#im trying to not entertain it too much before i get the urge to draw those fuckass outfits again

[kiwibirdlafayette]

i need to stop letting musical theater own my brainrot bc why i am thinking about a mianite SIX au rn sweats

#based on nothing but song vibes. mostly #like tom just gives me. dont lose your head vibes #idk the others but. yeah #im trying to not entertain it too much before i get the urge to draw those fuckass outfits again #again. emphasis on the word AGAIN. #lafakiwi talks #ramblings from the heartsgone

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

lunares.

JAVIER PEÑA ; NARCOS ┃ USEFUL LINKS.

❝ request by @catcher11: Hello, Aurora! I hope you're having a wonderful evening (or day). I heard about the request, and I was hoping to get no.11 from the fluff prompt (the one about dancing) with Javier Peña. I just love the idea of reader and Javier being both playfull and sensual with one another and Javier being delighfully surprised by reader's dancing skills since she didn't seemed like the dancing type. As a native spanish speaker, I LOVED the dialogue on the Disaster fic and it meant a lot to me. Anyways, sorry for all the rambling. Thank you so much for everything!!!

❝ prompt: “where did you learn to dance?”

❝ words: about 1.1k. (including the translations)

❝ a / n: don’t forget to comment and reblog if you liked it, i’d really appreciate it!

Definitely, this is a blind date. You can't believe that Connie has played dirty with you, pushing you to one of Steve's friends' arms. Another DEA agent with a look of asshole that makes you wrinkle your nose in disgust. You have had to do your best to not roll your eyes when he has taken off his aviator sunglasses with an air of cockiness and a smirk that has pretended you to fall for him. You have forced a smile for commitment while shaking his hand for mere education.

Drinking your cocktail through a baby blue straw, you watch from the table your friend dancing with her husband, as Javier is sitting by your side smoking a cig and —probably— looking for a victim, after understanding you're out of his league. Poor of the girl who ends the night with him, hearing empty promises that will disappear in the morning when he dispatches her from his house. You can't help but look at him sideways, observing him lick and bite his top lip almost touching that stupid and old-fashioned mustache above his mouth. And it's too late to pretend you don't have your eyes on him when Javier catches you staring at his gestures.

“¿No bailas?”

(You don't dance?)

“No con tipos como tú”.

(Not with men like you).

He chuckles bowing his head as he shakes it slightly, placing an arm over the backrest of your chair, leaning closer to you, and invading your personal space not giving a shit if that bothers you or not.

“Así que… no sabes bailar”.

(So you don't know how to dance).

“Sí que sé”.

(Yeah, I do know how to).

“¿Sí? ¿Cómo o dónde aprendiste a bailar?”

(Yeah? How or where did you learn to dance?)

Squinting at him in silence, you quickly know what he is trying. Challenging you. You're too sober for this, drinking your cocktail in one gulp under his surprised eyes to stand up and offer him a hand. Of course you're going to show him how good you dance and make him, therefore, eat his words. Javier holds it delighted with a triumphant smile curving his lips, provoking you a strong desire of changing your mind or erasing it from his mouth with a good punch.

As a song ends and another a little more sensual starts, you face him in the middle of the dance floor. Without any shame, he grabs your other and pulls you straight to his body. A defiant look coming from you causes him to raise both eyebrows, feeling his fingers touring your sides to lead on your hips. You swing them slowly at the rhythm of the latin melody throughout the speakers. Your feet moving in sync make it so much easier, seeming greatly surprised that you know what you are doing.

It's not cumbia, bachata, rumba o jive —it's a mix of all of them. Passion and sensuality wrapping you as the song continues and becomes a little more intense, more lustful. Your bodies are too close. Practically, there's no distance between the two of you when he urges you to turn around, sticking his chest to your back as his arms surround your neck and your waist. You can feel his breathing against the skin of your neck, dizzying you and drying your throat. You haven't noticed how pleasantly Javier smells, and that's a problem for you. You've fallen into his trap and it seems it's too late to escape.

Lacing his fingers with yours, he makes you spin twice before pulling you closer again, face to face. A hand on your lower —lower, lower— back and the other on your left cheek. A leg between yours, encouraging you to dance your hips against his, slightly raising the gems of your white dress. Your fingertips land on the back of his neck and his scalp respectively, closing your eyes as he sinks his nose in the sweet spot under your ear.

The heat is evolving your whole anatomy, but it disappears when the song ends.

Breathless and eager you put distance between your bodies, faking a proud smile after showing him that you can dance. But he has the same gesture on his face that you're fighting to hide. That silent gaze that strips you to bend you over the bar, ready to make love to you. There are big differences between one act and the other. When you want a night-stand, you don't repeat. You make it fast to satiate your animal instincts. You want pleasure and that's all. And this is not the case right now, right here. You want to stay tangled in the sheets —yours or his—. You want to kiss every single part of his body. You want to worship him. You desire him. Just like he feels about you.

“Having fun?”

Steve's voice brings you two back to reality, to the dance floor, forcing you to break eye-contact. But neither of you are prepared to answer. Were you? Connie puckers her lips. Her plan has worked. You don't know it, Javier either; but she knew you would fit like two pieces of a puzzle. You have more similarities than you think, common things, strong-willed that can complement each other to perfection.

Because of the lack of response, Steve nods with his head deciding is time to leave for them and give you some intimacy. And you don't want to recognize it, but you're really grateful for them disappearing for a damn time.

You have spent all the night awake, losing the track of time after giving you more pleasure than your body can handle. Covered in sweat and suffocating heat, you're lying naked by the other's side, trying to recover your breaths as the sun starts to wake up and shine on the horizon of Colombia.

“Pareces muy concentrada”. He whispers caressing your hair with so much tenderness that spreads some shivers down your backbone.

(You look pretty concentrated).

“Te estoy contando los lunares”. You mumble using your fingertips to roam his neck.

(I'm counting your moles).

“Avísame cuando acabes”.

(Lemme know when you're done).

“¿Para qué o qué, ah?” You can't help but chuckle, lying down on your flexed arms and your head tilted towards him.

(For what?)

“Para buscar un lápiz y pintarme algunos más, así te entretienes otros cinco minutos y no te vas”.

(To find a pencil and draw some of them, so you're entertained for another five minutes, and you stay here).

He's a Casanova, that's for sure, making you laugh while shaking your head.

“Este es mi favorito”. You confess, touching the small one under his jawline.

(This is my favorite).

Leaning down, you kiss it. You trap him between your lips, pressing it with the tip of your tongue. Javier can't hold his reaction growling pleased as his arms embrace you again more closer, tangling his legs with yours. Seems like he's ready for another round of idolizing your body and making you a little more addicted to him.

GENERAL TAG LIST: @mayans-sauce @peoniarose @destynelseclipsa @band-psycho @myakai13 @petlaufeyson @-im-fantastic- @horsesandwolvesaremyanimals @rocketqueen @rosieposie0624 @ellyseveronica @Jessprins13 @diaryofkali @ravenmoore14 @starrynite7114 @kenbechillin @miahelen @monkeyluver4546 @sheeshgivemeabreak @jadesamhart @rawrlittlepanda-95 @megapeacelovemusic-blog @katsav17 @skits90s @wildsould1221 @littlekittymeow @tenderclio @badame1240 @regalbanshee

NARCOS: @trulysuccubus @purrrrfect @diogodxlot @danniburgh @velia27 @catcher11 @pedritobalmando @mys2425 @tanyaherondale @kalimont83 @scullys-alienpussy @acourtofsnakes @pascalesque @encounterthepast @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @gemini0410 @nikkixostan @lozaa94 @arveeee @thoughtfulpandelwasteland @cjbtw @goldielocks2004 @aurelie-celine @spideysimpossiblegirl @agirllovespancakes @kingpascals @im-an-adult-ish @hoam-2

#javier peña imagine #javier pena #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier peña x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena imagine #javier peña x you #narcos imagine #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n

[lotus0kid]

OUaT: Finding Fate

((For the 2020 Rumbelle Secret Santa, using @dorkone's prompt "castle flirting vs. storybrooke flirting”. Hope you like it!))

Regina racks up enemies like it’s the latest fashion.  At least she doesn’t task Rumpelstiltskin with conjuring her wardrobe as well as resolving her current vendetta.  Someday he’ll enjoy making her understand that she was never more than a means to an end for him.  Until then, he sits at his wheel and ponders how to make things difficult for a certain mermaid.

He nearly jumps off his stool when the doors to the hall fly open and a voice that has no business sounding so cheerful within the gloom of the Dark Castle rings out, “I did it!” Belle strides straight for him, a broad smile on her face and a silver platter balanced on her palm.  “I knew I’d get it eventually.  I wasn’t sifting the flour enough.  Thank the gods I figured it out- this batch is the last of the almond stuff!”

As she circles around to stand at his side Rumpelstiltskin catches the scent of something baked and… minty?  He stops the wheel and inquires, “What strange act have you committed in the kitchens now?”

Belle rolls her eyes at him, “If you wanted a cook you should’ve dealt for one.  But you got me, and I’ve just made a breakthrough in my culinary practice.  Here, try one.”

The platter swings toward him, revealing a number of bite-sized macarons tinted an alarming green shade.  The smell isn’t actually bad, now that he’s a had a minute to get used to it, but he curls a lip anyway.  “No thank you, dearie.  I have no need for… whatever this is.”

“‘Whatever this is’ is a delicacy from my village.  We made them every midwinter.  I thought I’d never get to have them again, but with a little experimentation and perseverance, you can hardly even taste the difference!”

Rumpelstiltskin blinks up at her, then returns his attention to the wheel.  “Right, well, congratulations then.”

Belle lets out a soft snort of indignation before saying, “Won’t you try one?  Here, I’ll go first.”  She picks up one of her creations and pops the whole thing in her mouth.  The instant her pink lips close on it her eyes slip shut and she moans in pleasure.

Rumpelstiltskin locks his gaze on the wood grain of his wheel, the only thing that might save him from the in all ways unwelcome heat rushing through his body.  This is made more difficult when something green bobs into the lower right corner of his vision.

“O-pen u-up…” Belle sing-songs as he resists the urge to lean into the fresh, bright scent of the treat. When did I summon mint oil to the cupboard?  “You know food tastes better when it’s shared, just try one.”

In this second, he snatches for his seer’s sight in hopes of some guidance, receiving silence in response. His own imagination offers the possibility of slapping her hand away- perhaps throw her totally off balance and send the lovely tray of treats clattering to the floor.  The thought of the cold glare she would cast on his back sends a chill through him.  Perhaps not. So, he could go the other way. Do as told, and open up, let her set the macaron on his tongue.  He could even close his lips quickly enough to catch her fingertips, and taste her skin along with the delicate crunch and zing of mint.  

Rumpelstiltskin shakes his head to clear these imaginings- one far too cold, the other far too hot. Belle’s hand retreats.  “All right, never mind then,” she begins, but he reaches out and cups his palm under hers, taking the macaron with his other hand and bringing it to his mouth.

He grinds through it with brisk efficiency.  “A triumph, dearie,” he announces after swallowing, “Well done.”

She smiles, nods.  “Thank you.  It’s good to know I can feed you something.  I don’t care what you say about being sustained by magic, it’s just not healthy to not eat.”

The briefest accidental glance in Belle’s direction reveals a look of warm concern beaming down on him and in that instant a thick, heavy sob swells up in Rumpelstiltskin’s chest, tightens his throat, and makes his eyes burn.  She’s right.  He lets the magic feed him, and it feeds on him in turn.  Sometimes he must call up a gallery of memories of Bae in order to keep the darkness from consuming him.  Once or twice, he’s had trouble recalling the exact shape of his son’s face, which causes frigid fear to blast through him.

Remembering that fear, joined with the horrific likelihood that he might start blubbering in front of Belle, drives him to his feet, and he utters pardons a second before whisking himself off to his tower.

Belle is of course the problem, he decides while pacing stolidly and aimlessly and sighing away the ache in his chest.  He swore an oath to love no one as long as Bae is lost to him.  But she’s here, and she is…  That’s not to say he actually…  It’s his old spinner’s heart, the foolish thing.  It still hasn’t learned- the people he loves, they leave.  He needs to show it what comes of entertaining silly little hopes.  He must look ahead, and see how Belle will free herself from him.  He’ll be calm then.

This is easier said than done.  As proven moments ago in the hall, the seer’s sight is finnicky at best, coming and going as it pleases.  And when he can grab hold of it, it sometimes rattles through more possibilities than Rumpelstiltskin’s mostly human mind can comprehend.  But perhaps he can channel it, focus it in one direction.  Indeed, his focus is clear- it’s Belle’s future he seeks.

He shuts his eyes and extends his awareness to find her walking back to the kitchens, and so takes the opportunity to transport himself into her room and pluck a strand of hair from her pillow.  This he carries back to his tower, then flicks through a dense tome of spells on a desk until he comes to a powerful divination spell.  With his eyes screwed shut as he mutters the words that will drag his seer’s sight to heel, he does not notice a hair from his own head come loose and drift down to join Belle’s in his palm.  But as unremarkable days of caretaker duties unspool within his mind, a mysterious golden haze drifts through, and he feels time speed up to a blur.

He tries to haul back on imaginary reins- he has no interest in zooming all the way to Belle’s eventual death.  Slowly his awareness settles on one point in the future.

The first surprise is that he isn’t a ghostly spectator in this random moment to come.  He feels himself present in the space.  Looking down, he finds himself wearing, not his usual silk and leather, but rather loose-fitting wool trousers matched with a jacket and a shirt fastened by a simple row of buttons.  His only silk is a thin strip tied around his neck, discretely folded under the shirt collar.

His second surprise are his hands.  They appear as those of an ordinary man, a state which is anything but ordinary.  His right wraps comfortably around a gold-handled cane- in this peculiar vision he’s aware of his maimed ankle as a distant stiffness.  His left hand holds the bow and neck of a violin.  He doesn’t have much time to study the instrument before the sounds of an opening door and a ringing bell come from beyond a curtain hanging in the doorway of the room he occupies, which appears to be the storage space of a small shop of curiosities.

After a moment, the curtain is pulled back to admit his third and biggest surprise- Belle, carrying what appears to be a sack made of paper and wearing a skirt far shorter than anything Rumpelstiltskin’s ever seen on a woman of her station.  She doesn’t seem at all bothered by this, smiling wide as her eyes fall to the violin.  “Unearth something interesting?” she asks before setting down the sack on a small table nearby.  “You might want to wait until after lunch to tell me about it.  Ruby said Madame Mayor was snapping at everyone when she got coffee this morning, so we may not have long to eat.”

None of that makes sense to Rumpelstiltskin- or, at least, the Rumpelstiltskin of the present.  The Rumpelstiltskin to come replies with ease while his past counterpart observes from within, “If she requires another lesson in patience, I’m happy to provide it.  Come have a look at this.”

She comes to stand before him as he holds out the violin.  Its body is decorated with wood inlays depicting two people in profile with their arms outstretched.  Magic curls away from their hands, meeting at the strings.  “Lovely.  And powerful, I suppose?” she inquires with a raised brow.

“Versatile, more than anything.  Play a certain tune, achieve a certain magical effect, assuming you play well. Shall I?”  Rumpelstiltskin lets the cane fall against his hip and transfers the bow to his right hand, setting it on the strings but pausing there with his gaze on Belle.

She nibbles at her lower lip, but soon says with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, “Why not?”

“Very well,” Rumpelstiltskin says with a grin of his own.  He closes his eyes and searches the enchantments laid upon the violin, and finds something that might actually be familiar.  An old tune his Aunt Iph used to play for Aunt Im.  The melody slowly emerges as he draws the bow along the strings. 

It’s not long before he hears a soft gasp and then a bright giggle.  Belle’s hands fall on his shoulders and he opens his eyes to take her in as she floats about an arm’s length off the floor.  Light shining through a nearby window gleams every part of her it touches.  He maintains the tempo and volume of the song, which keeps her from drifting any higher. After a moment’s uncertainty, she lifts her hands, swaying and bobbing slightly to the beat, turning a slow circle in the air.  Rumpelstiltskin can’t say when he’s seen anything more beautiful, and his heart melts with love.

When she faces him again her hands return to his shoulders.  Beaming down on him, she murmurs, “That’s the tragedy of musicians- they don’t get to dance.”

Her brow furrows slightly and her hold on him tightens, and he actually feels the magic he’s emitting flow through her back into him, settling in his feet as a lightness that almost tickles.  Then he’s rising, rising up to meet her.  Belle’s arms slide around his neck as the distance continues to close between them.  Her lips brush his and in that instant there’s a blinding flash of gold light behind his eyes and the vision snaps out of existence and Rumpelstiltskin drops hard against the desk, knocking the tome of spells into a mess of fluttering pages on the floor.

He grips the edge of the desk, feet and lips still tingling, trying to understand what just happened. Because it can’t be the future, what he saw.  It’s not possible.  Him and Belle, together, really quite unmistakably in love.  True love.  No, it cannot be.  Anyway, in that world it didn’t seem instantly apparent where Bae was, and therefore it was no world Rumpelstiltskin wants to live in.  Not at all.

He crouches down to pick up and turn the tome over and check for damage.  The spell on the page it falls open to is something to do with happy dreams.  Ah, clearly he misread earlier and cast this instead of a divination spell.  Of course.  He should try again.  Ensure he’s on the right page, and figure out what fate of Belle’s will take her away.

He definitely means to.  It’s just that a half-finished project catches his attention, and he forgets all about it.  And when it crosses his mind again, the hint of an old tune he only just remembered wanders through his mind, and he decides he doesn’t need to know.  Not yet.

