♈ ARIES // A fiery inferno. An organ set ablaze. Unimaginably hot and wildly untamable, fervently consuming all it is fed; the good and the bad. It radiates a heat that can thaw cold cheeks and frost from shivering lips – or engulf you, swallow you whole and leave you as nothing more than smoldering ash. This heart needs generous kindling and constant stoking. Never to be smothered or snuffed out. It beats in booming thunder, and bleeds in plumes of smoke.
♉ TAURUS // A whittled heart of knotty pine, with intricate floral patterns etched deep into its wooden surface. A lacquered finish makes it sleek and glossy. A natural beauty. Carved and hollowed out, so that it can collect all the beautiful trinkets it finds, and lock them away. This heart needs an antiqued key, and reliable eyes that can cherish each and every lovely treasure they’ve buried so deeply in their chest. It beats in gentle echoes, and bleeds in sweet, sticky resin.
♊ GEMINI // A gilded, golden cage, with ornate engravings on every spindly, metallic bar. Glinting and gleaming in playful light; it dazzles and draws many admirers near. However, if they step too close, or extend their fingertips to touch – the hundreds of tiny, frightened finches inside release shrill and frantic chirps from silver beaks. A flurry of ruffled, rosy plumage. This heart needs a patient hand to release the latch. To let the feathers fly, and simply listen as the birds sing. It beats in the flutter of wings, and bleeds in pastel sunrise.
♋ CANCER // Tessellated sea glass and elegant vintage lace; smooth and embellished with pearls that glow soft and argent like the moon. It contains the entire ocean, with all it’s depth and warmth and comfort. Churning, swirling, salty waves flood the arteries and fill it will the soulful beauty of the seas. A home for many – a drowning place for some. Love flows uncontrollably, unconditionally. This heart needs lungs that can breathe underwater. Hands both strong enough to carry it, and so gentle it won’t shatter. It beats in the ebbing of the tides, and bleeds in soothing moonbeams.
♌ LEO // Lustrous sunlight encased in crushed red velvet. Luxurious and sparkling. Bold and rich. It transfixes others adoration and desire with the scintillating light that leak from its seams. It brightens and blinds all those who gaze upon it. Illuminating only the pleasant things, and melting the affection it is fed. This heart needs amorous eyes that have never beheld such a wonder, and will never forgets it’s beauty. It beats in boisterous trumpets, and bleeds in liquid gold.
♍ VIRGO // Precision cut and polished clockwork. Burnished brass and copper coils. Silver springs and cogs and gears that mesh and mash in a complex, synchronized rhythm unlike any other. When well-oiled, love ticks and tocks effortlessly; consistent and hypnotic. It winds and unwinds as it chooses. This heart needs feet that can get lost in a waltz, but still keep time. It beats like a syncopated metronome, and bleeds in bubbling amber.
♎ LIBRA // A twinkling, paper lantern; thin as the wings of a butterfly, and just as weightless. It emits a faint glow from the romantic light flickering inside, yet drifts listlessly through the chest cavity – as though no love can pin it down. It can be folded and creased to look like all that intimacy should be – but isn’t. This heart needs real romance. To be held with grace and loving balance. It beats in charming laughter, and bleeds in floral perfume.
♏ SCORPIO // A twisted labyrinth of thorny vines and ruby flowers. Dark and intimidating, but oh-so alive and growing. Roots constrict and thorns prick to fend off deceitful lovers. But if they’re willing to bleed – each rose that blooms will do so just for them. An endlessly beautiful garden; secluded and full of the richest reds and luscious greens. This heart needs love that is true and unafraid of hurt; that will not let the petals shrivel or wither. It beats in whispered “I love you”’s, and bleed in twilight skies.
♐ SAGITTARIUS // A gluey patchwork of auburn leaves and borrowed things. Stitched together from pieces of foreign hearts to form a hot air balloon-like contraption. Tethered only by heart strings, and fueled by an single spark. Always eager to take flight, to feel new heights, and caress the clouds. This heart needs a skyscape that never ends. A spirit with no map. It beats in whistling fire crackers, and bleeds in afternoon sunshine.
♑ CAPRICORN // An impenetrable exterior of compressed coal; smoky black and unattainable. However, if one stays and chisels for years, they’ll discover this hardened stone is a literal diamond in the rough. A glittering, jewel encrusted cavern. Its walls and arteries lined with vast riches; emeralds and rubies and sapphires. Resplendent and full of love. This heart needs one worthy of holding such a valuable chasm. It beats in refined symphonies, and bleeds in the boldest red wine.
