that work for ya?” he asked, tone almost teasing.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” you said awkwardly.

You could feel the heat once again rising to your cheeks this morning. How embarrassing, getting worked up over a spider in front of some Irish mobster. Though it was oddly telling about his character with how gently he dealt with it. And how he’d seemingly moved in front of you when you’d initially screamed, as if he’d maybe been trying to protect you from a threat outside, something vastly more serious than a spider. And that had you curious in more ways than one.

“Michael, what’re ya doin’ out here, dear?”

At the unmistakable sound of Birdy’s voice, you instantly tensed. Your hands tightened around your mug, your heart rate once again rising. You knew she was aware of something being off about you, especially because she’d apparently been watching you lately. Finding you here at Michael’s first thing in the morning having coffee was only going to raise further suspicion and interest about you.

“Was just gettin’ rid of a spider,” he said, glancing at Birdy who you assumed was just outside the door. “Grace is afraid of ‘em.”

“Oh,” Birdy said, her tone noticeably shifting. “I didn’t know ya already had company, Mikey dear. So ya have the lovely Grace here this mornin’?”

Michael shot you an apologetic look before Birdy appeared just inside the doorway. She was wearing another dress and heels, her hair in perfect curls and her face made up. She shot you a wide smile that only sent chills down your spine–it wasn’t exactly a friendly smile.

“I wasn’ tryin’ to intrude, but do ya mind if I stop in?” Birdy asked, her eyes shifting back and forth between you and Michael behind her.

You cleared your throat, taking a few steps towards the kitchen. “I can just go–”

“Nonsense, love,” Birdy said, her eyes dropping to your mug. “Ya haven’t even finished your coffee yet!” She waved a hand dismissively as she stepped inside, Michael following behind. “I don’t want to ruin your mornin’. Just stoppin’ by to see how Michael was doin’.”

“I uh, I’m grand,” Michael said, closing his front door.

Birdy hummed out a noise in response as she stepped into the kitchen, her eyes curiously landing on you. That wide smile was still on her face, her focus not even remotely on Michael as he stepped around behind you, one of his hands lightly brushing along your lower back as he tried to maneuver around the small space back to his mug.

“So ya don’t like spiders, dear?” Birdy asked.

“I’m certainly not a fan of them, no,” you answered her, a strained, polite smile on your lips.

Michael chuckled lightly. “Shoulda heard the scream,” he teased.

Birdy shrugged indifferently, her eyes never leaving you. “They’re not for everyone. Some o’ them give me a fright, too.”

You brought your mug to your lips, trying to drink the coffee down faster without being too obvious. You wanted an excuse to leave now, your peaceful morning with Michael completely disturbed with her presence here. Her piercing stare was making you uncomfortable.

Birdy’s head tilted to the side as she continued to study you. “How d’ya feel ‘bout snakes then, Grace?” she asked curiously.

You froze, the mug just at your lips. For a moment it felt like you couldn’t breathe as her words hit you. Very slowly you lowered the cup from your mouth.

“What?” you asked.

“Snakes, love,” Birdy repeated. “Ya know, those slithery little serpents. Ya like those?”

On the opposite side of the kitchen island from her, Michael raised his mug to his lips. He seemed almost unphased by Birdy’s odd question, though his brows drew together at it while he drank down his coffee. You, on the other hand, were all too aware of her touching on something that was making you want to bolt out the front door just to your left. You were pretty sure she was onto something.

“No,” you responded, your voice sounding off even to your own ears as you spoke, “I–I’m not really a fan of those either.”

“Hmm,” Birdy hummed out, her blue eyes fixed on you. There was a long, awkward pause before she said, “Then I s’pose you won’t like the collection o’ snakes Michael’s brother has in his basement.”

Swallowing hard, you sent her a weak smile. “No,” you agreed, your voice still off, “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

Michael’s attention shifted towards you, his eyes narrowing a bit before they returned to Birdy. You could practically hear his mind beginning to work, picking up on the weird tension now palpable in his kitchen. You raised the mug to your mouth again, drinking down the hot coffee faster.

“You’re a writer, correct?” Birdy continued, that smile still on her lips. “I seem to recall your sister sayin’ that.”

“Yes,” you answered quickly.

“You’ve got some sort of series published, yes?” she pressed. “A whole load of books in it?”

“Mhmm,” you responded, your nerves increasing.

