elenor222

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 830

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure, smut

previous

INTERLUDE: She Thought Losing Was Death

After Magnus leaves, you make yourself matcha and noodles. You sit on your bed with legs folded inwards, slurping noodles with a heart half gone. Lina’s father calls you three sips into the green drink, asking if you can babysit for five hours—he has a meeting, and his mother is somewhere in the southwest.

You tell him you’d be happy to, phone wedged between your ear and shoulder as you search for something clean to wear. Lina’s father hands her over, with packed lunch for both of you. He’s grateful you could look after her. You don’t know what’s worse, him knowing you were broken enough to not cook or trusting a stranger who looked at his child like she belonged to her. He’s kind to her in a way your father never was. It stings.

Lina doesn’t wait for permission to be at ease. She paces around your room, inspects books and critiques your lack of wall decoratives. You don’t tell a six-year-old you shattered the wall with a plate because rage needed somewhere to go.

Lina squints at a photo from your bookshelf.

“That’s the man at the ground floor of your complex.” She says it like a fact, like how kids know when it’s going to rain.

“I waved. He didn’t.” she mentions casually as your heart breaks. Then she runs ahead.

Lina asks if you can do her hair like yours. You ask her to sit on your bed while you go fetch some pretty stuff from old days. When you return, she insists on sitting on your lap.

“Did someone make you cry?” she asks while spilling juice on you. You don't ask her why she asks, or why she knows. You give her a lopsided smile instead.

“All done. Do you want to play something, sweetheart?” you ask her with the patience of a mother. She gives you three big nods, and you head into the closet holding her hand to find board games.

“What’s this?” Lina asks while inspecting your chess board. Your breath hitches but you don’t ask her to put it down.

She opens the board, looks confused, and says, “Where are the people?”

“Gone.” You tell her, voice shaky.

“Well, I’ll get them back.” She declares as she runs off to your kitchen.

She builds a set out of the sugar packets from the kitchen as the pawns, brings the rings and earrings from a drawer as the bishops and knights, the pennies and dimes becomes the queens, because as she says, “Queens are shiny”, a paperclip knight becomes your kings (“He’s broken but he still goes weird”) and the two of her hairclips become the rooks.

You look at her, stunned. You never dared touch the board after Zurich. But Lina’s looking at you like she already hung the stars. Couldn’t you be the moon?

You teach her their names and move. She’s slow but doesn’t hate it like you did initially. She’s intuitive when you actually start playing by the afternoon. She plays fearlessly, even gets close to mating you in one round.

It happened after Lina sacrificed her queen, intentionally. You gasped.

You hesitate before taking her queen. Your fingers hover over the e4 square. She nods once, like she’s giving you permission to do it.

“It’s okay,” Lina said, “She was in the way.”

“Why did you put your queen where I can take her?” you ask her.

“Because she wanted to do something brave.”

“But now she’s gone.”

“That’s what brave means sometimes.”

“I never thought the queen could leave the board and still win. I used to think losing meant death.” You murmur to yourself. You have forgotten your opening in Zurich. The empty squares don’t take your breath away anymore. You blunder without your heart drumming against your chest.

When she loses for the eighth time, Lina laughs. She looks at your comforting sad face and asks if you cry when you lose. She says she’ll reset the board for you. You hold her in your arms when feeding her. It’s more for you, than her.

“She doesn’t know it’s supposed to hurt yet.” You whisper to yourself when Lina laughs at your airplane lunch technique.

Lina draws a knight on paper and tapes it to the wall when her father arrives. You watch her tiny hands smooth the tape down. She doesn't ask where the others went. She just replaces them.

“In case the others leave again.” she explains as her father awkwardly lingers at the door. You don’t ask him to come in. You stare at the picture like its holy.

“Will you teach me the trap next time?” Lina asks before she leaves. Her hair bounces with every step she takes.

“Yeah. But only if you teach me how not to be scared.” you say it like it’s the first true thing you’ve said all week.

After she leaves, you sit on the floor. The board’s still out. The knight on your wall is watching. You don’t feel brave yet. But you don’t put it away either.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 947

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure, smut

previous

CHAPTER 10. The Floor Was Safer

You don’t know what’s more terrible, the bed being empty or the floor being his board. His back is against the bed frame, legs pulled up like a child caught in someone else’s storm. You’re draped in a towel, water dripping from your hair. His golden hair has long since lost its warm, it sits like a dull halo, like remembrance on his head.

Your breath catches. He’s avoiding your eyes as you drop the towel. It lands soft on cold tile. He still won’t look at you. When he feels your presence, he castles, tries to take up less space. Like that’ll spare either of you. You thought leaving without a word was his check, turns out, staying quiet is worse.

You want to scream. You don’t. Instead, you sit near him instead. Not beside, but close enough to make it worse. You pull his wrinkled shirt from the floor and wrap it around your wet body. You’ve never felt more ashamed in your own skin.

“Do you know what it’s like to look at someone and see everything you lost reflected back at you?” The cruelty isn’t in your voice. It’s in your calm. The river dried out long ago. This is drought season. You don’t soften now.

“I never asked you to stop playing” he says eventually, like that erases anything. Your hands curl into fists, eyes already too far gone from your posh apartment.

“You abandoned me. You saw me collapse and didn’t call. You watched me drown and didn’t text. You left, Magnus. And the worst part is—I still made the fucking bed after.” You pause and glance at him. He’s not crying. Of course not.

“You are a coward.” you spit. “You could’ve said you didn’t love me. I would've survived that. But you disappeared like I was an inconvenience.” Your eyes are watery, and your breathing is shallow. You mean every word you say.

He only flinches.

“You regret me” he states instead. You don’t look at each other.

“No.” you say, hollow. “You were the person I was supposed to be safe with. But loving you felt like tiptoeing in a burning house.” A tear slips from your eye.

“I watched you shatter and thought—I can’t stop this. But I could’ve. And I didn’t.” Magnus has a soft spring in his voice. You wonder how many of your sponsorships went to him. How many wins he owes to your silence.

How many people forgot you so they could remember him better?

“I would’ve rather you spit in my face than say nothing.” You let out a hollow laugh, still on the floor. The color on your face is brighter than most mornings in New York. Your chest flickers with something hotter than grief.

“You’re stronger than you think.” Magnus offers.

“You don’t know what it took to crawl out of this.” You snap back, eyes wide with betrayal. You cried yourself to sleep three months after Zurich. Your mother denied to even look at you. Your father disowned you.

“I thought if I loved you hard enough, you’d stop choosing yourself.” You tell him. The sky outside is an array of pink and orange. The air poisons your breath.

“I thought if I kept my distance, I could keep you whole.” He murmurs. He wants the d4 square after playing e4.

“You didn’t ruin me,” you say. Your voice is measured, cold.

“Then why do you sound like you’re still scraping yourself off the floor?” It lands. The silence grows teeth. “You broke long before I left. I just stopped pretending I could fix you.” He regrets saying it, you can tell by the little twitch in his left eye, but somehow that makes it worse.

“This was supposed to be a beginning.” You stand up from the floor, the hem of his shirt sticking to your thighs. You look wrecked, his hair is a mess, and your room smells like death.

“So was every other time we kissed and pretended it would fix things. You think sex heals people?” Magnus is still on the floor; something ties him to your titles. The ceiling feels close, your hands closer.

You’re tired. He’s worse. Neither of you move to the bed. Neither moves to leave.

You lean your head back against the wall and pretend your spine is strong enough to hold you.

“I never wanted to win against you.” He tries to defend. His eyes are soft and cheeks sunken. His facial hair is fraying at the edges. It scratched against your skin in bed, and instead of closeness, it feels wrong. Foreign.

Sharp? Unshakeable? The façade has finally cracked. It only makes him look more tired. More boyish. More lost.  

“Stop lying Magnus” you stare down at the floor. He looks wounded, feels worse than he did before. You don’t feel any better. Your long hair drips acid over his feet. Longer, darker, heavier—yours. You let it grow as a rebellion, as a ritual.

There’s no bite left on your faces. Two corpses don’t make a home.

“I don’t want to hate you,” he says, softly. “But I think I might.”