#dorkone #rumbelle secret santa #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #once upon a time #fanfiction

[ddaenggtan]

forever rain | knj | m

Being dead isn't anything exciting. Just a lot of walking the same halls of the same apartment day after day after day. Things change when the new tennant arrives, though. Kim Namjoon isn't anything you could have expected; not the way he's so careful and gentle with his plants because he breaks so many other things, not the way his friends joke that he's psychic because you refuse to let him get in the face one time, and certainly not the way he comes home after literal months spent moving things away from table edges for him and announces that he knows he's being haunted and he has some questions for you. You didn't know ghosts could fall in love, but he makes you feel alive again, like you're standing in the rain while thunder crashes around you. You should've known nothing good would come of falling in love with someone living, though. You should've known that heartbreak was the only way this could end...that the rain doesn't last forever. 

part of the Love Yourself Collab, please please please go check out the other fics. Everyone involved is so freaking talented and I have been vibrating out of my skin with how excited I��ve been to read all of these. 

pairing | kim namjoon x reader (unspecified gender, even!)

word count | 18.8k | cross posted to ao3

genre/warnings | ghost!reader, slight fluff, hard angst, literally the most angst ever it gets fluffy for a bit but litERALLY this is an angst fic, major character death, unprotected sex (idk what the etiquette for ghost sex is but you should still wrap it before you tap it fam), depictions of terminal illness (v mild), mentions of blood (several, but not graphic), major character death, allusions to violence, namjoon is a klutz whats new, depictions of terminal illness, major character death, i added that tag three times pls dont read this if you aren’t comf with mcd bc i literally tagged it three times so y’all would definitely see it, also probably have some tissues ready bc i cried while writing it so 

a/n | this is, to date, the saddest thing i have ever written in my entire fucking life. formal apologies to this joon bc oh my god you poor soul. i’m not kidding when i say you might cry, because i’m a big baby wuss and cried while writing the fucking outline when i first decided to write this for the collab so like......rip my own heart. i was really honored when i was approached about the LYA collab, bc like,,,,,mE? WHAT? and i was really nervous because i’ve never been part of any collabs in any fandom ever, and to have to do something like forever rain and mono as a whole justice, like,,,,,,, *screaming* y’know?? so i went on mono lockdown and just had the whole thing on repeat and was like “alright. what emotions does this make me feel.” and i eventually settled on the loneliness and isolation that he expresses, and feeling like no one understands what you’re going through, but that ultimately the album as a whole and forever rain give off this feeling of like. things get better, you’re not as alone as you feel, and you just gotta get through the bad stuff to find the good stuff. basically i just got really in my feels about it and was like ‘lets make myself cry ahahaha’ and,,,i dID i cried several times while planning and writing and editing bc im a Soft Bitch and don’t read much angst for that exact reason lmao. so buckle tf up y’all, this a helluva ride!! 

Of all the things you'd heard about death, all the different possibilities that existed in the world, the one thing you hadn't been prepared for was the boredom. You hadn't been prepared for any of it, really, too surprised by your own demise to plan at all, but even if you'd been able to, you don't think that this is what you would've counted on. An eternity - or however long ghosts existed - of being stuck in the same studio apartment you'd lived in when you died. The same walls, the same floor, the same view out the only window of the alley beside the building. It's boring and lonely and boring.

You've found more creative ways to entertain yourself as time passes. First, you started by figuring out just what being a ghost meant. You can't really communicate with anyone, haven't figured out how to make sure everything you say is heard, but you can manipulate objects pretty easily these days. The most difficult thing is becoming fully corporeal - completely visible and able to interact with things at the same time. It's hard enough to be visible, and you aren't really sure what the point of it would be when it would just scare whoever's living in your apartment; that's the last thing you want to do, run them off when they're the best source of amusement you've found.

You won't lie, you were a little offended when the first tenants moved in after you. It was difficult to watch your things get packed up and moved out by your friends, hard to lose all of the little things you loved in your apartment, like the shitty bead curtain you'd gotten as a gag gift or the photo collage of all of your loved ones. It's frustrating to not know how they're all doing these days; the one time you got brave enough to fuck with a laptop to check on them, you nearly broke the thing, and you haven't tried since. Still, it seemed cathartic for them to clear out your apartment, and it was a bittersweet sight, but you tried to focus on the positive side of it.

And then the couple moved in.

Not only did they fuck like rabbits - which is something you're going to stay pissed about, because there's no satisfaction to be had by you anymore, and it's the one thing you can think of that would be endlessly entertaining - but the couple was also grossly obnoxious. They had zero respect for your apartment , or you, and while one could argue that they didn't actually know you were there, it still made the sting of losing your entire life that much worse. You spent you don't know how many nights hovering awkwardly in the bathroom while they fucked, would constantly wander in to see them going at it on the kitchen counter at ass o'clock in the morning, and once you came in to see them tossing actual literal eggs at the ceiling like the absolute fucking weirdos they were.

So, naturally, you got a little mad. How dare they treat your apartment like that? They had no respect, but they were going to learn it real quick if they were going to live there with you, whether they wanted to or not.

They didn't last long after the first night of slamming cabinets and squealing hinges, but the thrown picture frame of their family was the conclusive end to their stay.

There have been others, since then. They haven't all been terrible, not like that first couple, but most of them have been sub-par roommates, and if you decided early on that if the rest of your immortal life is going to be locked in one shitty apartment with the absolute worst view in the city - because no one wants to see the drunken hookups and potential body dumps that take place in that alley - then you're at least going to share said apartment with someone nice to exist with.

You release a heavy sigh, staring at where your hand disappears through the shower wall. You've taken to testing the boundaries of the apartment again; you already know what the result will be, learned in the first few hours that you're stuck here, but you can't help trying when you get really bored. You just got distracted fucking around with the pipes in the meantime, because you're literally too bored to even focus. It's part of why you miss the last tenants so much, because you weren't ever really bored with them around.

A single mother and her two kids, crammed into a much-too-small apartment because it was all they could afford, and they were the light of your un-life. One a budding teenager that wrote angsty poetry who loved your trick of making things float around, and one an adorable toddler who adored playing peekaboo with you and coloring, and a mom that was too busy to notice anything out of the ordinary. It was like having a family again, made you feel useful when you could pull the meat out of the freezer for her to make dinner with or scratch a quick 'do your homework' on a steamy bathroom mirror. It was fun and it made being dead that much more bearable.

You really should've known that letting the toddler draw the two of you would be a bad idea, especially since there were several artistic liberties taken. It's not your fault the kid thought you'd look cool with fangs and bloody holes instead of eyes and claws that reached the floor. It was art, it was supposed to be a little different from reality. Still, you can't blame her for seeing the picture of her kid and 'my new best friend' and immediately calling the landlord. And a priest.

So, perhaps you gave the apartment a bit of a reputation. Maybe it's been a couple of months since the mom moved out and took your two buds with her. There might be the possibility that you've been the slightest bit salty about losing your friends and you've been extra-ghost-y whenever someone comes by to view the place in an attempt to make yourself feel a little better. Can you really be blamed for that? You just want a decent damn roommate for your life after death, and if that means putting the potentials through a little bit of a test, then so be it. You only feel a little bit bad for the landlord.

The creak of the front door pulls you from your thoughts, and the echo of a voice makes you narrow your eyes. Your first instinct is to slam some windows to scare off whoever's in your apartment, but you repress the urge. You'd die of boredom if you could die again, and whoever this is could provide a few hours' entertainment at the least.

You pop your head through the bathroom wall to see what's going on, and wow , who let an actual giant into your apartment? Fucking with the pipes could definitely wait for this guy.

"I know it's last minute, yeah," He says into the phone that's held carefully between his cheek and shoulder. His arms are loaded down with boxes and he's angled away from you just enough that you can't see his face, but he's tall and broad and wearing what looks like the world's comfiest sweater, and you want to badly to wrap yourself up in him. "But you know Joon needs the help. Don't pretend you aren't constantly willing to put off your thesis, I know for a fact that you went out to look at stationery with Tae last week, and everyone knows that's the most boring thing on the planet."

He's quiet, listening to the soft crackle of a voice from the other end. You slide through the wall completely, hovering as close as you dare to try and hear what the other person is saying. Tall, Broad, and Comfy scoffs.

"He can stare at one sheet of paper for at least ten minutes, Yoongi. Do I need to remind you of the time he spent an entire fucking hour debating which set of holiday scrapbook to buy because, and I quote, 'this one has the really nice rose pattern on it that would look great with the invitations, but, oh, look at the pinstripes in this one!'" His voice morphs into what you guess is an approximation of whoever Tae is, and you laugh at the high-pitched, nasally tone.

Tall and Broad spins, eyes narrowing as he looks around the room, and fuck , he's literally gorgeous. You've never seen someone more attractive in your life or your death and it would probably knock the wind out of you if you actually had breath. Comfy McGorgeous turns back around and sets the stack of boxes in the corner, continuing his tirade about Tae and stationery while simultaneously trying to talk Yoongi into coming, you assume, to help Joon move. You don't know who any of these people are, but they're already proving to be the most entertaining bunch that's ever graced these walls.

The door to your apartment flies open, making both you and Boyfriend Material whip your head around.

"Christ, Jin, you couldn't hold the fucking door open for us?" Someone grunts. Beauty Von Softness - or, Jin, as you should probably refer to him - winces and strides over to do just that as two more guys stagger in with a couch suspended between them. The second they're in the door they drop it to the ground and flop onto it, panting and sweaty.

"Listen, I was busy trying to get our resident hermit out of his cave to help us carry some of this shit," Jin spits back. "And you all know what it's like getting him out and about."

"Did you tell him that there's pizza after we're done? Because I've found that food is the best motivator for him," the guy closest to the door says. His hair is soft-looking and long and you wish you could pet it.

The other guy, the one who cursed Jin out and has the softest pink hair you've ever seen, laughs. "Jeongguk, you always think the best motivator is food."

"Well, yeah, because it is."

"For you, maybe. Other people require actual rewards."

"But food is a reward," Jeongguk mutters into the fabric of the couch. Jin tsks and smacks As Yet Unnamed on the back of the head.

"You're lucky I hung up on him when you bombarded your way into this place, or he'd definitely not come help us," Jin says as he leans against the back of the couch.

Unnamed starts to say something else but is cut off by someone running straight into the end of the couch. They all shoot to their feet, spouting apologies as the three of them maneuver the couch into the apartment properly.

"Sorry, sorry, Jimin distracted us from properly finishing our job," Jeongguk says quickly. He looks to the stranger with a small apologetic smile, and you're pretty sure if it were humanly possible, there would be actual literal stars in his eyes.

"Oh, it's okay, Jeonggukkie. I should've been looking where I was going." New Challenger walks straight towards where you stand, and you realize seconds before it's too late that he is not aware there is a massive stack of boxes in his path. Instinctively, you shove them to the side with your foot. Tall And Oblivious sets his boxes down without any trouble, none the wiser about any of it, and the three near the couch are too busy bickering in hushed whispers to have noticed you doing anything.

The newcomer straightens and turns to look at them all with a bright smile, and you think you might actually see The Light in the way his cheeks dimple. If you thought the other three were beautiful - which they are, no doubt about that, you're seriously wondering why the hell a bunch of supermodels are moving stuff into your apartment - then this guy is easily an Actual Fucking God or something. His brown hair is soft and shiny, his smile is warmer than the sun, and you're fairly positive that for the first time since you died, you feel goosebumps along your arms.

"Seriously, Namjoon, we should've realized you'd be up soon. You stay, start unpacking while we go get the rest of the furniture." Jimin shoves Jeongguk out the door while he's speaking, ignoring the taller's complaints, and Jin just shakes his head at the sight.

"Yoongi'll be here soon, he's finishing up another draft of his thesis. Hobi and Tae are stopping to get the pizzas and then they'll be here, too." Jin's voice is calmer than it was Jimin and Jeongguk, more soothing, and it makes you curious. Not only because of the tone change, but because you know Hobi, he owns the building and is the one who rented you the apartment when you first moved in. One of your favorite things to do is scare him when he comes by to make sure everything’s ready for a viewing.

"What? No, I said I was gonna pay for pizzas!" Namjoon looks distinctly more upset about this than someone should over not having to pay for pizza, at least in your mind, and it only makes you more curious.

"Yeah, but you also just moved out of your old apartment because it was too expensive, and had like an hour to load everything into a truck, so you're gonna let their trust fund asses pay for pizzas. We're seven adult men, and Guk could eat an entire horse and still be hungry. I'm not letting you pay for that."

Silence hangs in the apartment for a while before Namjoon gives a soft thanks to Jin. They share a smile before Jin makes his way back out. You follow each step, shadowing him all the way to the door before you're stopped. You lean your entire body forward, struggling against the invisible barrier keeping you inside, and the force of it nearly slams you back into the wall when you sag in defeat.

You aren't sure why you try anymore, but you know yourself well enough to admit that you're not going to stop until you can at least make it to the hallway.

Whatever you expected Namjoon to be like as a roommate, however unknowing he is about the situation, you don't think you could've guessed what he's actually like.

Out of the seven boys you saw the day he moved in, he's the only one living there. Not a complete surprise, considering it's a studio apartment, but you remember when there were nine people living there at one point, and there was barely room for anyone to breathe even if it had been pretty consistently amusing. Still, for one person, he's got a ton of stuff, and it's a shock it all fits. His bed is massive and comfortable and the best place to lay during the day because it's shoved between the brick half-wall and the large windows that take up one wall. The area's supposed to be for a dining table, you think, but you'd had your bed there, too, and the familiarity is nice.

His couch is small and old but manages to fit five of them, and it's a pleasantly jarring difference from the coffee table that looks like - and might actually be - an old steamer trunk. The exposed brick wall you love holds his mounted TV, a feat that took Jeongguk and Yoongi a solid hour and a half because they kept stripping the screws, and it's got one of those 8-cubicle bookshelf things under it that stores a frankly obnoxious amount of books.

He's got mugs for days, an adorable if odd collection of figurines and mini-statues scattered around the apartment, a strange obsession with some reclaimed wood shelf he's got hanging above his bed, but the absolute highlight of it all is The Wall.

It took them three hours to get it installed and set up the way he wanted, between the placements and the thick wooden shelf they’re perched on with supports and a small safety bar along the edge to keep them from falling off, but along the entire windowed wall and partway after it turns the corner runs a long shelf absolutely covered in plants. There are some elsewhere, like the one he keeps hanging from the bathroom ceiling and the couple in the kitchen, but most are on The Wall. Each one is in its own special pot, each a unique color with a name painted carefully along it, and most of them look half-dead. They're all distinct and unique from each other and they all surely have different needs and ideal conditions, but you'd never guess because Namjoon is so wholly committed to them all. He takes time every day to water them and prune them if he needs to, he checks on them constantly. He even reinforced the safety bar for the ones that sit beside his bed, so there was less chance he'd accidentally knock them around while sleeping.

It's fascinating, watching him tend to them. He's so careful and gentle, with absolute precision in every moment. He cares for his plants the way some people would care for a pet or a child. He doesn’t believe any of them are past caring for, slowly nurses all of them back to health and frequently turns up with more he’s saved from some department store. The most endearing thing, though, you decide as you sit curled among the haphazard blankets of his bed and watch, is the talking. It's every day, for as long as it takes him to care for the plants, and it's the cutest thing in the world. He's talking to some succulent as you just stare at him, filling the comfortable silence of the apartment with his soft, soothing voice, and you wish he could hear you when you talk back to him.

"I know they mean well, but at some point, I've just gotta live my own life, y'know? I can't study something just because everyone expects me to, and I can't pursue some dream just because people think I'd be good at it. I've gotta do what's right for me, don't I?" His tone is positive and bright, a contrast to the gloomy sky that casts shadows across the apartment.

You float over, hovering beside him to look at the plant he's lovingly stroking with his thumb. It's in a pretty periwinkle pot, with the name 'Mang' painted in careful but shaky black handwriting. It's not your favorite - that's the one in the bathroom that hangs over its light blue bowl, a quickly scrawled 'Koya' on the bottom - but it seems to be one of Namjoon's personal favorites based on how often he talks to it specifically.

"I think it's nice you do things for yourself," You tell him. He doesn't react, unable to hear you, but it's nice to hear your own voice after so long. You slide one of the plants - Chim, in a small yellow bowl - to the side and away from his elbow, and he doesn't notice. "You know yourself better than they do. You should trust yourself."

He keeps mumbling to Mang, something about everyone following their own dreams and doing what they need over what people want or expect, when you lay your hand over his.

Thunder cracks through the sky and the first raindrops hits the window as your non-existent skin hits his, and it's the most real thing you've felt in a long time. It's as if the scent of ozone and electricity is in the apartment itself, crackling in your hair and filling your nose with the overpowering scent of the sweet summer rain. You can almost feel the water hit your skin, the way the wind whips at your hair, and it's so intoxicating that you almost miss the sharp inhale from the man beside you.

He's not looking at his plant when you look up, but instead at the window in front of the two of you. You glance at it, and for a fraction of a second, you can see yourself in the reflection. The glimpse has you jerking towards it before you can stop yourself, desperate to know if something has changed. You haven't seen your reflection since you died, not in the mirror or the window or the toaster, and maybe, just maybe, it means something's changed.

Your hand stops against the glass of the window as you reach forward. You can't feel the cool of it under your palm, but it's no less a barrier for you as it would be for Namjoon. Something in you breaks as you watch the raindrops race each other to the ground.

"Ah, I forgot the forecast called for rain today," he mutters, eyes focused on the lightning that streaks by. He doesn't react when your fist slams against the glass, nor when you let out the scream that's been building in you for however long it's been since you died. You're so close, not even a hair's breadth from feeling something new yet familiar for the first time in so long, and you can't. You're still stuck in these four walls, unable to even reach the air outside.

You just want to feel the rain again.