Birdy’s eyes narrowed, her attention dropping down to the countertop as one of her manicured nails tapped her chin. Michael was watching her curiously now, his coffee forgotten on the island.

“What was the series called again?” she mused aloud. Her eyes widened a second later before they darted over to you. “ The Road to Hell , yes?”

Fuck me.

Forcing another tight smile on your face, your cheeks aching at the gesture, you nodded once. “Yeah, that’s the one,” you said, voice tense.

“Ya know, I’ve heard of that series before. But I thought that was actually written by a…” her voice trailed off for a moment, that thoughtful look briefly returning to her face. A moment later she said it–your real name.

“It’s a pen name,” you explained simply.

“Odd ya pick your sister’s last name for a pen name,” Birdy replied slowly.

“Guess I was more creative with the actual story than the pen name,” you said, fighting to keep the edge out of your voice.

“Ahh, well,” she said, shrugging lightly. “Maybe I’ll have to pick up some copies, seein’ as the lovely author lives just down the street.”

Throughout the entire exchange between you and Birdy, you had noticed the way Michael remained silent, simply studying the pair of you. Just watching the back and forth with increasing interest.

You needed to get out of here. Make an excuse and leave.

“You know, it’s actually great you brought that up,” you said, feigning like you’d just remembered something. “I forgot I actually have a conference call with my editor and my publishing company this morning. I should probably head back home and get ready for that.”

With shaky hands, you reached out and set your almost empty mug onto the countertop. Michael pushed off of the island instantly, his face falling a bit as he made his way towards you.

“I can walk ya out,” he offered.

Behind him, Birdy popped her hip out and leant against the countertop. One of those cat-that-ate-the-canary smiles slipped onto her mouth as she eyed you.

“Was lovely chattin’ with ya, Grace,” she said.

You shot her a tense smile, not trusting your words right now. In a hurry you turned and left the kitchen, grateful the front door was so close by. You could feel Michael just at your back as you slipped your feet into your shoes in a rush. Before you could reach a hand out to open the front door though, Michael was already maneuvering around you in the tight hallway and opening it for you. Your eyes met his yet again, some of your nerves momentarily dissipating when he smiled at you.

“I’ll uh, see ya later then?” he asked hopefully.

“I mean I–I do live next door,” you replied, aware Birdy was most likely eavesdropping from the kitchen. “So most likely.”

He nodded and you quickly turned, stepping outside and briskly walking down his drive and away from his house. You could practically feel Birdy’s inquisitive eyes on you from the kitchen window as you went. Rounding the tall stone fence in a hurry, you made your way straight to Megan’s front door.

So Birdy had apparently been doing some research on you. And if that was the case, well then, you figured two could play that game.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one with secrets,” you muttered to yourself, unlocking Megan’s front door. “Guess it’s time to see what the Kinsellas’ are hiding.”

#michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x female reader #michael kinsella #kin amc #kin fanficiton

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noodyl-blasstal · 10 months

Text

The Dog House

Day 15 of @taznovembercelebration and I got "playlist"

Read below or on Ao3. Missed yesterday? Catch up here.

"Taako?"

Music thuds out of the kitchen, loud, bouncy, and accompanied by the sweet scent of vanilla and spices wafting in the air.

"Taako?" Kravitz tried a bit louder.

Nothing.

There is absolutely no way for Kravitz to compete with ‘Bake, bake, bake, bake, ba, bake it’ and be heard. He knows, he’s tried before. The volume is an important part of the process.

Although... Maybe that will actually work in his favour. Kravitz pulls out his phone, juggling the warm lump in his arms to do it. It’s worth a try, if nothing else, Taako would see the funny side.

He hits record and smiles lovingly into the camera. "Hello love, I'm just here at the house and I have something big to ask you." There's no reply from Taako.

"If you don't reply, I'll assume it's okay, but can we get a dog?" The music thumps away in the kitchen.

"Specifically this dog?" Kravitz readjusts slightly to get the pomeranian into view. "He's very fluffy."

"Okay, well, as I haven't heard anything from you, I'm assuming this means Fluffums can stay."

Fluffums' tongue pokes out adorably and he flops his sweet head to the side. Kravitz can't resist planting a little kiss on it.

"That's the name he came with by the way. Magnus… well, you know. Anyway... I'm glad you..."

"Magnus did this?" Taako says from behind his right shoulder.

Fuck.