You turn away, stare at the window.

“Then go before it sticks.”

When he leaves, he stops at the door and turns back once, then again. He reaches out, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt draped over your skin. You recoil. Not out of fear.

Out of memory.

Out of knowing exactly where that hand has been and how little it saved you.

The light shifts and the room forgets to hold its breath when he’s gone.

next

a/n: this might be my favorite chapter yet

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 979

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure, smut

previous

CHAPTER 9: I Still Know Your Coffee Order

New York is chaotic today. You wake up to find your water pipe leaking. Little beads of water accumulate on the carpet of your bathroom and you’re peeved by the sight. The first plumber cancels on you entirely because the elevator’s out. The second one climbs 64 floors and charges you double.

Your mind thuds as you wonder why in the name of god did you decide you wanted a breather by going to the café. You step out in heels. The rain punishes you twice on the way there. Everything aches before coffee.

You enter the café to find your three friends seated and breathe a sigh of relief. Something in your life is the same as yesterday at least. Noah is absent from the scene. You take a notice but don’t comment. Instead you ask the barista today to give you a black coffee, she has the same green eyes and crooked teeth. You make a mental note to ask her about him when you leave.

You let time blur in your usual corner, under the safety of dim lights, when you notice a looming shadow enter the café. Your heart actually might stop today.

Magnus enters the café like he’s been here before sunrise. He wears your coat from the train to Zurich with a blue turtleneck underneath. Your hands are shaking while you breathe through your mouth, he nods towards you like it’s the most casual thing.

He talks with the barista for a few minutes before he comes over. You can smell the Oslo snow still on him. You hate that you want to lean into it. The booth is suddenly two small for two people.

Before he can speak: “How’d you know I was here?”

Your voice is flat. Almost playful. Like you didn’t vanish for two years. Like he didn’t get to keep the part of you that knew how to lose quietly.

“Carly posted a story. Smart guess” he shrugs. You don’t ask him why he’s here. You don’t want to know if you’re an afterthought.

The barista comes over with two lattes. You cannot look away from him. He quietly takes the order and thanks her. You give him a look over the unsweetened latte.

"You still do oat milk, no sugar. Like always." He says it like it proves something—that he still knows you. Like memory gives him permission.

"You remember my coffee, but not how I begged you not to show up late to Zurich." You smile up at him.

You don’t say anything to each other for the next few minutes or hours. You sit in the silence memorizing the curve of his nose. He looks at you like a glass ballerina on the edge, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of breaking.

“You’ll just sit here until I offer my place, won’t you?” And he nods. Quiet. Penitent.

Noah will just have to wait today.

You walk together in the rain, hands reaching for each other but not quite touching. When you reach your apartment, he’s stunned by the view. He longs at the window while you stare at his back.

The pull is mechanical when you reach for his hand to feel wanted again. He wraps his arms around you while you hold on to his clavicle. You lead him to the bedroom.

There’s no preamble. No kiss.

You undress like you’re checking off items on a list. Your shirt first, then his. Your skin against his feels like remembering a story you used to tell in a language you’ve forgotten. He breathes out slowly when he sees you. You undress each other like its muscle memory—mechanical, reverent, clinical. He hesitates only once, when you push down the waistband of your own jeans.

You lie down first.

The bed means nothing. It’s not shared. Not sacred.

He asks you if you want it for the sake of asking. There’s no bone, no bite to his words.

When he enters you, it’s careful. Not hesitant, just patient. As if he’s waiting to see if something will rise to meet him. There’s no foreplay but you’re wet for him either way.

You don’t close your eyes.

You let him move like he used to. Like he knows you. His hand brushes your collarbone, and it’s almost too tender. It burns worse than teeth.

He moves rhythmically. Precise. You think about the way he plays—never loud, always two moves ahead. This feels like that. Like he’s playing a game he already knows the outcome of. You keep waiting for it to mean something. For it to unlock some truth. Some resolution. A revelation.

But it doesn’t.

You arch into him, not because you want more, but because you remember that’s what he liked. You let your hands slide across his back, not because you need to hold him, but because the alternative is leaving them limp on the sheets. His back is more toned than it used to be. You don’t leave marks.

He breathes your name once, soft. Like it might crack in his throat.

You don’t respond.

When it’s over, neither of you move. You lie still while he catches his breath. The weight of him on your skin doesn’t comfort you. It keeps you here—presses you down.

After a minute, he rolls off you and stares at the ceiling. You don’t bother covering yourself.

“I thought this would feel like coming home.” Magnus is ruthless with his moves.

“Doesn’t it?” You lie beside him, still soft, still aching.

“No.”

You walk to the bathroom. The maple light is too harsh against your skin. You wash your hands longer than necessary.

When you come back, the bed is empty. The window’s still fogged from your breath. You pretend that it counts as proof.

next

a/n: if you didn't notice the pattern, I post 2 chapters every day. I'm midway through act 2 here.

Lmk if you like it so far <3

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 541

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER 8. Between Cities, Between Us

Its evening and you are back on the sky narrating window ledge— legs folded, tea in hand. You never look down sixty-four floors of heartache. The last text from Magnus is eight hours old. There’s slow unravelling in your chest as you re-read it.

Magnus

8.22am

Oslo snowed today. My shoes gave up before I did.

You haven’t replied. You’ve opened the message at least six times, let it sit beside you like a guest you can’t ask to leave. You scroll through Instagram mindlessly and try emailing chess officials back on tournament offers. You’re scared, it hurts, but you were a professional once. ‘This is not the proper conduct or decorum of a player’; your father would say, with his wrists always folded behind his back, watching your losses like lectures.

Instead you stare at a photo of your old chessboard back in Oslo with Magnus. It is the same board that you were taught on. You zoom in. Same chipped rook. Same knight you lost to him during blitz prep. Your fingers twitch like they used to when a mistake was near. There was a time you knew how to make his coffee. Light sugar, no milk. The kind of intimacy that makes a person a room, not a city.

You

6.14pm

NY smells like rain and bakery smoke today. I thought of you.

He doesn’t reply in the next twelve minutes. You scroll through an unfinished email draft: Subject line— “Regarding My Absence.” You delete it again. You’re tired, not done. Your socials are barren with questions that cut deeper than knife. You’re scared of the theories and threads. An old journalist tagged you in a tweet. "If she'd stayed in the circuit, she would've had a GM norm by now." You don’t even flinch. They've been writing your obituary since Zurich.

Ex-Prodigy.

The internet never forgets. The press has begun to ask questions again:

Was it drugs?

Was it trauma?

Why hasn’t she returned?

Who really lost Zurich?

You want to scream. You want to write back: Why do you care? I already disappeared.

Instead, you light a scented candle. Try to remember what your therapist said about resisting the narrative that wants to devour you. You don’t feel like a phoenix. You feel like ash.

You pace your apartment in orange socks and unfinished thoughts. You remember the Berlin airport. How he stood too close in the duty-free line, smelling of pine and arrogance. You wanted to tell him you weren’t scared of planes.

You feared arrivals. Of leaving with nothing claimed.

Magnus

7.15pm

Would you ever come to Oslo again?

You don’t reply. But you open your notes app, type “I don’t know how to want a place that still has your scent,” and delete it before it saves.

You put the kettle back on. Pour yourself more tea. You add cinnamon. You don’t even like cinnamon.

You stare at the cracks on your windowsill. You wonder if you’re lonely or just spoiled on solitude. You wonder if Oslo still has the same bookstore near the canal—the one with the foreign chess books in the back, where you once kissed him between opening theory and an endgame study.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 653

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER 7. You Forgot My Name, But Not My Order

The bell rings softly when you enter, two ladies with New York dreams. The barista looks over from the corner of the register. He’s hunched over a notebook, scribbling homework when you interrupt his trance.

Carly skips your usual booth and drifts toward a center table where the tattoo guy and old couple become a blur. You’ve always seen the three there when you arrive and leave. It is nonsensical how you see them more than your actual family.

“So” Carly is ecstatic with puppy blue eyes as you both sit down.