You move dejectedly away from the window, ignoring the way Namjoon shivers as you pass. The temperature in the apartment has dropped considerably, you think, between the storm and your own mood. You can't tell, really. You haven't felt warm or cold or hungry or anything since you died that isn't the oppressive loneliness of life after death.

A dry sob tears itself from your throat and you hurry to hide in the bathroom as Namjoon turns to look around him. He mumbles something you can't hear and after a few minutes, he returns to tending to his plants, leaving you to your tear-less cries in peace.

It becomes quickly apparent to you that Namjoon should really have a roommate, if only to save him from himself. It takes a few weeks for you to realize this, but luckily he seems to narrate his life as he goes through it - which is overwhelmingly adorable to you, and you refuse to acknowledge that - and that means that you hear it every time he goes, "Ah, Namjoon, be more careful next time," or "Oh, shoot, that's not, fuck, I gotta buy more eggs now." It's painful to watch, even for you, and at some point, you just couldn't take it anymore. No one else is around to help, but someone needs to you, and clearly the universe means for you to be that someone.

It's a full-time job, protecting him from himself. You've saved countless mugs, pushing them farther away from the edges of counters and tables, and been just in time to shove bowls or vases an inch over so that his elbows glide harmlessly past them. It's almost exhausting, if you could get tired you would, but it's worth it, you think, as you catch the bookshelf under the TV as it tilts. You slide it gently to the floor, glad that Namjoon is distracted by how close he came to losing a toe to notice.

Because that's the other thing about this tree of a man: he's the most oblivious person you've ever fucking seen. It doesn't matter what it is you do, whether it's bouncing his spray bottle of water so it doesn't break on the hard floor or shake the counters so that the knife he's about to drop on his fucking hand falls the other way, he doesn't see a single fucking thing. You'd think he was blind if he wasn't so attentive to the way his plants grow. He notices nothing and you're glad for it because you really aren't sure what he would do if he knew you were going around haunting him just to keep him alive. You just want to help, want to keep the soft smile he wears more often around for as long as possible.

You don't dare to look into why you want that, too afraid of what you might find there.

It's also just fun to watch him and his friends, relaxed and unreserved. You never had many friends when you were alive, just a small handful that you really truly loved and whom you miss every day. Watching these seven boys fills you with nostalgia and a strange sense of joy because they really are some of the funniest people you've ever been around.

Like now, with four of them sprawled on the couch while Jeongguk and Hoseok make themselves comfortable leaning against the bookshelf under the TV - which has been bolted to the wall since it almost broke Namjoon's foot - and Namjoon watches them all from his bed since it's the only other place to sit. There are beer bottles scattered around and decorating the half-wall that separates the bed from the room proper, everyone is varying levels of drunk, and you're curled up close to Namjoon, leaning against the wall so you can stop him from knocking over any of the bottles nearby because you know him too well at this point.

"I'm just saying, I don't understand why they made him so over-powered in the new movies, because he's supposed to be some kid from Brooklyn! Giving him the high-tech suit essentially strips him of the friendly neighborhood persona that he's always relied on!" Jeongguk has been ranting for a while about the newest release in the Spiderman franchise - apparently, he's part of the actual Avengers now, which is a shock to you since the last thing you heard before you died was that the franchise was canceled until further notice or something.

"And I'm saying that if they didn't give him the suit then it would've made no sense how he was able to do those things," Yoongi responds. You're pretty sure he's just arguing to be contrary at this point, because you remember him telling Namjoon the other day that he prefers DC over Marvel.

"Garfield's Spiderman could do those things," you mutter, "And he didn't have a fancy suit."

"Okay, then how do you explain Andrew Garfield's version being able to do that stuff? He doesn't need the suit, he never has!" You preen at the way Jeongguk echoes your thoughts. "I'm telling you, I don't care how good the relationship with Holland's Spidey and Iron Man is, by giving him the tech and the advancements they did, they've undermined everything that Spiderman is supposed to be about."

"Jeongguk come off it, everyone knows Garfield's Spidey was just all bad writing. I mean, what kind of person can do all that stuff, realistically? He's the one that really needed the Stark suit." Taehyung's voice is slurred and quiet, definitely as drunk as the rest of them. 

"What-! No! I could do half of that without being bitten by a weird science spider!" Jin scoffs at Jeongguk's words. 

"Yeah, sure, Guk. The same way you can do that bottlecap challenge."

"Bottle cap challenge, and yeah, I could!" The youngest stands and you don't bother to hide your grimace. 

"This isn't going to end well, is it?" You ask. No one acknowledges you, too busy finding something Jeongguk can kick the cap off of as the boy readies himself. He's steady on his feet but his face is red and he can't seem to stop giggling. 

"If I do this, you gotta call me SpiderGuk from now on, okay?" He says. No one agrees, but it doesn't stop him from laughing again and doing a couple of roundhouse kicks to warm up. 

"Okay, okay, Joonie doesn't have any regular water bottles, but we found a screw-top beer in the fridge so ya gotta use that," Jimin says as he stumbles over with said bottle. Jeongguk just nods, an adorable focused expression on his face. Jimin holds the bottle in the air, and you can already tell his grip isn't tight enough to keep the bottle still when Jeongguk kicks it. 

The next ten seconds happen in slow-motion. Jeongguk's leg flies out to kick but his drunken body isn't able to handle the sudden shift in balance, and he slips. His foot hits the bottle slightly too low, and it goes flying out of Jimin's weak grip into the air. Everyone in the room watches as it hurtles straight towards Namjoon's face, and you react out of habit and instinct, catching it in one hand before you even realize you've moved. 

Everyone freezes, staring at where the bottle hovers in front of Namjoon's face. You're the only one able to see your fingers wrapped around it. A shock jolts through you at the realization of what you've done and you drop the bottle as if it burned you. Fuck, they were all going to freak, then Namjoon would move out and you'd be stuck alone once more. You should've just shoved him out of the way, what were you thinking, you're so fucking stupid-

"Dude," Hoseok mutters from where he's perched on the arm of the couch. "Holy shit, Joon, you're fucking telepathic." 

Yoongi rolls his eyes and smacks his chest. "Telekinetic, you fucking-"

"Holy shit, you've got fucking superpowers!" Jeongguk squeaks. "Do it again!"

Namjoon isn't even able to get a word out before there's a book flying at his face, and you panic. You can't catch it, too rushed, but you manage to deflect it so it hits the bed with a soft thump instead of braining Namjoon straight in the nose. 

"Woah, you really do have superpowers," Jimin whispers. He lobs a bottlecap at Namjoon, and you catch it in your palm before letting it drop onto the half-wall. 

"I don't have...what the fuck you guys," Namjoon insists. His eyes are as wide as saucers behind the thick glasses he has on. He looks freaked out and you want nothing more than to hug him. Your hand reaches out of its own accord, halfway closing the distance to stroke his hair before you catch yourself. 

"Hey, levitate your plants," Jin demands. Namjoon looks panicked as he glances at the wall of plants, and you heave a sigh. With any luck, they're so drunk that they'll remember this as a strange fever dream, but you can't just let them keep throwing things at him. You crawl over to the wall, avoiding Namjoon as you do, and grasp one of the plants tight. It's a white pot with red polka dots, a simple RJ on the side, and it's fucking heavy. You only get it a few inches off the shelf before you're forced to put it down.

"Oh my god, catch this!" Taehyung throws a coffee mug straight at Namjoon's head and you panic again. You catch it, and you've decided you're fucking sick of them throwing things at him, so you lob it back and dart across the room to bounce it safely to the counter before it can break. 

Everyone in the room stares at the mug and then looks back at Namjoon, who hasn't moved from his spot on the bed. 

"Oh my god, you're a superhero," Jeongguk whispers, awe in his eyes. 

"That's fucked up," Yoongi mutters, wincing when Hoseok elbows him. 

"Maybe we should get some sleep," Namjoon says quietly. The others look like they want to disagree with him, and you have no doubt they want to explore the newfound 'abilities' of their friend, but they still start gathering trash together before they head out. 

Namjoon lays awake for a long time that night, glasses folded and sitting atop the half-wall beside you. He's oblivious to the way you watch him, too lost in thought to feel the weight of your stare or the chill in the air. 

"I don't understand," He says after a while. "I really don't, but there's got to be a reason for it." He doesn't elaborate, merely turns over and evens his breathing out until he starts snoring, but you watch him for most of the night. He's fascinating, this human, and you wonder what makes him so different from the others you've met. 

He apparently decides to experiment. You've known Namjoon is intelligent since he first moved in and you saw his collectible encyclopedias, but you hadn't realized just what it would be like in actuality. 

It starts simple. He'll toss something in the air and let it clatter to the ground. Nothing big, just little things like pencils or bottlecaps, and not far, just enough that his eyes narrow as he apparently tries to use his telekinetic abilities to manipulate them. 

It slowly graduates from there. Next comes the way he stares at something across the room, hyper-focused on whatever it is until you notice and move it around for him. It's a guessing game, sometimes, trying to figure out just what he wants to move or how he wants to move it, but each time you're successful, he smiles so brightly, dimples on full display. Who wouldn't want to make him smile like that?

It's hit or miss, sometimes. You're only so strong, and while you've had a lot of practice, you still get tired. You lifted his bookshelf almost a full inch before blacking out. Next thing you knew, a couple of days had passed and Namjoon was staring at a coffee mug. That was a significantly less fun day; between losing time and having to catch coffee mug after coffee mug, you were exhausted and a little shaken. 

So when he stops staring at things for extended periods of time, when he starts to go back to reading and scrolling the internet and bingeing all the completed shows that Netflix and Amazon had to offer, you're grateful for it. He still occasionally tests it out; he's always subtle about it, choosing to stare quietly until you notice and make whatever it is float around for a minute. Once you wandered around looking for him - a feat in a studio apartment - and found him just sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at a shampoo bottle.

You'd like to say that you don't move things entirely because he wants you to. It's a good test of your abilities and how far you can push yourself until it becomes too much, and it's always nice to have actual evidence that you still exist - in some form, at least - in the world. The validation that comes from seeing him smile every time you lift a pencil or slide a coffee mug to the side, it's not for any reason but the satisfaction of knowing that you have some kind of existence. Some kind of impact on the world, even if you can't be seen and can't leave the apartment.

It's part of why you start moving things around yourself more often; you're hoping he just blames it on his overactive 'abilities' if he notices because you really aren't sure what he would think otherwise. But you also know for a fact that just seeing that you have some kind of sway over the world still - over the things inside this tiny apartment - makes you feel just that bit better about being dead.

Which is why it's such a fucking shock when the door to the apartment slams open one evening just for Namjoon to slam it closed again and announce into the air, "So I know you're haunting me, please don't try to deny it, I only want to talk to you."

You freeze where you are, halfway through the closet door from where you were reorganizing his clothes because they made no sense and you were bored. He's looking around the apartment, almost desperate in the way he's searching, and you can't bring yourself to move. It's obvious he can't see you, and you aren't even sure if he's being serious, but the way he huffs and clenches his jaw before moving into the kitchen tells you that he probably is.

You follow him, curious, and watch as he pulls a small package out of his bag and starts ripping it open. You float the remains of what looks like gift wrap over to the trashcan, because you know Namjoon will forget, before going back to watching him. He's only a little careful as he cracks something in his hands and then slaps it onto the fridge, and you peek around him to see that it's some kind of words or something. There’s a wide variety, with no clear theme to them, as well as at least one of each letter of the alphabet. It's then you remember the throwaway comment Yoongi made during that night - "You need, like, poetry stuff, like those magnets that go on the fridge that people write that deep shit with, y'know? I'm gonna buy you one," - and realize that he'd followed through on his vow. 

"Alright," Namjoon says, leaning against his kitchen counter and staring at the magnets. "First and foremost, am I really being haunted or is this some kind of hallucination?" His gaze never falters, doesn’t ever drift from the magnetic words now spread across his fridge doors. It takes several minutes to build up the energy and the courage to move closer to the fridge.

You don't look at him as you move the words around, but you can hear the sharp intake of breath. That's likely all the confirmation that he needs, but still you clear a spot and let the words ' I am here ' sit where he can see them clearly. You wrinkle your nose, disliking how formal it sounds, but you have to make do, you suppose.

"Okay," Namjoon breathes. "Okay, prove it. My brain could work this into a hallucination. How do I know you're really a ghost?"

"Seriously?" You huff. "What the fuck am I supposed to do that wouldn't work into a hallucination, dude?"

He gets fidgety in the few minutes that you spend wondering how the fuck you're going to prove that you're a real actual ghost to someone who clearly doesn't believe in them. His foot taps at the floor and he scratches at his hand, which only makes you want to wrap your own hands around his until he stops, much like your best friend used to lay her legs across your lap to get you to stop shaking your knee.

The realization comes in a flash, and you're moving letters around before you can stop yourself.

Face book, Park Jihyo, best friend.

Namjoon stares at it for a long while before he brings his phone out of his pocket and begins to tap at the screen. You don't get too close; you've got a history with shorting out electronics, and you aren't sure you want to know what your best friend is up to without you there with her.

"Okay," Namjoon says. "Okay, I've never seen her before, so I don't think my brain could work her into a hallucination. Okay. Alright. I'm being haunted. This is fine."

"Calm down, I'm haunting the apartment, not you." He doesn't react to your words, as usual, but it still makes you feel the slightest bit better. He stares at his phone for a little longer, and the curiosity burns under your skin, but you resist. You know from experience that if you try to get too close, his phone will stop working. Just like TV, the stereo, the laptops, everything. You've had enough experience with that kind of thing to know what will happen.

"Okay, Casper," Namjoon huffs out after several minutes of waiting. He looks up and his eyes dart around the apartment, and you wonder if he's just nervous or if he's trying to spot you. "Where are you right now? Can you make yourself visible? I mean, I know you're a ghost, but it feels rude not talking to you to your face."

You huff a laugh but reach for a coffee cup. You know you can't just make yourself visible at will; you've only done it a couple of times, to your knowledge, and none of them have been on purpose. It's even more difficult to make yourself corporeal and physical, harder than just manipulating objects, but you did it once. Back when the single mom still lived here, when her toddler was falling and you had no way to cushion the fall except with your own body; you still aren't sure how it happened, but you remember being able to feel the floor against your back and the warmth of the baby on top of you for a split second before you were gone again. You won't forget that any time soon.

You float the mug towards where you stand, holding it in front of your face long enough that when you pull it away, Namjoon's eyes don't follow it. It's a strange feeling; you know he can't see you, can tell by the way his brow furrows and his eyes slide around the space, but it feels like he's looking straight at you. It feels like you're being seen for the first time since you died.

"So, where are you from, Casper?" His tone is forcibly conversational, as if he's trying his best to keep himself calm. You roll your eyes and move the magnets to show ' here ' and he nods. "You're not gonna try to possess me, or kill me, or run me off, are you? No offense or anything. I figure you would've already at this point, but...cover my bases."

No. Am nice. I think.

"You think? You don't know if you're a nice ghost?"

Does anyone truly know if they are nice? You frown, trying to figure out how to say what you want to say with the limited words available. I can only try. It's still not perfect; there's more that you want to say, more that you want to be heard, but this has to do for now.

"I can accept that. Alright. Just talking to a ghost in my kitchen. Okay. This is totally normal." He rubs a hand over his face, and you're a little impressed. Everyone else that's lived here has freaked when presented with the knowledge that you're a ghost. Namjoon looks very much like his world is exploding, but he doesn't have the same fear and apprehension in his eyes. He's certainly coping better than the single mom.

"Are you the only ghost? Here, I mean, are you the only ghost here?" He breathes a sigh of relief at your 'yes.’ "Can you see other ghosts? Do you know any other ghosts?" The 'don't know, no' that you move around on your fridge seems to unsettle him a little, but there's a curiosity burning behind it that makes your skin tingle.

Can't leave, is what you say next, cutting off whatever question he was about to ask.

"You can't leave at all? The building, or the apartment?"

The second.

"Wow. You're really stuck here?" He looks around the apartment as if seeing it for the first time and sucks in a breath. "What do you do all day?"

Watch. He cocks a brow. You are... You hesitate. The word you need isn't there, everything that comes to you is too poetic or corny for you to actually say, but the weight of his eyes is heavy on your hands. Fun is what you settle on, but it's not right either. 'Interesting' isn't there, nor is 'fascinating' or 'lovely,' and you don't want to scare him off by telling him that part of the reason you watch him so much is that he's so full of life that you feel less dead when he's around.

He laughs at your words though and shakes his head ever so slightly. "Alright, well, I'm gonna shower, so just, don't...watch that?" You squawk at the insinuation that you would, quickly rearranging the letters to spell ' privacy' and making a large angry face out of the rest of the words. He's already turned away, though, and it makes you angrier.

You don't want him thinking that you would peep at him. You already make sure that you're facing the windows when he finishes showering, you've been determined to not be creepy since the day he moved in, and to have him think otherwise is like a slap in the face. You slam the mug against the counter and he startles, turning to gape at it. You carry it to where your words and make-do emoji sit waiting for him to notice them.

"Okay," He says quickly. "Okay, privacy, yeah, got it. You respect my privacy. Appreciated."

"How fucking rude," You mutter as you set the mug back down. You don't adjust the magnets as he disappears into the bathroom. You want him to see them, want him to be reminded of the fact that being dead doesn't mean you don't have basic decency.

You can't get him to shut up now that he knows you're there. He still forgets sometimes, mostly when he's talking to his plants or narrating the way he carefully constructs some origami creation, but more often than not, he's talking to thin air. He spends a lot of time perched on his counter, watching you move magnets around his fridge through the thick lenses of his glasses before he spouts off some other question for you to answer. 

