#the color mismatch will be so painful. but at least it's also a really good weapon for him

[rubys-domain]

yeah, i'm definitely not gonna get lyney early at this point. i just hope i win the 50/50

[exuvianen]

misc. stationery hcs [housewardens]

short stationery + penmanship hcs with the housewardens!

cw: n/a

notes: another old piece... just some silly hc's don't take them too seriously. i tried writing the same amount for everyone but it’s kinda clear who i’m biased towards… feel free to drop an ask or to add on! likes + rbs are appreciated <3

wc: ~1100 words?? wow. that's more than i expected.

riddle rosehearts ; housewarden of heartslabyul

has everything you need for school. pencils, pens, erasers, notebooks, binders, glue, tape, scissors,  you name it, riddle has it.

sorts each subject by color, and color codes all his notes/subjects. do NOT mess up his order! 

has extremely neat handwriting - it’s a bit on the smaller side, but it’s easy to read.

riddle shares his notes with others when they ask him for help, so he makes sure it’s legible and easy on the eyes.

as for stationery in general, he probably doesn’t go too wild. standard neon highlighters, blue and black pens, plain covered notebooks, etc. it’s simple, but it’s good enough for riddle.

overall pretty good taste, a little basic, but everything is of good quality.

leona kingscholar ; housewarden of savanaclaw

literally does not care about stationery. he’s the idgaf king.

he’s that kid who never brings a pencil or pen to class. he barely remembers to bring his notebook too. and he only has one (1) notebook that he uses for everything (he probs doesn’t even take notes in class, he alr knows everything lol).

constantly borrows stuff from ruggie or sends him to buy stuff from sam’s shop. he’s lucky he has ruggie.

has a fancy pen from farena that he never uses, but keeps at the bottom of his drawer. 

does the bare minimum, probably “borrows” other people’s pens/pencils when he loses his. has borrowed at least 20 pens, but was too lazy to give it back. they sit on top of his desk. 

he literally doesn't care about aesthetics, he just gets random stationery to get the job done. has the most mismatched items.

azul ashengrotto ; housewarden of octavinelle

definitely invests in some quality paper and pens. also a stationery nerd who has everything in his office.

probably has those notebooks/folders with the corny motivational quotes like “the grind never stops” or “no pain no gain”. kinda cringe but he likes them b/c they motivate him.

he’s the type to take notes in class, then rewrite them later. he sells the rewritten notes to other students for a steep price.

jots down ideas or gossip he hears in the margins of his notebooks. he rarely doodles, but sometimes he might draw things from the coral sea if he’s feeling particularly homesick.

color codes all his notes, but uses more neutral colors as opposed to the standard bright/neons. he also has sea-themed folders or notebooks. 

he's fascinated by what land-dwellers use, as paper/ink typically doesn't last in the sea. he really tries a variety of products and enjoys it a lot! and takes notes for his future businesses

kalim al-asim ; housewarden of scarabia

the guy who has an excessive amount of stationery. probably buys 20 of the same pen because he likes it so much.

he gets those notebooks/folders that have cute animals or wild patterns on them. i feel like he’d also get a lot of stuff with floral designs.

doesn’t care much about the quality/brand of the things he’s buying - rather, he’s more interested in how cool or fun the item looks. 

def owns funky-colored pens, erasers that smell like food, and sticky notes shaped like animals. probs decorates everything with stickers (he loves scratch-n-sniff ones).

the margins of kalim’s notebooks are filled with doodles. some things he draws often are his favorite dishes and animals, and his family members. he probably uses his notebook to plan parties/parades instead of taking notes. jamil has a stroke

his handwriting is very expressive. it's loopy and wide when he's excited, small and sloppy when he's dozing off, and extremely messy when he's scribbling frantically.

vil schoenheit ; housewarden of pomefiore

owns sets of matching stationery. coordinates his pencil case with his notebooks and folders. probably a fan of minimalism and deep, rich colors. 

has high-quality pens and uses fancy highlighters to annotate his notes (i’m thinking those midliner highlighters and muji pens). he spares no expense for his tools.

color codes all his notes/different subjects, and has a specific color scheme for each subject. he is VERY particular about his color sorting. do NOT mess his categories up.

his handwriting is elegant and beautiful. he probably practiced and experimented with his handwriting a lot due to his fame (he signs autographs and he wants his penmanship to look pretty for his fans!)

he has pinterest worthy notes. he posts them on his magicam stories occasionally to show them off, and to encourage his fans to study hard too.

his fashionista side bleeds into his stationery choices, so he only buys items that are 1) of the best quality and 2) suited for his image. he does NOT cut corners.

idia shroud ; housewarden of ignihyde. 

does not use stationery LOL (or avoids it. technology is just more convenient for him).

everything is done on digitally, on his computer, tablet, or phone. he’d decorate his laptop or tablet with stickers though, like of his fave idol group “premo” and such. 

if he does own stationery, they are game or anime themed. also limited edition. he def collects merch, like pins and badges as well. i feel like he’d make itabags and stuff but he’d never go out in public with them. he’s too socially awkward just like me fr

he has those cool multifunctional pens, the ones with like 10 different colors, and can also double as a screwdriver or some kind of tool. 

he’d also have a lot of cute cat-themed items. they're just too cute, and he can't resist buying them! he's rich so it's fine...

he's probably designed super multifunctional pens before. he definitely has the brains and resources to do so.

malleus draconia ; housewarden of diasomnia

archaic stationery. still dips his pen in ink and writes with a feather /hj

he’s fine with the basics though. he just rolls with pen, paper, and ink. it’s good enough for him. 

has beautiful, fancy cursive handwriting, but it’s hard for people to read, especially for his schoolmates b/c the younger generation doesn’t really learn cursive anymore. think like... the penmanship of historical treaties or declarations. it's charming and still legible, but you just need a bit of time to be able to read it. 

probably owns and uses enchanted quills passed down from his family. it reminds him of home and he treasures them greatly. when he’s homesick he’ll twirl them between his fingers. 

he used to break a lot of pencils/pens with his sheer magical fae grip. he’s learned how to control his strength a lot better now, but he still prefers his enchanted writing tools. 

he's not used to modern technology, so he gets a kick out of trying novel stationary items as well. this pencil is also a pen, a highlighter, and a flashlight? wowie!

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #211

I had work today from 9am until 1pm. All things considered, I was fairly well-slept.

One thing I forgot to mention yesterday is that after my adulting and errands, I decided to get myself some prizes. One of the prizes was a neck pillow, to try to make sleep a little less painful. The other one was a sleep mask so that I might be able to nap a little better during the day if I gotta. And I got a unicorn hat for Br. I also got a very pretty bow; I'll show it to you:

...I like it!!! It matches my sweater!!! So I wore it to work today, even though my work outfit is all black. Even the apron is black. But the bow allowed for a visible splash of color. My socks give me a splash of color underneath all the black, but no one can see it because they are in my shoes, and that's kinda sad.

...Wait!!! I forgot!!! I have a camera!!! I can fix that!!! One sec!!!

These are my socks today. No, I don't wear matching socks; I find mismatched ones to be a bit more interesting because then I can have more colors!!!

Hey, Sephiroth? Do you wear colorful socks under all that black? I wonder.

I remembered to drink water and eat food before my work shift (yay!). Today, I made a hotdog for breakfast! I put the sauteed onions, peppers, and mushrooms that I made the other day on it, and then I put on the leftover Frito cheese from that picnic we had with R. And it was an AMAZING hotdog!!! But I got a little too excited after it came out of the microwave, and I bit into it a little too soon, and I ended up burning my tongue. 😭 So that's gonna be very annoying for the next couple of days, at least. Oh well.

Hey, Sephiroth? Have you ever gotten so excited to eat some tasty thing that you bit into it a little too soon? In my world, it's a fairly common thing to burn your tongue on hot pizza and the like, but anything will do it if it's too hot. What sorts of foods do you get so excited over that it's difficult to wait until it's cool enough to eat?

When I came back home, I worked more on the music box. I tried putting together an un-transposed version of the song onto the digital music box paper, and actually, I like this one a little better than the transposed version, so tomorrow, when my brain is less fried, this will be the version of it that I stick back into LMMS.

It rained a lot today. It is a warm, heavy, and very lovely sort of rain. The air smells wonderful for it, and I wish that I could sit with you in an enclosed porch, listening to it and breathing in the smell while holding mugs of hot tea. I can't do that though, so instead I got a couple of short videos for you:

Sephiroth, do you like the sound and the smell of the rain? If it's a warm rain, do you like the way it feels on your hair and skin? I like the rain, as long as I don't have to be in it when it's cold. Today I wanted to go dance in it, but instead I had to buckle down and focus because I really wanna get this music box done...

At some point, J and I went over to Br's house. As you might expect, I worked more on the music box. Br made burgers and shared them with us! She also made a fruit cobbler out of oatmeal:

It was absolutely delectable! But since I burned my tongue this morning, the acids in the fruit irritated it a lot. That's okay though; I ate it anyway, and it was so good!

The flowers that Br planted are in bloom. I took a couple of pictures of them while it was raining; I thought the sparkly water drops on the leaves were very pretty:

...I am back home now. And golly, I'm very tired. Still, I wanted to write to you about this very ordinary day I've had. I know you said you wanted a normal life, and... after a long struggle, I finally have one, so I wanted to show you what it's like.

Sephiroth, you can have a normal, ordinary life if you make choices that are consistent with a normal, ordinary life. I'm trying to show you how to make those choices. I come from abuse and suffering, but still, I can love the rain, and I can love the flowers, and I can love the people around me, and I can love you enough to create another music box. I can eat tasty things and get overexcited, fail to delay gratification, deal with an annoying problem as a result. It's an ordinary life full of ordinary things and spectacularly beautiful things, and everything in between.

You can have it. All you have to do is walk towards it. I'll be waiting for you when you do.

Hey, Sephiroth? I'm gonna stop writing and go to bed now. My body is very tired from being on my feet for a long time, and my mind is tired from putting black dots on a white background with crisscrossing lines and note labels.

I hope... someday... maybe... you can tell me what things are like for you, over there where you are. I know it's impossible, but... still, I'll hope for it. Why not.

I love you. Please stay safe out there in the world. I'll write again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine

[indigos-stardust]

You know, the advice to “Never argue with an idiot” would be useful. Except if the idiot is a hotheaded menace that doesn’t know how to just accept no as an answer. It didn’t matter if he was monotone, inoffensive, and clear cut with his words, Blue would still try to pick a fight. At least with Vio, anyways. It’s as if he hates him specifically. 

Absolutely ludicrous, what a jerk. 

Perhaps he isn’t exactly being the most fair. 

Vio’s brain feels as though it is filled with the harsh buzzing of a lightning rod. His thoughts spread far too thin between trying to solve the issues Zelda had been facing, (they all elected him to help Zelda with legalities and speeches because he was “super good with books and stuff”), to actually worry about what is happening in the moment.

His pounding headache only compounds the issue. And Blue’s grating voice doesn’t actually help. So if he very lightly snaps at him to shut up and quit acting like a child, he has to admit maybe a small part of him enjoys seeing Blue’s jaw snap shut with his ears turning red as he storms off. 

Okay, perhaps he is being a tiny bit of a jerk, but Blue shouldn’t have dished out what he couldn’t take back.

The mess between aid programs, defense, and Hytopia is messy and horrible. Zelda isn’t the ruler of the kingdom, at least yet, but rather more of a public figure. She was in charge of ceremony, speeches, spiritual sanctions, complaints to the crown, and even had a role in high court cases. Her wisdom has always been renowned and she has a skill for the people. A true princess. 

Of course she isn’t just the princess. She’s also his friend. And he knew she’d been through hell.

The horrors she saw and experienced herself? The destruction of her home and kingdom? The admittance of Vaati’s comments? The physical pain from the dark magic trying to use her as she tried so many methods she had never truly studied to escape? The lack of knowledge of what would happen? Finally, being so utterly needed by her people without a moment for anyone to truly care about her? 

He knows the others share his deep resentment and inner infuriation. It wasn’t fair. They all put in whatever they could to lessen the load and listen and be there for her. Of course… It’s still rather awkward, for a lack of a better term. Zel had only really gotten so much mismatched information from her time imprisoned. 

While she had managed to trick those dark entities into revealing their abilities, which she would use to destroy them with her light magic later on, she also was fed very distorted or entirely false accounts of the horrors that were befalling her land. As though playing with her like a cat to a mouse.

Zel had heard Link had been “shattered” or “split into pieces” but she hadn’t really been under the impression that her best friend became four separate people- 

In the moment of the battle she seemed to take it in stride. She claimed she knew all along that Link was still alive due to the hints from the dark entities that surrounded her. 

Besides, at the time, four best friends was far better than a possibly macabre and mutilated dead one. It was very clear after the explanation that she was… well she was certainly more accepting than their father who had…..expressed serious doubts about their validity and inherent being…..to say the least.

However, it was abundantly clear she hadn’t really adjusted to it. No one really had.

 What does she see us as? What about Dad? What even are we?

Those were the intrusive thoughts that would stab Vio randomly as he shifted through documented complaints with Zelda, the moment a ripped monster would fall dead at his feet, or when he realized he could recognize each of their voices as distinct rather than identical.

Zelda had essentially ordered them to get some rest, as if she wasn’t the one who really needed it. She used their need for, well, every item as an excuse. Although to be fair, a lot of his own meager items were pretty dingy. It wasn’t exactly doing “her royal grace” any favors. He knew he couldn’t win any argument against Zelda though, even with his honor of “being the holder of the sacred brain cell” or whatever. He definitely didn’t smile at the title at all. 

He tried not to let the thought of maybe she’s freaked out by us get to his head too much. But as the day progresses, he can’t stop thinking. He’s supposed to ‘rest his mind a bit and focus on the mundane’ but honestly after the whole “glorious quest”, as the King put it, he and the others are far too high strung to really stop the constant need to be doing something. 

So there they had been bickering like children in public, as disorganized as ever. He did not give enough damns to actually stay with them, so he politely excused himself to the much quieter antique shop. Where they had apparently decided to come to squabble some more with each other and then question him as though he was the problem here. 

 _  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  __  _  _

“Honestly, Vio, where were you? You can’t just disappear like that when we have so much to do today!” Green frowned, crossing his arms in very obvious disapproval.

“I had told Blue I wanted to excuse myself to the shop, Green. If Blue didn’t relay that to you then it’s simply his fault,” came Vio’s dry response. 

Blue’s head shot straight up,”Excuse me?!”

“Oh please, don’t you remember near the fruit stalls?” sharpened eyes challenged right back.

Both held firm gazes, each one eyeing the other with dirty, it was very clear those two were not ones to back down. All of Blue and Vio’s spats weren’t because of some real disagreement as far as Green was concerned. It was just that those two just apparently couldn’t stand the thought of the other one “winning.” Green had an idea where a lot of Link’s, ahem, “strong will” had gone. 

Sure, Vio would act like he didn’t actually care and was “simply stating facts” but he already knew that Vio just defined winning in a different way than Blue did. Which meant riling Blue up on purpose as if to prove or say “See how much more rational I am?” It had taken a hot minute for Green to catch up on it and he wasn’t even sure if Vio knew what he was doing, but he did know that it was only counterproductive. 

We were finally all good with working together, but it feels like we’re back at square one… Time to nip this in the bud. 

“Guys, please,” Green sighs, near defeated, “Blue havent you argued with everyone enough?”

“Are you serious?! I’m just ‘beInG a PaRt Of ThE tEaM’ Green,” Blue griped as he practically shoved his finger in front of Green’s face. 

Blue then turned his hunched shoulders to Vio, “Besides! Vio didn’t even tell me anything anyways.”

Vio scoffed, “Oh yes I did, I can recall you nodded your head and everything.” Vio said as he casually, yet pretentiously, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. 

He’s acting flippant about the whole thing, gazing lazily off without a care,  Green notes. On purpose. And Blue kept on going and going without any stop. Seriously his insistent need to defend his ego was going to drag this on until Green reached his limit. He didn’t know what he’d do if that limit was ever broken, but he did know that today that limit was substantially smaller  than usual. 

“Listen! You-”

Green cuts him off, “ No- you listen! You’ve been making everything worse, Blue!” and before Vio could get all smug about it, he quickly added “ You too Vio!”

Blue practically rolled his eyes with his entire body, “Are you seriously gonna blame me over the guy who had us looking in circles around the market, moron?”

Vio’s already opening his mouth, a sarcastic remark ready to spill without a thought, before Green claps his hand together with a little bit too much for than necessary to cut him off. 

Breathe in, breathe out… Okay.

“Guys, okay fine- it doesn't matter “whose fault it is” could we please just try to move forward?”

Green sighs as his shoulders slump down, “Also Vio why did you even think separating would be a good thing to separate?” He can’t help but pinch his nose, “ I just… ugh i just wanna know so we can avoid this again,” he gestured broadly towards their group.

Blue just scoffs, rolling his eyes and staring out the window. Vio seems to stiffen for a moment and then he shifts and Green knows the argument has been relinquished. Finally..

“The crowd wasn't making me feel very well,” comes the vague response, “I am fine to continue though.”

“Wait,” Green gives a double take to study Vio for a moment, “You’re not sick or anything are you?”

Green really hoped Vio wasn’t sick or something. If he was then, man,  he really was off his game today wasn’t he? Oh Hylia, they’d been sharing beds and everything too! Vio already wasn’t that much of a talker but couldn’t he at least share he was getting ill?! At least so that no one else would get sick too! 

Okay, he didn’t know that Vio was actually sick or anything but walking around in that loud, hot, and dusty market probably wouldn’t be making it any better if he was sick. Not to mention-

Stop that, you’re overthinking all the situations outcomes, Green. I can’t just keep thinking in battle mode all the time. Besides, this isn’t some life or death situation! Vio can think for himself too. 

If I keep getting lost in my head like this, then I’ll be out of it when they actually do need me. You can do better than this. You have to. 

“Green, believe me, I’m fine. I just needed a drink and I was fine.”

Oh yeah we’re mid conversation aren’t we? Hope he doesn’t think I was acting like a weirdo   being all pushy or anything. 