“Who knew you were so good with kids” she says it with a twinkle in her own eyes. You think back to Lina and her innocent eyes.

You shrug and ask about how she’s been. She tells you about having a hard time finding jobs and you nod like your mother doesn’t send you two thousand dollars allowance per week. She complains about rent, men, and capitalism in that exact order.

“Here’s your coffee…?” the barista squints his eyes as tries to remember your name. He’s sure you once told him.

“You forgot her name but not her order?” Carly is thoroughly amused watching Noah struggle with your name.

“I’ve only been coming here recently, Carly, he’s fine.” you try to ease the situation.

While Noah prepares the drink, you sit and talk about life some more. You tell her about your perfect therapist Vanessa who’s gentle but not there yet.

“So is that why you look borderline functional. Or?” Carly stares at you through her 2000s bangs.

“Hot shower. Lip balm. Minimal existential dread.” You explain with your hands on your chin.

“God. I miss sarcastic you.” she mirrors your face.

She’s back to serious in a heartbeat, right after her first sip of the latte.

“You didn’t even tell me you were alive. I had to find out through your mother that you were… not dead. Even Mila asked where you were. And she never liked you.” She looks almost hurt.

“I didn’t know what to say. Or if I deserved to say anything.” You’re honest with your grief.

“You didn’t have to deserve it. You just had to text.” You drink your coffee in silence, watching the foam fade. Something in you wants to apologize again. You don’t.

The conversation softens—recollections of wasted prom nights and grandmasters of emotional damage. You tell her you’ve been talking again. She doesn’t answer right away. She’s thinking about tenth grade, when you turned a lost position into a draw with two seconds on the clock and a pawn that should’ve never made it. She’s always known when you’re close to losing.

“Here, found this in the store. Screamed your name.” she takes out a copy of Ocean Vuong’s ‘On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous’. She doesn’t say she missed you. She doesn’t need to.

It’s Ocean Vuong. It’s enough.

“I should pay you to never stop being my friend.” You take it and finally grin.

“You already did. Two years ago. I’m just waiting on the interest.”

After Carly gets picked up by her boyfriend and the other shadows leave the café, you finally ask Noah if you can help him with his integrals. He grins. You’re happy to be back doing things you like that don’t destroy your life. Things that don’t end in losing. Or Magnus.

“Majoring in mechanical engineering. Don’t ask why.” He says mid-session in frustration. You laugh.

You spend the next hour teaching the barista university-level calculus. He laughs at how easy it is. You tell him your mother’s a math professor at Cornell—you grew up in a house where numbers were served for breakfast.

You’re halfway to the door when he calls after you.

“Hey—what is your name?”

You turn, smiling like you used to.

“I’ll tell you when you forget my coffee.”

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 740

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER 6. Where It Leads

The next morning, you wear a butter yellow sundress and pack a leftover picnic basket. The basket is heavier than it should be, but you carry it out anyway, through the New York crowd and into the quiet mouth of Central Park.

The air is cold but forgiving. You lay your picnic blanket, arrange the food, and sit-down cross legged. Your friend was surprised when you asked her out. Carly promised to find you by dusk. You’d been pacing for hours, your eyes too heavy to keep staring at the city from your high apartment.

Now, as you settle in the park surrounded by lovebirds and families, you’re not so alone in your problems.

A little girl, around 5 years old is crying for ice-cream near the pole. Her father says no. She pleads and then pleads some more. You watch them with a small, bitter smile on your face. He finally gives in after she sits down on the sidewalk and wails. You imagine the child you never had—balled fists, tear-streaked cheeks, begging for candy at 10am. You should’ve been this soft. You could’ve been. The duo hold two ice-creams as the father leads her back towards their own pink blanket with a red tinge in his cheeks.

She stands at the edge of your blue picnic blanket and stares at you dead in the eyes. You wonder if she will now scold you for looking at her father’s jaw too long.

“Do you wanna sit with us?” she walks up to you without hesitation and tugs at your sleeve. You look at her hazel bright eyes and button nose.

“She might be busy, sweetheart” the blonde father is now red through his neck. You look again. She’s serious. It’s not a warning. It’s an invitation.

You don’t know why you agree, but you let her whisk you away to their spot. The little girl is 6, she tells you proudly once you ask her age. You compliment her pigtails. Lina melts into your side like she’s always belonged there.

You tuck dolls into beds made of napkins and cook them imaginary vegetables—for strong bones, she insists. She tells you about the protein in mud and leaves. You feel whole again. She sits in your lap with a small airplane you made for her and you look at her longingly.

“She just started asking strangers to play last week,” he says softly.

“Her mom—uh. Passed. Last Sunday.” The yellow of your dress is a harsh contrast to his blue shirt. You cannot look at his eyes that are so close to the sun.

He smiles like it’s the only thing holding him together. You hate yourself for saying nothing. You only stare back and say you’re sorry. You are sorry.

When afternoon strikes, the father must get back to his job. Lina clings on your chest, like you’ll never see her again. You take in her warmth and tell her to come play at your apartment.

“pinky promise?” She asks and you don’t deny. You give her your number and tell him you don’t have much of anything to do, so you can babysit for free. He’s apologetic. He tells you both of them would like to see you again sometime.

You hug her for one last time as she kisses your cheek. She holds your coat like she’s known it longer than you. You don’t cry. You just wonder if she would’ve had your eyes.

The scene blurs at the edges—like a dream you’re waking from—when your phone buzzes.

Magnus. A photo. Your old board from Oslo. You close it without looking. You’ve already lost something today.

Carly shouts your name from across the park. You widen your eyes like you're sixteen again. You reach her in fifteen quick steps.

You decide to head to the café downtown. She helps you gather your picnic supplies and says she saw the blonde guy with the cute kid. You tell her it is was nothing with a smile on your face.

On the way, you reconnect like you didn’t shut her out for two years of your life. Carly tells you about her new boyfriend and his family. Obnoxious, but loaded she says. You laugh like old times.

You cross the road and step inside the café that knows you better than anyone. It still smells like honey and heartbreak.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 424

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER 5: I Heard You

You sit in the mess for hours. You don’t blink when your phone goes off at dusk or when muse calls you toward the window. Or when your stomach growls around cold ramen. You think about 2012, back when you were both pretending to be adults. Back when you believed pretending was enough. You think about the terror in your voice when you told Magnus you were pregnant after a game in Reykjavik. His reply was curt, abort.

You stare at his contact for ten minutes before you call. There’s no ringtone and no heart beside his name. You hope he wont answer.

“Don’t be home,” you mutter. “Don’t pick up.”

You imagine he won’t answer, won’t look back. There’s no point to it in your rational mind.

“Hello?”

You flinch. His voice isn’t invasive. Its honey.

You go for the neck on the first move, “…I heard it.”

You can hear him let out a breath over the seas. He knows what you mean. Good. He doesn’t get to pretend otherwise.

You try acting civil, like your skull isn’t cracked open with desertion masked as faithful slaughter, “How was your run?” you ask with a painfully soft voice clutching the chopsticks still in your hands.

“Long. Cold.” He says on reflex memory.

You tell him about your day till lunch. He listens, he asks questions, laughs. Silence stills two houses when you stop playing around.

 “You called me baby. In the voicemail.” You offer him an olive branch. Your eyes are everywhere but on him.

“…Yeah.” He falls back on his bed on the other side of the screen.

“Don’t do that.” You crush his heart with bare hands.

He doesn’t know how to tell you about his life. The one he made while destroying yours. Its chess, sponsors and loneliness. He wants to say he’s tired. Of the game. Of the chase. Of pretending he doesn’t care. He wants to lay his head in your lap and let you delete that voicemail like it never mattered. But he lays on the edge of truth.

The silence is not comforting. It’s a blade.

“I keep thinking about that morning—”

“Don’t.” you shut him down. Your hair is greasy, you have to sweep the floor.

 “I should go.” You tell him without missing a beat.

“Will you call again?” his voice is hopeful. He stares at the trophies and awards on his walls.  