He covers the basics first: how old you were when you died, when your birthday is, your favorite color, what you were studying in school, and of course your name, though he insists on calling you Casper. You aren't sure why but you also don't get a chance to question it, because he hits you with more and more questions every day. Sometimes you don't answer because you can't, too limited by the poetry magnets to be able to really converse; sometimes you just don't have the energy to move the magnets around, but those are days are rare. The only times you use the tired magnet are when you find your limbs too heavy to move, weighed down with the memories of what it meant to be alive. 

Those are the bad days, but his questions make them just a little easier.

"How do you move around? Do you just float everywhere?" Walking, but different. No weight. Soft.

"How are you able to manipulate things in my world? Are they different from things in your world?" Focus. Takes time. Same.

"Do you sleep at all? Do ghosts dream?" No sleep. Just existing.

"You don't eat, do you? Should I be stocking up on snacks for you?" No. Save your sustenance. "What was the last thing you ate?" Don't remember. "Huh. I hope it was something good." Same.

"Were you ever in a relationship?" Once. A long time before. "Do you miss them?" Not anymore.

"What did you do while you were alive?" School. "Oh, really? Do you remember what you studied?" Boring. Important then, but it made me forget to live. Not important now. Namjoon goes quiet for a long moment after this one, staring out the window at something you can't see. He nods but doesn't ask any more questions, and he reads for the rest of the night.

It only takes a couple of weeks for both you and Namjoon to get tired of standing in his kitchen fucking around on the fridge. His legs get tired and he gets distracted by his thoughts, and you can barely keep up with the rapid-fire questions you get.

So Namjoon buys one of those cheap cookie sheets with the slightest lip at the edge and dumps the magnets on that. He leaves it on the coffee table, usually, there for you to pick up if he asks something but out of the way for when he stretches out to nap lazily in the afternoon sun.

You like the cookie sheet more than the fridge. He watches you as you work out your responses, can see the way you start to move one word before moving another instead; it makes it feel more like a conversation.

It becomes a favorite pass-time of Namjoon's, curling on the couch and putting some sort of music on in the background and just talking to you. A lot of nights his questions stop with a lingering silence from one or both of you; yours because you don't have the ability to share the words running rampant through your mind, and his for reasons still unknown to you. Still, you've missed it. You've missed talking to someone, being heard when you speak, having someone ask how you are at the end of the day.

It's the little things.

"You said you can't leave, right, Casper?" Namjoon's curled up on his couch, tucked into the arm with a blanket thrown over his lap, a mug of something warm in his hands to combat the chill of the season, and some R&B track playing lightly from his phone. You knock your fist against the cookie once - a sign for yes that you'd both agreed on. "So, are you just always here then? You don't go anywhere else?"

"Fuck, how do I explain this?" You mutter. You stare at the magnets in front of you for a long time before rearranging them. Not always. Tired sometimes, disappear.

"Disappear?" He reads. "What do you mean? You just, what, stop existing?"

Don't know, you respond. Only happens when tired. When used too much of me. He hums an acknowledgment, eyes focused on where the cookie sheet sits on the couch between you. You? What entertains you?

"Everything," he answers without hesitation. "I'm trying to work through my stack of books I want to read and finish all the shows I'm interested in, but the guys would have my head if I didn't get out and do things like a normal person."

That's where you leave to?

"Yeah." He sets his mug - now empty - on the coffee table and settles into the blankets. He looks cozy and soft and you would wrap yourself up with him if you could. "I take a lot of walks, and bike rides. I like to see the river, the trees, all the animals that live there. The beach is always fun, I get to see all the crabs and whatnot that wander in and out of the ocean."

"I wish I could go with you," you whisper.

Fun is what you spell on your sheet.

"I guess," he mutters. "It's enjoyable, at least. I'll bring you some souvenirs, or pictures next time."

You let the sheet settle on the couch as he turns the TV on, setting up a drama that he's on recently. He doesn't say anything else for a few hours, waits until the sound of rain hits the windows and stifles the apartment in an otherworldly haze.

"How long have you been dead?" His voice lingers in the air. You've been expecting these questions, and you're honestly impressed he's held them back for as long as he has. That angsty teen hadn't hesitated a single second to start asking you questions.

A while. Years. I think .

"Do you ever get tired of being a ghost?" There's something in his voice that you can't place, something that tells you this is more than just his usual morbid curiosity. Every part of your soul - whatever's left of it, anyway - is screaming at you to lie to him, to tell him that no, being a ghost is great. You've never wished he could hear you more than this moment, when all you want to is wrap your arms around him and ask him why he looks so much older than he is.

Sometimes, you tell him. It is lonely here, and boring. Fun to be unseen, but unable to do much more.

He nods like that makes all the sense in the world to him, and he brings the blanket up around his shoulders. "Do you ever miss your friends, or your family?"

Would you not? He huffs out an unamused chuckle, nodding again.

"Yeah," He says softly. "Yeah, I would. Do you want me to help you check on them? See what they're up to?" The single knock that echoes in the room is deafening to you, filled with a hope that you haven't felt in years. You've never let yourself think about them for long; if you did, you don't think you'd be able to come back from whatever that place is that you disappear to when things become Too Much.

Namjoon pulls his phone closer and starts fiddling with it. He doesn't hesitate when he types in your name, and you feel an emotional blush fill you when you see that he doesn't even have to finish typing for your profile to pop up. You glance at him, the way his brows are furrowed behind his glasses and his tongue pokes into his cheek just a little while he concentrates, and you wonder how many times he's looked at the pictures of you when you were alive. How many times has he scrolled through, reading the words people shared after you were gone, scrolling through the grief and loss to get to the words you posted yourself, the little snippets of your daily life that you would give anything to be able to relive?

"Do I still look like that?" You wonder aloud. As expected, he doesn't react, just continues tapping at his phone.

You two spend the rest of the night like that, each curled at opposite ends of the couch while Namjoon slowly looks up your friends and family and updates you on each of them. Jihyo got married, to someone she'd gone on a date with a few weeks before you passed, and she's apparently trying to start having kids; Your mother and father aren't very active, but they never were. They both share pictures of you when you were a baby each year on your birthday, and more recent photos of you on the anniversary. They have a dog now. It's cute. You wonder if it helps them cope with the loss.

Your other friends are doing well, too; most of them are still figuring out their lives, but it seems like all of them are settling in their skin and finding comfort in who they are. They're out there, navigating the world and doing things they enjoy, meeting new friends and making new memories.

You stand by the window for a long time, cookie sheet of magnetized words pressed against your chest as if you can feel the cool of the metal against your skin, and watch rain drip down the panes as you imagine what your life could have been.

You can always hear Namjoon before you see him. He whistles as he walks down the sidewalk, his small way of letting you know he's on his way back from wherever he's gone that day, and today isn't an exception. Relief sags through you and you move away from the windows, let your fingers trail against the ceramic of the newest succulent he'd bought, and head towards the kitchen. The kettle is turned on and heating a few moments later while you pull a mug down from your cabinet and set it carefully on the counter where Namjoon will see it.

It's a regular routine, for the two of you. He heads out, usually in the early morning after turning on some music or a show for you, and when he comes back, you make sure there's hot water for his tea or cocoa or whatever he feels like drinking that day. The sound of his whistling gets louder the closer he gets, a simple way to let you know he's safe and he's home. You glance through the cabinets and quickly make a note on the fridge that he needs to buy more of his special tea blend soon.

The lock turns and you smile, waiting patiently as Namjoon saunters into the apartment. He sets something down on the kitchen counter just as the kettle starts to scream, and you wait while he pours the water and gets it ready.

"The cherry blossoms bloomed," He says. You grin. "They look great. I got some really nice pictures while I was there, I'll show you tonight. I was thinking we could try to finish Voltron tonight if you want. We'll have to go back an episode though, I think I fell asleep during the last one." You knock once against the counter beside you, and he turns with a wide grin to glance at the spot where you stand.

It's ridiculous for your heart to speed up in your chest, for the hair on the back of your neck to rise, for breath to catch in your throat; you don't have a heartbeat, you don't have breath, you're a shadow of the person you used to be, and yet...

And yet, seeing his dimpled smile focused so naturally on where you are, as if it's just second-nature, is like a breath of fresh air after years underwater. It smells like flowers, like dirt and earth and a new beginning. It feels like you're alive again, and you don't want it to end, but too soon he's turning away to finish steeping the tea. Something lingers in the air for a moment after but it's gone too soon for you to place it.

You both settle on the couch, Namjoon tucking whatever he brought home with him under his arm, between his body and the arm of his ratty old couch. Your cookie sheet is in its place on the coffee table, unneeded at the moment. You can't help the glare that you give it; the things you would give to be able to just speak and be heard are endless.

It rattles a little and you look away.

Namjoon is quiet as the show plays. He doesn't react when you move to turn the oven on, but he does laugh quietly and thank you for it when he goes to put his dinner in. He eats and you don't bother him, though the way he keeps his little package hidden away makes curiosity burn through you. Eventually, once he's eaten and washed his dishes and laughed at the way you rubbed them dry before setting them carefully in their places, he settles back into his blankets and turns on the music he loves so much.

He's got a book balanced in his hands and your cookie sheet rests on the coffee table, and you both just sit like that for a long while, enjoying existing.

"You remember your life, right Casper?" You thump lazily against the wall in response, eyes drawn from where you watch the gloomy sky slowly get lighter with the dawn. He isn't looking at his book anymore; he probably hasn't been for a while, based on the way the pages have migrated around his thumb, too busy staring at the wall across from him. "Do you remember your death?"

You hesitate. You've tiptoed around the subject before. He's always been too afraid to ask directly, and it's too painful for you to offer it freely. You thump against the wall once more, and he nods like he already knew the answer.

"Are they very different?" His glasses are falling down his nose and your fingers itch to push them up. Instead, you reach for your cookie sheet. He makes a sound in the back of his throat when he sees it moving, reaching under him for his package. "I forgot, I got you this. Thought it might be easier."

He sets it down and you slide the contents out of the wrapping easily. Inside is a small dry-erase board, complete with markers and eraser, small things that should be easy for you to manipulate. You beam at him; he can't see it, but you think he might be able to feel it because he perks up and smiles a little.

"You don't have to answer," He adds. "I was just curious to know if being dead is really as different as everyone makes it out to be." You nod and thump once against the board before you uncap a marker and start writing.

It's a bizarre feeling, after so long. The muscles in your hand don't ache, no matter how much you write, and you can't feel the smooth surface of the board under your fingers or the weight of the marker in your palm, but it glides against it cleanly and leaves a thick black streak behind.

It takes you a minute to write everything out, get it worded how you want. Namjoon doesn't interrupt you, just watches the marker move against the board and smiles every time you go to erase something that isn't right. Eventually you show it to him.

There are similarities. I'm still me, I still enjoy TV and music and books. Things are duller now, like there's a filter over them, and it's harder to do things. Like when you're in water, or mud, like that. Resistance.

"Oh," Namjoon replies, "That's not what I expected. It makes sense though I guess." His hand moves against his chest, rubbing lightly as he looks over your words again. "Is there anything you actually like about being a ghost?"

"Well, being invisible is pretty cool," You say, writing the words as you do. "And it's actually really fun being able to walk through walls and stuff, even if I can't go anywhere outside of the apartment."

"I'm sorry you're stuck here," Namjoon says. You startle a little, looking up at him. You think he actually heard you for a split second, but his eyes are locked on where you're writing your words out on the dry erase board.

"Yeah, me too," You tell him. He stares at the board for a long moment, chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he does. "Ask what you want to ask, Joon," You write as you say it.

"How did you die?" He blurts. You sigh and he jumps a little, looking fully at where you sit. You're shocked; you know that sometimes little noises cross over, like when Jin heard you laughing, but it's still rare. You can't figure out how it works, but you want to.

You write for a long time, letters small so they fit on the board. The whole thing is crowded together, looks like one long string of letters instead of the story it is.

There's a lot of violence in this neighborhood. You probably know that by now. People are always getting robbed or mugged or something around here. Someone tried to break into my apartment by banging the door down. It didn't work, luckily, but I got really paranoid afterwards. One night I was cooking, and someone's door slammed really hard. I spilled the water I was boiling, slipped. Blacked out after a while, and when I came to, there were police everywhere. I guess I hit my head harder than I thought, because they carted me away, and I couldn’t follow.

"I'm sorry," Namjoon says softly. "You deserved more time."

Yeah. The universe had a different plan, I guess. He smiles at that, and it settles the anxiety thrumming under your skin. Wouldn't have met you, so I guess that's a bonus. He rolls his eyes at you but he laughs softly, so you consider it a win. You doodle on the board then, simple little designs that don't mean anything beyond being able to see your effect on the world.

Namjoon sucks in a breath beside you and you look up at him. He's always been good about looking towards where you are, doing his best to make eye contact with someone he can't see, but he still always tends to look through you.

Not this time.

This time, electricity sings through the air as your eyes meet his. You don't know how, but you know he can see you. His eyes roam over you, taking in the crumpled sweater you were wearing with the stain you like to think is pasta sauce on the arm, the hair you can't ever really tame, the way you sit cross-legged on his old thread-bare couch with a dry erase board in your hands.

Neither of you moves. He looks torn between fear and amazement, every emotion in between flitting quickly over his features, and you're terrified that if you move, whatever spell that's been cast will fade. It had been so long since you talked to anyone when Namjoon slammed those magnets on the fridge, and the conversation has been a reprieve, but to be seen for the first time in years...

It's invigorating.

Watching Namjoon just look at you is something you won't ever forget, not for as long as you exist in the world. He looks at you like he's memorizing every detail, every hair and wrinkle and pore, and just knowing that he can see you fills you with something new.

"Namjoon...?" You call hesitantly. His eyes fall on your lips.

"Again," He says. Your brows must furrow, maybe you frown, you don't know because it's been so long since you've needed to pay attention to your facial expressions, but he notices your confusion. "Will you say something again?"

Breath you don't have catches in your throat, wraps itself around a heart that doesn't beat, but you smile a little. "I'm glad I met you."

Namjoon smiles. It's big and blinding and knocks everything out of you except for that emotion that's been sitting in your chest since the first time you watched him talk to his plants. You lean forward, and you can tell the exact moment you disappear, because his smile falls and his eyes unfocus. A whimper leaves your throat, but he doesn't react, and that may be the most painful thing that's ever happened to you.

"Can I feel you?" His voice is hushed but the words reverberate in your head. His eyes dart around, looking for any glimpse of you, and your hand trembles as you reach out.

Goosebumps raise on his cheek where your hand touches him and his breath stops for a moment, but he smiles again and leans into the chill. You bring your other hand up to cup his other cheek, your dry erase board lying forgotten on the ground, and Namjoon's eyes flutter closed.

"I think I might love you," You say quietly just before you press your lips to his. He doesn't react to your words, but he lets out a soft sigh at your kiss. Thunder cracks through the apartment, a torrent of rain unleashed on the windows, but you don't move.

The two of you sit like that for hours, until he starts shivering and his nose turns red, like it does when he forgets his scarf on the cold days, and his breath puffs in the air. When you finally pull away from him, he smiles, and the blush on his cheeks has nothing to do with the cold air that makes up your form.

"Yeah," He says softly, voice nearly drowned out by the storm raging outside. "Yeah, I can feel you."

If you expected things to change much after that, you were wrong. At least a little. Namjoon still disappears to go on his walks, you still start the kettle the second his whistles drift up to the apartment. He still asks you a million questions, but they're more normal now. Your favorite music, color, what you wished you'd done with your life, if you've been able to corporealize again recently, what you wanted to watch that night.

"Come on, Casper," Namjoon groans. "I promise you can do it." You huff and he smiles, clearly having heard it. You're tempted to just disappear somewhere, rattle some pipes in the bathroom or the kitchen so he thinks you're in there and leaves you alone, but he smiles at you again and you're weak for that dimple.

You grip the watering can again, doing your best to lift it and manipulate it the way you need to. It's heavy, and something about the metal makes your skin itch, but the more you struggle the more you're able to pour the slightest bit of water where RJ - a giant plant that you don't even know the name of - sits in the corner of the room across from Namjoon's bed. It's the twentieth-something time you've tried this today, and you're ten seconds from just giving up completely, but you can tell this is important to Namjoon.

He's been talking all week, between the late nights where you lay over his blanket-wrapped form and the mornings where he ducks out with a soft goodbye. He's told you everything about his plants that you think he possibly could, teaching you about them and showing you how to care for them. It's interesting, you won't lie, and it's always fun to see him light up when you recall something he's told you, but you're exhausted and every part of you is shaky, and you're more than a little worried of what might happen if you push too far again.

Still, Joon hasn't looked great lately, like he might be getting the flu, and you want to be able to help him with all the things he does in the house. You've already started doing the dishes and folding laundry, since those were the two things he was the absolute worst at, but you feel like you should be doing more.

"Good job, baby, I'm proud of you!" You grunt and let the watering can fall back to the ground with a loud thump that almost definitely has the downstairs neighbors cursing Namjoon's name. "See, and now we're done for the day! C'mon, we can put on Sens8 and cuddle."

He's on the couch before you can stop him, wrapping himself in blankets except for one lone hand that sticks out, expectant. You roll your eyes and sit beside him, close enough that if you had a body you would be cuddling instead of just sitting awkwardly beside him.

You know that this is just going to make your hand all pink and gross, right?

He just smiles when the board flips around to reveal itself and wiggles his fingers. "It's worth it," He says. "I'd rather be pink and gross than never get to hold your hand at all."

You can't even feel my hand, Joon, there's literally no point to this. He huffs and wraps his hand around the marker in your hand, shivering at the chill that runs through him when he does. He grins and gestures down to where the tips of his fingers are already turning red.

"Clearly I can feel it, Casper."

You're glad he can't see you, that you don't have a heart that beats or blood that runs, because if you did, your face would no doubt be red. You have no doubts that Namjoon would tease you about it.