Kravitz should have known better than to assume he'd get away with this, Taako always knows somehow, but also, he'll kill or die for this dog… Well, be sulky about it if Taako says definitely not because obviously two yesses is important, but maybe he can live in the Astral Plane part time again, Taako’s really into this sleeping stuff. Fluffums licks his hand reassuringly.

Kravitz smiles as innocently as he can and stops the recording… Maybe if he edits it down Taako’ll forget that he heard the last bit? He didn’t say anything when Kravitz said to anyway - you couldn’t object to a wedding three months later could you? Probably not. He’d have to look it up before he used that as a defence, but it sounded solid.

“Magnus didn’t do anything. He just showed me Flu…”

“No. We’re changing his name.”

“But what if he…”

“He doesn’t. He’s not attached to it. Taako is not calling anyone Fluffums.”

“Even m…”

“Especially not you… Unless you ask nicely.” Taako breaks his serious face to smirk at Kravitz and goddess damn it all if that doesn’t still make him want to kiss Taako stupid.

He has to concentrate though, he can win this. He just needs a compelling argument.

“Look at his little face.” Kravitz elevates The Dog Formerly Known As Fluffums to eye level with Taako. “See.”

“Yip!” Says No Longer Fluffums in the most charming tone (even if Kravitz does say so himself.)

And, it’s only a split second, the smallest of glimpses, but he sees the softness in Taako’s eyes.

“He needs a home, somewhere safe.” Says Kravitz.

That argument’s how Taako got all the cats here.

“And what about the ca…”

“He loves cats.”

“But couldn’t eat a whole one?” Taako tries to look stern, he almost manages it.

“Taako! He would never.”

“Mr Mittens is going to fight him.”

“Mr Mittens fights everyone.”

“Not me.”

“Well of course not, you’re perfect, Mr Mittens fights everyone else.”

There’s a long pause, then Taako stares intently at The Dog Who Couldn’t Be Fluffums, the dog stares right back, pink tongue poking daintily out of his mouth. Kravitz wants to snap a picture, but he really shouldn’t ruin the moment and he’s already taken so many…

Taako wrinkles his nose. “He’s not sleeping on the bed.”

Kravitz can sleep on the sofa once Taako is asleep and sneak back to bed before he wakes up, that’s completely fine.

Kravitz nods seriously.

“He can’t climb on the furniture.”

Kravitz isn’t furniture. Ergo, if he was sitting on the chair then anything sitting on him wasn’t on the chair. That was just science.

“That seems fair.”

“You need to do all the research on how to look after him.”

Taako says that like he thinks there’s a chance Kravitz hasn’t already done an intense Googling session at Magnus’. Like he didn’t stop at the pet store on the way home. Like he hasn’t already rifted everything they could need and more into his closet.

“Of course I can do that.” He pauses, waits for any other conditions, but none come, Taako must love him. “Does that mean we ca…”

“Yep.” Taako tries to look ambivalent, he fails.

It’s not that Kravitz ever really thought Taako would say no, but it’s nice to have official confirmation.

“What do you think of Fluffernutter?” Taako asks suddenly.

“Conceptually, or?”

“For him.” He nods towards Kravitz’s armfull of dog.

Kravitz considers it for a moment, he’s definitely fluffy and sweet, peanut butter is nice, he’s nice. Kravitz likes fluffernutter, he likes the dog. “Yes. I think that’s right, love.”

Fluffernutter nuzzles happily at the crook of Kravitz’s arm as Kravitz draws Taako into his free arm. “I promise to still love you just as much.” He says, grinning over Taako’s head.

“You’d better. Cha’boy refuses to lose out to anyone.” Taako’s hand strokes idly at Fluffernutter, the dog nuzzles his hand and wiggles towards him.

Kravitz gives it a week before Taako’s the favourite. It’s okay, he’s Kravitz’s favourite too.

I hope you enjoyed! Wanna see the next prompt? Find it here.

#taz november celebration #taz nc #The Adventure Zone #Noodyl Writes #TAZ fic #Taakitz #Taako #Kravitz

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ominous-feychild · 2 months

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✦ Writerly Questionnaire ✦

Thank you so much for tagging me, @the-golden-comet!! This looks fun, and a lot of these are questions I love answering and wanted to share here eventually, anyway! 😊

About Me

When did you first start writing?