“Okay then, if you say so,” Green nods, trying to play it confidently as ever. 

Vio returns a lazy smile, shifting into a much looser pose, “I hope all your bickering with Blue wasn’t for nothing though, what's the plan?”

Green immediately brightens and straightens up, “oh yeah, of course! so we were going to…”

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Alright, all he has to do is open a door. There’s no reason to delay such a menial task.

He stares ahead at the wood. It’ll need a fresh coat of paint.

Just three quick knocks.

The door opens.

It’s Link.

Or not really. It’s ‘Red’, as he had apparently dubbed himself. Opening the door with a chipper hello and smiling bright as the sun, he started mindlessly chatting about the trip to the tailors. He blindly nods along, listening numbly. 

 “Well, we didn’t really know if we should get, like, new tunics with just random colors but then we all figured that wouldn’t really make sense!” Red shrugs as he hurries back to the stove. 

“Because wouldn’t it be hard to like, tell us apart? Cuz, I guess we are kinda color coded?”

“Hm? Ah yes, that is true.” It's a spaced out response and he knows it. 

He just can't really listen to his kid right now. But this is Red, the very sensitive and childlike one. Hopefully the boy won’t pick up his mood, especially not with his obvious innocence. He’ll still have to pick up the slack on his subpar responses though. That is indeed the least he could do.

 “Um, so I’m making some noodle soup,” he pauses, tilting his head slightly, “ I really hope you like it?”

Yeah, as much as he hates to admit it, Red is a sweet kid. It isn’t as though he hates them. Each one of Link. Far from it really, he’s just so…lost. 

Really, what was he even supposed to do? Go back to normal when his kid just, freaking what? Went through mitosis? There weren’t exactly parenting books on your kid getting… cloned??? Hylia it was awful all around, was there even an explanation?

He’d thought them to be demons at first! The princess, that kind and wise soul, had later explained what had happened to him but as much as she was sweet (and probably right) he just couldn’t be satisfied. She’d always been the one to keep everyone, including Links, head straight. From what he could piece together, the four sword was supposed  to give its user the strength of four men, and then it was supposed to make four men literally,  and then it was supposed to put the different versions of Link back together into his son! 

Garret just doesn’t have a son anymore. One could argue that’s because he technically has ‘multiple’ sons now, but really his son that he raised is gone. He doesn’t know what part of that is worse, in all honesty. He knows, logically, that they are still “technically” Link. 

They all remembered him and see him as their father. They sure act like him at times too. If he let himself slip, it’d be like he was talking to Link, the only difference being that he seemed to be in a particular mood and was wearing an unusual tunic. If just for a moment, anyways. 

Then, the illusion would shatter, splintered into millions of pieces by the smallest phrase or gesture or opinion that was just wrong. The Princess had explained that no, they weren’t just more of Link, but rather fractured pieces of him. Is he really just supposed to accept that? 

The “colors”, as The Princess had “officially dubbed” jokingly, seem perfectly fine with their predicament though. He doesn’t understand any of this mess but he just has to trust the Princess. She was fine with this and she knew Link better than anyone, so if she advised Garret to just give it time until he understood, then he will. 

If he got a few more gray hairs then so be it. It wasn’t like Link being the main factor of his aging was something new after all. Hopefully it just wasn’t sped up at four times the rate. 

Unfortunately, Garret knows that he’s still their dad, and he does have a job to do. He can certainly handle this, perhaps he’s simply overreacting. He still loves Link and therefore he loves them too. He just needs to understand them and give it time. Step by step. For now, he’ll just push that moral guilt, discomfiture, regrets, grief, and incomprehensible situation away where it can be dealt with later.  

He sighs. “Say, where are the others?”

[submissivekillers]

Yo yo yoooi! Can I please have a lost boys x vamp reader who’s like the very first vampire to be born and she comes and meets the boys cause she’s traveling across the world to visit all her “children” - so basically ancient ass vamp reader who looks 20 something meets the lost boys cause she’s meeting the rest of her kind

like what i do? support me on kofi

ngl i basically pictured reader as a pre-milfication lady d while writing this jhgfdsa. brainrot!! also mild max slander

length: 2.2k

If there is one rule you’ve managed to learn over the long years of your existence, it is this: humans will take any opportunity to make fools of themselves. 

Santa Carla is no exception.

Even in the early morning before the hordes of hormone-addled humans descended on the beach, the air had been heavy with smoke and blood and sex, so strong it almost overpowered the scent of the sea even when you'd peeled off your sandals to wade in. In its own way, it's exhilarating; the anticipation had your old blood stirring, your excitement mounting as the sun dipped low and the crowds swelled. From the window of your little motel room, you'd had a wonderful view of the flood of humans that spilled onto the boardwalk, the vast majority of them young and already inebriated to some degree. Ripe for the picking.  

It's not humans that you're hunting for tonight, though. At least, not yet.  

At a leisurely pace, you wander the boardwalk, taking your time to enjoy the local color. You indulge in a vivid blue cloud of cotton candy, try a couple rides, win yourself a stuffed whale after breaking a few bottles and promptly gift it to the first kid you see. A belligerent twenty-something who stinks of beer tugs at the hem of your white dress as it swishes around your thighs and you break his wrist without a second thought, disappearing into the crowd long before his scream of pain is lost in the echo of blaring music and shrieks of sugar-fueled glee. 

You're in line behind a gaggle of chattering teens at an ice cream stand when your nerves prickle, feeling the weight of eyes on the back of your neck. Without turning, you inhale, nose wrinkling as the acrid smell of old blood fills your nose. They absolutely reek of the stuff - it's so strong that you're a little surprised even the humans aren't picking up on it. But then again, maybe they just can't pick it out under the layers of weed and exhaust smoke.

The teens disperse, laden with several precarious cones of ice cream, and the bored woman behind the counter waves you up. You open your mouth, but there's an arm around your waist before you can say a word, a cool body pressed against your side. A ringed hand slaps a crumpled five-dollar bill on the counter, mismatched bracelets jingling with the motion. 

"We got the lady's order tonight, Peggy," comes a voice from your other side. You glance over the top of your glasses (cheap, heart-shaped things rimmed in vivid pink, scavenged from last night's meal) and meet the gaze of a cherubic blond, his pale blue eyes calculating as he worries his thumbnail between his teeth.  

The arm around your waist squeezes tighter. You turn your head, tilting your chin slightly so you can lock eyes with another pair of baby blues. They sparkle at you mischievously as your fellow vampire, bends to whisper in your ear, teased blond mane tickling your nose. "What can I get for you, baby girl?" 

You make a show of considering your options, pouting faintly as you prop a hand under your chin. You slip your other hand around his waist, idly toying with the mesh of his ridiculous fishnet top and grinning when he shivers at the scrape of your painted nails. "Chocolate shake, I think," you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes. "Are you getting anything?"

Rocker boy shakes his head, tips you an exaggerated wink as he shoves the fiver towards the increasingly petrified-looking cashier. "Nah, all yours tonight."

"Sweet of you," you chirp, popping up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He beams at you sunnily, shooting an excited glance at the cherub over the top of your head.

Peggy pushes your shake over the counter, lid only half-on in her haste to get the three of you away from her little stand. You manage to flash her a smile (aiming for sympathetic, but perhaps landing closer to smug) before you're pulled away, happily taking a sip of your drink as the cherub comes to walk at your side, trapping you between their bodies. You address the rocker first, catching the way his eyes dart down to catch you licking the ice cream from your lips. "You got a name?" 

"You can call me Paul, baby," he purrs, then wiggles his brows at you suggestively. "Or daddy, if ya want." 

You snort around the straw of your shake, unable to resist the grin that tugs at the corners of your mouth. It's definitely one of the more low-effort pickup lines you've ever heard, but something about him - the goofy little eyebrow waggle, the answering grin when you laugh at him like he knows exactly how ridiculous he is, his overall puppyish manner - manages to push it over the line from sleazy to charming. "You should be so lucky."

"I'd be the luckiest man in the world, I think," he flashing you a smile that's slower, more seductive than his cheesy grin - the kind of smile that would make any pretty young human a little more willing to spread their thighs. 

It's perhaps more effective on you than you care to admit, but you ignore the lazy heat that curls down your spine, turning to bat your eyes at the cherub. "How 'bout you, handsome?" 

"Marko," he says shortly. His face is young, but he's definitely the older one here - you can always tell by the eyes. "And you're on our turf."

"What, a girl can't take a little vacation in peace? I thought this was a free country," you huff in mock indignance.

Marko narrows his eyes at you. "Free country, maybe. Not free hunting grounds." He gnaws his thumbnail again, scanning you like he's trying to judge a threat - though it seems he can't help lingering for a long moment on the bare skin of your thighs. "Mind coming with us? David wants to meet you." 

David. The name is familiar - Max's first, if you recall. From what you'd heard, he could be quite a territorial creature. 

Paul, perhaps mistaking your thoughtfulness for unease, squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. "Hey, you're not in trouble. We just wanna make sure you're cool, you know?" His thumb draws steady circles over the arch of your shoulder blade. "This is our turf, but if you're not gonna cause any trouble, you'll be okay." 

The expression on Marko's face makes you doubt Paul's optimism, but you play along, curling a hand around his bicep and leaning in. "But what if I like causing trouble?" 

Paul grants you another sunny grin. "Then you can cause trouble with us," he murmurs against the shell of your ear. "I bet we could show you a good time." 

Marko clears his throat, distracting you from your flirting, and you're suddenly aware of the scent of blood grown stronger - along with the pungent smell of motor oil. Looking ahead, you see a group of bikes before you, two more vampires leaning against their respective rides. 

Both handsome, and you can tell they're both strong - but it's clear from a glance which one is the leader. 

"Thanks for fetching our guest," the blond - David, you know instinctively - rumbles, his voice a warm, sardonic purr. He looks you up and down, the weight of his eyes like a physical thing. "Welcome to Santa Carla."

"Do you give all visitors a personal welcome?"

"Only the interesting ones." He smiles at you, the edge of a fang glinting in the light. "Come with us. There's someone you should meet." 

You lift a brow. "Oh? And here I figured you were the one in charge around here?" 

"I am, don't get it twisted," he shoots back lazily, pulling a battered pack of cigarettes from inside his duster. "But our sire wants to meet you." 

"Ah, so you're the lead enforcer," you muse, nodding. David gives you a look caught between exasperation and amusement and takes point as you're herded after him. "And you?" You chirp, turning to the dark-haired boy who walks behind you. 

He blinks languidly at you. "...Dwayne." 

Strong and silent. You can appreciate that in a man. 

You're lead to a video shop in the center of the boardwalk, fielding Paul's flirting, Marko's questions, and Dwayne's cautious stare as you go. David walks slightly ahead of the rest of you, puffing on a cigarette and occasionally glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

As you approach the door you hear Dwayne sniff, his rumble of "Maria's not here yet," barely audible even to your heightened senses. 

"Good," David murmurs, pulling open the door with a merry chime of the little bell. He bows his head, making a sweeping gesture to usher you by. "After you."

Drifting inside, you're assaulted by flickering screens and lurid posters, a storm of color and noise. You run a fingertip down the spine of a videotape, but a whimper draws your attention. Bending at the waist, you catch sight of Max's hound hiding under a desk, watching you with ears pinned flat to his skull. 

Shame, really. You found him rather cute, but the beast had always been terrified of you. 

A familiar scent reaches your nose, and a familiar face follows soon after - though he's changed significantly since the last time you saw him. The trappings of the modern world suit him well, you have to admit; the thick glasses lend a sort of non-threatening charm to his face, which you suppose is the point.

"Thorn, what's gotten into"—he stops so quickly his shoes squeal against the floor, the friendly shopkeeper guise dropping in the space of a blink—You." 

"Maxie." You greet, inclining your head. "You look... alive. In a manner of speaking, of course." 

He steps between you and the hound, hands curled into tense fists at his sides. "What are you doing here?" 

"Just sightseeing, really," you say soothingly, holding up your hands in surrender. "Figured the time was ripe to catch up with the world, see how all my little birds are doing. Carmilla sends her love, by the way." 

"This is my territory," Max hisses through his teeth, eyes bleeding yellow. "You know you can't be here without prior notice, it's law—" 

You sigh through your nose and snap your fingers. "Maximillian, kneel."

He falls to his knees hard enough that the tile cracks under his weight. You step closer, lifting his chin to meet his furious glare; he visibly strains against your order, a vein pulsing in his temple. You have no doubt that he would tear your throat out if given the chance.

But you've been alive entirely too long to let a little upstart like Max get the better of you.  

"I'm not here to cause trouble," you say, calmly, but firm. "But I made the laws, Max. You would do well not to forget that." 

He bares his teeth at you, face fully transformed to reveal the beast within. You look at him impassively for a moment, then sigh, turning on your heel and edging past a stunned Dwayne. "I'll meet you outside, boys."  

You push through the door with more force than strictly necessary, the tinkle of the bell almost mocking your dampened mood. Disappointing. Max had always clashed with you, even if he lacked the nerve to do anything about it. You'd hoped that a few hundred years apart might have cooled his animosity towards you, but clearly that was too much to hope for. 

You suck on your straw, making a face at the airy rattle you get instead of ice cream. All out of milkshake, and still so thirsty.  

The bell jingles again, heralding the approach of Max's coven. "I apologize for not warning you," you say before any of them can speak, twirling your empty cup. "I did have a feeling Max would react badly to seeing me. He's always been a bit of a cunt when things don't go his way." 

"How old are you?" Marko blurts. 

"Don't you know it's rude to ask a lady's age?" You tut, waving a finger in mock-indignation. "Really. No manners at all."

David steps forward, eyes glittering in the neon lights. "You turned Max." 

"No," you say, smiling to show off the long, curving points of your canines. "But I turned his sire. And I turned the sire before her, too." 

Glances are exchanged. Dwayne and David hold each other's gaze for a long moment, then Dwayne breaks away to glance at Marko, murmuring something just quietly enough that you don't catch it. Paul smiles, curious and admiring, and when David looks back at you there's a cautious interest written in the lines of his face. 

"Tell you what," you purr, looping your arms around David's neck. His gloved hands come to rest on your hips, leather creaking as he idly kneads the flesh hidden beneath soft cotton. "My throat's feeling a little dry. Why don't you boys take me for a drink, and then I’ll answer a few questions."

[gentlemancrow]

idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

“No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

[hassedah]

Could you do headcanons for Raphael?

General headcanons about Raphael :

Hi !

I hope you are well ! Here are the random headcanons for Raphael. I hope you like them ^^

Take care and have a nice day ^^

When he feels depressed or sad he likes to have a hot chocolate in front of the fireplace.

His collections take up a lot of space in the manor. It must be said that between the rocks, the knick-knacks, the books, the antiques his room is really starting to overflow.

He has cut his lips several times by biting them when he thinks, it is a bad habit he has kept from his human life.

Although he reads a lot, he reads very little thrillers or horror stories. It makes him very anxious and then he can't sleep, which he finds particularly ridiculous.

He writes stories, mainly romances. He sometimes reads them to Vladimir and Aaron for an outside opinion.

He leaves notes about his stories lying around the manor. Vladimir eventually got into the habit drop off to his room so that Raphael would not lose them.

Raphaël sometimes takes part in Beliath's karaoke evenings, although he does not know most of the songs.

He dances in his room when he is alone. Since he is more discreet than Ivan, nobody knows it.

He is a very good cook. He especially likes to make pastries and cakes because he loves all sweet dishes. He often cooks for the other boys in the manor and for birthdays.

He eats lemons like clementines.

Beliath bought him a small talking color Identifier. He didn't know that such an object existed until Beliath gave it to him. That day he tried it on almost everything that came within reach.

His clothes are all labelled in Braille so that he can spot colours and patterns more easily. It took him days to label them all but he is very happy with the result.

The modern clothes that Beliath buys for him are hidden in the back of his wardrobe. He actively tries to forget they exist. He has already discussed his "clothes" with Vladimir and his ignoble things otherwise known as jeans. He agrees with the aristocrat that he doesn't understand at all what the younger generation can find in his horrors.

He never throws away mismatched socks. They cause him too much pain. His poor socks are left alone without their soul mate, which is a sad thing. So he keeps them in a box in his cupboard, hoping to find their partner one day.

All his perfumes have a touch of vanilla. He loves that smell. 

He also loves lavender, he always has a lavender scented tissue in his pockets.

He always sleeps on the side of the wall and it does not turn its back on the void. (Nor does he leave his feet sticking out of the bed or the covers).

He plays his violin when he is angry and leaves his door open so that everyone can hear that he is angry.

He is extremely absent-minded.

He often gets migraines that make him stay in bed all night.

Most household products give him migraines.

He has seen fairy dragons.

He can crochet. He likes to sit in front of the fireplace in the library in winter to crochet. The vast majority of the time he makes big, brightly coloured socks to wear in his room afterwards. Ethan does much make fun of because he finds it ridiculous. 

He lacks self-confidence although he manages to hide it quite well most of the time.

Vladimir offered him a Braille scrabble board. He often plays it together. Most of the time, Raphaël wins.

When he can't sleep he sometimes goes to see if Vladimir is awake too. If he is, they usually spend the day together chatting. It sounds like a sleepover, but that's what it is.

The best way to help him out of an anxiety attack is to hug him. It doesn't work on everyone, but it works very well on him. He always feels better after that.

He always has his nails painted under his gloves because of Beliath. They have a manicure at least once a week.

[starshavegoneastray]

Perfect Lovers

Angst // h.hj

Inspired by Félix González-Torres 'Untitled (Perfect Lovers)' 1991; an installation art.

CW // loss of a loved one

1,923 Words

IT has been a while since Hyunjin came out of his apartment. The door to his unit creaked louder than he anticipated, but couldn’t blame the lack of new oil it required in order to work. Green carpet under his soles felt a little different from the last time he mindlessly trudged and tumbled into his cold unit. Newly painted hall greeted him, and before he knew it, he was waving politely at the landlord as he stepped outside of the building.