He's quiet as you both watch the show; he makes the odd comment here or there, but his mood seems to have calmed some. When he first got back from whatever place he visited that day, he'd been anxious and jumpy and entirely too on edge.

"Hey, Casper?" He asks quietly. You slide a hand against his cheek to let him know you're there, and he leans into the chill again. "What do you think about me?"

You don't move for several seconds, hand still poised around his cheek.

"Like, your feelings. What are they? Will you tell me?" You knock once on the wall behind the couch. Your hand stays poised over your board for long enough that Namjoon starts to get a little restless. Words refuse to come to you. Every time you start to think you have a way to describe to him what he means to you, they disappear as quick as fog on a summer's afternoon. Frustrated, you let the board fall to the couch and scrawl a quick 'hold on' so he knows you aren't just ignoring him.

It's been weeks since you've seen what you're looking for, your cookie sheet with the word magnets having been basically forgotten in lieu of the more personal and convenient dry-erase board, but right now you know that if words won't come to you, you'll have to go to them.

You finally find it, shoved under several encyclopedias and magazines, and the noise you make is so triumphant that even Namjoon hears it. You curl back up beside him, careful to make sure the blanket is wrapped tight around him, and make sure he can see the words as you move them. It still takes a long time, constantly changing and rearranging and stacking to make sure it conveys the things you need it to convey.

You are like music. A symphony of summer days and peach skies with soft rain. You are a storm in the moonlight. I'm not lonely when I have you pouring around me. You make me feel alive again.

Namjoon is silent for a long time, and you wonder if you've gone too far. It's more poetic than you'd like, too frilly and fancy and emotional than you usually are, but they're the only words you have.

After too long, he exhales. It's heavy and deep and it feels like he's trying to expel more than just air from his body.

"You make me feel alive, too," is all he says, whispered into the softness of his blanket in a voice too small for his long limbs. He shivers, and you hear him choke down a cough, and then he disappears into the bathroom for a long time. When he comes back out, he doesn't say anything, just slides into the mass of blankets on his bed and lays his arm out across the mattress. You spread out across from him, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he looks through you and out the window where the rain is letting up.

"Looks like the rainy season is gonna last longer than everyone thought." You slide your hands around one of his large ones and just hold them like that. His eyes sink closed and something like relief stands on his face for a moment before it's gone, swept away by the peace of sleep.

You wonder what it is that he sees when he looks out the window. If it's the plain brick wall and windows of the building next door, or something more.

You aren't sure you want to know.

Namjoon's flu only seems to get worse. He leaves early in the mornings, as if he thinks you might not notice the way he coughs into his scarf just because the sun hasn't risen fully yet. He stays gone most of the days, and even when he apologizes quietly during the twilight when he slinks back in to the sound of the kettle screeching on the stove and his tea already waiting to be steeped, he still doesn't stop.

You've taken to playing blues while he's gone, mostly the old school stuff, digging out the vintage record player he has buried in the closet and setting it up on the coffee table. It’s the only technology you can use without shorting it out. You don’t know why, but it makes you grateful the record collection Namjoon keeps tucked away inside the coffee table that you’ve learned is in fact an actual steamer trunk that he salvaged and restored himself.

The music fills the apartment, distracts you from the oppressive weight of his absence. He knows you wait at the window for him, you told him that back when the two of you were first getting to know each other.

You're so fragile, you had told him. He had laughed at you, quiet and fond, and waited for you to explain further. You're so full of life and breath and possibility, and the world is so big and so dangerous. I'm scared you won't come back.

"Of course I'm going to come back," he told you. You didn't even need to tell him that you're afraid of what being alone might do to you, now that you're so used to his presence. You're being heard again, sometimes even seen, and you don't know if you can go back to the stagnant depression of solitude. "I'll always come back to you."

That was the first time you thought you might love Namjoon. The feeling has only gotten stronger, and now that you wait at the window with your eyes focused on that tiny section of sidewalk you can see at the end of the alley, it threatens to consume you whole.

You wait at the window for hours. You know because you glance at the clock every minute and a half, mocking you with every tick as it hangs limply on the bathroom door. The sun sinks below the horizon, the moon rises to take its place, and they switch again while you wait. The dawn paints the sky in beautiful shades of pink and red and orange and the faintest purple, but you can't appreciate any of it, because you're too anxious.

He could be hurt. He could be gone, and you wouldn't ever know until his friends came to pack his things. He could have left, too; maybe he finally decided that living with a ghost was just too much for him and just ran. Maybe he figured out that you love him, that you would move heaven and earth if it meant he was safe forever if only you could leave this apartment, and it was too much for him.

What if he knows about how you lay beside him every night? How you tuck the blankets tighter around him, cover him in warmth and comfort before settling on top of them and closing your eyes and pretending that you can feel his arm draped over your waist and his breath on the back of your neck. What if he felt you, that night you wandered into the bathroom while he was showering to write on the steam-covered mirror that he needs to buy more eggs soon and got distracted by the way he looked stepping out of the shower? What if he knows your stomach flipped at the long limbs and the hidden muscles and the sheer size of him? What if he knows the real reason you were quiet that night, the way you kept replaying the moment in your mind and wishing you had a body so you could have just touched him, at least.

It's closer to noon than midnight when his whistle echoes up through the window.

"Hey, I'm home," He calls as he enters the empty apartment. You're upset, but you're more filled with relief than anything because at least he's safe and he's here now. He makes a beeline for where the kettle is just starting to whistle, already reaching for the honey and the tea you set out on the counter for him, and you do your best to calm the storm of emotions inside you.

Did you have fun, wherever you were? You ask him, floating the whiteboard in front of his face so he has to acknowledge it.

"Yeah, I did," he responds as he stirs his tea. "Jin invited everyone over for some end of summer thing. I didn't feel too great at the end of it, so I just spent the night there."

Don't party too hard, you might remember how to have fun, you joke. It falls a little flat based on the grim smile Namjoon gives you. Are they gonna come over here again anytime soon? I've missed scaring Hoseok.

He lets out a real laugh at that. "I don't know, maybe. My birthday's coming up, after Jeongguk's, so they could definitely be planning something. I'm heading over to Yoongi's later to help plan for Guk's party. I might stay there tonight, so try not to worry, Casper."

I'll try, you tell him. You both know you'll stand at the window every second he's gone, but you don't want to tell him why. You don't want to tell him that you love him through a dry erase board, or some fancy poetry magnets. It doesn't matter that you may as well have already said so by telling him that he makes you feel alive again; you haven't said the words to him, he hasn't seen 'I love you' in the messy scrawl that is your handwriting on some stupid board, and therefore he doesn't know.

You don't know if you want him to.

He stays gone that night, as he said he might, and reappears the next day to shower and change before he vanishes again. The next time he shows up, he takes a bag with him when he leaves, which only worsens your fears. He stays gone for three days this time, doesn't apologize when he turns up again and just mumbles a soft hello into the air before he makes tea and sags into his couch. He's asleep in seconds, and as much as you want to scream at him, you can't bring yourself to disrupt how peaceful he looks.

When he wakes, he takes a shower and ignores the ' can we talk ' you scrawled in the steam. He packs a bag of fresh clothes and doesn't say goodbye when he leaves, just disappears and leaves you standing at the window with the pail in your hand, caring for the plants he isn't. The slam of the door sounds like nails in a coffin and breaks what little was left of your soul.

He shows back up nearly a week later, and the relief at seeing him again is overridden by the sheer anger at being left in the first place. You don't start the kettle when you hear his whistle, the quiet and hoarse tune of a familiar song barely reaching the window, but there's plenty of noise when he enters.

The cabinet doors are quaking with your fury, the lights flicker and threaten to burst, and Namjoon just leans back against the door. He’s soaked from the storm thundering outside, even his jacket plastered to his skin, and he’s shivering slightly, but you can’t see anything past the rage.

"Where the fuck were you?" You demand; there's no point, it's not like he can hear you, but the way he sighs makes you feel like he can, so you continue anyway. "It's been almost a week, you didn't even think to stop by for ten seconds so I know you're okay? I thought you were dead somewhere, you could've been, like, shot, or something, I don't know, just bleeding out in some ditch, and I wouldn't know! And what about all the plants? I know how to take care of them, sure, but do you know how hard it is for me to do it?"

Namjoon sighs again, the breath catching in his throat and coming out in a cough, but you don't pay much attention to it.

"Why would you act like this, Namjoon? What did I do, is it because of the things I said? Do you not want me to feel like this about you? Because this a damn good way of making sure I don't, I assure you, so by all means, just keep disappearing and leave me alone with the plants you decided to rescue and save!"

His cough gets worse and he just shakes his head, covering his mouth and making his way towards the bathroom.

"If you want me to hate you, it's too fucking late, Joon!" The slam of the bathroom door punctuates your sentence, and you quiet at the sound of continued coughing. You knew his flu was getting worse, but it's never sounded like that. Even when you were alive, you knew that the wet sound that's muffled by the bathroom door isn't what a cough should sound like. The lock of the door clicks, and it shocks you into movement because he's never - never - locked you out of anywhere. He knows it wouldn't stop you, knows it as well as you know that you'd respect that boundary if he set it, and yet here he is, locking you out even as he coughs up what sounds like a lung in the other room.

You hesitate at the door, torn between respecting his boundaries and knowing what’s happening. You want him to trust you, always, and yet you find your hand disappearing through the door before you can stop it. You stand like that for a long moment, just listening to the sounds of his wracking coughs; the sound of a crash echoes through the apartment, though, and you’re through the door completely in the span of a heartbeat. 

Nearly everything that had been on the counter is scattered on the ground, Namjoon himself gripping the sides of the toilet as if he would fall apart otherwise. A single glance tells you that the crash happened as he turned from the sink to the toilet, and if his jolting shoulders didn’t tell you why, the sounds of his retching would. That isn’t what fills you with dread though; the disorientation, the vomiting, all of it comes with being sick sometimes, but the red staining the bathroom sink? 

That’s not normal, and you know with every part of you that it’s the reason he’s been gone so much. 

The temperature in the apartment drops with the sun, but your arms surround Namjoon as best they can. Goosebumps break out on his arms, shivers run down his back, but you don’t move away from him; he doesn’t say anything, just sits there with his forehead pressed against the cool of the porcelain. He stands eventually, ignores the way he passes completely through your body to rinse the sink and brush his teeth. 

You let him stay quiet until you’re both on his bed; you’re pressed up against his side and running your hands along his forearms, idly wondering if you would be able to feel his heartbeat if you were alive. 

“It’s not...it’s not gonna get better,” He says eventually. “There’s not a cure, just some things to draw it out and give me a little bit longer even if they come with more pain. I go once a week to see if it’s gotten worse, check how much longer I have. It’s why Hobi let me move in here rent-free. He pays the bills, says it’s the least he can do. I wanted to be closer to him anyway, so that’s a bonus, I guess.”

“I’m so sorry, Joon,” you whisper. Your board lies forgotten, somewhere on the couch maybe, you aren’t sure and can’t be bothered to pull yourself away from him long enough to find it. You don’t need it right now, though; he knows what you mean by the way the cold presses against his bicep with your palm. 

“I didn’t want you to know.” You’re not exactly surprised at that; you’d figured as much. You just don’t understand his reasoning. “I didn’t want you worrying about me, or anything like that, like the guys do. They always look at me and it’s all they can see. Like they’re already mourning me, even though I’m still here. I didn’t want to feel like that with you.” 

“I know,” you say. You don’t, not really. Your own death was sudden, a shock to everyone you knew; you didn’t get the luxury of saying goodbye, didn’t have the burden of knowing you would be gone soon. 

The two of you sit in silence for a while, until you can feel Namjoon’s chest quivering under your palm. When you look up, he looks at you, really and truly at you , and he has tears in his eyes. 

“I don’t want to die, Casper,” He whispers. You suck in a breath because he can see you, and you don’t even know why, but you don’t want to lose this moment. “I don’t want to leave all of this behind. I don’t want to leave you.” 

“It’ll be okay,” you say softly. His brow furrows and a tear slides down his cheek. “I promise you it will be okay, Namjoon. It gets easier, and people remember but they aren’t stuck forever. And I…” You falter, and it takes his eyes meeting yours to make you realize he can hear you. And there’s only one thing you’ve ever needed him to hear. 

“I love you,” You tell him. “I love you, and I will never forget you.” 

He surges forward, lips meeting yours in a rush of air. You moan at the feeling of him against you, realizing that for the first time since you died, you can feel something under your fingers. His skin is warm against your fingers, his lips soft against your own, and when he reaches up to cup your jaw with his hand, he doesn’t pass through your form. Instead his hand settles heavy against you, and he moves your head to lick into your mouth. 

Tears that won’t fall prickle at the back of your eyes and you climb into his lap before he can stop you. He’s still crying so you wipe away the tears before they can fall, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, his dimples, his nose, every bit you can reach. A question sits at the back of your mind, and you can see it lingering in his eyes, but neither of you asks it.

“You’re so cold.” His whisper is nearly lost amidst the thunder that shakes the apartment, but it makes you smile a little. 

“Warm me up?” 

His chest is still quivering with unspoken sobs, but he nods. “Always,” he tells you. “I’m always going to be here.” It doesn’t take long to pry him out of his clothes, takes even less time for him to sink into you. It feels just like it did when you were alive, only magnified; you can feel him hot and warm inside you, can feel the beat of his heart in the firm muscle under your hands. His moans are quiet and hoarse but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

He keeps one hand on your waist and the other on your neck, holding you close enough that he can kiss whenever he wants. “You’re beautiful,” He whispers. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” You just press another kiss to his chapped lips and let him dig his fingers in hard enough that it would bruise if it could. When he’s close to his peak, he stops thrusting, just sits inside you as he grinds your hips down to his, and presses his forehead against yours. 

“I love you,” He tells you, lightning casting his shadow across the wall for a brief moment. “I love you, I do, I wish-”

“I know,” you tell him before he can continue. “I know, Namjoon, I know, and I do, too. I love you, too.” He comes a few seconds later, the warm seed soaking into his sheets because it has nowhere to go. His warmth disappears from under your hands and his arms fall to his lap when the only thing holding them up is gone. All you can hear is your quiet sobs mixed with his and the rain against the window, and for the first time since you came back, you really, truly, wish you had died. There’s no point in being a ghost when you can still feel your heart breaking in your chest. 

“Casper, are you ever scared?” 

It’s the middle of the afternoon. Namjoon is sprawled across the couch wrapped in blankets while Lucifer plays in the background and you doodle aimlessly on your board. You don’t need it as often now; you’ve gotten better at focusing your energy into being heard, though being corporeal still eludes you. You don’t know how you did it that night, but you’re grateful for it. 

“Of what?” You ask, looking towards him. He’s not looking at you or watching the show, just staring at the ceiling. He focuses at your words, lifts himself up into a sitting position. A shiver runs through him when his legs move through you, and you settle a weightless hand against his knee out of habit. 

“I don’t know,” He replies. “Just...whatever comes next. If there’s something that comes next. Being forgotten. Being stuck here forever.” 

You aren’t stupid; you know why he’s asking. The question lingers in the air, colors all of your conversations now, but the truth is that neither of you has the strength to ask it and neither of you knows the answer. 

“Sometimes,” You tell him. “Sometimes I wonder what Jihyo is doing, if she ever had a baby like she wanted to. I wonder if my parents are still alive, and what they say if they visit my grave, what they tell me now that I can’t respond to them.” 

Namjoon nods like he’s already thought of that, and he probably has. 

“Most of the time I try not to focus on it, though. It’s not helpful, it only upsets me, and I don’t…” You trail off, unsure of how to word your thoughts. “I don’t know what might happen if I only focus on the negative. I don’t know anything about what’s true about ghosts and what isn’t beyond that I exist now, and I can’t risk becoming something bad. So I try not to focus on it. It’s easier when you’re here.”

He grins and blows a kiss in your general direction, and you pretend not to notice the blood on his cracked lips. He’s quiet for the rest of the episode of half of another. 

“Have you ever seen a light?” 

“What?” He doesn’t seem to hear you, and you repeat your question on your board for him. 

“A light,” He echoes. “Like, the light.Y’know, the light at the end of the tunnel, ‘don’t go into the light,’ that thing.” 

You hesitate at that. You knew what he meant, what he actually wants to know here. He’s easier to read now than he was in the beginning. 

You watch him as he watches the space where you sit, curled up beside him on his couch. He can’t see you, of course, but he can see where the board rests in your hands. His gaze is heavier than it was when he first moved in; his cheeks are hollower, skin more gaunt with a grey tint that’s only made worse by the constant rain. The sun is just starting to break through the clouds, a brief reprieve after weeks of the dreary stone-colored clouds. It casts shadows along the walls, reflects off something in the window across the alley, and backlights Namjoon beautifully, casts a halo of light around the brittle brown hair you love. 

Once, you tell him. Just once.

“Why didn’t you go to it?” 

There are so many things you could tell him, so many different ways to answer such a simple question, but you find yourself lingering on the one thing you know is the ultimate truth. 

Because I love you.

September comes with even more rain and a bittersweet atmosphere. Jeongguk spends his birthday at Namjoon’s apartment and then comes back a little over a week later, surrounded by the other guys and carrying enough food to last a few months. You stay curled on the bed, one of the only safe places for you to not mess with anyone or anything. Your board is tucked into the blankets, ready to be used but hidden from view just in case. You watch as Namjoon sits on the couch, tucked between Taehyung and Yoongi with both of them leaning into him as much as possible, Yoongi’s hands wrapped in one of his and Tae’s head on his shoulder. 

The other’s aren’t far, leaning against the back of the couch and on beanbags they’d brought with them, all laughing as Hoseok does his best to act out whatever he’d been given in charades. He’s not bad at it - you’ve guessed the last few he’s done - but he is utterly ridiculous in his mannerisms. You know why; it’s the same reason everyone kept smiling when Namjoon refused all of the food he was offered, why Seokjin would crack a terrible joke whenever it got too quiet for too long, why everyone is resolutely ignoring the growing pile of tissues on the table. 