It depends on how you define that, and then what you consider "writing", haha. 😅😭 I started this one garbage self-insert fic when I was 8, but didn't get far into it, haha. Then I wrote at least 100 pages of a horrible novel in a notebook at age 11. I consider the time I "officially" started writing to be when I started consistently doing so in 2014... when I started roleplaying on Google+. Before long, I'd formed my own stories from ideas I'd come up with in those rps and eventually settled on working on writing with a single writing partner for 5 years. We have since parted ways as of almost 3 years now.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

Yes and no? Here's the thing: I absolutely adore my niche genre of "high fantasy and Used To Magic So Barely Questions It, but placed in a world that resembles modern besides a variable lack of technology. Oh, and we focus more on the characters than anything else!" But, uh... at least as far as I've found, that really isn't common. Especially not stories that also play faeries for horror, which is one of my favorite things, haha. I'm very firm and comfy in my writing genre. I've dipped elsewhere, but they're a lot harder for me to write and nowhere near as fulfilling, haha. However! I do love reading other genres, too! I love superhero and superhero-esque stories, I like a good amount of those "video game stuff popped up in real life" things, and yeah! Lots more. So it's less of a thing of "not liking the genre I write" or even "not being able to find it" and more of a "I like writing something very specific, but still enjoy other stuff". 😊

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

Ohhh this is kinda a difficult question? Nobody's ever told me specifically whether or not I resemble any other writers, and I only want to "emulate" other writers very loosely? I compare my worldbuilding to Tolkein's because I've been working on it for almost 6 years, have steadily been building out individual cultures and half-creating languages, have literally done weeks' worth of research on Earth Sciences to be able to build out a planet that Works... and then half threw it all out when I came up with the Faewildes and realized I can bullshit it. 😂😅😭 (Note: I still do not fully bullshit it though. Just don't stress as much as I used to.)

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

Confession: I've moved around way too much and been way too poor to have any "solid" writing space that I'd like. I used to like going to cafes, getting some tea, and sitting by a window I could stare outside (and dissociate to) while hallucinating scenes before writing them. But for a long while, I've been too poor to be able to do that. It's actually probably one of the reasons I've struggled a lot to write recently now that I think about it... but oh, well. Since then, I tend to prop myself up in my bed with my stuffed animals and squishmallows forming a throne of sorts as I write. (Helps prevent back/neck pain, or at least push its onset back.)

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Editing my old writing and listening to The Story's Music! It helps me get back into the headspace of the relevant character(s) and it brings my mind back into the "prose writing" state. (Clarification: 99% of the music I listen to is associated with an entire story, one of my characters, a specific scene, or some combination of the above. It's both fun and one of my oldest ways of tricking my AuDHD brain into writing!)

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

Ha... the trauma sure did!

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

Trauma, discrimination, and poverty. No, they do not surprise me, because they've all been a huge part of my life. SaS is a rare exception because (as I was initially creating it for a writing contest) I specifically created it to be very mainstream... but also mixed in a lot of my personal interests to get me through it. However, I think those themes (minus poverty in the MCs) still shine through, they're just a lot more subtle.

My Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

Technically, dare I say, a LOT of my characters are "among my favorite characters". However, as I've gone on record saying, it's probably Gene, one of the MCs of the Arcane Rifts, haha. However! Since I already have an Ask in my inbox about him (I'll get to those eventually, I swear 🙏) I'll go elsewhere! I think among my top favorite characters would probably be Carmin, Basil, Caron, Xao (pronounced "How", and yes he never hears the end of it), Tobin, Sammy, and Quinn! Tbh I definitely could've listed more, as I said, I love most of them-- Quinn, though! Is the son of the Existence of Fate, one of the "oldest gods" of my stories. He's forced to see all of time, always. That mistake he made 300 years ago? Almost literally burned into his brain. That mistake you made five seconds ago? Also there. Something happening on the complete other side of the world? Yep. And actions people will commit 500 years from now? You betcha. Except, the "future" events can change, and more drastically so the further they are in the future. Butterfly effect and all. He and his mother, Fate, are constantly doing things in pursuit of... what? Well, they have a plan... but I obviously can't say, haha. Dude's horribly traumatized, though--he's constantly witnessing every single atrocity ever committed and has even watched others that would've been committed played on repeat in his mind until he found a Timeline that prevented it. He's long-since grown used to it, but also consider... his own life is in there. Nothing that happens to him will ever be a surprise. Not except for when he creates a new timeline by changing events that should've otherwise happened. That's why he's constantly telling jokes and being obnoxious to people he doesn't like--to humor himself for the small moments they're new to him. Kid's (he's frozen at a young age because powerful magic + ageless-immortality) depressed af... but it's okay. He's working towards something he believes in. So why are Quinn and Fate actively doing horrible things if they want to make things better? Guess you'll have to find out! In ten-thousand years when I finally write the reveal. (I love Quinn so much istg--)

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life?