His blonde hair, caught by the wind as cars passed by, had gone longer than the last time he locked himself, reaching just above his shoulders in a half up half down. For sure it hadn’t been long, but the new stores that opened up right next to the bakery he visited often made it seem like he’d missed at least three months.

That was enough time for Hyunjin to get cooped up inside his tiny living space, free from any pain he had to endure. It was just the right number of weeks for him to be by himself, to look for some sort of interest in order to get his mind off the unpleasant thoughts hunting him for the past weeks.

Painting was one of the things he did, recalling the amount of oil paints and canvases littering across his apartment floors. He’d given up on sketching because the only image running around his head was you. The outcome made him light a match and let it eat the paper into ashes. A similar occurrence happened the last time he painted, but instead of setting the building on fire he decided to dump a whole bucket of lightning blue over it, then left it as it is in his work room.

Part of him wanted to rekindle that passion again, to get his brush going across the canvas and start over. But he lost the spark to ignite his flames, and morning came to replace the light he lost. Leaving him to scout for some sort of exit during the darkening night. He’d doused himself in bottles and bottles of booze the other night, and woke up the next morning with a booked ticket to an exhibit downtown on his laptop.

Hyunjin took his time wandering amongst the crowd, feeling the warmth of the room as people gathered around a few installations placed along the way, and paintings hung up on walls. Some visitors came in batches of elementary students in their orange uniforms, there were groups of (possibly) art students admiring another philosophical work, then there were the interested couples. He came alone in his cream knit vest, black cross bag and a pamphlet in his hands.

There was a mini map of the exhibition inside the neatly folded paper between his fingers, and he began at the very first spot his eyes landed on which were the paintings. Hyunjin stared at a few fancy frames, before moving along to the next in hopes of catching a glimpse of interest within the colors, the shapes, perspectives, anything.

He looked at his pamphlet again then proceeded to the next part of the exhibit. Sculptures in many shapes and sizes stood on white pedestals, behind glass boxes, and even stood on their own to showcase its amazing heights. More people took pictures here, seeing this is a perfect spot for such activity. Hyunjin, after looking around at the people pulling their phones and posing for the camera, fished for his own from the pocket of his jeans and snapped a clay statue that he thought looked like a memorable piece. A smile crept up his full lips, chuckling as he slid his fingers across the screen at the picture he took.

Y/n would love this.

Hyunjin’s lips faltered slowly. Just when he thought he could put down the weights from his shoulder, he couldn’t. Not now. Not even after three whole months. Every time he gets a little happy, he thinks of you. And you were the reality he’s not ready for. With a push of a button, his screen turned void and he shoved his gadget back from where he took them before walking to the next part of the exhibit.

Nothing caught his eye. Not the paintings, not the statues, not the impressive wall art on one side of the building. For starters, he never really frequently visited an exhibit. He started going to some back in the day because of someone’s influence. Someone who would go out of their way to get two entry tickets and accompany him despite their responsibilities and schedule. The same person who would be the first to point out an artist’s work and the meanings behind the intricate strokes, dents, parts, and smudges. The very individual who taught him how to paint.

He kept glancing back and forth towards the pamphlet once he realized he’s stepping into the installations exhibit; the field of art he’s having trouble understanding. Nothing ever makes sense in his eyes, as his steps progress deeper into more stacks of cups, papers, possibly metals displayed on the floor. His eyes jumped from one installation to the other, and all he could process were the odd-looking mismatched objects glued to one another. But he knew for a fact it was because he did something wrong, not because the language doesn’t click.

Take your time, the three words lingered like an aftertaste of a bitter coffee in the shape of your voice. That was what he did as soon as his eyes landed on two clocks hung up on a wall side by side. Félix González-Torres was written on a card right next to the installation, under the title that named the art:

‘Untitled (Perfect Lovers)'.

Take your time, and it’ll all make sense.

Two of the same clocks ticking by the same exact time like what they are and what they’re intended to do; to tell the time. Their needles ticked by the number ten, then ran past eleven. Hyunjin chuckled after the hour hands slightly moved closer to the number seven simultaneously as the seconds morphed with the minute hand on twelve. Upon closer inspection, it was his first time seeing an hour hand move. Nothing fascinating, but now that he thought about it, he’s a quick-paced guy; he never stopped for once to take in the smallest things around him.

Different from how you were. He could almost see it, you would probably stop on your tracks as well, and stared at the two clocks which bore a deep meaning that only few could understand. Installation is a language that took some time to perceive, it’s a different concept of relaying opinions, messages, or a story. The language of art isn’t just from how visually pleasing it is, but also how the message behind it resonates with the people who interact with it. It’s not what you see in it, but it’s how you feel when you see it. Because it captures emotions and memories that exist without a visual form.

Hyunjin never got that idea through his head, especially when he encountered the particular abstract movements. But perhaps his perspective changed once he noticed the right clock began ticking a little slower than the left, gradually falling behind and out of sync; as many clocks do.

Eventually one of them would stop working as the exhibit went on.

For many reasons, you were the very first person he thought of. Fights were a repetitive occurrence but it never tore you apart from each other. And even when disagreements filled the gap, somehow you both found a way to come to terms with it. Your dynamics brought the best out of him, even he was surprised himself. And the both of you had the craziest idea of holding onto each other, until time did their worst and pulled you apart from his grasp on one spring.

Despite the green hues covering his steps, the grey morning he returned from your funeral was one of the hardest things he had to do. Walking back out was another hell he didn’t want to live in, so he locked himself in where he could succumb into an indefinite amount of sorrow and grief at the loss of the love of his life.

Perhaps the harsh reality pushed him at his worst, locking you up in his attic, only to have you drip down the ceiling and he could only see you, you, and you. Even in his dreams, all he saw was you.

The only argument he couldn’t come to terms with was the fact that you’re not here to hold onto him anymore.

But the title still remains ‘Perfect Lovers’. Even when the two hands fall from each other, going their separate ways, or stop dead on their tracks, they were the best for one another. His heartbreak was the evidence of your unconditional love. A mark that will forever be remembered as your beautiful life that collided with his at the imperfectly perfect timing. Despite the circumstances, despite the abrupt end to your chapter with him, you remain as his perfect lover.

**

It was a small flower shop that opened right next to the bakery Hyunjin stopped by. Warm scent of croissant filled up the air as he leaned back onto the white chair, scrolling back through his phone as another warm loaf met his full lips.

“Did you visit the exhibition?” A voice made him crane his neck to see the owner of the little bakery in his white apron pulling a chair to sit next to Hyunjin. He nodded as a reply, munching slowly at the warm bread while letting his friend see the pictures he took.

“You know, Minho,” Hyunjin began to speak, putting down the goods on the plate as he did so, “I thought my time would stop the second hers did.”

Minho listened intently, not too sure where he’s going with the conversation. “But I guess, even soulmates aren’t synchronized.”

Hyunjin looked around the afternoon sunlit streets. Orange hues kissing the autumn leaves that fall from their respective trees adorning the chalkboard sign he drew an hour ago for the bakery. Minho exhaled, taking Hyunjin’s phone gently and swiping a few pictures until he stopped at one with two store bought clocks that was supposed to be deemed an art.

“Is that another philosophy you learned for today?” The question made the blonde boy lean back on his chair, crossing both arms on his chest and said, like it’s a matter of fact, “It’s a new language I learned.”

A tiny small pulled the sides of Minho’s cheeks at his friend’s little banter, it has been a while since he’d last heard of Hyunjin’s sassy remarks. Pinching and zooming the photo, Minho asks again, “And what do you think about it?”

“I think…”

He thought of your eyes, the crinkly ones every time a smile adorn your face at the paintings he finished, or the paints he threw your way, coloring a few strains of your hair. And the way you cried in front of an art you resonated with the most, as if the world you see was filled with the same frequency of affection, despair, desire, sadness, or happiness that none could muster or perceive. Your heartfelt emotions that never fail to make him fall harder every day. And he knew definitely how you’d feel if you’d come along.

“…Y/n would have loved it as much as I do.”

[sope-and-shine]

Lost and Found

-> Namjoon x Reader -> Soulmate!AU // Fluff -> 6.2k (This fic was at 6,199 before post, and I couldn’t let that happen) -> Summary: In a world full of soulmates and soul marks, you just had to get stuck with the dynamic duo. -> Warning(s): none // maybe just fluff

A/N: I suggested the name to Belle as I was drafting the post, and she said she’d sue me if I didn’t use it.

ALSO! A BIG BIG BIG THANK YOU TO BOTH @multycoloredtaco​ and @purpletigertaetae​ for reading this and giving me some really good feedback! I love you both SO MUCH!

* * *

Soulmates have always come in several different shapes and sizes. They’ve always appeared to each other in various ways. Your mother and father met by their own personal song that only the two knew of, one that played when they spared a thought to the other. Your aunt had found your uncle with a timer on her wrist, and your grandpa had the unfortunate fate of meeting your grandmother while catcalling her. According to him, it was a very eventful day, but at least her words to him finally made sense. Everyone in your family - besides your great aunt who hasn’t aged since the late 1890s - has had the amazing luck of finding their soulmate. Not everyone gets the luxury of being with their soulmate how they planned to. You’re actually friends with a shop owner who lost his soulmate about a year ago and hasn’t seen any color since. You honestly couldn’t imagine the pain he’s been through. Thankfully, your soulmate mark was not as painful.

It was just extremely annoying.

As a child, you never questioned the items that would appear in your room, thinking of them as odd gifts that your parents or your brother would leave for you. You were no stranger to finding a single sock under your bed, the occasional candy bar tucked away in your backpack, or the odd action figure that you would take to your brother thinking it was his. It wasn’t until the first homework assignment with ‘Kim Namjoon’ scrawled at the top that you began to think something wasn’t right. And that was only the beginning of what was to come. 

As the years went by, more and more random items began appearing in your room at your parents house, your dorm in college, and finally your very own apartment. Each item you placed in boxes under your bed as a way to keep a piece of him with you until you could find him. However, you never imagined how forgetful and chaotic your soulmate could really be. You have everything! Clothing items, more homework assignments, various books, glasses, baby photos, and you even have a random girl’s phone number! You were tempted to call her when you first found it, but you figured that would be too weird. Instead, you continued to organize everything under your bed in hopes of giving it all back to him when you would finally meet.

Of course, you were a victim to your soulmate mark as well. Many jewelry items had disappeared from your room without a trace as a result. Hoodies, stuffed animals, and even a bra that you could’ve sworn you put in your gym bag - part of you hoped he’d hide it away because not only was it a cute bra, it was also expensive. Recently though, you’ve both been a lot more responsible. You haven’t seen any new items appear in your apartment for almost a month, and with your soulmates track record of losing 11 items in one day, a month was a huge record on his part. But you were starting to miss the gifts that would give you clues to him.

After you found out what your soulmate mark really was, you started looking forward to what would be left in your room next. Of course, it wasn’t always a win on your part, and sometimes what he lost was very questionable, but it always made you laugh when another item appeared in your room. At first, it was weird to think about someone else’s stuff appearing in your room with no prior warning, but it made you feel special to know that he was ultimately giving you pieces of himself every time he let something out of his sight. They made your long days more bearable. It makes you wonder if he’s the type of person to shower you with gifts when you feel upset or just to show his affection when he felt it was necessary. Especially on a rough day like today.

There was nothing wrong with your job, you loved everything about it! Life as a lead optician was actually a very rewarding job in the end. Helping others choose the best glasses for their face and individual personalities was one of your favorite parts, you loved watching little old ladies try on vibrant, colorful frames to feel youthful. They’re always very excited to see clearly again. Then there are all the little kids who would sit down with you to get glasses for the first time, and the look on their faces when they finally got to see the world clearly was heartwarming. Their soft smiles and wide eyes filled with amazement always made you feel a little softer inside. However, not everyday was a good day, and today was really not a good day.

Everything was going perfectly fine until the 3:30 appointment showed up at 5:00 after the doctor had already left for the day and demanded to be seen. The doctor’s technician was so scared trying to explain to the patient that they’d have to reschedule their appointment, and the poor thing was just trying not to cry over the one person who couldn’t understand how society works. Obviously, as the lead optician on duty you took over, but this patient was one of the most inconsiderate people you’d ever had to deal with. Demanding to be seen, demanding to buy glasses with an old prescription, demanding to speak to a manager - which at this point was actually you, so done and done - and just cursing up a storm at you and your fellow coworkers who all tried to help explain. The whole ordeal just took way longer than it ever should have to deal with, and it probably took at least 25 years off of your life. 

“Why do people feel that they need to be rude to get what they want?” Soohyun had asked you, “Do they think it’ll just magically fix everything?” 

You had agreed, “It’s like they think you’re really just messing with them. Like, “Oh no, sir! You’re correct! I apologize for the inconvenience, let me pull that out of my ass for you!” Though maybe not appropriate for the work environment, you’d at least made her day just a little better with your humor. 

On days like today, a nice warm shower and a cuddle pile with all of the pillows and plushies that cover your bed made everything much better when nothing new appeared in your room. If the odd gifts the universe left from your soulmate couldn’t cheer you up, then you’d do it yourself. And that you did. Nothing felt better than the warm water washing away the day’s pain and suffering, the delicate fragrance of the coconut shampoo you splurged on easing your worries down the drain. The floral body lotion and leave-in-conditioner you’d bought on the same shopping excursion also help your body relax, their scents so intoxicating to you, that you almost topple over onto the tiled floor of your bathroom from the instant pleasure they pull from you. Instead, you make your way to your bed, adorned in your comfiest PJs and fluffiest socks.

However, you weren’t expecting to land on something so hard and uncomfortable when you plopped face first onto your sheets.

“What the heck?” Pushing yourself onto your knees and pulling back the covers, you find a small, golden trophy resting comfortably in the warmth of your sheets. On all sides it reads, ‘MNET Asian Music Awards’ with a small plaque reading, ‘2017 MNET Asian Music Awards: Artist of the Year’ at the bottom of one side. It takes you a moment to understand fully what you hold in your hands before it actually hits you.

Your soulmate is an idol.

A forgetful idol if he lost such an important award, but at least this gave you a lead as to who your soulmate is besides one of the most common surnames and a few measly pairs of mismatched socks.  

Setting the award to the side, you grab your phone from your nightstand and unlock it, clicking on your browser and typing away. You look up the artist of the year from 2017 and find the top result to be a boy band called BTS. According to Google’s nice little summary and AllKPOP’s top article, they seemed to be pretty famous. Of course, you’ve heard of them before, and if you heard one of their songs then there was a good chance you’d probably recognize it! But you’ve never really been one for boy bands. You were more into kdramas if you were to be completely honest, they’re definitely your guilty pleasure and way more your speed than handsome young men dancing on stage in front of screaming girls trying to get in their pants. Could you really blame them? No. Not at all. Given the chance, you’d take it, but it wouldn’t be anything special if it wasn’t your soulmate.

Your soulmate.

Namjoon.

Changing your question, you search for ‘Kim Namjoon BTS’. If he actually pops up, then that would mean you actually know who he is. 

Finding the nerve to press search, you are bombarded with three pictures above a description of him right off the bat - You hate to admit it, but soulmate or not, he’s definitely handsome. You click on a random site you hope will give you some useful information about the man who’s most likely your soulmate and are immediately redirected to something called K-Profiles. The site itself starts off with a group picture of all the members, followed by their names below it, and their social media handles under that. You’d have to look them up later.

The first member you come across is your soulmate himself. He has his blonde head resting on top of his arms with a soft, dimpled smile as he stares right back at the camera. Eyes locked onto his through the screen, you can feel your heart speeding up just from looking at him. You can’t help but smile back at him as if he can actually see you. As if he were right there ready to come out and say ‘hi’. 

He’s absolutely breathtaking, and it isn’t even him.

You continue your hunting, scrolling further down to learn as much as you can about him. How old he is, when he was born, where he was born, what his favorite color is, you want to know it all! You learn that he’s the leader of the group, that he used to be known as Rap Monster before he changed it - that USB in the box under your bed made a lot more sense now. You learn that he has a sister, and that he and his band members are advocates for UNICEF, and that this man was so incredibly intelligent yet also known as the ‘god of destruction’ to those around him. But also listed on his profile is his soulmate mark. 

“As said in a V-Live where RM explained a stuffed animal he kept on his desk, anything RM loses will appear with his soulmate and vice-versa. He has yet to meet his soulmate.” You read. You’ve lost quite a few stuffed animals to Namjoon, hopefully, it wasn’t an embarrassing one that would haunt you later.

You come to the end of his profile and to the top of another handsome man, yet you don’t scroll down. You haven’t learned enough. You need to know more about him, about how you can meet him. You have to know more! And that’s how you find yourself still up at 5am the next morning still wide awake watching yet another video interview of your soulmate just to hear his voice. A part of you is embarrassed for staying awake all night for some guy, but another part of you can’t let it go when you’re so deep already. 

* * *

You called into work after your late night-early morning escapade, telling them you caught something from one of your friends and wouldn’t be in for the next few days. There was no way you were going anywhere with the sleep you just got, and it wouldn’t be fixed in one day either. Even after sleeping the morning away you were still tired from your late night-early morning endeavor. It’s not like you really cared though, you had just found out who your soulmate was. And unlike a lot of other people in the world, you had an entire collection of videos dedicated to just your soulmate and his passion.

It didn’t take long for you to dig your nose back into the screen of your phone just to watch him make that gorgeous, dimpled smile. There were so many videos where he talked about you, sharing some of the items you had lost with his fans like they were his best friends. He looked so proud to be showing off your things, and the look in his eyes when he’d get lost in his own thoughts just looking at them made your heart melt.

You’d heard your mom and dad talk about how happy they were to have a special song just for the two of them. Your mom used to tell you all about the day your father tracked her all the way from the grocery store, pushing through the crowd like a love interest in a kdrama because he heard her humming their song to herself. At a young age you always thought it was sweet and wanted to meet your soulmate just like your mom had, but you eventually realized as you got older that a strange person following you home is not something you want. However, now you kinda wished it could work like that, seeing that your soulmate was practically untouchable. 