It keeps a smile on Namjoon’s face, though, and a laugh in his eyes, and you can’t ever be anything but grateful for that. 

Hoseok stumbles, nearly falling and whirling his arms to catch himself before eventually falling anyway. You laugh along with the others, grinning at the way Hobi pouts and rubs at his hip. You’re focused on the way Joon laughs, the way it lights up his face and brightens the entire room, which is why you see it first. 

The tickle at the back of his throat quickly becomes a cough, wet and wheezing and enough to make him throw the blankets from his lap and stumble to the bathroom. 

You’re there before he is, helping him slide the door closed and locking it behind him as he bends over the toilet again. The six of them are quiet in the main room, speaking in hushed whispers that neither you nor Namjoon wants to hear. You turn the knob on the sink, wetting a towel while you drown out the sound of voices, and letting a hand run over Namjoon’s back. 

“I’m okay,” he mutters. You ignore the way his voice shakes, the way his lips are redder than before, the way this happens more often than before. Instead, you just press the damp rag to his neck and watch his eyes close in relief. When he stands and flushes the evidence away, you already have his toothbrush ready and waiting, and you stay as close to him as you can until he takes a deep breath. 

“I’m okay,” He repeats. “I’m okay. It’s my birthday, and I’m okay.” 

He goes back out with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice, teasing Hoseok about the way he fell and reenacting it, even. When he settles on the couch, he urges the others to continue the game. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before Jimin declares that he’s next and pulls something from the bowl on the table. 

You know you aren’t the only one that notices the way Namjoon’s eyes linger on the six men around him, but you are the only one that notices the way they also linger on his steamer trunk, the shelf with his books, the TV, the record player, the scrapbook of his life that they all worked on and Taehyung pieced together over the months, the plants on the wall that he had cared for. He looks around his apartment as if he’s looking at it for the last time. 

As if he’s already planning who’s going to get what. 

He finally asks the question you both have been thinking about, nearly two months later. His breathing comes in ragged pants, his lips stay chapped, and he keeps several blankets around him at all times to try to hide the shaking of his body. Your soft sobs echo through the apartment constantly; while you reheat the tea he doesn’t drink for the millionth time, while you quietly water and prune the plants he’s saved from death the way you wish you could save him, while you sit curled around him as he sleeps, soothing his coughs with quiet whispers. 

Night has just begun to fall, the rain of the day turning into a soft drizzle, and you stare at him blankly, unsure how to process what you’ve just heard. 

“Do you think I’ll come back?” He asks again, slightly louder. As if you hadn’t heard his shaky voice the first time. It’s not the question that floors you. You’ve been expecting this for weeks, months even. You’ve wondered it yourself as you prepare tea and ignore the sounds of him vomiting blood in the bathroom, as he disappears to the hospital and returns with a worse prognosis than before, as you’ve adjusted to the idea that you are dead and he is dying and you cannot do anything to help him. 

You never would have expected the hope that his words carry though. 

“Why does it sound like you want to?” You ask. Your voice is clear in the air and you’re glad for it, because this isn’t something you want to talk about through your board. 

“Because I do?” His response is delayed and sounds more like a question than a real answer. 

“Why?!” You demand. 

“Are you serious, Casper?” His brow is furrowed as he sits up and lets the blankets fall away to sit haphazardly off the couch. 

“Are you? Joon, why would you want to come back?”

“You’re seriously asking me that question? Why would I not? I’ve got so much I still want to do, I never thought I’d get the chance to after I got the diagnosis and now I might be able to. Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“Because it doesn’t work like that! You don’t get to just wander the world and fuck around, Joon, you’re dead.”

“Yeah, but you can still read and write and everything. I’d have all the time in the world to read the books I want to read, watch the shows I want to watch, write the music and stories and lyrics that I want to write.”

“Yeah, so long as it all stays in this apartment!” The light in the room flickers slightly with the force of your irritation. “You can’t do anything that isn’t in this room, Namjoon, you can’t use any of the electronics, you can’t read a book unless it’s here, you can’t write music unless it’s on actual paper, you can’t do anything.” 

“Yeah, and I could make that work. Why are you so upset about this? I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy? You think I’d be happy that you’d be stuck in these four walls forever, too? Why would that make me happy?” Namjoon stands, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. 

“Because I’d be with you! We’d be together, forever! Do you not want to be with me?”

“Of course I want to be with you, Joon, but not at the cost of you being stuck here. I don’t want that for anyone, certainly not the man I love.”

“And what if that’s what I want? What if I want to spend the rest of time with you? I’m already spending the rest of my life with you, I’m in love with you, I don’t want to leave you.”

“And I don’t want you to go, but Joon, why would I want you stuck here, too? This isn’t something fun. This isn’t anything that I enjoy.”

“Oh, so you regret it all then?”

“I didn’t say that, I just don’t want you to be stuck in a shitty studio apartment for who knows how long when you can’t fucking do half of the things you love! You wouldn’t go on walks, Namjoon, you wouldn’t go with Guk and Jimin to the movies, you wouldn’t get visits from Hobi, you wouldn’t get to shop with Taehyung or Jin, you wouldn’t get to drag Yoongi away from his thesis or celebrate with them when he finishes it! It’s not like being alive, Namjoon, you’d be dead and alone and in hell!”

“Whatever,” He mutters, shoving his arms into his coat. “Why can’t you understand for one fucking second that it wouldn’t be like that with you? I’d rather be stuck here forever than have to die in some shitty apartment and not even be able to touch the person I love.”

“Why can’t you understand that it’s still death? You’d be dead, Joon, your friends would go to your funeral and disappear from your life, and you’d be stuck staring out that window at that shitty alley for the rest of time. You don’t get it, you don’t how terrible it is to be stuck here and watch life pass you by.”

“Then why the fuck are you still here?” He asks. The door slams behind him before you can answer him, and your scream shakes everything in the room. You just barely catch one of the plants in the kitchen, a brown-potted one with ‘Shooky’ scrawled in Yoongi’s familiar handwriting, before it crashes to the ground. You return it to its place gently and huff another frustrated groan. 

You wish you could explain it better, but you know he wouldn’t get it even if you could. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be trapped between four walls and unable to do anything without massive amounts of effort. And he won’t, not unless he experiences it himself. 

You’ve already watched him wither away. You’ve watched him become thin and sallow and a shadow of the Namjoon who first moved in, and you don’t know what you would do if he came back. You wouldn’t be alone anymore, of course, and you’d have him here with you, but at what cost? Namjoon was built for cherry blossoms and sunshine and the riverside. He would hate being trapped here even more than you do.

Still, you could have been more understanding of his view. You can admit that even being stuck in a shitty apartment wasn’t so terrible when you had Namjoon there to make you laugh or watch TV or read to you. It may even get better if he turned into a ghost; maybe you could hold his hands in yours, could feel him wrap his arms around you, could press kisses to his skin again. 

You move to the window and stand there waiting. It’s not good for him to be out, even if the rain had stopped a few days ago and the forecasters promised it was the end of the downpours. He was still weak, you’d be surprised he even went anywhere to begin with but you know he likes to walk to calm himself down. 

You worry for what feels like hours. You can’t focus on anything, not the way the sun starts to set, not the sound of cars passing or the neighbor leaving. You’ve worked yourself into knots by the time you hear his whistle echo up through the streets, nearly lost in the sound of some argument in the alley below you. You catch a brief view of his coat and smile when you see that he’s got some half-dead plant tucked under an arm. There’s the briefest glimpse of what looks like a Ca scrawled onto it, and your heart jumps in your throat.

You make your way to the stove, turning the heat up slightly too high so that it’ll be ready when he comes in. The arguing outside gets louder but you pay it no mind, pulling the honey out and setting it next to his favorite mug. You’re reaching for the tea when you hear something else. It definitely sounds like Namjoon’s voice, but it’s not in the hall or at the door like usual. It’s raised, like he’s yelling at someone, like it was just a while ago when he was fighting with you. A crash startles you and before you can even reach the window to see what’s going on, there’s a deafening bang. 

You slam your fist against the window, watch the red mix with dirt, and the kettle isn't that only thing that screams. 

“I think that’s the last of it,” Jeongguk says. His voice is scratchy and quiet, but it’s deafening in the silence of the apartment. 

“Yeah,” Hoseok replies. His eyes are rimmed with red and his hands shake as he slides the last mug into a box. “Thanks for the help, Guk. I don’t, um.” He sniffles. “I don’t think I could’ve done it myself, y’know?” 

“I know,” Jeongguk agrees. They’re quiet again, adjusting the things they’ve boxed and avoiding finishing what they’re doing. 

“Oh, can you get that?” You don’t have to look to know what Hoseok is talking about. Jeongguk grunts an affirmation and makes his way over. It’s a strange feeling, having someone pass through you again for the first time since. His hands fly into the air as he tries to lift, clearly not having expected it to weigh anything. 

His reflection in the window frowns, and he tries again, tugging on the pot. 

“I can’t get it,” He says. “Do you think he glued these things down or something?” 

“No,” Hoseok replies as he wanders over as well. “He used to pick them up to re-pot them, remember? And the others came up with no problem.” 

“Well it’s stuck or something, you try.”

Hobi takes Jeongguk’s place and pulls hard at the plot, but your grip doesn’t waver. He huffs and disappears. When he returns, he’s got a butter knife in one hand that he does his best to slip under the pot. He tries hard to pry it up, so hard that you almost want to give in. You don’t though. 

The knife clatters to the floor with as much force as Hoseok can put behind it, a curse following quickly behind it. 

“Fuck it,” Hoseok says. His voice is shaky and you know he’s near tears again. “Just fuck it.” 

“But that was-”

“You can try if you want, Guk, but I just-” He chokes back a sob, shaking his head and moving to pick up the boxes he’d set down. “I just can’t, okay?” He disappears out the door in a hurry, and you wish you could follow after him. 

Jeongguk looks down at the small plant, with its painted periwinkle pot and soft leaves. He runs a quivering finger over the leaf and sniffles. He doesn’t try to lift it again, just stands and lets his tear soak into the soil.

“I wish you could come back to us,” He whispers. “We thought...we expected more time. It’s not...it’s not really fair, y’know? So if you can hear me, if you can come back to us, please do. Please.” 

He turns and leaves, the apartment door slamming behind him like the lid of a casket. Your grip on Mang loosens now that you know no one’s going to try to take it. You’d watched them pack everything else up; you’d let them take the steamer trunk full of records, the shelf full of books and movies, the collection of mugs, the soft blankets, the ratty couch, the rest of the plants he’d cared for so tenderly. 

Piece by piece they had packed Namjoon up and walked him out of the apartment, but this was the one piece they couldn’t have. This was his favorite and none of them knew how to care for it like you did, and you had to. You owed it to him. He deserved to come back to at least one familiar thing, never mind that you woke up not even a day later and it’s now been weeks. If there was one thing you wanted him to see when he got back, it was his favorite of his plants. 

The sun glares into your eyes from where it shines down on the city. It reflects off something in the window from across the alley, would be blinding if you actually had eyes. You pay it no mind, focused instead on the remains of the broken brown pot down in the alley, the way you’ve pieced them together in your head a thousand times just to trace the word Casper with your eyes. You can almost hear his voice saying it, even now.

You whip around, eyes darting through the empty space of the apartment as your hands tighten around Mang.

All that rests there is empty space, mocking in its loneliness. You remember when he moved in, remember how it felt to test the boundaries of the apartment and wish you were free. The want is still there, to leave and never think of it again, never think of him. You know better, though. You could never escape the memory of him, the way he laughed and smiled and spoke. You could never abandon Mang. Not when he said he’d always come back to you. 

You turn back to the window, cursing the sunlight with every other breath. It fades, slowly, into the black of night, before returning again, and again, and again. Days pass, each one feeling like years. Hoseok doesn’t appear to show the apartment, no one comes to collect the small periwinkle pot between your palms, and the ghost of his laugh echoes around you. 

The sun blinds you again. You don’t even know how long it’s been, just that you’ve yet to move. Light glints off whatever hangs in the window across the alley. That's when you see it, a vague reflection in the weathered glass of a dimple and a grin, and warmth surrounds you.

“I told you I’d always come back, Casper.”

#namjoon fanfiction #rm fanfiction #bts fanfiction #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon angst #rm smut #reader insert #rm angst #rm x reader #namjoon fanfic #rm fanfic #bts fanfic #love yourself collab #ghost reader #clumsy namjoon #unspecified gender reader #bts angst #major character death #fic: forever rain #ddaenggtan

[pluralthey]

do you ever lose all interest for projects as you're working on them? im super inspired by your longer comics but i know my own focus would switch to another project three pages in and i never know if it's best to keep going at that point

yes. i lose interest quite frequently due to an ongoing and involuntary internal thought process that rips apart my aspirations pretty regularly. i get kind of self-conscious talking about it or mentioning it because i produce A LOT of art, and i think it leaves me open for people to assume my problems aren’t as bad as theirs then, or that i’m lying or exaggerating.

i think that it’s important to keep going… being able to do this really involves a trifecta of emotional skills.for me, i’ve had to work on a combination of learning how to manage and work on tasks without the presence of interest in them, how to regulate interest and sustain my sense of interest in projects instead of relying on “inspiration,” and also giving myself a flexible enough schedule and work style so that inspiration and bursts of spontaneous or novel interests are something i can also drop everything for and go with too.

for working on tasks when you’re not interested, i’ve found the best thing is breaking it down into really small, bite-size pieces. lining one panel, doing one thing, something that only takes 10 minutes tops and then i set it down.it also involves making the way you work easy by default in my case. i can add more detail and effort when i feel inspired… but done is better than inspired. cutting down long projects to short projects helps a lot too, even just to build the skills and confidence up for a longer project.

for regulating interest, besides the ongoing thought process of self-criticism (that needs separate therapy in and of itself), i’ll notice i downplay my own excitement a lot, especially when i’m feeling nervous and fresh about a new idea i really like. lots of passing thoughts i didn’t know mattered so much can kill my interest in the span of just a few hours in something i really wanted to do.i’ll also notice i refrain from talking too much (which became “at all”) about my ideas, or letting myself play with my own art instead of just accomplishing Rules Of Canon Or Skill, if that makes sense. i realized i need to actively consciously choose to try to think of characters and answer some creative question exercises until i start thinking and talking about them regularly to compensate for an obvious pattern of behavior and loss of interest.

the third part was hardest for me because it involved being nice to myself in a unique way. because of the adhd thing i’ve had this behavior of spontaneous inspiration or desire to work on something in bursts described in a whole bunch of negative ways like being impulsive, not thinking things through, being a flake, childish, emotional impermanence or stupidity, etc.i try to schedule my life so that there aren’t so may strict deadlines where i could not under any circumstances drop everything i’m focusing on for an hour or 2 if i suddenly get a great idea, even if that idea seems to be just to procrastinate on something else (really bad-faith assumption). i try not to tell myself i don’t have the time right now and i’ll just make a note of it for later (because by “later” i no longer feel the spark). i try to side with the urge i have and see if there’s any way i can push around the “should”s or “have to”s instead of the other way around. this is the way my brain works, and it’s okay for me to try to approach my projects in a way that feels good! it’s just that it needs a few more skills on top of how it is by default, because it doesn’t feel good at all to not finish something i was really excited about such a short time ago.… the only other thing about that is that these bursts of inspiration for me tend to come at like, nighttime – bedtime specifically – and this is a problem i’ve seen other artists joke about too. i’ve noticed letting myself drop a task to work on a small burst of inspiration or “wouldn’t this be funny/clever?” eventually dwindled down the instances where i had to drop, say, my entire sleep schedule to pursue drawing an entire comic in one sitting and finishing at 9 in the morning on no sleep. i had to entertain the really long sessions of intense inspiration before my brain started being open to pitching smaller blips of interest, though.

it took a lot of time and patience to notice what was happening in my brain because it had become pretty commonplace to bat down any kind of internal stimulation and a lot of the emotions that came with it seemed to just “happen”… so the way i described it makes it sound easier than it might be for some people.

anyway, sorry for the long answer, tl;dr: it’s always best to keep going! 

#not art #ask #asks #fiorettos

[the-marvel-imagines-blog]

Madness | Chpt. 1

Requests are Open

Chapter Title: “The Warrior”

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4,795

Warnings: mentions of character death, drinking

Name Pronunciations: Hjalmar: “He-all-mar” | Aaldir: “All-deer”

A/N: I had my fun with this and took a lot of liberties while creating this story. You will need to suspend your disbelief as I have taken some stuff from (mainly) the cinematic universe but also the comicbook universe as well as stuff from my own imagination. Please note, also, that this story has some original characters and that the beginning takes place before the events of Iron Man 3. I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it so far.

I stood with a glass filled to the brim of Hjalmar’s favorite Asgardian ale. I never enjoyed the taste, but it was strong enough to get a man three times my size drunk, so I was going to need it. This was what we did after a battle. We had grand feasts and told stories of the battle we fought. Most of us would falsify how many we killed or exaggerate how graceful we were on the battlefield. Hjalmar was no different. He had stood taller than the God of Thunder himself, yet he was no God at all. Hjalmar was a simple warrior, but he was one of the best. The battle on Vanaheim claimed a few Asgardian lives, but none had been greater a friend than Hjalmar was to me. The drinks I consumed during the feast would be in honor of him.