Oh, that's hard. Probably Gene! Maybe Freya, but definitely Daleira and Faer! Here, let me just-- Probably: Gene, Mislav, Faer, Liesel, Maritza, Grimnir, Caron Definitely: Daleira, Damaris, Ludmila, Rada, Carmin, Cricket Possibly: Freya, Crow (but I'd possibly find them irritating / overwhelming), Adilzhan, Caspar, Soren, Zarina, Basil (Half of the "probably/possibly"s is because I'm not sure if they'd like me. Especially Zarina. Omfg I love her so much but idk if she'd like me at all.)

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

Oh, dear. This is a difficult question. I'll start with characters you guys know--Tazin and Valyarus. Hands down. Tazin because he's way too loud/crude and he would both overstimulate me and piss me off to no end. Valyarus, well... because he's an egotistical, rich prick. Enough said? But actually? Half of the Existentials. Order especially, Fire, and Storm. Perhaps not so coincidentally, all of the "top gods" besides Fate herself...

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters.

So it depends on the character and why I'm creating them! There's a few different ways one of my characters can come to be, but uh... we'll start with explaining Oska's creation! So, from the beginning, Oska was created to just be the leader of the khonitva (a gang). Originally, he was going to have a rather small role in the story--the khonitva and the reason he was the leader were more important. His main role in the first draft was showing up at a REALLY bad time, capturing the relevant MC(s), and killing another character. So all I worked on was his personality (it related to how/why he was the leader) and his motives. He became an angy man out for vengeance and basically nothing else. Then I expanded on tAR, turning it from a duology to... well it'll be 5 or 6 books now. 😅 The first two books would spend more time in Kavo (the town Gene lives in), and so Oska's character expanded. A MASSIVE part of his character was tied to the death of his brother, so I did a little expanding on his brother, and he had a "sidekick" in Rieka, the khonitva's healer who (even from early drafts) had romantic feelings for him (but at the time they weren't mutual; Oska had too much anger for his brother's death). Oska's character has perpetually been focused on his brother's death and his role as the leader of the khonitva, so I simply expanded it so that--rather than just being the leader--he cared for the khonitva like a family because it was the only bit of "family" he had left. So uh... I guess I focus on the most important part(s) of the characters relative to the story, then expand on them? That's the "role in the story" method I flesh out a character, at least, haha. Otherwise, if I'm just trying to create something with a very VAGUE role/idea, I'll often look at writing prompts, artwork, the literal superpower wiki, and fandoms I'm not part of for something to make me start to think. Y'know, have ideas. I'd get into an example, but this section is already pretty long, haha!

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

COUGH the social Others or socially-othered COUGH impoverished and/or exploited COUGH abused by a parental figure COUGH abused in general COUGH neurodivergent and/or gay COUGH, WHEEZE, HACK-- Ugh, sorry, idk what just happened there. Probably the fact that a lot of them are socially awkward, have anxiety, have a "different" way of communicating, and/or are emotionally withdrawn? And I accidentally give my autism to a lot of them. 😎😭

How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.)

Through Pinterest boards! I have aphantasia and can't really see things in my head very well (if at all), so I'll use Pinterest boards to collect images that have the Vibe™ or characteristics of my individual characters... which is incredibly difficult for my inhuman or even more ordinarily diverse characters. Like, I'd get into a tangent about "why is 90% of art on the internet of white and/or conventionally attractive people" but uh... I don't think I have to here. Anyway! Yeah, a lot of my characters, I'll have vague ideas/impressions of what they look like and seek things out along those lines. Freya, for example, I basically immediately knew to have poofy red hair like Brave's Merida. Some characters are a lot harder, because I think I know a certain thing is a fact... when apparently I saw them as a completely different race without realizing??? (RIP White Rada for example. I was actively TRYING to make a majority of tAR's characters white because they're so xenophobic but no. 😅)

My Writing

What’s your reason for writing?