Of all the people in the world, you just had to get stuck with a celebrity with millions of girls from all over the world fawning over him. Getting chased in the streets must be on this guy’s workout regimen by now! How were you supposed to get anywhere near him without spending over $1,000 just to look at his face?

“How much are those fan-meet things?” You ask yourself aloud. Innocent enough, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the entire process that came with going to just one fansign. This wasn’t something you could just buy a ticket for. No. You had specific steps that you had to follow or you wouldn’t even stand a chance. There were so many steps that you were tempted to just find his company and blast music until security came to take you away. Maybe you’d at least get to meet him when they filed a restraining order.

No. You HAD to meet him. You haven’t saved all of his lost things just for you to chicken out now.

So, you made a fancafe account and waited for their next promotion to purchase an album, you waited for the lottery winners to be announced, and you almost doubled over when you saw your name on the list from the store. You thought 3 months was long enough, but the 24 hours before the event were the longest hours of your life. So long that you couldn’t even sleep!

That’s where the wrench comes in.

You hadn’t meant to stay up so late at all, but you were really excited to finally meet the man that’s been losing everything he touches - especially now that he’s started losing air pods under your bed. So, when you woke up at 10:30am for the fansign that started at 11, you knew you’d messed up. 

You messed up bad. 

Of all the irresponsible things you could’ve done, staying up late was not the one you should’ve chosen to do. Now, you’d have to wait even longer to see him. Maybe the universe was right to give you both the worst soulmate mark known to man.

It wasn’t like waiting for the next fansign was bad, but it wasn’t the best either. Everyday that passed was another day that you had to watch him through a screen. Seeing his dimpled cheeks smile at the camera - at you - making your heart race. He was so close to you, but he was so out of reach. When the next fansign did come around, you had to make sure you made it on time so you could see it in person for yourself.

That’s what you told yourself.

To your credit, you almost did do that! But you had no idea there would be so much traffic. Not only that, but you’d tripped and dropped the box of things to return to him on the street and had to pick it up before anyone saw what it was you were holding. Because of those small issues, you made it to the venue five minutes after they had closed the doors. 

“Please, I’m only five minutes late!” You beg, breathing heavy and labored. You stare at the worker just doing her job with high hopes that she would have some sort of empathy for you, but her face showed no remorse.

“If you wanted to be let in, then you should have been on time.” She scolds, closing the doors on you and leaving you outside to wallow in self pity once more. 

At least the first time you’d messed up you were in the comfort of your own home where you could cry over your failure. Now, you were left in the open for everyone to see your mistake. You were so close too. He was just behind the doors. Waiting to see the adoring faces of his fans that you should be a part of. 

Yet you’re on the streets.

* * *

“Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard?” 

“What makes you say that?” You turn to your friend from your seat on the ground outside of the shop you’d purchased your album from, dressed in a light hoodie with a coffee in your hand. The light of day just peaking through the cracks between the buildings as the street lamps turn off for a new day. 

At this point in your journey to meet your soulmate, you weren’t going to take any more chances. The store didn’t open for another 3 hours, and the event started an hour and a half after that, but you were going to be sure you had your ticket and made it to the venue on time. You didn’t care how early you were, you were going to see Namjoon if it was the last thing you did.

The poor, tired woman seemed to pick up on your indifference to your change in behavior and sighs, “Nothing in particular. I’m just concerned that maybe you’re taking this to the extreme now.”

“I’ve tried and failed three times already, Bomi. I cannot miss another chance to meet them!” You explain, taking a sip from your warm cup.

“Maybe the universe is trying to tell you that they’re just a boy band and you shouldn’t get so excited over them. They all have soulmates anyways.” Of course she didn’t know that you were going because one of them was your soulmate, but you couldn’t risk anyone finding out and telling your soulmate before you could tell him. 

“I know that, but it’s worth it!” All the hours you’d spent waiting, watching their new content, reading their tweets and various posts from other social media wishing you could see him in person for just a moment. This was the fourth attempt, and you didn’t want to continue this cycle of hit and miss. “I’m not missing it this time.”

“Well, waiting outside of this shop so early just to get a ticket that’s already yours is absurd!” 

“You didn’t have to come with me.” You grumble. It wasn’t like you didn’t know that. You were very much aware of the fact that it was insane. It was something you thought about every time you failed to make it into the venue! Having her reiterate what you already knew did not make it any easier.

However, your acquaintance wasn’t having your response, “I did. You blackmailed me into coming with you so you’d actually do it right, remember?”

The vague memory of sending her an embarrassing picture you had as a way to convince her to come flashes through your mind. So maybe your methods were unconventional, but they worked. “That’s not important!” 

You both continue to wait by the store’s entrance, making light conversation as more people begin to show up for their own tickets. Of course, you knew they’d be here, that’s why you left extra early to be there first. It was a good thing you did too, because as the time ticked on and the line grew longer, it became obvious a lot of fans had purchased their albums from the same store you had. Even as the store owner arrived to start their day, not at all surprised by the line that had formed for them, there were still fans lining up for their tickets.

But in the end, you were first to arrive and receive your ticket, and that made you one of the first to the venue.

“Alright, we made it. This is where I leave you.” Bomi hikes her bag further onto her shoulder and turns to face you one last time before she leaves, “Don’t make a fool of yourself in there. And do not show them your airpod collection!”

‘Oh, I’m returning the airpod collection…’ You think to yourself, sending a quick wave goodbye to her.

Waiting for the doors to the venue to open didn’t take as long as you’d thought it would - security check taking even less time. You found your seat pretty easily as well, being placed on the left side of the empty table in the middle of the sea of chairs. Taking the time you have while everyone finds their seats, you take a peek inside of the box you’d brought to grab your album and just look at everything you’d brought to begin their return to Namjoon. You made sure to bring every pair of air pods you had found - and hadn’t sold on eBbay - a few old homework assignments, USB’s, pictures he’d taken through his pre-debut, and the trophy he’d misplaced that lead to your discovery.

Hopefully his band members wouldn’t be too upset with him.

You’d learned a lot about each of them over the two years you’ve spent trying to meet with Namjoon. So many times you’d been tempted to put yourself on the fan page or DM them on Twitter, but you were too afraid of being drowned out by other ARMYs or one of the other boys blocking you before Namjoon could see. No doubt they each probably had hardships of their own trying dodge fans claiming to be their soulmate. Watching as they each come to the stage individually, you could see why anyone would lie to call them theirs. You couldn’t deny how handsome they all were - you’d be lying to yourself if you said you thought they weren’t handsome - but no one could compare to your Namjoon.

If you get the opportunity to meet his stylist, then you’re going to give her the biggest hug for making him look this amazing! It was just a plain white, button down shirt tucked into a black pair of dress pants, but the top two buttons of his shirt undone and the grey, satin suit jacket with the addition of black, square glasses and his brown hair neatly parted to the left make him look like a god - should they exist. He takes your breath away, even if you’ve seen every picture and fancam you were able to find. The universe really said, “this one deserves the best” and threw you the biggest catch out there. You could only hope he enjoyed the simple pair of jeans and pastel yellow sweater you’d thrown on for the occasion.

It takes a while before they begin the meet and greet part, the boys introducing themselves and asking questions, letting their fan sites take pictures before they turn their attention to the individual fans as they pass them. With every moment that passes by, every row you watch stand and enter the line to the stage, you become more and more nervous. Of course, you knew your soulmate was truly Namjoon, but you were still terrified to reveal that truth in front of everyone. You’d seen a few announcements regarding the boys and their soulmates, talking about how their respective soulmate would be treated like another one of the boys and would be protected by BigHit as soon as they were found. You knew you’d at least have his company behind you, but…

What about his fans?

You can’t help but fester in your own thoughts, letting them consume you even as you make your way into the line with your box. You try your best to muster up the courage you need, but the looming presence of the table getting closer and closer makes your breathing harder. All you need to do is remain calm. They were just people.

The people who’ve spent almost 7 years with your soulmate.

And your soulmate himself.

No biggie.

“Ma’am.” The voice of the staff keeping the line interrupts your internal panic, pulling you back to reality. He points to the table where an excited Taehyung smiles eagerly at you with an empty space in front of him. “You’re next.”

“Yes! Thank you.” Reeling from embarrassment, you quickly kneel down to the space in front of the table. You give a small bow and hand over your album to the boxy-smiled boy in front of you, your hands shaking from how nervous you are. All you had to do was make it through 5 more boys and you’d meet your soulmate. 

5 more people....

...and you’d meet your soulmate.

A hand lands on top of your own, “There’s no need to be nervous!” Taehyung is bright and happy, calmly running a thumb over the back of your hand as he uses the other to sign your album. His eyes shift from you to the paper and back to you, “You’re doing great~”

You felt a little bad for probably ignoring him. He must’ve been trying to introduce himself when he’d noticed you’d spaced out yet again. Yet here he was, acting as though it wasn’t even that big of a deal. Of course, he still had about 50 more people or so to have a minute conversation with, but he genuinely seemed to care. It made you feel more confident.

“Thank you.” You say, a smile gracing your lips. You were still nervous, but at least now you felt calm and somewhat collected to at least make it through the other members. You move onto Yoongi, then to Jeongguk, to Jin, to Jimin, and then to Hoseok. Once again, you’re feeling a little guilty about the time you spend with him. It wasn’t like you weren’t excited to be in front of him, but your soulmate was less than 2 feet away from you looking like he walked out of a Vogue photo shoot with a happy little smile on his face. Hopefully, if all goes well you can apologize to him for being distracted.

The staff moves everyone along and your time finally comes. You bid Hoseok a quick thank you and goodbye and move yourself in front of Namjoon, his box tucked close to your body as a way to keep you grounded. 

Namjoon takes your album from Hoseok before he turns his full attention to you, his dimples that you’d been obsessed with since you’d first seen them making an appearance. His dark brown eyes stare into your own, “Hi, what’s your name?”

You’re so entranced by the man in front of you that you almost don’t respond. You manage a quiet, “(Y/n)...” But you’re so stunned and breathless that you think about repeating it just to make sure he hears it.

“Really?” He asks. His eyes widen for just a moment, and you know he recognizes it from a homework assignment or a book you’d probably lost with your name in it. You watch his shoulders as they tense and then relax as if they’d never lifted in the first place. “I really like that name. It’s one of my favorites.”

You watch him turn to the album in front of him, looking for the page you’d like him to sign. Being in front of him now, you feel your confidence grow. You can’t help yourself, “Really? Is there a reason?”

“I’ve just always liked the name.” He says, looking up momentarily with a tight smile. He probably didn’t want to be too obvious about his soulmate - well, you - so fans wouldn’t go looking for you. That must be the one downside to the life of an idol. You watch him carefully, taking in the way he handles your album with care. You watch him flip through pages, his smile slipping for a confused frown. He looks at you, “You don’t have a question for me?”

You jump at the sudden realization that you hadn’t given him the box yet, “No! I do…” This was it. You look from him to the box you’ve clung onto for two years, “It’s inside the box.”

Carefully, you slide the box forward, feeling the nerves you’ve been feeling all day spring to life. He takes it from you with a grateful smile, probably expecting a bear or something you’d made yourself just for him. But judging by the look on his face, you can tell he wasn’t expecting to find the objects in front of him. His shocked face makes you chuckle.

“I’ve always wondered how one person can lose so many things. I understand homework and socks, the airpods, but an entire trophy, Namjoon? How do you lose a trophy?” You ask. You wait for an answer, but he looks as if he’s completely shut down. His jaw hangs open ever so slightly, and his eyes are wide in disbelief. You see a glisten in his eyes and your amusement turns to worry, “Are you okay?”

The leader turns to you, glistening eyes staring into your own. His mouth opens and closes and it looks like he’s trying to find the right words to say, “I-...I don-...oh my god, you’re actually here.”

You watch as the shine in his eyes turn to tears that slowly roll down his cheeks, his mouth struggling to decide if he wants to frown or smile. You’re more worried than anything, “Wah-! Don’t cry! Why are you crying?!” You reach for his hands that still rest on the sides of the box, mimicking what Taehyung had done for you when you first stepped up to the table. “Please don’t cry.”

“I can’t believe you’re here.” He says softly, his voice cracking ever so slightly. You’re still confused if he himself is happy or not, trying to make sense of why he’s crying when he just met you. You watch his eyes drift over you with an unclear expression. Was he happy? Was he sad? Were you supposed to be reacting the same way?

“You’re beautiful…” He says, teary eyes meeting your own.

“So are you.” You respond. It’s only after the words fall from your mouth that you realize what you said and you try to correct yourself, “Handsome! I meant to say you’re handsome! You’re very attractive in a very masculine way, but that’s not to say you don’t express femininity well when you choose to and you look good all the time and-” Amidst your struggle for the correct words, he’d begun to laugh at your own expense. Not how you imagined this meeting to go, you shrink back to your side of the table, “I’ll just stop talking.”

“No! Please, keep talking.” He begs, moving forward to come closer to you. He pulls on your hands that still connect across the table, squeezing to reassure you that he still wanted you to be near him. It felt so nice to have him hold your hands, so nice and comforting, that you must’ve missed the glistening in your own eyes, “Now you’re crying!”

Your hands pull from his to hide your face, “No I’m not, it’s just raining inside!” 

As you try to wipe away your tears, you hear the voice of Jimin call over the speakers just off to the side of the table, “You’re not supposed to make the fans cry!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Namjoon defends. In all fairness, you did make him cry first, so this was probably fair.

Hoseok claps his hands together, his voice just subtly coming through the speakers as well, “This is so sweet! We’re all witnessing two soulmates meet for the first time!” 

“It’s like a movie, but without the flower petals.” Taehyung adds, having a mic of his own on his side as well.

“Miss.” Another staff member appears next to you, only this time they’re offering a hand and a smile, “Could I have you come with me?”

You’re nervous at first, not sure if going with this staff member would be the best idea. However, the presence of Namjoon’s hand on your own once more draws your attention to his heartwarming smile, “It’s okay.”

You nod and stand, allowing the staff to lead you behind the table and into the hallway to a waiting area. They have you sit on the couch, assuring you that Namjoon and the others would be there to see you soon. This at least gave you a moment to collect your thoughts and come to the realization that you really just met your soulmate after so much hard work to get there. You’d thought plenty of times that you’d regret trying to meet him this way, but now you couldn’t be more elated that you actually got to speak to him and hold his hands. You made him cry - what were hopefully - tears of joy! Even as their manager sits down to make small talk with you while you wait for the end of the fanmeet, you can’t help but to feel as if you’re on cloud 9. 

It’s not too long until you hear that the meeting has come to an end, making your heart rate speed up. Once again, you take a deep breath in and let it out, preparing yourself to face Namjoon again. Only when he does come in, you both just stare at one another. Him from the doorway with his members waiting behind him and you from your spot on the couch. You’d already met, you’d already held hands, but this...he was right there.

“Well, are you going to talk to her or just look at her?” Jin asks, a mischievous smirk gracing his features as he stares at the younger.

It would seem that the small jab at the leader was all he needed to push himself forward, legs moving swiftly across the room in long strides just so he can reach you. You stand, intending to meet him halfway, but he’s already pulling you into a much needed embrace before you even get the chance. His arms wrap over your shoulders, caging you close to his chest as he leans down to rest his head on your own. He smells so nice, and his embrace is so warm, they almost distract you from the wetness you feel on top of your head.

“Namjoon…?” You ask, worried you might make him cry more by asking.

The man himself pulls back, quickly moving to wipe his tears as if he hadn’t already cried in front of you already, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so emotional right now.”

“Don’t apologize. I think it’s cute.” You assure him. You look down, feeling a bit embarrassed yourself, “Much cuter than showing up to your fansign with a bunch of your things.”

“How long have you known?” He asks.

“2 long and painful years.” You sigh. Thinking back on everything you’ve done since discovering who and where he was, you can’t help but be thankful it worked out this time around, “I’ve tried coming to a fan sign 3 times before this.”

“Couldn’t win a ticket?” Jeongguk asks from the side, a bottle of water in his hands.

Your sheepish smile turns into a strained one, “Yeah...we’ll go with that.”

Yoongi seems to pick up on your change in attitude, “Don’t tell me…” 

“No wonder the universe put them together, they’re a match made in heaven!” Jin laughs, the sound being much more entertaining in person. The other members of BTS continue to talk amongst themselves, discussing the scene before them as well as how exciting the day had been. But Namjoon, instead, focuses all of his attention on you.

“Please tell me you’re free for the rest of the day.” 

For once, you were more than happy to use your holiday time, “I’m free for the rest of the weekend.”

“Good.” He says, giving you another look at his beautiful, dimpled smile.

“Good...”

* * *

“So, what’s in the box?” 

[fullmarvelheart]

Crossing Lines (1/?)

Pairing: mob!Bucky x fbi!mob!Reader

Word Count: 3,322

Series summary: A sudden and unsettling event rocks the underworld, and Y/N is immediately called in to prepare for what’s to come. What she isn’t prepared for is James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, also known as the new head of the Brooklyn mafia clan. When these two get shoved into a world of danger and deceit, will they ever learn to trust each other? Or will they be doomed from the start?

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, little bit of angst, slight swearing, slow burn (more to be added as the series progresses)

A/N: I’m finally able to post this today! I’ve been counting down until I could get this out😂 This is the first story that I have written and posted on my Tumblr account. I’m a bit nervous but very excited. I have not entirely proofread this story. Though, I would like to thank my beta reader, Lauren, for all the help and motivation she gave me. The GIF is not mine, credit to the original creator! And a big thank you to the @the-ss-horniest-book-club​ for hosting Mob!Bucky Appreciation Day and inspiring me to post this story.

Series Masterlist

The sharp clicking noise of my heels, followed by the dull thud of several boots, echo on the wooden stairs leading to the basement of my childhood home. I follow the along the long stretch of the twisting hallways until we reach a door that's muffling the slaps and punches behind it. 

One of the men that had met me in the foyer, and had followed me down, knocks twice on the door as I tuck my hand into the back pocket of the curve-hugging black jeans I wore for the day. Moments later, the steel door swings open with a low whine from the give of the rusted hinges. The scent of blood and sweat is the first thing I notice followed by the image of the room. 