As soon as I rose from my seat, Thor’s eyes, blue as Midgard’s oceans, landed on me. As he became silent, the entire room died down. Normally, I didn’t have much to say, but the prince-with hair as gold as the King’s throne-always knew when I had something on my mind. When everyone’s eyes followed Thor’s to land on me, I began to speak, “tonight, we sit at a table with places set for absent friends. Each battle that claims a life of one of our own also claims a piece of ourselves. Hjalmar was my closest friend, and his heroics on Vanaheim will be remembered by those who loved him...as I did,” I smiled in fond remembrance as my eyes lowered to my drink. The energy in the room was buzzing, even in the silence. I could feel the life surrounding me, and it gave me the strength I needed to gaze around at the faces in the room. I raised my glass, ale spilling out and trickling down the side, “so, brothers, I urge you to drink heartily for the fallen, and take pity on those they will conquer in Valhalla!” I exclaimed.

Cheers erupted from the half-drunken men. They shot up from their seats with glasses raised high and cheered before drowning their own sorrows in drink and celebration for the lives of our friends. Before I could drink, my eyes met those of my prince and childhood friend. Thor’s eyes were filled with understanding because he was one of the only people to truly understand just how much Hjalmar meant to me. Even in my darkest moments, when I felt completely isolated, I still had Hjalmar. Now, that security was gone. He raised his glass to me, and I did the same to him It was a mutual understanding. Aaldir-the man who raised me as his own-took in Hjalmar when he was just an orphan boy, roaming the streets of Asgard. He raised us both, and I saw Hjalmar as a brother and best friend. Hjalmar and Thor trained together during their childhood and fought at each other’s side in battle. My heart broke for Thor just as much as it broke for my own loss and sorrow, Hjalmar had been with me through my darkest nights, and now...he was gone. I didn’t know how I could face the only father I ever knew when I felt so much shame over the loss of the closest thing to a son he ever had. And Thor. The sorrow in those blue eyes cut me like a knife. I wanted to sob into my drink.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I tipped my head back and chugged the ale that left Hjalmar on the floor some nights. There were times when the massive drunken man would be held steady on my shoulder as I led him back to the house after a night of feasting and drinking. Tonight, I would have no one to carry home. Just the thought of it brought tears to my eyes, and I finished my glass of ale, tossing the empty cup to the side. I walked away from the noise and out into the fresh air. As I stared out into the vast universe, I wondered if he could see me. I wondered if he could understand that I hated him for leaving me to live the rest of my life without him. I wondered if he could understand that I still loved him with every fiber of my being because he was the only family I ever had. The thoughts clouded my mind so heavily that I almost didn’t hear the soft footsteps behind me. However, I was always aware of him. Thor. There had only been two other people I was more in tune with, and I couldn’t even bring myself to say their names anymore.

As I leaned against the railing of the balcony, Thor stepped beside me and copied my stance. I felt his gaze on the side of my face, almost like he was trying to read me like a book. I shook my head, strands of hair falling from behind my ears. My heart felt like it was being torn in two, “none of this feels right. Valhalla wasn’t ready for Hjalmar, and I’m not ready to let him go,” I confessed, tears filling my eyes once again, “I just...can’t close my eyes without seeing it,” I added, turning to face the golden-haired God of Thunder.

Thor’s hands cupped my cheeks, and I leaned into his warm touch. The only other man to make me feel so safe was...him, and that comfort died when he used his power to torment and murder the Midgardians without a hint of guilt. I fought back the tears, never wanting my prince to see me as just another hopeless maiden. Asgardian women were meant to be strong. We gave life to the God’s, so were we not stronger than them? I could not show my weakness to Thor, not now, not when he lost so much, “you should not worry yourself with things outside the realm of your control, my lady,” he spoke, stroking my cheek with his calloused thumbs, “Valhalla received a great and glorious hero when Hjalmar walked through those doors. He will continue to fight and drink and eat as he always did in life, and there will come a day when we’re all together again. I understand he was one of your closest friends, but he died a valiant death, and you will see him again in Valhalla someday,” he reassured me.

I pulled away from his grasp and stared down at the streets below where I was beaten and abused for defending my prince. Not Thor. Him. I shook my head, my bottom lip quivering and, in my eyes, resurfaced unshed tears for a man that died long ago, “my sorrow is not only for Hjalmar. I think of-” my breath hitched in my throat, and I swallowed back the sob that threatened to shake my body. I swallowed and grimaced, fighting back the need to shed tears on behalf of a man who caused so much destruction but tried to protect me from it at the same time, “I think of how your brother was dragged through the streets of Asgard in chains...like he was an animal.”

“I do not enjoy seeing this, either, but I’ve tried to think of it like a hunter coming back from a successful hunt. He will speak of it for weeks after. While my father may be taking this too far, he does it out of pride for our accomplishment. You, me, and the heroes of Midgard brought my brother to justice, and this is my father’s way of rejoicing” he tried to explain. Thor always did his best to soothe me. Seeing that his words did nothing of the sort, he continued, “his treatment will not upset you so much if you can remember what he did on Midgard.”

“How could I forget it?” I snapped, suddenly angry that a man who knew me so well assumed that it would be possible for me to forget something so tragic and so deeply disturbing. I could remember seeing him on Midgard. I could remember the pain and fear in his eyes when they met mine. He still wore green, and a part of me resented him for it. The man I knew was still alive beneath the hatred and anger he felt. What could one do when the person that holds the largest piece of their heart poses the biggest threat to all they hold dear? Life. He destroyed so much of that while on Midgard, and I could not forget it. It would be a my most haunting memory for the rest of my days. My eyes lowered as I realized how wrong it was for me to be upset with Thor when I did not feel any true anger toward him, “it all seems like...like a nightmare that I should be waking up from. None of this seems real anymore,” I explained.

He reached down between the two of us and grabbed my hand in his much larger one. His long fingers intertwined with mine, and, as I looked up at him with concern for the sudden motion that would undoubtedly draw attention to the two of us, he smiled down at me, “come with me” he urged, giving my hand a gentle tug in his direction. We began walking, the sleeves of my dress and his black robe that draped over his broad shoulders hid our hands from the prying eyes of the warriors who were still feasting. There had already been whispers of who his queen would be when he assumed the throne, and the moment he was seen with any acceptable woman, it would be scrutinized. I did not wish for my relationship with one of my greatest friends to be jeopardized over something so trivial.

As we walked out of the sight of the crowds, he pulled me closer to him. Soon, I found my arm looped through his, and we walked together toward the forest. I glanced up at him, taking in the view of the man before me. I couldn’t deny his beauty. Each day I knew him, he grew more and more beautiful, and there was a small piece of me that wondered what it would be like to be the object of his deepest affection. Still, I could only entertain the idea because an even larger part of me would be...his. I shook the thought from my mind as we made our way to a small clearing in the forest. At the very middle of the field of green was where I would sit most days, my back leaned against the most beautiful and unique tree of them all. We all knew it as “Life’s Tree.” The trunk was as brown as the earth with flowers lining the branches overhead. I glanced up at Thor, “why did you take me here?” I asked.

He smiled down at me as he sat against the tree as he had so many times before. I would bring him to that very spot so many times in our childhood, and I would sit with him. As we grew older, he would find his moments of peace and solitude in the forest with me, but nothing compared to the moments I shared with him underneath that tree. They were moments of pure peace and beauty. It was when our lives were much simpler, when it was no worry how long we were wrapped up in each other. He was no prince in the eyes of Odin, but he was my prince, “these woods are your home” Thor answered, breaking me from my train of thought, “in over a thousand years, do you truly believe I haven’t noticed you singing to the trees? Odin claims time and time again that this forest is healthier now than ever before, that your presence has helped it thrive,” he stated.

“The king...your father has always been more poetic than most,” I exclaimed, smiling down at him before I lowered myself onto the ground next to him.

He chuckled to himself as his gaze flickered up to the flowers on the tree. The red and white petals caught every hint of starlight, and it spilled down onto the two of us, specks of light illuminating his face to me, “I asked my father the story of this tree once, especially why the leaves do not fall like the rest and why it is unlike the other trees in this forest. He told me that a long time ago, this used to be a simple meadow. No trees and no life could be found here. Then, one day, Death itself planted this tree beneath the biggest star in the night sky, and her tears watered the sapling. No one touched the sapling from that moment on, but it still grew and brought up the most beautiful forest in all the Nine Realms with it. The red flowers symbolized the violence and bloodshed of death, and the white represented the purity and innocence of all life at the beginning. The reason why it never withers is because these two forces have danced together since the beginning of the universe, and it will continue long after you and I cease to exist,” he murmured, recalling the story with fond memories of this place. He stared down at his hands that were folded across his lap, “your problem is not that my brother was taken through the streets as much as it is you cannot visit him.”

I shook my head in disagreement even though my heart knew his words to be true. For so many years, I tried to pretend that I didn’t care about him. When he betrayed Asgard and tried to kill Thor on Midgard, I tried to forget the man he was before. When he fell from the bifrost, I tried to forget the joy he brought to my life. When I saw him on Midgard, I lied to myself-told myself that I didn’t want to save him. I still did. I wanted to do it for myself and for him...and for her. My sorrow grew, “there is no part of me that wishes to see your brother. I care not of him but of the safety of Asgard,” I lied.

Thor saw right through me and challenged me, “then why does Odin’s treatment of him trouble you?” he asked, his hand grasping mine as he often did when he could feel my sadness. Too many people believed Thor to be a lumbering oaf, but he was so intelligent and so intuitive. He could read me like an open book most of the time. He was so compassionate and pure of heart. His mere existence made me want to cry tears of joy as he was one of the most selfless and heroic men I knew. In every moment I felt unsure of myself, his support was something as small as squeezing my hand, or it could be as extravagant as lifting me up off the ground with shouts of celebration. He was not only a hero to the Midgardians. He was mine, too.

His gentle squeeze of my hand was all it took for me to come up with the right words to articulate what I truly felt, “locking away someone like...him is dangerous, especially when he is given no time to visit with others. Think of how much hate and filth is in those dungeons. A man like your brother is sitting in that cesspool, soaking it all in. He’s listening and calculating. That anger within him is festering, especially when he has no one to put out that raging fire in his heart. He’s becoming more and more dangerous the longer he sits down there. I only fear for the safety of my home and the safety of my people,” I explained.

“The people of the Nine Realms are safe because of his sentencing. He hasn’t tried to break out of his cell thus far, but if he does, we’ll be ready for it. And may the gods take pity on any being who should go up against the likes of you,” he assured me with a soft chuckle to lighten the mood. Upon seeing that I couldn’t even muster a smile, he frowned,“you have a heart too kind for this world and all others, Lady Eva. You are a beacon of light that people look to, and you have lightened the darkness in my own life time and time again. I know that you seek to find good within my brother, but after all he has done, after all the destruction he has left in his wake, he deserves none of that compassion. Deep down, I think you know it’s true. That’s why you have not spoken his name since the battle of New York. I love my brother, but I cannot forgive him for what he has done to both the population of Midgard as well as what he has done to you. He has caused you so much distress and sorrow, so much pain and misery. I cannot trust him with the people of Asgard, and I certainly cannot trust him with you, my lady”

“Do you know what it’s like to feel lonely, my prince? Do you know how it feels to walk through the forest with the trees being your only friends? Do you understand how it feels to sit next to the water and listen to it splashing against the rocks because that’s the only way to drown out the voices of those who have hurt you? Do you understand what it’s like to wish for a table full of friends and family who love you? I do. Your brother does, too,” I explained, trying to make Thor see that before he tried to take over the throne, his brother was gentle. He enjoyed causing mischief, but he needed some way to release his sorrow and grief. I continued, “you think that he pushes people away to hurt them, but he does it because he’s afraid of hurting them. He has been told all his life-since we were children-that he is an abomination, that he’s no good, that he doesn’t belong here. What do you think he sees when he looks in the mirror? He knows what he is, and he knows he’s capable of hurting others, so he pushes them away before that can happen. He has tried to protect us just like you’ve always tried to protect me. The man we knew before is still alive inside that man we saw on Midgard. I know it, and I’m going to bring him back,” I added.

“You have enough hope for the both of us, my lady. You’ve always had a heart big enough for every living thing in the Nine Realms combined. I just wish to see you at peace. You have worried for him long enough,” he stated, recalling the many times in the past when I would fret over the raven-haired God and how the Asgardian people treated him. I worried about him more than I ever did myself. When we were on the battlefield together, I would put myself in harms way for him, but he did the same for me time and time again, so I owed him, “will you be okay with just your own company tonight, Lady Eva?” he asked

I saw the reflection of my green eyes in his blue ones, and it made my heart ache even more than before as I thought of the countless moments the same thing happened between myself and him. His eyes were the purest shade of blue, brilliant and deep. I nodded my head, suppressing some of my most beautiful memories to keep myself from feeling the pain of his absence, “the trees will watch over me through the night. Like you said before, this forest is my home,” I answered.

“Sing a song for him tonight-for both of them, as I know you miss her just as much,” Thor suggested, knowing that I needed some way to process. I couldn’t go home to face Aaldir, and I would isolate myself for the time being. Singing to the trees had always been something that I used to soothe myself, and it helped lift the sorrows of death from my heart.

My fingers brushed against his hand. The only thing I desperately wanted in that moment was to feel the touch of another, and if I had it my way, I would’ve been speaking with the man who was the polar opposite of the God of Thunder. If I had it my way, I would be sitting beneath that same tree, braiding his black hair away from his face. Instead, for that moment, I had to settle for the possibility that I would never see him again. I glanced up at Thor, “will you be listening?” I asked in reference to his suggestion.

He smiled and stood up from the forest floor. I followed him, my deep green gown straightening itself as I rose. His eyes softened as he gazed down at me, “I’m always listening,” he assured me, leaning down and brushing his lips against my cheek. I felt like crying. I loved Thor with every inch of my heart. He was one of my greatest friends, and I wouldn’t trade him for the world. However, I needed him. I needed him in that very moment. After all I had lost that day, I needed to know that I wasn’t losing him, too.

When Thor pulled away and leaned his forehead against mine, I felt the familiar trembling in my knees that I did before he first kissed me in our younger years. It was not the first time I had been kissed, and it was not the last, but it was a moment of clarity the two of us shared with each other. As he smiled at me, I couldn’t help but allow my sorrow to melt away just in that moment. I was brought back to a simpler time, a time when I didn’t know as much of the cruelty in the Nine Realms as I did now. I was oblivious to so much of the pain that humanity experienced. I didn’t know true sorrow until I gave my whole life away. Now, I was clouded by the pain and suffering so many living things experienced in their lives, and it tore me apart. However, as I stood there with Thor under the light of the stars, I was brought back to the simple moments, like when he told me that he could see all Nine Realms in my eyes or when he traced the constellations on my skin in the silence of the forest. Or when she first smiled at me.

After Thor’s silent retreat back to the castle left me in the forest alone, I gazed up at the white and red blossoms of the tree before resting my palms against the trunk. The energy from the tree flowed through me, and I passed my own energy into the tree. I closed my eyes and felt the essence of the whole world at the tips of my fingers. I felt her sorrow as if it were my own, just as I felt her joy as if it were mine. To me, the world was alive, and there had never been a day when I took her gifts for granted. She was mystical and wonderful. She sustained each of us, giving of herself every single day for thousands and thousands of years. I mourned with her when she grieved for those lost in battle, for she provided for them until their last day, and she didn’t like saying goodbye. Just as I mourned with her, she did the same with me, too. It was as if we were one and the same. I knew that a part of her felt sorrow and grief for the same strange reason I was. It was because of him.

As I thought of the other beautiful moments of simplicity in my life, the moments of purity, he was in so many of them. Even though he had been stripped of his innocence so long ago, there was something that held him together. Even though he experienced so much prejudice and cruelty in his early years, he maintained his positivity through our childhood and early adulthood. My prince, my prankster, my friend. Malevolence surrounded him the last time we saw each other in New York. I saw a man who killed my best friend and took his name and face. He wouldn’t even look at me during his sentencing, but I couldn’t help but wish he had. My peaceful moment with Thor was meant to be with him. Every single moment of my life was meant to be spent with him. I did not hate him for the hurtful things he said to me on Midgard. I did not hate him for pushing me away time and time again. I hated him for taking away the one thing that made my fight worth it. I hated him for making me care so deeply for him, that the rest of the Nine Realms disappeared when he was with me. I missed him with my whole heart, and I made up my mind in that moment. I would save him even if he didn’t want me to.

*Loki’s POV*

As I sat in the dungeon, books strewn across the floor, I dared to close my eyes. Every time I did, I could see her green ones staring back at me. I could still see the fear and anguish that struck her when she saw me on Midgard, and I wished for her to simply kill me. The pain became more and more unbearable the more I closed my eyes. I could not sleep without dreaming of her, without contemplating how my actions ruined her. My mind was no longer my home, and I wished for her to just put me out of my misery. Every time the dungeons fell silent at night, I could still hear her whisper my name under her breath. I was brought back to Midgard, and I could still feel the pain my actions caused her.

The dungeons had not fallen silent just yet, but I hoped that the guards would come down soon to quiet the other prisoners. I clenched my jaw, a piece of me wishing for the noise. I could not bear to hear her disembodied voice anymore, the sound of her cries still echoing in my mind. I had not seen her shed the tears, but I heard them on our way back from Midgard. The guards had pushed me along, and she stayed behind me, comforted by my older brother who deserved someone like her. I certainly didn’t. I knew that if the silence fell to leave me with her voice in my mind, I would fall into the pit of madness I knew so well. The cell I was imprisoned in had already seen enough of my fury.

Suddenly, a soft melody cut through the shouts, and my heart dropped to the floor. Everyone became still. The prisoners stopped banging on the walls of their cells, the guards stopped speaking with one another, and everyone stopped yelling. Everything fell completely silent-so silent I could hear the guard from across the room shift his weight onto his other foot-and we listened to the song.

“Now, the stars shine brightest wherever you are, and they will shine on me no more.”

It was her.

