Every human was born with a soulmate and blood pure and milky white. With every crime, or sin, committed, your blood would darken.

Exactly a year ago today, when Simon was at his small flat in Manchester for a - mandatory - leave, he had ran into you. He was on his way back from the liquor store, a bottle of bourbon tucked under his arm. Simon felt something, looking over, almost instantly locking eyes with you. It's like everything else around him disappeared, no one else mattered, nothing else mattered, except for the person in front of him. His soulmate.

Simon used to always wish he’d never find his soulmate, not wanting to taint them with the dark evidence of his sins that flowed through his veins. Not that it was his fault, his blood was black as ink before he even returned from Mexico, tainted by torture. There was a reason Simon never took of his gloves.

Despite Simon's original doubts, he had invited you back to his flat that day to share the bourbon tucked under his arm, to get to know each other - even if it felt like he'd known you his whole life already. You two had found yourselves in that exact same situation today, celebrating one year with a bottle of bourbon, pressed up against each other on the comfortable couch in Simons one bedroom flat. You guys were already a few drinks in, half the bottle gone already, so when Simon reached to pour himself another glass and the room started spinning - the glass ends up on the floor shattered to pieces.

Simon curses lowly, sitting forwards on the couch and reaching down to pick up the shards of glass. Yet, due to his drunkenness, he wasn't careful enough, and a shard slices through the fabric of his gloves and into his skin. He doesn't notice the drops of ink staining his floors until he hears your quiet gasp.

He's sober in an instant, eyes wide as he looks up at you, ink drip, drip, drip-ing from his hand. "{{user}}...," his voice is a whisper, wavering, like he's scared of how you'll react.