Five men stand beyond the doorway. The man who opened the door stands near the edge of steel, gun hanging loosely at his side. Two bodyguards stand in adjacent corners of the room, making sure it’s possible to guard the others with in. Two others, the two most trusted of the household, including the right hand to the leader of the Manhattan Mafia Empire, stand imposingly in front of a man bound to a chair in the center. By the amount of fresh blood dripping onto the floor, this wasn't just some petty offense against the leader. Which draws my attention to the final man, leaning carelessly on a table filled with painful weapons. Nicholas J. Fury, the leader of this mafia clan, and my adopted father. 

"You summoned me from my apartment, Boss?" I say with a smirk while jutting out my hip. 

Phil Coulson, father's righthand, gives me a smirk in return while Maria Hill, his enforcer, just sends a half-hearted glare my way. However, father's face remains neutral.

"I did." He spares me a one-eyed glance. "Tell me what you see?"

I hum in thought to myself as I stalk my way around to see the captive's face. The top half of his once light-colored shirt is now hanging open from being cut by a knife or something similarly sharp. But it's cut open enough to view a tattoo resting on his right breast. 

A red skull surrounded by a halo of octopus tentacles. 

I grunt in distaste. "HYDRA scum."

The man lifts up his bloodied and beaten head to snarl at me. He twists his mouth before lobbing a spit ball at my feet. The glob of mixed spit and blood lands inches from my black, closed-toe heels. 

I scoff at the action and brush my hand into the waistline of my jeans. When I feel the slim metal hilt, I maneuver the object into my palm. With the push of a small button the knife of the switchblade extends before I quickly drive it into his thigh. He screams out in pain as I keep the blade firmly in place. When his screams turn into tired wails of agony, I turn towards my father. 

"Who is he?" I ask, motioning my head towards the man.

"We believe he's behind the hit on George Barnes. Or at least, is attempting to put the blame on us." He explains in his no-nonsense tone. 

My eyes widen in shock, my lips parting slightly. 

"George Barnes was shot at? Is this why I've been called in?" The prisoner painfully chuckles, quietly enough for only me to hear him. 

"He's dead, sweet cheeks." He whispers with a smirk of victory.

I growl at him before twisting my knife and yanking it out while I stand.

"So, why am I here? I assume it's not to attend the funeral because you know I can't. It was just a risk just to even come here." My father gives me a pointed look.  

"I need you to go with them to the warehouse with the prisoner while your siblings and I attend the funeral that's being held in a couple of hours. After the funeral, George's son and I will discuss some business about our alliance with the Brooklyn clan. I'll call you with the details." I nod at his instructions. 

"You know the FBI is going to have me all over this case once they receive word of Barnes’ death, right?" He nods. 

"I'm counting on it." 

"I'll be waiting by the van." I tell him before wiping my knife on the man’s already dirty shirt and tucking the now closed switchblade into the band of my jeans.  

I'm escorted back up the stairs towards the side of the house where the cars sit waiting in father's massive garage. Though the reason for the escort is now clear. My safety. My personal bodyguards, some of my father's most trusted men, meet back up with me to continue through the house. The sounds of nearing footsteps draw my attention to another hallway. My siblings, the twins, round the corner with their own group of bodyguards. 

Wanda, the youngest, according to her brother, is dressed in all black. Appropriate for a funeral. Her brown hair is in casual waves while her makeup is mostly minimally visible. Her natural eyeshadow pairs well with the red lip tint she chose. Her normal red leather jacket is replaced by a similar black one that's draped over a black dress which is cinched at the waist. Her normal array of colorful and seemingly mismatched jewelry has been changed into a long silver chain necklace and a simple dark color bracelet. And to top off the outfit, she put on a pair of high heeled ankle boots. A surprised gasp leaves her lips when she spots me and soon, she's running to me as fast as she can in those heels. Her brother, Pietro, follows not too far behind her. 

Pietro is dressed in a similar fashion. His silver dyed hair is brushed into gentle waves. A black leather jackets lays over a black dress shirt while matching pants and shoes. He also wears a small silver chain with a blue pendant on it. A gift from his twin.

Wanda pulls me into a tight hug with an excited squeal and I laugh, returning her hug with equal excitement.

"Y/N/N what are you doing here?!" She giggles as she pulls back. I laugh while Pietro pulls me into a similar hug. 

"What? Can't an older sister stop by and see her two favorite siblings?" I gasp in mock offense once I'm released from the hug.

"We're your only siblings." Pietro reminds with a roll of his eyes. 

"Besides, being undercover doesn't really allow time for social visits." Wanda points out. I only sigh. Sometimes she's too perceptive. 

"It has to do with Brooklyn doesn't it?" Pietro asks while crossing his arms. As the only male heir of our father, Pietro is often included or informed of current affairs. Again, I sigh in defeat, though I shouldn’t be surprised he knows.  

"Yeah, father called me in. This is a real shit show and I have a feeling this is just the beginning of it." I mutter distastefully.

They both nod in understanding, but Wanda looks equal parts sad and disappointed. But this is our life, we're used to it by now. Even though it's not always what we wish to have.

I gently smile before pulling them both into a big hug. 

"Promise me you two will be careful out there?" Wanda tightens her grip on me. 

"It's not us," She begins slowly. "Who you should be worried about." I chuckle dryly, knowing she's right, as I squeeze her back before pulling away from both of them.

"I suppose not. Still, I do. Now, I need to be going soon. I will see you both later." Pietro nods in acceptance, but Wanda let's her head droop slightly. I give her hand a tight squeeze before me and my bodyguards resume our way to where the cars are. 

I climb back into the car that I came here in, and wait patiently for the driver and everyone to clamber in. The car is started but we remain idling sitting. As a way to occupy myself, I reach into the side door and feel for what I hid in there before I went in. When my fingers brush over the leather holster, I grab it and attach it, and the gun it holds, to a pocket on the inside of my leather jacket. When it's secure, I fold the jacket back over my chest, concealing the firearm in the process. 

A muffled struggle echoes through the once silent garage.

"You want me to take care of that?" I ask the men who sit with me in the car, my fingers brushing over the spot in my jacket where my gun rests. 

"Nah, I'll go check it out." One of my bodyguards, Mackenzie, or Mack as he's called, replies from the passenger seat. 

"Of bloody course you'd be the first one of us lot to check it out." The driver, a Brit, by the name of Hunter scoffs.  

Mack just shakes his head before he opens the door and leaves. When there's a few moments of silence after the car door is shut, that’s when Hunter speaks again. 

"What are the odds of him bringing up something about needing that shotgun-axe again once he gets back in here?"

I chuckle and I see the shoulders of the person next to me move slightly. 

"High." May, the bodyguard next to me and the one that I trust with mostly everything, responds with a slight edge of humor in her voice. Then she turns to me. "Boss, I was going to wait until we cleared the property,-"

"A good idea, May. I don't know much as of now, I can tell you that, but I'll tell the rest once we’re on the move."

She nods and the front passenger door opens at the same time. 

"You'd think the men would know how to handle prisoners, like that one, by now." He grumbles as he settles into his seat. "I swear, one look at a shotgun-axe would scare the life out of those boys. Maybe they'd actually listen to simple instructions at that point."

We all the chuckle as the caravan of cars begins its trip out of the garage and to the warehouse. As we pull down the driveway, I reach into the pocket behind the passenger seat and pull out the object I stashed there and clip it inside my jacket, not too far from my gun. The gold of the badge reflects the light onto the side door while I begin to put on the mask that's essential for my survival out there in this scary world. The letters of F, B, and I revolve in my mind as I stare out the window at my former home. My life is a dangerous one and every aspect has a devastating risk with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The warehouse is a dark place. Even if there is daylight present, streaming through the dirty frosted windows, a dark and dangerous feeling surrounds the place. It clings to it like the smell of a cigarette on clothes. For newcomers, like the prisoner that followed us in another van just a few behind our own, it's daunting. It's certain death. To me and my bodyguards, only our hairs stand on end in anticipation of what is to come.

I informed my guards of what I knew about the situation on the way here. A reverent silence filled the air at the mention of the late George Barnes' death. He treated his men well, was honest and loyal to his allies, and was a good man. Brooklyn and all of New York will miss him.

I stand in the empty warehouse floor, several paces in front of the unconscious prisoner, who's slumped against his restraints. Turns out the men are really in an impatient mood today. I cross my arms while I zone out observing him. Why did HYDRA do this? What did they gain? What's the bigger picture that I'm missing?  

The faint sound of gravel crunching under tires drags me from my head and has me turning towards the opened garage-looking doors. Three black vans drive in and come to a stop not too far from the entrance. Father and Coulson are the first to step out from the center van. My siblings then file out from the one on the right. The rest of the men who were in the cars climb out and seem to form a barrier between the front entrance and the four people headed straight for me.

"I thought I would be receiving a phone call first." I give father a weary glance, noticing his seriousness about something.

"Change of plans." He answers swiftly, and rather seriously. I begin to grow uncomfortable.

The sound of more approaching vehicles has my eyes widening as I turn my curious and nervous expression on my father who gives me a reassuring nod. 

"Fury." I hiss under my breath, not liking the idea of going into a situation blindly. He simply ignores me.

My focus is drawn back to the entrance as car doors closing harshly sound in my ears, though my gaze never wavers from my father's profile. A cadence of footsteps march across the unpaved driveway and into the warehouse, only pausing in front of the line of father's men. It's only when the footsteps draw nearer that I finally look at the party joining us.

My eyes widen, ever so slightly, at the sight of three imposing men nearing closer to where I stand. The man on my left is tall and broad-chested. His shiny blond hair reflects the dim light of the warehouse. His jawline is clean and sharp like a knife, adding to the dangerous air around him. The man in the center is just slightly shorter than the one on his left. A few strands of his long brown hair frame his face while, I assume, the rest is pulled back. However, the stubble on his face and those piercing blue eyes that I can see, even in the dim warehouse lighting, gives me an idea of who I’m dealing with. James “Bucky” Barnes. A man whose reputation for being a cold-blooded killer and a ladies’ man is very well known. However, any idea of seriousness is completely forgotten when I notice the man on my right, James’ left, who’s giving me a hard scowl. The familiar sight of the deep chocolate brown skin, hard eyes, and black hair puts me at ease. I could almost laugh at the situation.

“Samuel T. Wilson.” I chuckle when I see his eye twitch at the sound of his full name.

The trio stops not too far away from my father’s group and me. The sight of those two chocolate brown eyes, that look like they want to murder me, have me smirking.

“Special Agent Y/L/N of the FBI.” He growls, and I feel the tension in the room immediately spike. “I thought I saw the last of ya when I was let go.”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way.” Wilson scoffs and folds his arms across his chest. I also notice Barnes shifting in my periphery and sigh to myself as I think of how to reword things. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been let go so easily. There wasn’t any substantial evidence against you, but the other agents were going to keep you locked up to send a message. I let it slip to our boss, and he had a big problem with what they were doing. You were let free not too long after. So quit looking like you want to kill me, and maybe offer a ‘thank you’ instead.”

He goes to speak, but that’s when father decides to step in.

“Gentlemen, we came here to discuss a business transaction, not hash out the past. If you three would, follow me. Agent, you too. Son, keep the rest of our guests some company.” There are a series of soft grumbles and complaints, but ultimately, everyone listens.

When the three Brooklyn boys pass the now awake prisoner, his face turns a scary shade of white. And that’s considering the fact that he was already pale due to blood loss. I feel a shiver begin to creep down my spine, but I suppress it. I tell myself it’s because of the type of fear these men can instill, but deep down, I know that it was a low growl I heard somewhere over my shoulder.

Father takes us to one of the few offices in the warehouse and has me shut the door. Barnes sits in the chair across from Fury with both his men flanking either side of him. The only person at my father’s side is Coulson on the right, until I walk up to the vacant spot on my father’s left.

“I think proper introductions should be made before we begin talks.”

“I agree.” Barnes cuts in. “I didn’t realize this meeting would include a dirty Fed.”

I scoff but am interrupted before I can make any smart remark.

“This, gentlemen, is my eldest child. Y/N was the first I adopted and raised in this life. The only reason she is in the FBI is to help us deal with HYDRA.”

“HYDRA is everywhere.” I start explaining. “Like cockroaches in an old building. The only way to make sure every loose end has been tied up is to have all the information. There’s no better way to do it.”

“Hold up. I thought your last name was ‘Y/L/N’.” This time, Wilson interrupts.

“A cover, obviously. If the FBI learned of my ties to the Underworld or to my father, it would be worse than if they thought I was just corrupt.”

“The point is that Y/N will be passing on any information she learns about HYDRA and their plot.”

“I’ll also be keeping a very close eye on anything that may have to do with what happened to your father.” At the mention of him, I see James’ lips twitch slightly while the furrow of his brow deepens. “I am sorry for what happened to him. Your father was a great and very well-respected man.”

The only sign of acknowledgement I get from the new leader of the Brooklyn clan is a slight nod of his head, and I begin to grow uncomfortable in the silence that follows. Luckily, a phone ringing stops the awkwardness from becoming worse. However, it’s not just any phone. It’s my phone. I quickly snatch it from one of the pockets of my leather jacket and glance at the screen.

“It’s my boss.” I inform before answering. “This is Y/L/N. Yes, sir. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He hangs up. “I’m being called in. Send me the rest of the details later.” My father nods as he motions for me to leave. Before I do, I look over the three new faces and say in the most professional tone I can gather, “It was nice to properly meet you, gentlemen. I look forward to working with you.”

Without waiting for a reply from one of my father’s, hopefully, new allies to say anything, I hurry around the desk and out of the office. Once Hunter receives the word to get the car ready, I tuck my phone away again.

As I leave the warehouse, goosebumps prickle my skin. Not because it’s cold, or because I’m scared, but because of the pressure that’s suddenly fallen around my shoulders. This attack, this changes everything. HYDRA has always threatened the clans, carried out small or petty attacks, but they have never directly attacked the families. The death of George Barnes is only the catalyst. 

A war is coming, and blood will be spilled. But how prepared am I for what I expect to come?

Part 2

[hoodoo12]

Elegy (1/6)

What follows is a story of Miss Argentina and Beetlejuice and how their own personal issues keep them locked in their own private hells. Contains smut and angst. It was done as a rp between @clairjohnson and myself. NSFW. Beetlejuice/Miss Argentina. Beej is a combination of movie and musical; Miss Argentina has contains hcs (such as her name and circumstances). Also contains minor mentions of OC Dante’s Inferno employees.  (Tagging people who have asked in the past. If you’d like to be tagged, hmu. If you’d like to be untagged, hmu.   @turtlepated @thewolfisapartofmysoul @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @janitor-boy @beejiesbitch @angelicspaceprince) Enjoy!

He’d married, been murdered, vanquished the evil that was Juno – he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again anytime soon – said some weird heartfelt goodbyes to people he just terrorized, and was carried off by his clones in the smallest, most subdued mosh pit style ever, for an exit that was worthy of some kind of award, just for the theatrics of it. 

The second he was through the swirling mists of the doorway that separated the living from the Netherworld, he turned on his own clones and attacked them remorselessly, using claws and teeth to tear them apart, growling like he’d lost his mind and spitting like he was rabid. 

None of the clones attempted to fight back or escape. They were part of him, and he was so fucking angry – it made him angrier that they just took their destruction passively, his destruction, a destruction of self that made his hands drip with gore, his mouth taste like clotted blood, and his clothing, the tuxedo conjured specifically for something positive in his fucking waste of a life, a deeper color. 

He hated this fucking suit. 

He was too exhausted by the end of his rampage to flick it away, however. Stepping over the piles of meat that had been clones, he wiped his hands down his front and winced as they brushed over the new ventilation that goddamn teenager graced him with. He kicked the door to the waiting room hard enough that it bounced off the interior wall of purgatory, startling the assholes sitting around waiting for their stupid numbers to be called.

---

It had been another slow day in the waiting room. Not that Miss Argentina had any way to count “days” – time had little meaning in death – but her job was as uneventful now as it had been several hundred new arrivals ago. Staring down at her clipboard Maria crossed out the name of the last soul she’d sent back to meet their case worker. Juno was surprisingly absent at the moment, but the receptionist wasn’t too concerned. Her boss was a work-alcoholic and honestly, what else did Juno have to do? She’d be back soon. 

In a practiced motion, one she’d done a million times, Maria stood and slid open the dividing screen to the waiting room. 

“Number 5,678 Mr. Hen – “ 

The rest of the name caught in her throat when the door to the left of her was blown open, rattling on hinges that threatened to give. A split second of panic washed over her, an emotion really only needed for the living, before she saw who it was.

Betelgeuse. 

“Mr. Hendrix,” she finished, moving her gaze from the fuming poltergeist to the sorry looking dead man standing up from his seat. “Your caseworker is waiting for you – please step through those doors.” 

Maria placed her clipboard back on the desk then leaned out the window a little further, giving the older, bloodied man a deeper once over. “Back so soon, Mr. Betelgeuse? Should I pull you a number?”

"Fuck this place and fuck the numbers!" he spit, literally spit, making the ghost sitting nearest in his line of fire wipe his face as he hoisted himself up – some kind of heart attack took him, no doubt, from the lack of obvious trauma and the effort he took to get out of the molded plastic chair – and hurried as fast as he could out of range. 

He could take that chair and beat down every wall in this place. He could tear apart every single soul in this forsaken pit. He could bypass the eons of fucking waiting and just march right down the hall to the Lost Souls' Room –

– scary thing was, that option held some real fucking appeal at the moment. 

Beetlejuice glared at each and every dead person cowering in place. Fucking losers. Just like the fucking Maitlands, but worse, because they followed the goddamn directions in the fucking Handbook and were now stuck here. 

But what did that say about him? the voice in the crate in the back of his mind whispered. You tried, and you still ended up right.here.with.them. 

Beetlejuice grabbed the side of his head, mindless of the residual tackiness on his hand, and gave his hair a yank. Sometimes that dislodged the voice enough to make it shut up. 