The voice, the beautiful melody, the sorrowful lyrics-it all pointed to her.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes to welcome sleep for the first time in days. Still, I could not fall asleep. When I closed my eyes, I saw hers, and they were filled with tears. They twinkled as they fell from her green eyes, like stars falling from the night sky. She was in mourning. I could feel it. I felt the way her heart was breaking, and there was nothing I could do about it. There had been so many moments that I would run to her aid when I felt her pain and anguish, but this was one of the many moments when I wanted to be there with her, but I couldn’t do it. She didn’t need me, anyway. I was a monster, and she was...not. She was my friend, my princess, my love.

My Eva.

#loki #loki imagine #loki imagines #marvel imagines #marvel imagine #imagine #tom hiddleston imagine #mcu #mcu imagine #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #OFC #original character #original female character #angst #thor #thor odinson #madness fic #fanfic #fic #longfic #madness

[laurens-lil-fics]

hi! may i request a cute small fanfic/drabble of peter being a archaeologist in the 1940s (maybe?), and meeting sexy belly dancer!reader after his job is done? bonus points if peter has groot as his pet bearded dragon lizard since they’re so cute! thank you! this is a weird request, but it was an idea that i liked.

It took me forever to get to this but I gotcha!

(I feel like that’s the closest gif I’ll find. Also I couldn’t find a way to fit the dragon in there D: )

This could possibly be classified as the dumbest job ever. Peter tapped his fingers against the bar, waiting for his buyer to show up at the bar they agreed on.

It wasn’t all bad, what with the dancers up on stage keeping him entertained. Normally his buyers wouldn’t ask to meet in places like this. They usually met somewhere more private. The whole thing felt very suspect.

“Is this all you’re drinking, tonight?”

Peter glanced away from the stage, feeling himself twitch when he turned towards a dancer with a tray of empty glasses and bottles resting on her hip. His lips quirked up into a small smirk and he shook his head, offering her his empty bottle.

“I’ll take another one of these if you’re offering.” he replied cooly, eyeing her as she took the bottle and moved behind the bar. She tossed away the empty bottles, set the empty cups aside to be washed, then quickly fished a beer out of one of the coolers for him.

Each movement was fluid and smooth like honey, it made him wonder what she looked like up on that stage.

“How come you’re not up there dancing with all the other girls, huh?” he asked, taking a slow sip of his beer as she leaned against the bar.

“Because I start too much trouble… at least that’s what my boss says.” Peter gave her a questioning glance, urging her to elaborate.

“Men try touching me and I don’t like it… So I’ve thrown a few punches, now Im banned from the stage.” she shrugged.

Peter snickered and set his bottle on the bar, earning a smile from the dancer.

“Your boss ain’t one for feisty women, huh?” She blushed at this and quickly picked up her tray, drumming her fingers against it awkwardly.

“Guess not… The name’s (Y/n)-” she was interrupted by a man, a stranger to her, suddenly sitting beside Peter. Peter politely excused himself from the conversation before turning to his buyer.

(Y/n)  scurried away, not liking the way the stranger had been staring her down since he sat down.

As she walked about the bar, taking empty glasses and bottles from the other patrons, she couldn’t help but glance back at the two men every now and then. Something didn’t feel right and it had the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

(Y/n) reluctantly made her way back to the bar, tensing when she felt his eyes roaming her figure once again. She set the empty glasses and bottles down, as she had before, and tried making a quick escape, only to be grabbed roughly by her forearm.

She held back a shriek as the stranger held her close, she could feel something cool and metallic being held against her exposed stomach.

Peter made a move to grab something out of his coat, but he quickly stopped when his buyer turned traitor pressed his gun harshly into (Y/n)’s side.

“You’re not getting out of this one so easy, Peter…” the man sneered, holding (Y/n) closer to him.

“Nothing’s ever really easy with me, Coop. Just let the girl go, we don’t wanna make a scene here, do we?” Peter said, holding his hands up in surrender. 

The man, Coop, shook his head at him and pulled back the hammer on the revolver, the click sending a surge of adrenaline through (Y/n)’s veins.

Without thinking, (Y/n) grabbed Peter’s empty bottle and smashed it over the man’s head, drawing the attention of the other patrons and dancers at the bar.

Coop fired blind, the gunshot causing the bar to erupt in chaos.

Peter grabbed hold of the briefcase Coop brought in with him, then took hold of (Y/n) before making a break for the exit. Though she wasn’t too happy with this.

“Take your lousy hands off’a me!” (Y/n) shouted over the chaos, fighting against Peter’s hold as he dragged her out of the bar. Before she knew it she was in the back of a taxi cab with this man, who only let go of her arm once the cab pulled away from the bar.

She smacked Peter’s chest, feeling a small sense of pride when he winced and leaned away from her.

“Look mister, I dunno who the hell you are, but whatever’s in that fancy briefcase I better be getting a piece of it!” she barked at him, ignoring the concerned look she received from the driver.

Peter held a finger up at her and clutched the briefcase to his side. “Look sweetheart, if it weren’t for me you’d be swiss cheese by now… You’ll get your cut, for your troubles.”

(Y/n) scoffed and crossed her arms, watching as he took off his spectacles and ran a hand through his slicked back hair, causing his dirty blond curls to fall around his face.

He smirked once he noticed her staring, snickering asher face flushed and she turned to look out the window.

“The name’s Quill, sweetheart… Peter Quill.”

#peter quill au #peter quill #peter quill imagine #peter quill x reader #This is basically Indiana Jones lol #Chris Pratt #star lord #star lord imagine #star lord x reader

[cleocazo]

ruth & xander ( lucy i cant do all of those ships in 1 ask ill resend aLL of them to myself )

send me a ship !!

who cries when someone dies in a movie : ruth is too much of a badass btch to cry over smth so small we both know its xander

who wears the ugly holiday garb : its a tradition that they BOTH wear ugly holiday sweaters and that’s how they like it

who pays for the meals : xander always has. even when he didn’t have the money to waste, he always found a way to pay, bc there was no chance in hell he was letting ruth

who slams the oven door and who plays the trombone : xander slams the door and ruth plays the trombone

who brings home stray animals : xander resists the urge, ruth would let their house be overrun with twenty dogs before leaving a single one out in the cold

who leaves the bathroom door open : both of them bc they’re that bad

who tells the ‘dad jokes’ : they’re the only jokes xander knows

who wants kids more : my initial reaction was ruth but now i think abt it. probably xander?? he wants a family, bc he wants to raise kids in a better way than he was raised

who travels more : ruth bc. u know. she’s from england. xander had only been out of the country once and that was when he went to mexico w his momma that one time

who spends more cash : xander’s more frugal, so ruth

who buys the things in infomercials : again. it’s prob ruth, thinking that some weird head scratcher is actually smth they both need in their lives

who draws in the dust on their cars : ruth draws really crude pictures on the back of xander’s car, like squirting penises and boobies. xander leaves a heart on hers. that’s why they Work

who starts the snowball fights : looks at lucy. its your demon child

who throws away the directions to things : xander bc he’s a man who thinks he knows everything

who puts up holiday decor : they do it together like all good couples

who is more likely to forget to bathe : this is yuck but xander ? is a man

who gets more obsessed about things : sigh. xander

who sings in the shower more often : they duet

how they comfort each other when one of them is upset : xander gives the best bear hugs and lets her cry on his shoulder for as long as she wants. ruth gives really good head

who asked first : asked what ?

who says ‘i love you’ more : they’re a gross couple they both say it at minimum 50 times a day

kisses more : xander bc he’s tall and she’s small and he can lay loads of kisses on the top of her head n stuff

hugs more : ruth makes him give her hugs because he has strong arms that she loves to be enveloped in

drinks more : tragically, xander

who’s more outgoing : ruth tbh she’s always been more the get up and go type whereas xander is a ‘im gonna stay in this house until i die’ type

who eats more : xander

who’s more needy : xander

who’s more kinky : ruth is kinky af we know it

who cooks normally? : my boy is a CHEF so him he takes care of his woman

how often do they fight? : they have disagreements, but they don’t tend to actually fight all that much. like. once every six months they’ll have some kinda major falling out, but it’s usually smth they can talk through once they both calm down

what do they do when they’re away from each other? : ruth schedules face time calls and sends him snapchat updates and posts #tbt pictures on instagram. xander masturbates

nicknames for each other? : ruth has been tryna nickname his nickname for yrs and has yet to succeed, so she mostly just calls him ‘babe’ if she’s not trying ‘xand’ again. he’s always called her roo

who is more likely to pay for dinner? : he will not let her pay

who steals the covers at night? : ruth but like i have said before n will say again, he lets her

what would they get each other for gifts? : on birthdays and holidays, they’re mostly goofy gifts that neither has much need for, but both are highly entertained by. the sentimental gifts come randomly, n they’re always like. lil things that reminded them of each other. or a framed picture, if they’ve took a real cute one

who remembers things? : i’d hope they both do

who cusses more? : xander has lots of PG rated cusses because he’s gotten used to censoring himself around the kids. ruth drops f bombs like they’re candy

what would they do if the other one was hurt? : one time ruth slapped xander’s mom bc he was on his death bed n she was mad

who kissed who first?: ruth kissed xander first and it was counted as a true victory

who made the first move? : xander, and it was a bad move

who started the relationship? : it was ultimately up to ruth. he wanted to be with her, and KNEW he wanted to be with her, but it wasn’t until ruth decided that she wanted to be with him that they actually got together

#answered #ship: i just needed you #c: xander solis #opp: ruth pickett #Anonymous

[gisellewiegand-blog]

small breasted models - Why Nobody is Talking About Erotic Perfection And What You Should Do Today

"This isn't like Erica," Noah argued. "This isn't her personality." "These aren't normal circumstances," Natalie pushed back. "It isn't like we're running Early Analysis at Erica's house, where Erica would get privacy behind closed doors. Or where Erica would get to wear clothes. Or where Erica doesn't have strangers watch her go to the bathroom." "So what exactly is it that you're saying?" Noah was visibly annoyed. "That Erica behaves this way at home? When no one's around?" Natalie shrugged. "Seriously? That's your argument?" the man shouted. "How do you know what Erica is like at home, Noah?" the blonde countered. Noah didn't have an answer. In fact, none of them did. Seven in all, a pow-wow had gathered around the conference table in the Human Hormone Lab that Monday morning. Jake Rinaldi, Noah, Natalie, Hannah, and the three lab assistants had all come together to address a growing concern – Erica's seemingly insuppressible sexual urges. Rinaldi had called the meeting, but only under duress. Medical Oversight, the wing of ConnPharm that was overseeing safety issues related to the deuterotone experiment, had become troubled by the level of sexual activity Erica had been engaging in – even if it was only with herself. There had been a threshold of arousal and excitement they had all been anticipating, Erica included. And they had all been aware of how uncomfortable it had made their friend, colleague, and boss in the Bullpen, how it had affected her sleep pattern, her concentration, and her interaction with others. Natalie, for one, had been somewhat relieved when she'd heard that Erica had taken the problem into her own hands. Others, like Noah and the people within Medical Oversight, began to worry about how the deuterotone was affecting their guinea pig. The science was working, no doubt. Erica's breasts had increased in size, quite significantly. In the first few days, the computers had noticed, but the change hadn't been quite noticeable to the naked eye. That had changed, however, and a quick glance in Erica's direction was all one needed to confirm that she was undergoing a second puberty. But masturbating that first time had worried Noah. And then had come the second time. The third time. The fourth. After getting herself off twice on Wendy's watch on Saturday, Erica had proceeded to finger herself on Sunday morning before Colin came in. And twice after he'd left that night. And twice more on Monday morning before nine o'clock had even rolled around. All told, Erica had masturbated on seven separate occasions in camille mpl studios less than forty-eight hours. Images of the exposed girl still hung in all of their minds. Erica, touching herself beneath the shower. Erica, touching herself and grinding rhythmically against her hand. Erica, touching herself in front of the mirror glass, watching herself orgasm. Erica, touching herself while on all fours. Erica, touching herself with a sense of hurry, trying to get off one last time before Colin arrived for his shift. Natalie's point, however, had been to note that they didn't know whether this frequency of masturbation was ordinary for Erica. "Has anyone talked to her about this?" Jake asked. "I mean, about her behavior

Heres part two of this. Again... this thread is completely open to suggestions as Im still bonking this thing out. Anything on your mind to happen to Susan? ~~~~~~~~~~ "You’re not seriously taking me in here, are you?" Susan exclaims at the sight of the building we just pulled into the parking lot for. "Yep, it’s couples night and there’ll be entertainment for men AND women there!" "Male and female strippers, eh? In the same titty bar? Interesting." " fine nude girls Let’s go, you’re gonna have a mpl studio nudes great time." We get in the club and head to the bar, Susan is standing next to me, surveying the stages where the dancers are doing their thing. There are 5 stages that have women dancing and one that has a single man dancing there. The place is pretty full, even more full than the last bar we were at. The noise level is almost deafening, between the hoots and hollering over the dancers and the music, it’s no wonder that anyone can exchange words between them. I grab our drinks and we head over to a single open table, halfway between one of the male dancer’s stage and a female’s stage. The dancer on the male stage was a fairly good looking guy, short, but well built and he was wearing nothing but a g-string that obviously had something stuffed into it. The female dancing closest to us was an attractive, small breasted brunette in her mid-twenties that kept eyeing Susan like a lioness eyes her next meal. I take a look around and see a bunch of people dancing on the other side of the bar. I had no idea there was a dance floor, this could get interesting. Susan is obviously still feeling pretty good from the last set of drinks we had, and the new drink just adds to the fun. She looks a little tipsy, and that’s when she’s her horniest. I see one of the dancers walk by and flag her down. "How about a lap dance?" I ask her. "Sure, that’ll be $20 plus www.goodreads.com tip." I reach for my wallet and fish out $40 and hand it to her and she starts to put her hands on my shoulders. "It’s not for me, it’s for mpl studio models my wife," as I nod toward Susan who is now watching the male dancer on stage gyrate his hips seductively towards her. Without a word, the stripper changes spots from me and parks herself in front of Susan, who now has several different looks splayed across her face: wonder, surprise, and something that looked almost enthusiasm. The dancer starts swaying her hips, working herself over her, rubbing her crotch on Susan’s leg, I mouth "Don’t touch" to her as I get a sideways glance. I watch in amazement as the stripper works Susan over, rubbing her breasts across Susan’s face and gyrating around her. I notice that at one point, Susan’s shirt is lifted up enough to see a little "underboob" and the dancer is playfully rubbing her body across my wife’s nipples, making them erect. The whole sight is nearly too much for me as I feel an erection forming and pressing against my shorts. I am QUITE aroused, watching this stripper spend time rubbing her body across Susan’s barely clothed body. Eventually, the song ends and we get a round of ‘thank you’s’ from the dancer as well as the surrounding patrons. I hadn’t been the only one watching. Susan gets up and sits in my lap, immediately noticing my hard on, she shifts her weight a little to make sure her ass it right on top of it, adding fuel to the already raging erection I have. "Seems as though YOU had fun," she says as she moves my cock around in my shorts with her ass. "A little..." I say as I reach down between her legs and feel a moist spot in her Daisy Dukes. "It seems as though you had a little fun as well." "Oh damn, it was GOOD... I am SO horny now, I could go fuck your brains out in the restroom... or, well... right there on stage," Susan purrs. "Let’s go dance a little," I mutter... Susan looks down at my erection and shrugs, giving it a little squeeze with her hand. I get up, shift my package around a little and the blood drains out enough so I can walk and grab her by the hand and head over to the dance floor. I notice a couple of raised platforms where awesome nude girls are dancing in various states of undress, being tipped by some of the patrons. I get a questioning look from my wife and we start dancing. I motion for her to lift her shirt up a little and dutifully, she does, showing a little underboob for everyone. As we dance, she backs into me, rubbing her ass into my crotch, obviously attempting to give me another hard on, but I concentrate a little and keep the blood to my brain, instead of my cock. I reach up and grab the bottom of her shirt and pull, hard enough that the low cut neckline allows a boob to pop out. Quickly she fixes it, but not quickly enough to not draw attention, she’s got a crowd of people watching. She may have forgotten that she’s not wearing a bra and her boobs are doing a bit of dancing on their own. We dance like this for what seems like hours, oblivious of the people around us. She’s enjoying herself, something I hadn’t seen her do since we were dating. Other couples move around us, and one catches my eye. The male in the couple obviously has no underwear on and it wearing loose fitting, thin, basketball type shorts. Normally not a problem, but when the cock moving around is as large as his, it’s hard to not take notice. Soft... it must be 9 inches long. I pull Susan in and whisper to her, "I want you to ‘accidentally’ brush his cock with your hand." "I don’t think I’m drunk enough to do that, you’re asking a lot. I haven’t touched anyone else’s since we got married." "It won’t bite, and I’m not asking you to grab it, just brush up against it. Do this and we can go." "Ok, fine," she says. She unceremoniously turns around, dances up to him, and rubs her open palm against it, much to his amazement. She straightens up, grabs me by the hand and we both walk out the door. "Wow, you sure shocked him." "I did, didn’t I?" "One last place and we’re done for the night." "Ok, fine. I’m starting to get tired and I’m still pretty girls in nude drunk." We hop in the car and head off to the next spot. * * * About 10 minutes into the drive, I lean over and say to her, "That was pretty nice with you sitting on my lap back at the strip bar." "You liked that, huh?" "Yeah, I sure did. How about a little hand job while we go to the next spot." Susan shrugs her shoulders and reaches over and unzips my zipper, exposing my poor cock, the bloodflow to it has been nearly nonstop this whole journey. Rubbing a fingernail across the top causes me to flinch a bit and she rests her palm across the shaft and slowly curls her fingers around it. By the time she finally starts stroking it, we’re nearly there and I announce our arrival: the adult bookstor