You wait three seconds for a reason to stay. It doesn’t come. So, you leave.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 431

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER 4. You Have One Unheard Message

You’ve been texting Magnus back and forth for three days in a row now, your shoulders are relaxed. You sit on the kitchen counter and extend your hands towards the ceiling. Turns out, things weren’t as awkward as you thought you left them. Conversations flew smoothly, as if you never left his orbit.

You turn on your phone to look at his last text:

Magnus <3

1.04pm

Going on a run, be back by 6.30

You can’t help the butterflies floating in your stomach. You feel like you’re back on the board, after the storm. You go to put your phone down, and finally check on the ramen on gas, when you see a voicemail. You freeze. It’s his.  

Magnus <3

2nd march, 2014

4.08am

One Unopened Voicemail

You turn your head to look for chopsticks. Go on with making ramen like you didn’t just see something that put your whole body on fire. You turn off the stove and pour your ramen soup into a china bowl with blue dialects.

You slide down the kitchen counter with ease. You grab your phone like you didn’t just swear you wouldn’t. You click play while staring straight into a wall.

Magnus <3

“Uh

Dead air. You hold your breath like he might still hear it.

It’s me

Mag

I uhh wanted to say I miss you

Like a lot

The line distorts as he chuckles

But that’s not why I called

He takes a deep breath

I saw a photo.

From Berlin.

You were smiling.

With someone.

I don’t know who.

It doesn’t matter.

He tries to let out a laugh. It sounds like losing yourself in the quiet of the sunrise.

You looked happy

He pauses.

Maybe happier than you ever looked on me

I’m sorry

I didn’t mean to

It’s just

He circles back to himself and you choke on your noodles.

Zurich was my mistake

I should’ve fought for you.

I should’ve been there. You felt humiliated.

I know that now.

I’m sorry

….

I should end this

Uhh

He’s suddenly unsure of enemy territory.

Can we talk?

Can you call?

…

Maybe not if you’re happy

I don’t deserve you

I just hope you’re doing well, baby”

The line cuts. You’re back in your old house behind the kitchen counter. You’re 15. Your father hits your mother while you muffle your cries. You’re 20. Magnus between your legs and you're still holding your breath. You’re 25. Holding a bowl. Then throwing it.

You don’t cry. You just watch it bleed broth.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 832

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

Interlude: What My Therapist Said About Him

The first thing you notice when you walk in is that Vanessa, your therapist, has changed the covers of her sofa. They’re no longer a dark sea green, instead they’re pastel. You snort. Vanessa smiles at you.

“Yeah, everybody complained about the covers.” Vanessa says, to your dismay.

“I liked them.” You tell her honestly. That sofa color was the only thing that made you come back twice now. It provided you a sense of normalcy that could hypnotize you in order for her to fix you.  

You shrugged and sat down. The coffee table had two coffees, freshly made. She knew you enough to remember your order.

“Ready?” Vanessa asks. You look up at her like a kid. She gives you a warm smile as she turns on her tape.

Vanessa: how are we feeling today?

You: erm.. good?

You fidget in the sofa. The space is suddenly too big for you to conquer. Your arms linger on your lap, shaky. Vanessa is in her mid-thirties with a child who idolizes you and a husband too good to be true. She’s tall, with blonde hair and blue ever seeing eyes. You envy her, you’re sure she can see it on your face.

Vanessa: any updates on the party you are invited this Thursday?

You: I don’t think I’ll go.

Vanessa pretends to think for a moment before she gives you a rehearsed question. Your mom always gets a hang of the frauds.

Vanessa: why do you cancel when people ask you to show up?

You: I’m not ready yet.

Vanessa: hmm, that’s fair.

You:

You stare back at her like you’re not afraid.

Vanessa: Okay, we should start with chess.

You: okay

She tries to smile at you. You look back, sunken eyes and a jawline too perfect for any real diet.

Vanessa: when did it stop feeling like yours?

You: Zurich.

Vanessa: Did it have something to do with your dad? Your mom mentioned him to me.

You: yes and no. he was always absent from both of our lives. When he came, he left everything in shreds and then mom endured. For a long time, I only remember my birthday wishes were that he leaves. Finally. He did then. Mom turned obsessive.

You’re honest with her like a sister. You don’t trust her —sure, but who trusts their sisters and therapists?

Vanessa:

You: don’t make that face like you understand.

Vanessa: let’s circle back to Zurich then

You: yeah….

Vanessa:

You: okay, ask. I mean, it’s not like you’re going to leak this.

You try at a joke. It falls flat when you see Vanessa raise her right eyebrow.

Vanessa: no, honey.

You: Uhh so, I walked away from chess after Zurich. What else is there to … unravel?

Vanessa: did you drink the night before Zurich?

You: mhmm.

She knows. The world knows. The internet especially knows.

Vanessa: why?

You: he said it would be okay

Vanessa: and it wasn’t?

You: ….no

Vanessa: are you angry on him or yourself?

You: both? I didn’t know what I was doing. But I don’t think he drank, if at all, I don’t remember well to point fingers though. It felt like he made a fool out of me. All the time I gave him….. both on and off the board, I didn’t deserve that. He always feared id outplay him in the endgame. And I would’ve. I…. would’ve.

Vanessa: I hear you. You felt betrayed.

You:

Yes. Yes. God, yes.

Vanessa: so, did you trust him or a version that you made of him?

You: I trusted him. Yes. I was high, I would even as far as to say I mythologized him.

Vanessa: was he your safety net?

You: mhmm, I don’t like to think so. I was doing well in the field. I had sponsors and titles.

Vanessa: what is it that you needed from him that you couldn’t ask for?

You: love.

Your heartbeat stops for a moment. The stillness shocks you. You didn’t think you could get that real.

Vanessa: do you think he knew he was hurting you?

You: no.

Vanessa: you mention in our last session that you felt he stopped seeing you. Care to elaborate?

You: after the game, he tried to be civil. I was crying. I wasn’t another GM. I was his girl. He knew that. And still.

You let a tear fall. You watch her ignore it.

Vanessa: are you angry that he moved on or that you didn’t?

You: both. Neither.

You might be breaking.

Vanessa: honey, what are you afraid will happen if you felt better?

You: I don’t. I haven’t felt better in a year. I don’t think I’ll feel better in year to come.

Would she charge extra if you sobbed on her sofa?

Vanessa: would you want to say something to him if he were here?

You: I’d ask if he ever felt bad. Not sorry—just bad.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 660

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER THREE: What We Send Instead of Ourselves

You feel your bones relax. He cares, he cares, your mind spirals. You step down from the window, eyes still strained on the last message. You dim your lights and climb onto your bed with slower steps. You’re not sure if you should reply, if his text was intentionally open ended or meant to be a dead end.

You let go of your dignity and ask about the cranky weather in Oslo, then delete. You write about your heart and therapist. She says you should start clinical treatment. You ask Magnus if he thinks she’s right. Too soon. Delete.  

You

11.22pm

Doing well

You clutch the phone to your chest. You leave the message volatile without any punctuation for a reason. Let him decide the version he wants to believe. You remember the time you sent him an endgame position with no explanation. He solved it in two moves. That’s when you knew he loved the chase more than you. You stare at the celling for two minutes before your phone buzzes back.

Magnus <3

11.25pm

Mhmm. You holding up?

You take your phone to bed and replay the memory. You ask yourself twice if you are actually holding up. You don’t answer. He doesn’t deserve your collapse yet. Not tonight. Your mind is a cloud of apologies. You don’t want to start this again. Your shoelaces are untied. You might trip, you might fly.

You don’t bother replying for the night. He deserves the silence; the subject of your cruelty is not an innocent man. You lull into a deep sleep tonight. The New York air holds you in his arm and kisses your forehead.

The next morning is sweet. You wake up at 6am without an ache, make your bed and get dressed. You’re not the saddest girl in New York, you realize mid-shower, Taylor Swift in the background. You’re not even relevant enough for that title.

You get out and kiss your muse like you never left. The air in turn, makes your liner the sharpest you’ve ever seen. You decide it is okay to wear a lipstick to get boba. Your mother tucks your hair into a bun and says you’re glowing today.

The boba shop is too close for your 8am lipstick and pink coat. Teenagers crowd the place with their confident buzz. A 16-year-old compliments your hair, and you actually smile.