His gaze fell on the beauty queen behind the partition. He couldn't tell if she was politely waiting for his tantrum to subside, or if she was being indifferently patient, having seen it all before.

Maria wondered, absently, where all the blood had come from. She noticed the gaping hole in his chest and assumed it might all be his – but it was always hard to tell with Betelgeuse. His brand of “bio-exorcising” wasn’t the cleanest. However, based on his outfit, she doubted his day job was what sent him back here. The fool had tried to get married again. 

Fixing him with a cool, pleasant smile, Maria yanked a number from the ticket dispenser and held it up. “I’ll just pull one for you, then. You know the rules – no number, no getting to see Juno.” 

The beauty queen leaned further out of the window and rested her chin in the palm of her hand – her clipboard and list forgotten for the moment. Red tuxedo – a classic for him. How many times had she seen him in it? She could remember at least four, and she guessed he’d worn it twice as many times before she’d crossed over. Betelgeuse never told her how old he was, but after working with him for over three decades, it was clear he had a few hundred years under his belt. 

When was he going to stop pulling this stunt? It never worked. Always ended up with him down in the waiting room – back here with her. Maria bristled, both angry and jealous that he got to leave this hell and go gallivanting top side as he pleased. Her smile tightened and she narrowed her eyes at him. 

“You never invite me to your weddings,” Maria said casually, lifting the hand from her chin to examine the ruby manicure. “Any good plans for your honeymoon?” 

She flicked her gaze up to catch his reaction.

The bitterness and pure rage inside him managed to ratchet up another notch with the receptionist's detached apathy to his situation as she offered the ticket out to him.

Anyone else, and he'd have taken that hand off at the wrist; he could feel his teeth lengthen in anticipation of it. As it were, he snatched the paper away with enough force to tear it. He crumpled it in his fist and shoved it into a pocket without looking at it, casting his glance around the room again at all the lesser assholes who were pointedly trying not to look at him and become the focus of his ire. 

Maria's words, her barbed little query spoken in her light accent, just poured salt into the gaping hole in his chest. 

"Fuck you," he roared. His voice cracked.

Maria was used to seeing Betelgeuse angry. She was also used to seeing him happy – manically so. The man had a way of taking emotions to the extreme. She was not, however, used to hearing the crack in his voice. The next biting remark died on her tongue and she peered up from her nails, her brow furrowing. 

“Oh, don’t look so upset.” She tutted, but there was less sarcasm behind it. “You have all the time in the world to try again, don’t you? It’s not like you’re stuck here (like she was). Not for long, anyway.” 

Had this time been different from his other attempts? The pain in his expression suggested so. If he kept this up she may just bring him around back to avoid disturbing the waiting ghosts. Maria didn’t like bending the rules, but for the good of her job she’d bend them. That’s what she told herself at least. For the job.

try again 

not like you're stuck here 

Her words meant to comfort stung, jamming themselves like smaller spears into his chest. She was partially right. It wasn't like he was stuck here, so long as he could convince some dumb sucker to fulfill the terms of the contract. Finding the right dumb sucker was what took the time and energy. 

That led to the whole "try again" debacle. What was the point? He'd never succeed; despite the seemingly impressive power he had in the upper world, it was useless. He was useless, like everything was smoke and mirrors and the one being fooled was him. 

He realized he had his fists clenched so hard he was shaking. The ghosts surrounding him in the mismatched furniture, patiently waiting their turn, still did their damnedest to pretend they heard and saw nothing. 

"No one is like me!" he'd shrieked in the Maitlands' faces. 

The stupid deads sitting here proved it. He had half a mind to grab the nearest one and rip him apart like he'd treated his clones, just to continue to give his rage an outlet, but on top of everything else he didn't want to deal with the consequences of that. Maria was still watching him, as if she expected him to do something of the sort, like she was steeling herself to have to intervene and de-escalate him, even though he knew it wasn't anywhere near part of her job.

The shaking of his fists drew her gaze down – would he really be so brash as to tear through the souls waiting? Not that he could actually kill anyone, but it would make them have to get a new place in line . . . and the paperwork involved would be a headache. 

Maria lifted her Miss Argentina sash over her head and draped it on the back of her chair. Quietly, but quickly, she moved around her desk and out the side door that led to the waiting room. Like approaching a wild animal you didn’t want to startle, Maria crept forward. Delicately, she placed her fingers on the side of his arm to get his attention, keeping her back straight and her expression calm. 

“How about you come wait in the back, Mr. Betelgeuse.” 

Her voice was smooth. She had started adding in the “Mr.” when he’d gone rogue and stopped working for Juno. The days of familiarity, of her calling him “Beej”, were long gone. Maria still kept a certain level of fondness for the poltergeist, though she’d never admit it aloud.

The roots of his hair were probably the color of this fucking suit. 

When Maria physically approached and laid a manicured hand on his arm, he almost spun on her. When the pressure on his arm increased, aided by her nails digging in so hard he could feel them through the layers of fabric, he forced himself to relent. 

"Fine," he agreed bitterly.

She’d felt him tense at her touch, and Maria briefly considered she’d made a grave mistake approaching him, until his muscles relaxed – slightly – under her fingers. Thank goodness. 

Keeping her hand on his arm the receptionist guided him to the office door. She peered out to catch the relief on the newly dead faces before shutting it behind her. 

“Take a seat.” She gestured to the chair next to her desk and sat back down on her own. She wanted to stay disinterested, wanted to keep things professional, but she couldn’t.

“So.” Maria pulled some papers together and tapped them on her desk until they were even. “Is most of that blood yours? I haven’t seen you looking so . . . out of sorts in quite some time.”

 The beauty queen looked at him from the corner of her eye, pretending to keep most of her attention on the work in front of her.

He sat where indicated, in the hard straight back chair beside her desk. If he wanted, he could look up and see the filing cabinets, the paths in the rug worn through to the subfloor underneath, the endless stacks of paper, and the hallway where the caseworker's offices were. 

He didn't want to. He could walk through the place blindfolded. Nothing changed in the Netherworld; it was all slog and dismay. And they thought he was crazy for wanting back out?! 

A cigarette appeared in his hand. Sticking it between his lips he glanced up at her question and statement. 

"Yeah. The blood's mine. First from that goddamn teenager and second – " He broke off there and used lighting the cigarette as an excuse not to finish and admit he'd torn apart his own clones in a fit of rage. " – never mind. Nothing matters. It's the same shit for eternity."

Maria watched, with pointed interest, as he brought the cigarette up to his mouth. Well, at least the blood was his. Less mess for Juno to clean up later. 

“Thanks.” She drawled sardonically, bringing her own cigarette into existence. “I’d love one.” 

As she took a drag, Maria let his remark sit in silence for a few moments, unsure of how to respond. Most of the dead seemed to be having an on-going crisis – and if Beej had been feeling the same, he’d never let on. 

“You’ve always been one for the dramatics. But never nihilism.” She paused, “ – also, did you just say teenager? You know what – I don’t want to know.” 

She threw her hand up at that, waving the question off. He was a scumbag, to be sure, but the thought of him being that scummy was not an idea she wanted to entertain.

He'd have felt bad about not offering her a smoke if he was in a different state of mind. As it were, it didn't even register until she pointed it out. Even then he couldn't quite bring himself to care. It was easy, however, to fill in the blanks she left out. 

"It was a fuckin' green card thing," he growled. "Most teens – especially gothy ones who think their existence is the worst of anyone, ever – are dumb as shit. Easy to manipulate. Except this one was too damn clever for her own good. She used – " 

It was on the tip of his tongue to admit his naked, desperate desire to be accepted was used effectively against him, but that made sour bile rise in the back of his throat and he had to swallow it down again. 

" – ugly art to impale me," he corrected after only a brief hesitation. He took a deep drag, and was dismayed to see that some smoke drifted out the hole in his chest. That kid must've punctured a lung. He sighed as he pulled at his shirt to try and cover it. 

From the corner of his eye he watched her watch him. He didn't want her pity. He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew he didn't want her pity.

Maria felt herself relax at his growled response – pleased to hear he was still a normal scumbag of the con-man variety. She couldn’t hide the twitch of her lips into a smile when he admitted how he kicked the bucket this time around. She’d seen a lot of dumb ways to die, but ugly art was a first. Chuckling through a drag, she eyed the smoke coming out of his chest, causing her lips to curl even further upward. 

As good as it was to have him talking, the anger radiating off him was still obvious. She could practically feel it on her skin. Whenever he got out of hand Juno was usually around to deal with him – but not this time. She was still surprisingly absent. Fortunately, Maria had worked here long enough to know what her boss’s trump card was. 

“Juno’s been away from the office today.” she started, putting out her cigarette in the glass tray on her desk. “And you look like you’re in the need of a distraction after . . . your little accident.” 

The receptionist spun her chair to face him, one slender bare leg crossed over the other, and raised a brow at the bloodied ghost. 

“How does a drink or two at Dante’s sound? On Juno’s tab, of course.” 

She smiled, scarlet lips parting to show off her straight white smile. In many ways the two were opposites. Beej was unapologetically himself, moss and all, while Miss Argentina went to great lengths to appear perfect. Even though she had let some of that anxiety go in death, bad habits were hard to break. 

“I’ll join you – if you don’t mind. I could use some time out of the office.”

In an effort to appear disinterested in the state of both his clothing and the new hole he was going to have to figure out how to close, Beetlejuice kept his eyes on the paperwork she'd straightened. A kid's profile, from the looks of it. One perk about working as Juno's assistant way back when was helping the kids when they came through –

He glanced up sharply when Maria mentioned Dante's. Actually suggesting it, and accompanying him to it. He would've thought that the beauty queen would pretend that place never existed, although he knew she must have been both scouted and offered a job there. 

"On Juno's tab? A drink or five sounds great." 

Some time that old hag was going to show up again, slathered in Sandworm spit and gastric juices, and he'd much rather not be found here if possible. He stood up abruptly, making the wooden chair squeal against the floor. 

"Fine. I'll let you take me out."

“Only drinks, Mr. Betelgeuse. I’m not paying for any other services.” 

Miss Argentina hadn’t had a chance to be out in quite some time. With an eternity stretching out in front of you, there was little rush to do much of anything other than your assigned job. Peering down at her burgundy gown, she also realized she hadn’t changed her outfit in years – wearing the same dress to two different parties used to be a mortifying thought when she was alive. 

How things change. The beauty queen stood, and with a few moments of concentration, changed into a red cocktail dress. Her French curled hair now in tight waves around her shoulders. It felt nice. A little like being alive, even. Even if it was just to go out and watch this man get drunk off his ass. But she understood his desire to live again – didn’t all ghosts wish they could be top side? He was certainly the most tenacious about getting there. 

“All right, ready when you are,” she said while smoothing down her new outfit. She turned from the older man and started towards the office exit, throwing a ‘are you coming?’ glance over her shoulder at him.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her hands smoothing down the fabric of her choice of dress. With his cigarette still caught between two fingers, he ran his thumb over his lower lip, thinking about the differences between the dead and the breathers changing clothing – the breathers had to take it off and put it back on, versus simply willing a new outfit into existence. 

Of course the dead could be titillatingly mundane, if they chose. It was too bad this was the never-closed office, and there was a waiting room full of ghosts on the other side of the glass partition –  

At her invitation and with a sigh, Beetlejuice stepped off the road that daydream was headed. He'd lost the chance with her a long time ago. 

He flicked his still lit cigarette into the ether and decided if she was going to be dolled up, it wouldn't be right for him to accompany her in what he was wearing. Between one step towards the door and the next, his blood-soaked tux became his favorite striped suit. He left the hole in his torso under his shirt. 

"Lead the way, muñeca." tbc . . .

[whump-town]

Moments Too Late

Part two!

I don’t know it’s fun writing all this college nonsense (while ignoring my own college nonsense) and I think I’ll probably write a chapter three because this is giving me a little kick and it’s fun

Warnings: panic attack, briefly mentions Derek’s childhood, Carl Buford, and the insinuations of what that entails 

Part One is Here

The quad, a great expansion of grass covered in a sea of moving sweaty twenty-year-olds, is nearly unaware of the scene played out before them. A mismatched group of a twelve-year-old, a Chicago born here on a scholarship football player, a brightly adorned orphan, a blonde basket case, an alcoholic, the Italian mobs missing link, and somebodies lanky older brother don’t typically need so much attention. They’re the sort to pass quietly through college. The blonde basket case might make honor roll and the football player might be seen in the back row of some newspaper before an injury takes him out but that’s about it. For them, that’s a point of pride -- not being noticed.

Derek knows from the pull of Aaron’s shoulders to the rattling sound of his breathing as he stumbles away from them that he’s having a panic attack. He watches Emily step to follow, knows she means well but will only make things so much worse. “Stay,” Derek shouts at Emily. Alliances mean everything to them, young and dumb and alone in a world not yet fully accessible to them. They need the little promises -- that Spencer will only eat red skittles out of the bag, that JJ will carry rocks in the pockets of her pristine clothing to give to Penelope, and that Derek sides with Emily.

Out of shock, Emily rocks to a stop. Derek’s never yelled at her.

“I’ll go,” he offers, not waiting for anyone to argue even though it looks like Dave might try. “Don’t follow.”

Aaron’s spider-like legs carry him quickly but he’s got nothing on the suicide’s Derek’s football coach has had him running for the past six months. Derek pulls them hip to hip, glad that the sun and the chatter pull all attention away from them. They look like tipsy girls on their way back from a party, stumbling into one another heads pulled in as if to discuss something of great importance.

Derek’s never been so thankful their dorms are on the main part of campus.

“Hey--” the RA, some poor kid just trying to put himself through college, watches Aaron and Derek come barreling into the building. He’s not on duty but he’d gone to get one of his kids the extra key to their room and been on the ground floor to watch Derek loop his arm around Aaron. Nearly having to pick the older boy up by his hips to plant him back on his feet. He’s got a split second to decide what to do.

To his defense, he knows Aaron and Derek. Aaron is a sophomore and never causes anybody any problems. Hell, he spent spring-break in the dorms and didn’t tell anyone the hot water went out. He just showered with freezing water for a week. Derek is a football player but not the sort that drags in all their muddy crap all over the carpets, when Derek comes in from practice there’s not a trace of his existence. When the two are together, they’re the least rowdy group to deal with (even though one or both has at least three or four more people in their rooms).

So, the RA looks at Aaron, looks at Derek, and decides whatever those two are doing… they can handle on their own. “Don’t fucking run! This isn’t a barn!” Hmm, just another job well done. Nice.

Derek looks over his shoulder, smiling despite how hard his hands shake with his anxiety. “Right!” he offers. “Sorry!” He’s not worried about tearing past everyone they see or that pulling Aaron’s heavy ass behind him is making his biceps burn. He’s worried about the tears Aaron seems to have no control over or how broken, how lost he looks. “Just a second,” Derek promises, throwing his weight into the bathroom door. The communal showers are empty, not many people take showers at two in the afternoon, and that’s what Derek’s banking on.

“I -- I --” Hotch goes where he’s pulled. His face numb and his feet heavy, it takes his brain a moment to really compute where he is. “What are we--” he coughs on a breath that doesn’t come outright. Whimpering and pulling his hands in towards his chest, trying to soothe the feeling of his sternum chipping away to shoot hard bone fragments of pain down his arms and up his throat.

His cry startles Derek enough to spur him to further action. Grabbing Aaron by two fist fulls of his ratty old sweater, a beige monstrosity that Aaron will never admit to having bought at Salvation Army with the last twenty dollars he owned, Derek pushes him into the shower. Holding him against the wall as he sputters against the shock of the freezing water beamed at his chest. Caring about neither of their clothes, he ignores his shirt wetting and sticking to his shoulders and back.

“Derek please--” Aaron cries, weakly pushing at Derek’s arms. He’s too disorganized, too frantic to push the stronger boy off. It’s nothing for Derek to grab Aaron’s thin wrist and pin them to his chest; not an issue of strength but it pains Derek to watch Aaron sob and try and pull himself free. If anyone were to walk in they’d think Derek was hurting him but this is just all Derek knows will help.

Derek feels Aaron’s body start to take to the cold, become too shocked to panic. “Just breathe,” he instructs. “Just calm down.” Carl Buford had been the person to teach Derek about this little trick. Naked and terrified and too trusting in all the wrong men. Buford had lifted him and dunked him in a freezing bath, shushing him when he’d scrambled madly out of the painfully cold water. Buford had held him, pinned Derek’s thin arms down, and held him down in the water. Buford held him close until he calmed down, Derek nearly felt safe once again as if the atrocities done to him never happened. He considered maybe they hadn’t.

“Shit,” Derek scrambles closer, grunting when Aaron’s knees just give out from beneath his body. They both as they hit the floor, a clatter enough to draw attention to them. Derek hits his elbow against the wall, sending sparks of pain through his nerves. “Alright, alright.” Aaron’s teeth are chattering but he’s not fighting, he’s not panicking. “Just --” he didn’t think this far ahead. To the aftermath. He needs a towel and someplace warm but not too warm. “I’ll be right back.”

He leaves Aaron sitting on the floor, curled as far as he can get from the water but just limply leaning into the wall. Temple resting against the wall and arms wrapped around his body and fingers clenching the wet material of his shirt. Staring vacantly at nothing.

He runs to his own room where his towels are sitting in his clean clothes basket from where he cleaned them three days ago but hasn’t needed to put them away just yet. He grabs two because he’s not sure what the damage is and it’s likely they’ll both need one. He’s in such a state he nearly busts his ass. His sneakers slipping in the water dripping off his clothes. He lands with a plop on his hands and knees, brain short-circuiting for a moment as all he takes in is the sting of the skin on his knees and the ache of his wrists.

In the hall, legs of a fawn not yet certain how to move its knees, arms wrapped tightly around each other, and jaw clenched tightly to prevent his teeth from clacking together and sounding out his painful retreat back to his room Aaron shuffles down the hall. Derek catches sight of just his drenched clothes, hanging pitifully off his frame and weighed down by the water, and can’t help but be frustrated but not entirely surprised.