I used to space out and "hallucinate" scenes of my writing while going about my day. It was my way of coping with the rest of my life, which really wasn't great. (I mean it still isn't now but, y'know. It's much better!) Since I started working on novels, my goal has shifted. I mean--I still write for myself and my own enjoyment first and foremost. But I don't just want to write for myself--I also want to write for others. Here, let me just share a majority of my bio from Tapas--

I'm an autistic woman who's lived through a variety of experiences and places, and like to include things reflecting that. Diverse characters, cultures, environments, and politics (different within each in-story location!) appear in my writing. I like weaving life lessons--through the experiences of relatable characters--into the stories I tell. Many people see themselves or the people around them reflected in the characters they see in books, so I think it's helpful for people to be able to see those same kinds of people within fiction so they can reflect on the relationships within their own lives.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

THEORIES!!!

I absolutely love it when people theorize because:

I put oh-so many mysteries and hints toward Truths

it shows they're paying attention

it shows they care enough to try to pick out the pieces and put them together!

I can see how well I'm doing with the seeding of hints if people are noticing them... even/especially if they realize they're important but don't know how/in what way!

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.)

Oh dear, you're trying to out me as an egotist now, aren't you?

WELL CONGRATS, I'M FALLING FOR IT--

I'd like to think of myself as a writer who does amazing worldbuilding and makes realistic characters, so... obviously it'd be awesome if others thought of me the same way, haha. I mean, otherwise, I'd really just prefer people enjoy my writing in general? Tbh I don't have any other goals besides enjoying it myself and making others happy with it.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I would say realistic and diverse characters. I'm a huge fan of psychology, love learning about other cultures, and listen to the stories of people from a lot of various backgrounds. I like to think those things allow me to write characters with a variety of backgrounds, worldviews, and personalities.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

Nobody's necessarily said it's my "greatest" strength, but the most common compliment I receive about my writing is that it's very easy to read and picture what I'm describing!

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.)

Uhm... this is a difficult question to answer. I like my stories, but I struggle with prose. I overthink a lot and sometimes have a very hard time describing things in good part because of my aphantasia, but it can be very validating to hear when I do a good job with it.

I have a lot more fun creating the ideas and maybe even making outlines than I do actually writing them--but I'm pretty sure that's kinda normal, haha?

My writing today is very different from what it was 3 years ago, back when I was still writing with my old RP partner (we'd planned to publish together). It was a lot more grimdark before, and tbh I never liked that and only came to terms with that after we parted ways. Then, I put my time and effort into working on tAR (solely my own work even then), clearing out a lot of the grimdark-ness, and building it out to what it is today. I'd temporarily abandoned our old projects because I needed to cut her stuff out, but didn't know how to, and it was painful to try.

it was only a handful of months ago that I revisited my old works with her and found that it's no longer painful. So I've finally been bringing together my old worldbuilding with the kind of writing I want to make today--which still requires a lot of changes and updating.

In short: I love writing, though it can be very emotionally-loaded. I have a lot of insecurities relating to the quality thereof, but I'm pretty sure that's universal, haha.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Of course! Though it'd likely be more outlines than actual prose, haha. After all, I primarily write for myself first and foremost.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

Yes and no; so it's a mix of the two. The priority, of course, is what I enjoy writing. However, I do want to become a published author and (hopefully) live primarily off of it one day. That goal means I also have to cater somewhat to what I know other people will like/what makes sense to them.

However, I don't particularly think that's a problem in my case! In application to tAR, I refuse to change it in a lot of its core ways--aka the multiple plots going on at once, the MCs starting as children, the mixture of invented words from their native language, and the fact that it doesn't cleanly fit into any genre--so figuring out how to make it otherwise palatable for others to read is more of a fun challenge for me actually!

SaS is different, however. I purposely made it very mainstream due to initially starting it for a contest (which has since ended), and I think those clichés make it much less enjoyable for me than it otherwise would be. But that can still be changed! I'm working on building out SaS as you read this--that's part of why I focus on it with Asks--so hopefully I'll come to love it half as much as I do tAR!

(And, I mean, to be fair, SaS has been growing on me lately! So it seems to be working at least a little! I think SaS was also very unique for my stories in that I made it to be a story rather than picking out events that I already saw happening in the world I've made, so it's been harder to get into it in general.)

Looks like I've rambled more than I should again, haha. 😅😭 Hope it was still worth reading and/or that you guys enjoyed it anyway??

Tagging (with no pressure): @honeybewrites @yourpenpaldee @the-letterbox-archives @darkandstormydolls

Divider by @cafekitsune