The table is quieter. You sit down and sip whatever purple witch drink the barista suggested. You close your eyes. Too sweet. Your face contorts into a grimace.

Instead you take a picture of the drink and send it to Magnus. You want to show him your taste buds have changed.

Magnus <3

8.23am

You hate it

You’re surprised with the blunt response. You choke on your drink once more before you decide he’s right. You think about asking the barista to make it less sweet but halt when you gaze at the crowd of the hour. The teens would tear you apart if you complained about tea too sweet here. This was their Instagram spot that they could barely afford, how dare an actual person question its integrity.

You

8.30am

Loser

You walk out of the store with your morning ruined and magnus grinning from somewhere far too close.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. You go home with big butterfly steps and do laundry, vacuum your apartment and fold your coat with more care than usual. You pretend it's his. You wonder if happiness should make you this nervous. Magnus sends you a picture of his bicep and asks if they look better than they used to, you say no with a beetroot face.

You sleep in the afternoon and talk a little more about life in the evening. You’re back to sharing dank memes and inside jokes. You smile too often at truths you both pretend are jokes. Or jokes you both know are still true.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 246

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER TWO: Morning, After

Scene 2

You walk back to your apartment after the cashier clears his throat behind you for the fifteenth time. The sky has a tinge of night with grey. The walk back to your apartment is quiet with cigarette smoke filling the air.

Your steps are faster than you’d like. You’ve been here too long. The air is somehow always unkind to you.

You stop in front of the bookstore and remind your breath, you’re not the girl in there kissing her boyfriend between the selves anymore. You stare too long that they get uncomfortable. The guy whispers something about the rich having nothing to do all day, then leave past you like you’re furniture.

You take that to your heart and go home. Lock your door and check twice. You clean up the closet mess next. You don’t look at the board too long for it to mean something, go back to changing the covers of your bed and taking care of your pale face. The pricey skincare you bought months ago, too small to fix your life.

You cook for yourself for the first time in weeks. White pasta with too much garlic that it burns your throat. You sit still on your windowpane, empty plate barely holding up. You finally let your fingers touch his chat again.

Magnus <3

3.36pm

That's when everything feels like it's yours again.

But you don’t know how long it’ll stay.

next

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 740

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

previous

CHAPTER TWO: Morning, After

Scene 1

You wake up the next morning with a dull headache, look around while rubbing your eyes. Your sheets cling to you like guilt. You lie back down for a moment trying to soak in the last night, then you remember last night’s remnants still live in your phone. You groan.

You wonder if you should apologize, if you owe him that. It was a mistake, you don’t want to reconcile, bring back desperation, yet apologize. Your mind is a haze of clouds you don’t bother with. His voice was too smooth for someone who once tore you apart at a board. You groan again.

Get out. Grab a coffee and make your bed. You remind your head.

You’re no longer a chess prodigy yourself or an asset to the Norwegian chess prodigy, no one remembers you enough to call. You finally muster some courage after an hour of laying awake in your bed. Your joints are quiet when you roll over and take off your clothes. You sometimes forget you’re in your own place and don’t have anyone to disrupt.  

The New York air tingles your skin as your make your way to the shower naked. Someone could be watching from their window, waiting for a show. You realize you’re slipping back into your glamourous life, as you lather shampoo in your hair. Be patient for your muse to enter, caress your calves like they’re not bones jutting out of your body but a quiet reminder of who you are, and who you’ve been.

You wait for the ghost of him. Or maybe just your muse from the window. Either way, no one shows, water pricks your skin with gentle kindness, hair clogs the drain. You get out, small steps, you know better than to expect.

You rummage through your closet trying to find his t-shirt, determined to get something for the first time in weeks. You’re surprised to find it in the back with a chess board and one idle queen.

The New York winter is harsh. It makes you sob in your closet like you are 15 again. (You just lost a game to a 40-year-old in the Blitz Championship, don’t they see?) Your blood’s rushing again. Your body wants out even if your mind doesn’t. You close your eyes and count to ten.

You decide against wearing that t-shirt. It’s blue, not you. You pick something softer, sage. Your floor is scattered with blazers and coats you’ve long since forgotten to wear. You pick a furry one, just to feel important. You line your red eyes and wear sunglasses, just in case. You start from the ends, like your mother taught you. Her disapproval still lingers in your roots.

The door to your apartment is open, you wonder if you ever went out in weeks to be this careless. You barely register it—you’re not even wearing pants. You should be ashamed, screams your brain. You a grab a pair of jeans from the floor and head 64 floors down.

You look like you belong for once, fur coat and hair pin straight. Head held high, as you walk past the beggars and vloggers domesticating an unwarranted life.

You greet the cashier when he asks for your drink. You’re stupid and he’s too hopeful to work in this dingy downtown café. His green eyes gleam with ferocity that only New Yorkers offer.

You sit down and take a sip. It burns your tongue; you cough a little. No one looks over to check. Afterall, it’s just an old woman with her husband, a guy with sleeves that look like they’re hiding his whole life, and you.

You take out your phone, little scratches adorn the rarely used screen. You go back to last night again, you hover over his contact and then decide it’s too much when the smoke over your coffee fades.

You want to tell him that you’re not doing well, come back, you need him to come back, pick up the pieces Magnus. You want to beg, cry, forgive. You want him to say he missed you. That it wasn’t your fault. That he still watches your old games at 2am. Do anything that satisfies the ache in your chest.

You decide to text instead.

You:

2.14pm

It’s worse in the morning.

You close your phone like it’s on fire. You know you’re embarrassing yourself. He’s entertained by your antics. You’re feeding death to yourself.

next part

[elenor222]

sunburn

Pairing: Magnus Carlsen x reader

Fandom: chess

Words: 498

Warnings: angst, past relationship, failure

CHAPTER ONE: I Just Needed a Voice

You're lying on your couch, eyes closed. A book with a big elaborate name lies on your chest. The vinyl hums a familiar tune from a playlist your friend made ‘just to make you feel better’. The light coming from your window is in crashing waves.

When you moved to New York two summers ago, you were a wide-eyed child who dreamt of conquering the world. Your spark faded with every game. Every knight you fumbled brought you closer to this night. To this silence. To this stillness you didn't ask for.

This quiet life was jaded, the cacophony of who you wanted to be, unsaid expectations and pitying friends kept you going. It fueled your nonexistent fire.  

You scramble for your phone on the bedside table. Your chipped nails graze the surface with a softness only you can muster. Your eyes adjust to the harsh screen. You scroll through social media mindlessly as a ritual, try to laugh at barely funny chess memes, check up on tournaments you’ll decline, conferences you’ll miss. You text back your friends, cancelling for the fourth time this month. They never try to coerce you after you decline or ask why anymore. The screen lit up your face as the night air cradles you. You’re 25, you have all the time in your life.

Your hair falls on your eyes as you shift to lay on your stomach. You’re quickly reminded of the unwashed hair from 3 days, the itch in your scalp. Pillows scatter the room like your own obituary. You scroll through your contacts, it’s hard to decide which therapist to call at 3am. Your thumb hovers, the screen blurs. You're not really looking at anything anymore.

You find the contact of the root of your problems: Magnus <3. Saved with a heart. You let out the first real laugh of the season- sharp, brief, surprised by its own intensity. The winter air is not so cold on your cheeks anymore. You remember 2014 viscerally, his voice, venom sweet as the Zurich game slipped from your fingers. You still have his number for some godforsaken reason.

You hit call on a whim.

You don't expect him to answer; maybe he’s blocked you by now, maybe he has another girl tucked in his embrace. The rings stretch too long, your heartbeat thuds, face heavy with something intelligible.  

He picks up on the third ring, “hey” he muses. You frown at his chirpy voice. Is it disguise? Is he not hurt at all? Your eyes run around the room, looking for signs in his tone.

The quiet voice with no underlying implication surprises you. he was soft and yearning. He always was. Silence hangs in the air as you wonder if the board has been flipped.

"Are you okay?" he asks after a moment of hearing your ragged breaths.

You fumble with the red strings still attached to his name. your hands are shaking when you admit, “No.”