“I told you to stay,” Derek fusses as he jobs up behind Aaron. He wraps a towel around his shoulders, wincing when Aaron looks up at him and Derek gets a good look at his face. Aaron’s always had bags under his eyes and he’s naturally just very pale but the cold has drawn any color out of his face leaving behind only the darkly contrasted proof that though he might tell them he’s sleeping well that he’s lying. That’s where you have to be careful with a man like Aaron -- they have long ago mastered the art of redirection and lies. A skill he learned at his mother’s hip as she dabbed concealer over his eye. Redirect their attention to protect yourself. It hasn’t failed him yet.

Well… except for today and, evidently, every day before that.

Derek allows Aaron to keep shuffling in the direction of his room with the assumption that the room will be a nice warm space to get comfortable. The problem is supposed to be in getting Aaron out of these clothes; Derek knows he won’t strip in front of him. Not that Derek is going to enjoy himself watching Aaron -- mostly because he’s a little afraid of what those oversized sweaters are hiding but also because Derek typically prefers women.

What Derek isn’t taking into consideration is that Aaron is a borderline masochist.

“Why is it so cold in here?” Derek takes a step back when Aaron manages to get the door open. Shivering at the cold air that comes rushing out.

Aaron shrugs, lips blue and jaw starting to betray him. “Can’t sleep under the blankets if it’s too warm,” he offers as if Derek might be the silly one here. But they both are really, standing in the doorway of a dorm shivering in soaking wet clothes. “Whatever you say, boss,” Derek mumbles with an eye-roll, stepping around Aaron. They’ve all grown very familiar with the layout of each other’s rooms. Even when new school years bring new floor layouts, some of them are more reliably the same than others. Emily is a bit of a wild card but people like JJ and Aaron have the same habits. And Derek knows where the changes of clothes he’s looking for are.

He’d borrowed a pair of Aaron’s slacks last semester for an advising meeting with people from his major and they’d been snug. Snug is an understatement -- he thought his ass was going to bust out of them. He’d even had to have Penelope bring them up two inches because, despite being the same height, Aaron has freakishly long legs. Derek would never comment on this, Aaron might come across as your normal brooding angst but he’s kind of sensitive. Though the others might not think so (given Derek’s nature to push and shove at everything Aaron says) Derek values Aaron’s friendship tremendously and Aaron knows that when Derek pushes it’s to understand boundaries and because he trusts Aaron.

“Oh my God,” Penelope exclaims from the doorway. “What did you do to him?”

Aaron jumps, wrapping his arms around his naked chest in a hurry. He shuffles back, trying to put some distance between himself and Penelope standing in the doorway of his room. Glancing at Derek as he does so, pleading with the other boy to do something and get the attention off of him.

Derek tosses a pair of pajama pants on Aaron’s bed, motioning for Aaron to turn and pay them mind. “Get out of those clothes before you get sick.” Turning his own attention to Penelope he averts her, shuffling her back until their both out the doorway. Giving Aaron the privacy he needs and letting her air-out her loudly proclaimed worries as he does so. “Baby girl,” he says over her rapid speech. “Baby girl, hey. Hey, he’s fine. Look at me, he’s fine.”

Penelope stops, mouth open and brows pulled down with great concern, “Derek, he’s soaking wet and pale--” She stops and really gets a good look at him. Standing before her in a shirt clinging to his skin and shivering slightly in the air-conditioned hall. “And-- And you’re soaking wet too. Derek Morgan, what did you do?”

Derek grimaces in preparation for how crazy he knows he’s about to sound. “I--I threw him in the shower.”

Penelope raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“He was…” Derek hesitates. He’s not entirely sure how much he should tell her, for the sake of Aaron’s privacy. If it was Spencer, there would be no doubts but Aaron is far more complex than that. “Sometimes cold showers can help nerves and so I directed him to that solution.” Leaving out the bits about Aaron’s panic or maybe anxiety attack, his vulnerability, and the wrestling that took place to get him there Derek feels he’s left Aaron’s virtue intact. A win. “It sounds crazy,” he admits, “but it helps, I swear.”

Penelope considers what she’s just been told and while she would like to implement further comments on the terms and conditions of a shower (even if it’s a cold one) with Derek Morgan, she just narrows her eyes and knows that Derek always seems to know what’s best. She trusts him. “So, he’s better now? Asides from the pale, shivering bit?”

Derek nods, “yeah but in my defense, he’s always pale and shivering.” Which is true, no matter where they go they carry blankets and jackets something to offer Spencer and Aaron when they inevitably get chilled. 

“Okay,” she caves. That seems to settle some of her own anxiety. She looks sadly to the shut door separating her from Aaron. “Okay,” she repeats again, deflating at the thought of her poor Aaron sitting on the other side. Hurt and upset. “Do you think there’s anything we can do?” She looks to Derek, so hopeful that he’s come up with some solution she hadn’t come up with on her own. 

Derek shakes his head, “I don’t think so, Penny. I think we’ve got to let them work it out. It’s not about us.” He sighs and he’s frustrated that it’s true but he can’t amend Emily’s words and he’s not so sure she can either. With a sigh he opens Aaron’s door back up, peaking in to see where the other boy’s gone. 

Aaron’s climbed into his bed, lights off, and back facing them, covered in his mounds of blankets. 

“I hate it when they fight,” Penelope whispers. 

Derek takes one long look at Aaron, watching his back move as he sleeps. Panic attacks are draining, he’s just glad Aaron’s sleeping for once. “Yeah, me too.” 

[glenncoco4]

Doctors and Detectives Part 4

Final chapter of this mini-series! Hope you guys enjoyed it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

She slowly starts to come to, not sure if it’s been 15 minutes or 15 hours. It’s dark that she knows, the only light in the area is coming from a semi-large fire in the corner. Her fingers find the crown of her head where she feels the stickiness of her blood trail from. Judging by how quickly she went out, the blood and the nausea that is slowly making itself known, she can without a doubt diagnose that she has at least a mild concussion along with a possible broken ulna.

Taking a deep breath, she slowly sits up as she assess the rest of her body and once satisfied she’s able, she stands up to gather her bearings. Knowing that her arm will get in the way, she begrudgingly takes off her white coat and blue scrub top, unpinning her father’s ring and slipping it into her pocket before ripping the seam of the blue top to use as a makeshift sling.

She picks up her phone, already knowing that it’s dead, and seeing as though she may be stuck here for awhile all she knows to do is look for others.

The day only gets worse as she’s maneuvering around the rubble and comes face to face with many lifeless bodies that belong to her colleagues. She has no idea how she’s going to recover from this...if she ever does.

A sudden cry draws her attention towards the blazing fire. Getting closer, the cries become louder, she’s examining all around looking for any signs when a head of curly black hair that’s covered in soot hits her line of sight.

Quickly jumping over the steel beam, the doctor races towards the little girl who is probably no more that 4 years old. Tears are falling down her little cheeks, the light of the fire illuminating her ebony colored skin, and the most heart wrenching terror in her brown orbs. “Hey, sweetie. It’s okay.”

“I want my mommy.” She whimpers, her cries dying down as Kensi’s presences calms her a little.

“Okay, we’re gonna find your mommy. Can you tell me if you hurt anywhere?”

“My leg and my tummy.”

She’s never been all that great with kids, I mean her patients sure, but outside of the hospital and her stint with DWB, she’s never really around them. But this little girl needs her right now so she can’t dwell on that. “Okay, what’s your name, baby?”

“Everly.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

She smiles her tears all but dried up. ‘Thank you. What’s your name?”

“My name is Kensi.”

The curly haired little girl suddenly gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. “That’s my bestest friend’s name.”

“No way.”

Everly nods her head but then winces as the movement causes her abdominal muscles to contract.

“Okay, Everly, is it okay if I check your tummy?”

She nods, cringing as the doctor slowly pulls up her shirt.

The brunette doesn’t even need to test the tenderness her belly to know what’s wrong. The extremely darkened skin tells her what she feared all along...internal bleeding. Their rescue is even more paramount now.  

“Am I gonna die?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Knowing that they’re in a vulnerable place, the brunette takes a scan around the rubble in search of tools to make a splint for the little girl’s leg. “Okay, sweetie, I need to splint your leg, its gonna hurt but I need you to be brave for me.”

“Okay.”

Grabbing the two pieces of wood and tearing the cloth of her top, Kensi adjusts Everly’s leg resulting in a high pitched scream of pain.  

“You are so brave. You’re doing great.”

“I want my mommy.” Tears pool in her little eyes once again unable to hide how scared she truly is now.

“I know you do, baby. I know you do.”

She doesn’t know how long they’re gonna be stuck down here so she carefully picks up the little girl and walks over to find the sturdiest place possible. The sturdiest place possible also happens to be right next to one of the bodies of her colleagues that she thankfully covered up with her coat. Sliding down against a beam, Kensi cradles Everly in her arms, hoping that help is on the way.

The doctors sees the little girl slowly starting to drift off, she has to think on her feet knowing that she needs to keep her awake. “So, how old are you?”

“Five.”

“Wow, that’s old.”

“I’m almost a grown up.”

“You are. Do you have any tattoos?”

The little girl giggles as if that’s the most absurd question. “No, silly.”

“What about a boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh, I have three.” She says matter of factly.

The brunette’s eyes widen in surprise. “3? How do you keep up with that?”

“They know their place.”

“Oh, do they?”

“Yep. What about you?”

Kensi’s mind begins to drift off as she thinks back to two days ago and how she and her love spent the entire morning curled up in bed together before heading to the beach, only to come back home and end the day the way they started it. She just really hopes it wasn’t the last. “Yeah, I have a boyfriend.”

“Just one?”

The surprise in Everly’s chocolate orbs makes the doctor laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think I could keep up with 3.”

“What’s he look like?”

The woman thinks about the best way to describe Deeks when a grin spreads to her lips. “Have you ever watched Scooby-Doo?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, he looks exactly like Shaggy.”

They both start to laugh, but abruptly stop  when Everly winces in pain. All Kensi can do is make her comfortable now as her mind wanders back to the man she loves, wondering where he’s at and imagining the turmoil he’s going through right now.

XXXX

“You gotta let me in there, Claire.” The blonde detective follows the chief firefighter as she continues to help those that are being brought out by rescue.

“I’m sorry, Deeks, but I can’t have any more civilians in there.” She sighs knowing exactly how he’s feeling. It wasn’t too long ago that her wife was being held hostage at the bank and he was the one telling her she couldn’t go in even as a trained medic.

“Kensi’s in there.”

“I know. A lot of people’s Kensis are in there. You gotta let us do our job so we can get them out.”

It’s then that Jake comes over, pulling him away from the thick of the action so that Claire along with the others can get back to work and hopefully bring Kensi out alive. “Come on, man. Come help us over here.”

“I can’t loose her.” He starts to break at the thought of her lifeless body mangled in the rubble.

Jake’s arms wrap around his partner, trying to give his best friend the most comfort he can right now. No doubt if Katie were in there he’d be acting the same way. “I know, buddy. I know.”

XXXX

The silence around only builds with time as it finally sets within the doctor’s mind that they may very well die in here. As the fire only continues to burn hotter and spread, its inevitable.

“Kensi?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we gonna die?”

“No. No, we’re not.” She hates giving the little girl a false sense of hope but she can’t find it in herself to tell this sweet little girl that they’re most likely going to take their last breaths in this place.

There’s a beat of silence when suddenly voices that are not their own can be heard over the cracklings of fire. “Call out. LAFD. If anyone can here me, call out.”

“Over here! We’re over here!” Tears start to flood her mismatched chocolate orbs not only because this little girl will get the medical attention she now needs but once again she’ll be able to look into his beautiful cerulean blues and tell him how much she loves him.

It’s takes about 30 minutes for the firefighters to get her and Everly out. She’s able to walk out of the rubble on her own, her hand never leaving Everly’s as she’s carried out on a backboard. Once satisfied that the curly haired girl is being taken care of and is reunited with her mother, Kensi is ushered over to an ambulance where a medic attends to her injuries.

A few minutes later the medic places the last butterfly bandage across her forehead, as she’s looking across the parking lot, suddenly locking eyes with him. His cerulean blues are full of concern.

She watches as he takes a deep breath before he starts running towards her, zigging and zagging through the crowd of people. Tears threaten to spill from her eyes as he closes the distance between them, his arms opening wide, leaving her to all but fall into his embrace. “God I love you so much.”

“I love you.”

He pulls back slightly from their embrace, cradling her head between his hands while he examines her injuries. “Are you okay?”

God how she loves this man. She’s not really sure what’s going to happen after today but as long as he’s here she knows she’ll be okay. With a small smile, she leans forward, bringing her lips to his, pouring all the love she has for him into the kiss. “I am now.”

As they relish in the feel of being wrapped up in each other’s arms, Deeks’ eyes are drawn to the figure walking up to them, curiously wondering what’s going on.

“Excuse me, Kensi?”

The brunette turns around as she sees the man approach hesitantly. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Everly’s dad.”

“How is she?”

“She’s was rushed into surgery, but the other doctor said that if it wasn’t for you she’d be dead. My little girl’s alive because of you.”

“It’s nothing really.”

“No, it’s everything.” Shaking his head, he can feel the tears build up in his eyes. “Everly told my wife how you kept her safe and wouldn’t leave her side.”

“She kept me safe just as much. You’ve got a strong  little girl in there.”

She sends him a small smile as he almost looks a little lost. “Go be with your family.”

“Thank you.”

Deeks sees that she’s about to loose it, so he takes hold of her good arm and pulls her behind the ambulance. His arms carefully find their way around her and the tension in her body slowly ebbs away, tears now falling from her eyes.

She slowly collapses against him, pulling him to the ground with her as the pain of today lets itself known. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I know. All I could think about was never holding you again or seeing your beautiful smile or...”

She looks up at him, reddened eyes full of curiosity. “Or what?”

Reaching into his pocket, the detective pulls out the small object that he’s been holding onto for months now. “Or give you this.”

More tears begin to fall from her eyes at the sight of the delicate diamond ring placed between his fingers.

“I know this isn’t the most romantic of settings but after today, I just can’t wait anymore...Dr. Blye, will you marry me?”

She can’t help but let out a teary-eyed laugh, as she reaches into her own pocket and pulls out the band that once belonged to her father. “Only if you marry me.”

“So is that a yes?”

She burrows her head back into his chest, nodding in confirmation.

This time its a little easier to find the joy instead of dwelling on the sadness.

[harunayuuka2060]

Do you think you could maybe do the Demon Brothers(+undatables if you want) reacting to a Young Adult!MC(about 21-27 maybe) who looks human but has secretly been an angel this whole time, but since they’re so chill and unsuspecting the Brothers and Co don’t find out until they find MC in their angel form beating some poor lesser demon’s ass for trying to take a bite out of them? Also bit of a weird addition but could the MC also have a pet Throne(they’re these flaming wagon wheels with a bunch of eyes and four wings) that they show off when they’re found out?

... Um, this might be a little different from your request.

Sorry for my sloppy writing. 😖

-------------------------------------

You have been laid-back and carefree since your first day in RAD. You never ace any tests. You were completely fine in barely passing any exam and you run when the brothers get mad at you.

Should they say, you were completely normal not until they have learned the truth.

“MC... Please... Spare me...” The lower demon begged as your foot was on his chest. You clicked your tongue in annoyance.

“Really now, huh? After what you did to Luke? Do you really think I will let you go?" You shook your head. “I will make you suffer just the way you did to him.” Pressing your foot to his wounded chest, blood started to splatter. The demon screams in pain as he felt his bones being crushed and his insides getting smashed by the weight of your foot.

“MC! What's happening—” Lucifer called out but stopped midway. Or should I say all of them when they see you beating the hell out from the demon.

They saw your mismatched wings, one was dark while the other was light in color. You were wearing an ancient Greek style outfit. And you have heterochromia eyes which were totally different from what they usually see.

“Hm, oh? Hello. I guess I'm busted now, am I not?" You said with a smirk. Kicking the demon out of your way, you approached Simeon who was standing next to Lucifer.

“How's Luke?”

“W-Well... He has been healed.” He answered in a shaky voice. Lucifer was utterly speechless. The others were staring at you with fear while Diavolo and Barbatos gave you a suspicious look.

You sighed, holding your chest. “Thank goodness. I'm glad nothing serious happened to him.”

“MC... What's the meaning of this?” Mammon asked, as he managed to shake off the fear he was having.

“Hm? Well, isn't it obvious? I'm originally an angel.” You said as your throne finally showed up encircling you. “Surprise?” You continued as your lips formed into a thin line.

What the brothers and undateables think of you after this incident?

1. Lucifer - He felt betrayed at the sight of you. How could you keep this as a secret from him? But he was also puzzled as to why you were needed to conceal yourself. Perhaps you were just like him?

2. Mammon - He got scared. You were completely different from your human form and he didn't understand why you look like an angel of death but still has a throne in your possession. Same with Lucifer, he has been thinking that maybe you were thrown out from the heaven.

3. Levi - It was a mixture of fear and excitement. He never thought that there was a time that you could be that cool! And how he missed seeing a throne because he was used to have one. He wonders if he could still socialize with you after this.

4. Satan - a Celestial Realm spy. He knew that you were supposed to be, but, how come you never observed any of them? He was completely puzzled and frustrated.

5. Asmo - For some reason, he thinks that he might have seen you before. But he was sure that you have never joined the Celestial War that happened a long time ago. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop himself from shivering in fear.

6. Beel - He knows who you are now. When he was still an angel, you were the one who was guarding Lilith every time she visited the Human world. You were his companion and a combat partner. Though your angel form was completely different from what he remembered.

7. Belphie - He had a hunch that you were something extra-ordinary as you weren't afraid to approach him even though you showed signs of fear towards him. He shook his head. You were a better deceiver than him.

8. Simeon - How come he has never heard of your existence? Were you a new angel? No. It can't be. Your wings tell that you were at least near the rank of Lucifer when he was still an angel. But how?

9. Diavolo - How did you manage to by pass without them detecting you? There must be something that you need to clear off about your identity and he was sure you were no ordinary angel.