“doll” Magnus’s voice soothes you from seven seas away. He still has that power on you, damnation be screwed.  

You hang up. Too much. Too little. Maybe the night was teasing you with closure that you did not deserve. You lie wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Maybe he was not drunk enough for that call.

a/n: chess brainrot is real.

also, because i couldn't find anyone writing fanfiction for him.

next part

[elenor222]

[elenor222]

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader x (past!) Geto Suguru

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Words: 2332

Warnings: established relationship, mention of deaths, pregnant reader

Gojo Satoru was anything but a religious man, but when he stared at the same cerulean sea blues that mimicked his, he was convinced there was some higher being that blessed him with his own little you. He was awestruck looking at the tiny little fingers clinging to his own bony ones. Cheeks red from watching the toil his wife had to go through, he finally flicked the sweat of his forehead cooing at his baby. He had offered, no begged, the doctors to let him help several times, but what would a sorcerer do to in the delivery of his wife? How could the strongest man be so useless? He had screamed more than you, he now realized. Screaming and throwing hands at whoever would listen to the manchild.

When you got to know that you were pregnant on a hot Saturday afternoon, Satoru was dumfounded to say the least. He wasn’t sure if he was the best father, you could confirm from Megumi. But he built courage and straightened his back and walked over to you, put a respectable distance and bowed, “I will protect you with my life”

You married this man 3 years ago with the buzz of the entire jujutsu society. On your registry, he had taken the same oath, with red flush cheeks and a little nudge from Tsumiki. You felt the same conviction now. Except 12-year-old Megumi had silently bowed next to your husband too. You chuckled at the child and pulled both of them into a hug.

Gojo had proceeded to take the last months off to help with the little ballerina who kicked too much for your liking. There was no one to save before his wife. His jaw tightened to think about you, with a swollen belly and cravings, left unattended. You had told him, you were fine, you both could go back to work for one month more at least. But Satoru’s child was just like him. Always needy and seeking your attention. So, you relented, both of you staying at home.

Now, Gojo Satoru could finally ease his mind. The little thing had finally come out after fourteen hours of labor. Your face had that little smile that Satoru adored. His own eyes droopy. He didn’t think about how his daughter had inherited his technique, whose face it would take on, he only thought about how his beautiful wife, and how the little one had finally completed your family of five.

Megumi sat in the corner, fiddling with his hands. He was unsure of what to do. He’d watch the idiot go through more pain than you, if that was possible. He had initially been worried if Satoru had kidnapped you to stay with him. You were so perfect after all, always asking Megumi what he wanted for dinner, taking him to parks, going to all the school outings and meetings. But when you (might he add, willingly) gave your baby to Gojo, and he held her fragile body with such care, all while hands shaking, Megumi knew this is what love is meant to be. Mommy could get a better man, he was sure, but Satoru did just fine.

“Gumi” you croaked out to the seashell cuddled up by himself in the corner. Megumi stood, light on his feet, head a little down, the guard dog walked over to you. You gave him a grin.  

“Give him his sister ‘toru” Megumi’s eyes widened as he met yours. Your eyes were full of love. You reached for his wild hair and ran your fingers through. You had always considered Tsumiki and him, your own. He couldn’t grasp it in 11 years, but there was time. Not to mention, you had read in a newspaper, that by the way Satoru told you to stop reading because ‘it is fucking with your head sweetheart’, about how older siblings feel ignored after the youngest is born. If you treated Megumi like a flower before, you needed to treat him like pollen now.

Satoru walked over to his side and gently put the baby in his hands, “careful” he said with no bite. So, you wanted to cherish all your kids more. Give them that little extra time that you could, they grew up so fast after all.

The baby nuzzled up to Megumi hiding her face in his chest. You held Satoru’s hand with devotion as Megumi held her just a little tighter than he held the rest of you. You might’ve let out a single tear to make up for how blessed you were.

The months flew by, and your baby grew with wailing arms and a knack for sweets. She was 6 months old now. Crawling and pulling anything she liked. Her favorite toy was Megumi’s hair though. She was amazed by his sprawling strands, eyes glittering.

Today, Yuji tried to make her cling on to his own pink hair that he proclaimed, was way cooler than Megumi’s blue ones. Your baby only scowled and reached back to Megumi, extending her hands. Your baby smiled wide at Megumi, who couldn’t help but clutch her arms as she giggled into his collar.

You laughed from the kitchen as Nobara made fun of Yuji’s antics. The kids from school really liked your daughter. And so did she. She would often go to work with dada where she stole maki’s glasses and sat on panda’s head. You had banned the father-daughter duo from interrupting lessons one day. They looked at you, faking guilt, that didn’t just reach their eyes. But the next day, principle Yaga had given you a visit himself, to plead their case. The world felt a little safer with them both, he said. Your daughter had tilted the balance in the jujutsu world again.

You stared off in the far distance as you thought about the impending future that awaited your daughter. It had time. You had time.

You went to give the kids a snack and feed your little one. They were sitting down on the floor doing anything other than the assigned homework. Your little baby might’ve been the center of that problem. You were going to put her to a nap, lest these kids do some homework.

That was when you sensed the cursed energy. A vivid unmistakable stink of dead curses. You were familiar with it, it invited you and muddled with your mind.

The front door opened, a man cosplaying a priest with bags under his eyes stood before you all.

“Geto” you whispered in a trance. The sight of the man had caused your heart to beat a little faster. Megumi had rose from his seat in the living room to stand in between you and the man. Nobara held the baby closer to her chest and Yuji was ready to start a fight. They knew he was a threat even before you had to chance to blink.

You counted your breaths. One. Two. Three.  Satoru was out for a mission overseas. Even if you called him now, it would take him a while to teleport. If Suguru wanted to, you’d be done by then. All of you. So, you had to take the bait.

You put a reassuring hand on Megumi’s shoulder and softened your gaze. You tried to move the boy aside but he wouldn’t budge. When you looked at him, stance of an adult, he persisted for a moment, but then surrendered. Geto had smiled like a viper when you asserted your dominance.

Still the same. Still the same.

“What do you want?” you asked with a tilt in your words. You couldn’t let him get to the children. You saw his eyes flicker to the child that had Satoru’s unmistakable blue eyes. His smile had faltered only for a second, but you caught it just the same.

“A word, if I may?” he stated, with a smile on his face, this was not a question. You grabbed your coat and gestured him out. You had given a simple nod to your son, “call dad” you instructed while locking the door behind with your own cursed technique. Geto only let out a snicker.

His mind could not conjure, how and why you would even think that your feeble cursed technique could keep him out. He was a special grade, and you were someone who only fucked special grades, so if he wanted to kill, he would passionately kill Satoru’s daughter.

You walked side by side down the stairs, glancing at the railing, one step at a time. Your face softened when it landed on the man beside you. He was only a shell of what he dreamed to be. Death had destroyed him just the same.

“Suguru I” you let out a stutter when you were all the way down, in the streets, cold enveloping your body and filling your sinus. You were not sure, if you shuddered because of the cold or the increased output of cursed energy surrounding you. Satoru’s cursed energy was warm, and your children had taken on that.

“Aren’t you out of oranges?” Geto questioned as you withered inside of your coat. You gave him a puzzled look at that.

Nonetheless, you walked in silence to the grocery store five minutes away from your house. The kids at home must have dialed Satoru by then. He must be here any minute now, you tried to make yourself steady.

The hustle and bustle of the store surprises you, when the doors of the store slide open. The cold winter had not stopped the men and women from loitering around the place. Couples walked by with their small kids tugging at their arms. Babies sleeping in the arms of their mothers peacefully. The students from the nearby college stopped for a can of beer with friends or to simply warm themselves in the heat.

“Remember how we used to come here so often?” Geto mused.

He was playing a dangerous game. There was no ask of forgiveness or take backs that can change the outcome now. The scene had shifted, earlier, the grocery store used to be empty with only an old women at the cash register. With time, you noticed, even she had withered away.

“I hated the strawberry” Geto chimed in opening the glass doors of the refrigerator that stored the yogurts. You remembered this part.

He let out a breathy laugh. You were suddenly 17 again.

“I know” how could you not? His voice tightened. I saw you, see me. You were always like that, taking pride in making him suffer for small things like this. The rest of his plans die on his throat.

You looked around the store at the people staring at you both. You were standing close to him. It was the cold, you tried to make yourself believe. It was your body reaching for his warmth and not five years back, that you would have yearned for him, wished he could cut the distance and glue the photo together.

You are disgusted now. The same hands that once held you, killed so many. So many families, siblings, friends. You would never believe if someone told you your life would end up the way it has.

He picked out the pink yogurt from the diary section and looked at your dark eyes from the reflection in the glass. He gave a half-turned smile, his eyes finally showing his true emotions. Dark, venomous, not evil.

Never evil.

You were not a stranger to this dance, he had given it to you one too many times after you asked him, no pleaded him, to give a name to what you were.

Every weekend you’d walk over to his dorm to ask for help in homework and end ass up, face down on his bed. You would walk out two days later, with an empty stomach and emptier heart.

You didn’t speak much to each other than the occasional fights. But often, you both walked in the park, holding hands in silence and stood in this same grocery store hand in pockets.

Once, he had asked you Infront of this same glass, tongue clicking on the plastic he used to lick from the yogurt, if you’d like to come.

“Join me” he had said.

You were long gone then. What remained was a hollow stain, begging for something real at last.

Two isles over, you picked up an orange. You asked him if he loved you then. Lips in a thin line, he had shaken his head. You signed and gave him your best wishes. There were no hugs, no goodbye kisses. You walked out.

The orange remained in your hand. You squashed it on your way home. The pulp dripping onto the streets till there was no juice left to drain.

You supposed he would’ve come back some day. To beg for forgiveness, to promise you he was going to make it alright. Kiss it better. But he hadn’t. He never called on your birthdays and didn’t soothe you through the sleepless nights.

What did happen though, was Satoru picked up the pieces Suguru had broken. Satoru stood with you in the rain and waited for the sun to come back up. Piled up oranges so high in your fridge, you had to scold him.

Suddenly, the room gains a few degrees of heat. You feel you feel your husbands’ arms snaking around your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You smell the sun on him. He burned brighter than any in this small-town grocery store, that you always avoided.

“Go” Satoru had ordered his best friend to leave, and like any comrade, Suguru followed. For a moment you wondered what would have happened if he didn’t, if he stood his ground for you, looked into your eyes a moment too long back a few years. But you were glad to be in your husband’s arms.

Satoru had lost you once, never again.

Authors note:

This was a long one. Dreamt of it.

Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. <3

[elenor222]

Pairing: Chishiya Shuntaro × reader

Fandom: Alice in Borderlands

Summary: You try to survive the seven of hearts while grieving about the death of your friends.

Words: 2079

Warnings: death, dealing with grief, past relationship.

You halt your breath. Your pinky shaking. The wind is kind to your dismay. Your hair sticks to your forehead. An unmatched glint in your eyes. It’s almost like a movie, but movies don’t have consequences; death. A supine botanical garden stands ahead of you. Glowing and mischievous, like a cathedral. You have to join a game. Why not the seven of hearts? Your own heart shudders.

You knew the hearts were a dangerous game to be dealt only with the keenest of eyes. But you were running out of time and hope, both. Two of your friends were killed in the last game of the clubs. You had boldly asserted that you would win a team game. You had three members after all.

Right? Wrong.

It was hard to match the bingo in the dark rooms. You had underestimated how hard the 10 of clubs could be. You tried to calm them, make them satiate that you guys could it. But they gave up, all at once. Itching to take her life at her own poise, heart eyed Shimiko cried on your tainted white shirt. She was sorry she could not help you anymore. Asago, was lasered a minute later when she used up her ninth matchstick for the last piece of bingo. She had only wished you to leave this world on behalf of them. Deal the games. You keep a dead man’s word they say.

So, when you walked out of there, blood-soaked shirt and gnashed face, you were not sorry. You had only, at that instant, learnt you were free to give and take life as you wished in this world. There was no supervisor to your actions, nor consequences.

You stayed at a nearby apartment for the next few days. Mourning your friends and the quiet life you lived with them in the real world. The days were a cinematic blur. Your hands clutching your knees as you latched onto the skyline of Tokyo changing for 3 days. Few birds flew this high. From this frame at least, only few things had changed.

The 4th day you realized your visa was due. You walked down the stairs, rhythmically slow, hoping that this was just a dream, and you would wake up any moment to see your friends calling you to swim in the chlorinated pool in their pastel bikinis. You’d laugh at the men advancing at Asago and her rancid replies and forget the last four days. But you didn’t, and you wondered if you ever would.

A tear rolled down from the of hollow your eyes to your whimpering lips. You hadn’t bothered washing the blood off. You knew it gave a symbol. Most people in the borderlands liked to keep themselves clean. But why would you? There was no one to go home to. Simiko wouldn’t pinch her nose in disgust and bandage your wounds anymore.

You walked into the garden. Eyes sharp and mind blank. There was one helmet remaining on the soft wood table. The monitor scanned your face as the collar tightened on your neck and the gates closed. You only then noticed the other players, one pale skinned women, subdued eyes and red lipstick. You would dot on her flawless skin in real life. A boy with grey hair. He looked uninterested. Hands in his pocket and neck slightly bent. A big man with tattoos on his arm. His shaved head gleamed at the unnatural sunlight pouring through the otherwise dark night.

The garden was almost serene you noticed. You had never seen it this lovely on a busy day in Tokyo. The bugs and butterflies were buzzing and the trees swayed like friends. Time could stop here, you wouldn’t mind.

The robotic voice interrupted your chain of thoughts. It asked you to pick weapons laid out in another table alongside. You had not exclusively planned to kill someone today. But you would, to survive. So, you picked a close-range instant killer, an axe. you saw the rest pick up things that suited their looks. The pale woman picked up a gun while the big man chose a blade. The hooded guy, raised his eyes and picked up nothing.

“This is your initiation task. If you die, it’s on you” the red lipped woman quipped to the boy while the blade guy nodded.

They knew each other. This was bad for you. You had heard of this group before. The beach, Asago wanted to go see it someday. Shimko wasn’t so sure about their methods of hospitality. You generally don’t walk into a hearts game with friends for fun right? Well, seems like they just did and would come for your head any chance given. The beach, you took into fact, had an initiation, huh?

The game explained its rules, there would be one wolf and three sheep. Looking into the wolf’s eye will transfer its identity. The sheep were instructed to hide from the wolf. Once the 10-minute time limit would reach, the collar around the sheep would explode. A reverse game in the borderlands was rare. But not unheard of.

You had conjured by now that you had to do the exact opposite the games asked you to do. Only the wolf goes out alive from the gardens.

At the start, the wolf appeared on the woman’s headset. she turned towards the big man, to confirm the rules or showcase her kindness you do not know. Her jaw tightened. A mistake then.

“no one dies in a hearts game” the white-haired boy said as he turned towards the man. If they heard him, you noticed, they paid him no heed. You stood your ground. Axe a little raised as the guy just named Aguni, turned into the wolf.

You raised the handle and hit his head. In the instant you hit his head, Aguni turned around to meet your sullen eyes. His biceps tensed. When you heard a beep, you made a run for the greens. Doing the complete opposite of the rules made sense to them all now. A wolf is to be caught, not the sheep.

The darkness of the giant forest would provide you solace for a while you believed. You ducked your head and sat amidst the enchanting trees while you heard the others search for you. You had a chance to kill the man, why didn’t you take it? He would be dead by the end anyway.

You could cheat a hearts game, and by the looks of it the white hair guy believed it too. But you were not foolish enough to reveal yourself when you could stay hidden for eight more minutes and walk out unscathed.

Truth was, you knew Chishiya. You were doing an internship below him in the hospital where he always looked dissatisfied with his work. You wondered if he was happy here, like other maniac fellows who roamed the streets. If he recognised you after working for 2 years alongside, he did not let it show. His unmoving eyes were all you needed to know. He hadn’t saved you the day the senior doctor walked in on you in a compromising position on his table.