10. Barbatos - He was impressed that you were able to conceal yourself even from the demon prince and from the so-called morningstar. He would definitely search all about your secrets and he was sure that it would be extremely difficult.

[silverynight]

My love, my life

Theseus wouldn't have allowed him to do such thing, but he's not there anymore; he went with the first group to find another place to for the others to hide, but only three came back. The ones that still remain say they lost the other two in the snow and they are probably dead by now, although Newt refuses to believe that.

The problem is that even though the few explorers managed to pass unseen close to Nurmengard they know thirty people won't. Which means at least half of them will have to "donate" their blood to the vampires that live in the castle.

But the people are too weak and they have a few young ones that won't survive if one of those vampires bites them.

Still, they come up with a plan and Newt tries to help carrying two children in his arms (he actually likes them and since there's no one left in his family he's completely focused on taking care of them, even if they're not his).

They managed to get to the other side, but they get captured and taken to the castle. Grindelwald, the leader of the vampires is not at all pleased.

"I'm sure you must know, Hellen, that all humans have to pay a tribute if they want to cross our territory," Grindelwald looks from her to some of the people gathered in there and smirks. "I should punish you for trying to sneak in my territory, but I'm not merciless... I will forgive you if your people feed mine this time..."

"Some of us haven't eaten in–"

Before Hellen can say anything else, Newt steps forward and thinks of how angry Theseus would be if he heard him saying what he is about to say.

"What if I stay?"

Some of the vampires look at him in shock, others just narrow his eyes at him.

Grindelwald finally looks at him and Newt realizes the color of his eyes is not the same.

"Forever?" He's surprised and genuinely interested in Newt's response and the human feels like he has a chance of actually helping the others.

"As long as I live," he mumbles and he's aware that to a vampire that doesn't mean much.

"You don't have to, Newt–"

Before one of the men can try to persuade him; Grindelwald rises from the chair he was sitting and gets closer to the redhead.

The vampire circles him; he stares and stares and Newt has no idea what he's really thinking.

"You won't see any of them again," Grindelwald says, caressing Newt's hair almost kindly.

But they'll be okay; Newt doesn't say, but thinks it, he believes it.

They'll have a better chance to survive in another place and perhaps they'll get to see Theseus again, because despite of what everyone else thinks, Newt knows his brother is alive.

"It's okay," he mumbles instead and hears one of the children sob (he knows it's probably Amber) until her mother takes her in her arms.

"Is that your child?"

"I don't have kids," Newt says, even though it's like they all are his in a way.

"What's your name?"

"Newt."

Grindelwald keeps looking at him until his smug expression turns into something more gentle.

"Alright, woman," he tells Hellen. "We have a deal, you can leave with your people and I'll keep Newton."

He feels relief and peace, despite that he's aware that he'll suffer in there or die in a couple of days if Grindelwald allows all of his vampires to feed from him.

***

Grindelwald gives him a room; it's his own room but vampires almost never sleep so Newt gets the bed all to himself. He can also walk around the castle as much as he wants, but he cannot leave.

The vampire with mismatched eyes doesn't let anyone drink from him; one of them tried once and Grindelwald took their head off, not in front of Newt, but Vinda told him a couple of days later.

Now they don't even dare to look at him; it's not weird... Newt knows some vampires are really possessive over their food... Although Grindelwald hasn't fed from him yet.

But he watches Newt, he walks in the bedroom and stares at him like he's trying to decipher him.

He sits on the floor next to him the day a small fox gets in the castle and watches patiently as Newt earns its trust.

When the little animal bites Newt, Grindelwald bares his teeth at the fox, but the human puts himself in the middle of the two.

"It's okay, I'm not hurt," he assures him. "He's scared, he's trying to protect himself."

Grindelwald nods and sits again, although he's not as relaxed or happy like he was when he walked inside the bedroom.

When the little fox starts getting closer to Newt, the vampire speaks again.

"You lied, pretty... You're hurt," Grindelwald comments. "I can smell your blood."

Newt looks at his hand and then offers it to the vampire; he's not sure if he's thirsty or not, but he hasn't drank from him since he got there.

Although instead of drinking, the vampire just licks his wound until it's clean and Newt watches as it heals quickly.

He stares at the vampire in confusion.

"Aren't you... thirsty?"

"The older a vampire gets, the longer he can last without drinking blood," Grindelwald says, smiling fondly at him. He's amused for some reason. "Besides, I won't drink from you until you offer me your neck yourself."

"And if I never do that?" Newt mumbles, stroking the fox until it falls asleep on his lap.

"I won't feed from you," Grindelwald says.

Instead of asking the reason behind that, Newt chooses another type of question.

"Why the neck? What's the matter with my wrist? Does it taste different?" Newt has always been curious; he loves to know more about any kind of topic, especially about living things.

Grindelwald chuckles and gets closer, he does it slowly almost like he's afraid Newt will flee if he is not careful. It seems like the vampire learned a thing or two from him.

It amuses Newt, although he doesn't smile.

"I'll answer all the questions you have, but only if you let me touch you."

The redhead feels both his brows quirking up in surprise; he hadn't realized, not until that moment at least, that the vampire hadn't touched him since the day they met.

Newt nods and tries not to gasp when he gets pulled onto Grindelwald's lap. Fortunately, the fox doesn't wake up.

"You're cold."

"I'm always cold, Liebling. But you always make me feel warmer, even if I'm not touching you."

Newt doesn't know how to respond to that, so he decides to repeat his previous question. Grindelwald nuzzles his neck before answering.

"It doesn't taste different," he explains. "But it means something different."

"What does it mean?"

"Well..." Grindelwald puts his head over Newt's shoulder and takes one of his hands. "If I drink from one of your wrists, it means you're food to me, although if you offer it it could mean you're my ally or even my friend. But if you allow me to drink from your neck... It means you want me as much as I do, because you see, Liebling, a vampire only bites the neck of the one they consider their lover."

Grindelwald kisses the back of Newt's head as soon as he whispers the last word and even as someone as oblivious like himself knows what the vampire is trying to say.

He blushes to the tip of his ears and doesn't say anything else, although Grindelwald doesn't seem upset by Newt's silence; it's almost like he enjoys it.

***

Nellie grows stronger and very protective of Newt and even though the fox doesn't trust vampires in general, she always allows Grindelwald to get closer to the human.

The vampire has noticed it too and it pleases him completely.

"Good girl," he says, after bringing her a piece of meat. "It seems you have taken good care of your Mummy."

It's the first time Grindelwald calls him that and after the initial surprise, Newt blushes and giggles, absolutely delighted. He kind of enjoys being called 'Mummy'.

"Ah... The first one. It's even better than I thought it would."

"The first what?" Newt asks, always curious.

"First time I make you smile," Grindelwald mumbles, kissing Newt's forehead. "It took me a while."

He gets flustered, just for a couple of seconds because he gets distracted by the shadows under Grindelwald's eyes.

"You're tired," he comments, worried.

"I'm fine, Liebling."

"You're lying," Newt narrows his eyes. And he realizes quickly what's going on. "When you said you wouldn't drink from me I had no idea you meant you wouldn't drink at all."

"I'm not thirsty," Grindelwald lies again, although this time he looks like he is truly sorry.

Newt takes a step closer and exposes his neck in front of him; he watches as Grindelwald's eyes turn completely red.

"No," he shakes his head, shocking Newt.

"Why not? I thought you wanted this..."

"Not like that," the vampire grimaces like he's in pain. "You're not ready. You don't really mean it. I know you, Newton. You just want to feed me because you're worried about me. You don't want this."

"I want to help you..."

"It's not enough, my love."

Grindelwald walks away before Newt can say anything else. He even starts avoiding the human and when Newt mentions it to Vinda she just rolls her eyes.

"He's so dramatic sometimes..." She huffs and she takes Newt to Grindelwald's private office.

The vampire freezes as soon as he sees Newt.

"Liebling–"

"If I'm concerned, it's because I care about you," Newt cuts him off, rushing into his office. He even sits over the vampire's lap, just the way he likes it. "I want you to bite me."

"Newton..."

"Gellert," he says in return and they both know it's the first time he uses the vampire's given name.

Although Newt definitely doesn't expect the reaction he gets from him. The vampire gets completely flustered.

"It's not fair," he says, staring at Newt in awe.

"Please, Gellert," Newt mumbles, really enjoying the power he has over the vampire.

"Now you're doing it on purpose," Grindelwald whispers, although he looks so proud of him. He kisses Newt's neck, but doesn't bite it. "At least tell me you feel something for me... It doesn't have to be love yet, but–"

Newt shuts him up with a kiss on the lips. It's quick, but it's enough to get his message across.

"Bite me," he insists and this time Grindelwald doesn't hesitate and Newt is not surprised by the pain he feels, but by the wave of pleasure that follows it.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long. And Newt surprises himself by whining when the vampire pulls away and starts cleaning the mark he left on Newt.

"Why did you stop?"

"Because I had to, my love. I don't need much blood to feel satisfied," he chuckles, kissing Newt. "And I don't want to hurt you. Besides, there are other ways I can give you pleasure, if you allow me to show you..."

The human blushes but doesn't look away from him.

"I'd... like that." He whispers, enjoying the way Grindelwald looks back at him, eyes glimmering with happiness and love.

***

I wrote this for my friend Jason a while ago.

Patreon

[itsilvermorny]

Blue is the Warmest Color || Obi Wan Kenobi x reader

Hello everyone! Today I was hit with a wave of inspiration and decided to write something for my favorite Jedi, Obi Wan Kenobi. I’m a huge star wars fan and avid reader of Obi Wan fanfiction, but only now I had the guts to actually post something, so please be gentle :)

(I reread this over 100 times, but I’m sure there’s still some typos somewhere so ignore that.)

Let me know what you think?

______________________________________________________________

It’s been a long time coming – that feeling of being home, the warmth of his heavy wool robes on her cheek, being engulfed by his scent. It’s probably what she had missed the most if she’s honest with herself, the way his spicy, wooden smell surrounded her every time he was near. Always a comfort, always a taunt – it would make her insides curl in the best way, yearning to be in his arms in the worst possible moments, with her face resting against his neck, where his skin is soft and warm, and where she could feel his heart beat slightly increase upon placing a soft kiss on his Adam’s apple. It was her favourite place to kiss, right after the moles on his forehead and underneath his right eye, because she was guaranteed to earn back a shiver.

He loved it just as much (if not more) as her, she knew.

He had once confessed how the feeling of being wanted and loved was foreign to him still, how sometimes he inadvertently pinched his thigh, not quite believing the look in her eyes was directed at him.

The Jedi life was a life of solitude, and as such it’s expected of him to find comfort in the Force, not on the valley between her breasts, where he was certain to fall into a slumber, lulled by her even breaths, warm skin and the feeling of her fingers combing through his hair. And so, he loved when he felt her sponge a kiss on that spot on his neck, because it reminded him how she was his as much as he was hers, and he loved how she kissed the birthmarks on his face, as he knew it was her way of telling him she would always worry for him, care for him, and think of him when he was away on missions, willing him to come back home safely, to her.

Often when his assignments turned out unexpectedly sour he would think back and let himself remember the feel of her, of her kisses and the sweet nothings she loved to whisper on his ear – she was very vocal, always making sure to tell him how precious he was, how good, and how valued, even after being together for almost a year she knew of his insecurities and never failed to battle them away in any way she could.

And so, to finally be back in Coruscant, after what was supposed to have been a simple extraction, but turned out to be a gruesome four days of torture, after being made a slave, he could finally breathe again. Rushed to the medical facilities after collapsing on the tarmac (much to his chagrin, as General Kenobi never wished to be seen as vulnerable), he was now laid on his stomach on a cold bed, a medical droid fussing over the whip imprints on his back and Ashoka crouched near his head, willing him to keep his eyes open. Not one for sentimentality, he would seldom voice out loud how much he cared for his grandpadawan, as much as his own apprentice, but at that moment he would wish for nothing more than her silence, as her tries to gather details on what had happened during his mission were only reminding him of the crack of the whip, the insults and the cold dungeon he had been kept on.

“Ashoka, please”, was all he could mutter, as his strength failed him and he fought to keep his eyes open – with his malnourishment and the state of shock his body was under, it wasn’t advisable to fall asleep, he knew, before the doctors finished their examination, lest his body give into a comatose state.

Obi Wan willed he droids to assess his wounds faster, so he could finally be treated and then give his body the rest it so desperately needed, as it was getting increasingly harder to fight the weight on his eyelids. His prayers were answered when the door opened and in hurriedly strolled his padawan, followed by none other than the person he most ached to see, even if he could feel his heart constricting at the thought of her seeing him in such a mangled condition. He should have guessed, really, that she would be the one responsible for tending to him, not only due to her control of the force and ability to heal through it, but also because of the unspoken understanding between him and Anakin, and the nights both Jedi would each seek shelter in the arms of the ones they loved – something they never openly spoke about, but nonetheless acknowledged. Her being brought to him was surely Anakin’s doing.

He couldn’t not keep his eyes open then, he couldn’t not let himself get his fill of her, of how she had her hair in a tidy up do, the way she always insisted on having whilst working, on how her mismatched eyes quickly swept over his whole body, inquisitive, assessing all the damage he had suffered, and finally lingering on his back, on the gashes of raw flesh he knew were there – the beautiful, unique eyes he loved so much, now filled with worry and sadness. He was suddenly hit by the realisation of the scars he would undoubtedly have once his back healed, would it affect the way she saw him? Would she still want him? Desire him, touch him? He closed his eyes then, swallowing the bile that had risen on his throat, he couldn’t let himself think about that then, or his body would surely give in.

Efficient as ever, she started instructing the two other droids to make a concoction that would help close his wounds faster and dull the pain he was feeling. Anakin had pulled Ashoka aside, leading her away from his bed and out of the room, to make way for the doctors. He knew his master better than Obi Wan liked to admit, and knew he was bound to be feeling exposed, vulnerable and, most of all, embarrassed (stupidly, if anyone asked him). Obi Wan was one of the most respected and well regarded Jedi and even had recently been invited to become a part of the Council, and thus Anakin knew letting the people he was responsible for protecting seeing him broken was only adding a burden to his master’s worn down shoulders.

Soon it was just them both in the room. No words had been exchanged yet, but then again, one was too immersed battling his dark thoughts, and the other didn’t think anything could be said to erase the last four days of pain from his mind, as she desperately wished to do. So she resorted to do her job as best she could, and, closing her eyes, she hovered her hands over his body, one over his auburn hair and the other over the bottom of his spine, untouching, letting the Force guide her through is injuries, first the superficial, then the internal ones.

It was a relief to see he had not sustained any internal bleeding, as she had initially thought from the purple bruises he was sporting on his sides and arms. The lacerations on his back would take a few weeks to close properly and his body required a few days of bed rest, as well as full meals to restore its energy, but Obi Wan would be fine. She couldn’t hold in a sigh anymore, as the weight she had on her chest ever since she had learnt of his captivity finally lifted. Her Obi Wan was back, and he would be fine. Stars, her knees almost buckled at the realisation.

Hearing her reaction, he slightly craned his neck to better see her face. His mouth was dry, but he still licked his lips to speak, “Hi”. His voice sounded foreign to him, rough and deeper than it usually was, he had barely spoken a word since his extraction. She looked at him and softly smiled, her eyes shining with tears as the adrenaline of tending to him started to subside. “Don’t cry”, his voice sounded again, and, instincts kicking, he tried to lift himself on the mattress. His body protested immediately, and he sagged back down, taking a deep breath in as he fought through the tremors caused by the sudden effort.

She was at his bedside at once, seeing how the medicine the droids had applied had yet to kick in, and getting a tiny neon green pill from a bottle, she made him take it with some water. Her dearest Obi Wan, who even barely able to move, still couldn’t bare to see his people suffer. She threaded her fingers in the hair flopped over his forehead and kneeled at his bedside to be at his eye level. He was blinking slowly, the weariness and exhaustion he felt clear on his eyes, “You can rest now, Obi Wan. You suffered no internal damage. You’re home, you’re safe”, she willed her voice to come out strong to try and provide him with the assurance she imagined he needed, but he wasn’t having it. He slowly lifted his right arm from the bed and grasped the hand she had rested next to his head. They had a strong bond, stronger than he thought possible for two people to have, least of all Jedi. He knew he was breaking his oath by giving in to his feelings for her, but after their first meetings, when he came to realize how connected they were – not just their bodies, but their souls -, he couldn’t deny it, them, any longer.

The first time they met had been during the Clone Wars, as she had been a part of their medical team. But after the war, as time went on, they kept crossing paths, randomly and repeatedly, as if the Force were driving them to know each other. He started to be able to clearly see her force signature, then feel it, as well as her presence, and even share her emotions, and he knew from his padawan days that even the Jedi who decided to dedicate themselves to medicine had to complete the Jedi training in its entirety, which meant she knew how to protect and close her mind. They found themselves intertwined though, as they had gotten closer, and who was he to contest a wish from the Force?

She rested her head on their joined hands, faces so close her nose almost touched his cheek. “You need sleep”, she whispered softly, “I’ll stay if you’d like me to.” There was nothing that would be able to drag her away from him, she knew.

He nodded slowly; his eyes fixed on hers. They had always been one of his favourite features, because he had never seen nothing like it before, not even on his adventures with his late master, who had made sure to teach him all there was to know about each species that inhabited the planets they visited. She was human, like him, quite ordinary as well, in juxtaposition to the multitude of species in Coruscant, except for her eyes – one was blue, clear as the water of the rivers in Naboo, and the other was a soft lilac, the same shade the sky of Tatooine would adopt in the dusk. Her eyes that told him so much, even when she wished to guard herself and her thoughts – he could always read her (as he knew she could always read him) because there were no reservations between them.

So, he saw, deep into her mind, her love and care for him, the worry she had felt in his absence painted in the circles beneath her eyes. He felt her force signature, a soft, mint green, enveloping his body, providing him with the comfort he craved, like a breath of fresh air consuming his being and washing his body into a deep sense of calm.

And when she softly left a lingering kiss on the mole beneath his right eye, he knew he was safe and that she would love him back to health.