It was unlikely of him to come to your relief, you knew that, but you still held some blind hope in your heart. He was doing it again back then. Same unconcerned face, lips in a thin line. He wouldn’t say it was his fault that your career got ruined. That he gave you that promotion because you deserved it and not because of the late nights when you both used to get carried away.

“Come out” Chishiya whispered in your ears. His cool breath fanning your ears. You hadn’t hoped he’d find you this soon. You were yet to think of a plan. You tightly shut your eyes and crawled out after smelling the faint perfume of cedar. That was the girl. You wouldn’t like to be dragged out or worse yet, killed.

“Should we kill her?” the women mused looking at her companion who seemed lost in your face. He took in your black eyes and bleeding lips. Your shoulder blades still had dried blood left behind.

“No Ann” his gaze had softened. He used his white hoodie, unmarked and yet to be claimed with blood, to clean the dried blood on your skin. Your skin instinctively caved to his touch; it was all too familiar again. As if he hadn’t called you ‘persuasive and inviting’ two years back.

“Let me figure this out?” he called it out more as a question. You open your eyes; His face was as supple as you remember. The years had treated him well. You look into his eyes, unmoving. The wolf reflecting in both just the same. Only five minutes to go.

You theorised about cutting off your collars, more so, Chishiya and Ann did. But whose would you cut? Cutting off a sheep collar would potentially render as breaking of a rule. So should you cut the wolf’s collar? The rule demonstration did partly hint at that. The sheep hiding behind the wolf, but for cutting off the collar instead of chasing.

“Aguni” Ann called out, “here” her voice faded as she left to find Aguni. You had three minutes on the clock now.

You asked Chishiya how he had been. And he laughed that rare laugh of his that made you stretch your own lips a little. You could feel the nervousness seep off his fingers as they slowly reached out for you from his pocket. “I’ve never slept a day since” he said honestly.

You kicked his feet. A high chuckle followed. You didn’t want believe it, but you did.

“No, I am sorry, really. I should’ve stood up for you.” He said with his face turned to face yours. You turned to look away. Maybe he should’ve.  

When Aguni arrived, feet too big for your personal shade, you suggested about staring into the other’s eyes or a reflecting surface; maybe the lake. But it seemed stupid as you thought about it more, how would the four of you stare at each other at the same time? Two minutes were left. If Chishiya felt like the prey with the wolf’s image adoring his forehead, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Your hands instinctively reached for the axe beside you. So did Ann’s. You knew at this point, there was no plausible game solution. You had lost too much time.

You could try to hit them. But to put it into action would be stupid. Ann looked skilled and Aguni was too big for you. Earlier, you couldn’t kill him even if you tried. He didn’t pass out from the handle of axe, but who is to say one puncture to his lungs wouldn’t knock him out for a minute?

In a second, your hands were lifting the axe right into his gut. You had no time to overthink. His mouth widened and his breath became shallow. This was your only chance. Chishiya looked at you, amusement clouded his dark eyes. He wouldn’t stand up for you, no, not even now. You had made a viable distraction and got the wolf. It was time to flee.

You ran back, into the woods, the leaves and twigs sticking to the sweat of your skin. They were questions to your moral judgement of leaving them behind. The mud splatters of your shoes gave away your location, you were sure. So, you dipped into the lake. For a minute you could hold your breath underwater.

You dreamt of the beaches you visited in California with your family. How happy you’d been. Your friends lopsided smiles and Chishiya’s cold dark cabin came back to haunt you. A bullet sloshed into the water, messing with its trajectory. It hit your arm. You let out a scream as you heard Ann cursing for how deceptive your fragility appeared.

The game was finally over.

This didn’t make you happy. But you weren’t sad either. There was a sense of continuity in this world. You had learnt to suffocate with it. Groggily, you made your way out of the lake coloured by your own blood. The same blood that still seeped out of your elbow along with the water.

You looked at the dead bodies of the three and closed your eyes. You didn’t know them. You wish you never would. The pain was a little less intense now.  

a/n: because you liked the last one <3

Likes and reblogs are appreciated (⁠^⁠^⁠)

[elenor222]

Pairing: Harvey Specter × reader

Fandom: Suits

Summary: love finds its way even in the toughest of hearts.

Words: 890

Warnings: none.

Harvey was a good man. This is what he had engraved in his mind. All the work he did, he was inclined like to it an ex too hard to let go. But he would never have it any other way. At least, that was what he ‘tried’ to make himself believe.  

But then there was you. A new associate, on a Monday afternoon, asking Donna if you could speak to Mr. Specter.

He closed his eyes, his pants getting a little tighter watching though the glass doors. Even the all-knowing Donna, was taken aback by your beauty. Your eyes glazed in the sunlight, hair in a messy updo, French nails painted a shade of green she’d never seen. You had a smile that could light up the whole firm. So why had the almighty Donna never seen you around?

After asking one too many questions the redhead had let you in. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Why did a new associate make her jealous? Were you another Scottie after all?

You gave a flush smile entering the skyscraper office of the name partner. You were thoroughly inspired by his work but not his methods. And you were here, like Jessica had explained, to take away the lack of his judgement.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” red adorned your cheeks. You had heard a lot about this man but not the part where he made his associates blush. You coughed to regain your posture.

You told him about why Jessica had picked you herself, trying to assign you as a part of the Michael Ross’s rehabilitation program. He found your lie amusing. You had chosen sides already it seemed.   

“Why don’t we talk this over at dinner tonight?” Harvey couldn’t resist asking you that. He had no idea that you took it as the opposite of what he wanted to mean.

You knew this meant he wasn’t taking you seriously. You were just another girl in the field of law he saw below him. Your eyes seemed to betray the smile on your face and Harvey knew. He knew he had fucked up.

You politely declined, with a sick heart. Who wouldn’t want to get laid by this man? But not like this, never like this. You would prove your worth to him. You were like one of those French girls, you still believed in love and had hearts for eyes.

Donna, tapping in, heard all that. She was taken aback that a new recruit like yourself had the balls to decline him. Nonetheless, she was impressed. And so was Harvey.

So, it went. You helped Harvey on his cases and day by day became a close confidant. Harvey was not replacing you in donna’s position. No. this was something different. Closed door smiles, and late-night calls. It was like both of you were teenagers again, but accomplices in crimes.

When he scrolled his Instagram feed, all he saw is pictures of you. So alive and sometimes drunk. He actually wanted to go to Italy with you. Sit in the beach and talk about the sun, let you tell him about all the stupid love stories you were read. This confession was locked in his suits. But his heart was not.

It happened when you were working on a late-night case again, that he let his deep brown eyes fall on you. It was like you were in his office for the first time again. The bright sun was replaced with you.

Your satin blouse had one too many more buttons undone than necessary. Have you always done that to him? Hed be lying if he didn’t let his eyes stray on your ample cleavage once too many times a day. So much so that Jessica had warned him about an oncoming sexual harassment suit. Louis had a field day with that.

Harvey sat five inches apart from you. His hands itching to touch your hips not in for sexual indecency but for worshipping you. But also, because the tent in his pants was begging him to.

“What?” You laughed looking back at him. You eye dark. Chipped nail polish grazing the whites of the sheets on his table.

“You know what you’re doing don’t you?” He gave you a wide smile, leaning toward you on his seat.

You turned towards him, finally gracing him your full attention. “And what am I doing, would you say?” you tilted your head, playing coy.

He stood up, boots melting with the hardwood floor, now toe to toe with you. His breath fanning your nose, but not touching you yet. There was so little he knew about you even though he knew everything. It was scary for the Harvey Specter to fall in love. But he had already, and he couldn’t sue you for it.

Your let your hands play with his meticulous tie. Your eyes refusing to make contact with his.

“I’m going to move to Vienna. Come with me” you said when the silence clouded your judgement.  he had kissed you then. Tender. His lips tasting the chocolate on your pink lips. It seemed right out of a movie. His forehead against you, lips hanging close to yours.

A touch. A whisper. An ask.

That was all it took to make Harvey specter fall in love with you.

Authors note:

*Giggles like a school child* did you like it?

Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. <3