♒ AQUARIUS // A sparkling prism lodged ambiguously in the rib cage where a human heart should be. It’s crystalline surface clarifies the cloudy, and gives the dull new splendor. It isolates and captures the smallest, most imperceptible glints of light, only to reflect and dissect the spectrum of color in it no one else would ever notice. This heart needs eyes that can peer through a kaleidoscope and see new rainbows every time. It beats in neon flickers, and bleeds in cosmic stardust.
♓ PISCES // Wispy gossamer and creamy silk, loosely woven together like a dream catcher. A tattered tapestry of delicate, warm fabric; embroidered with strands of silver thread and tiny beads of amethyst. This heart absorbs all forms love, and unfortunately, all sorrows. It is stained with the fingerprints of every hand it’s held. Soft and sensitive; it should be handled with the most tender care. It beats in soothing lullabies, and bleeds in shimmering, lavender bubbles.
Very few people attended this place, leaving it for the employees and security guards nearly 24/7. Of course this made it very easy for individuals to sneak in and either hang around to drink ill-gotten booze or - in one terrible incident - damage some of the rare and valuable plants housed there. Lately, however, there have been rumors of a ghost haunting the gardens.
You understand what it is like. You are so fragile.
A group of teenagers with a few six-packs jumped the fence and settled in to party with the pitcher plants when one of them snapped at a teen almost aggressively. Undeterred, the party began as vines crept and crawled around the perimeter of the square. One girl thought she saw a veiled figure among the leaves and stumbled over to investigate.
If you grant me a home, I will protect you.
She screamed when bright eyes shined out of the darkness and the vines wrapped around her legs, squeezing tight. The party was over then and the girl’s friends all scattered, leaving the undrunk booze and their friend behind. The screaming was muffled as a vine wrapped around the girl’s mouth and the small veiled being silently stepped forth, arm outstretched.
“Leave.” The small voice commanded, the odd fingers on her hand flexing and the foliage seemed to rise around the strange being. Vines squeezed threateningly and seemed to become even more threatening as thorns started to protrude from the smooth plant skin.
The girl stared in a sober terror and nodded frantically as she squirmed to escape. A wave of the figure’s arm and the girl was released, scrambling to catch up to her friends and escape. There had been more encounters since, but no one was able to capture a photograph or any proof that the reported veiled gardener even existed. The garden was becoming popular, especially at night.
I promised…I will protect you.
One morning, the garden was surrounded by thick and near-impenetrable thorny vines. They flowered with sickly off-white, faintly pink blooms that smelled foul. None of the employees could identify the flower or vines. And the sudden appearance was…supernatural. This prompted the local population to contact paranormal investigators to find and exorcise this ghost.
Technically, isn’t it kind of canon that everyone in the inner circle goes to the Winter Palace? Despite who you take, everyone will still have banters about whether they enjoyed it or not. This means that you specifically choose 3 people who have no choice but to wear the uniform with you and represent the inquisition with you, while everyone else is forced to likely get an outfit and attitude more tailored to them yet still appropriate for the gala.
Summary - Caroline Forbes was sad and alone after her mother died until he came. (AU, no baby plot)
A/N: Just a little angsty drabble I wrote while I couldn’t sleep last night. Hope you enjoy!
She held the flowers in her hands. The petals and leaves shook along with her body as she walked with her weak, aching head held higher than she thought she could manage. But then, she was Caroline Forbes, stronger than anybody gave her credit. Stefan offered to come with her, but it was his fault she had not been there when her mother passed, she did not want him to follow her.
No, that wasn’t why she refused him. It was because it was her own fault for not being there when her wonderful mother took her final breaths. Her fault it had to be Damon there, holding her cold, feeble fingers, because she was too busy making kissy faces at a boy she had since decided was more like a brother than anything else.
Caroline’s nonexistent breath caught halfway out of her mouth, creating a short cloud that stopped before it could properly escape into the freezing air. Her mother was gone. Gone. And all she had were some stupid flowers.
The blond vampire stared at the white things in her hands. Elizabeth Forbes never even liked roses. She hated their scent. Right now, Caroline agreed wholeheartedly.
Crunching broken, brown leaves as she walked further into the deserted graveyard, Caroline held tighter to the thorny flowers, wondering if wherever her mother was she was watching her. She was alone now. Really alone. Her father was gone, now her gentle, kind, supportive mom. All she had were the Scooby Gang, and while she loved each of them, they were not family so much as reluctant acquaintances turned friends.
Hot, thick tears bubbled in Caroline’s eyes. She had not let herself truly cry yet, and as she sucked in a sharp, cold breath, she decided she wasn’t about to start now.
She was strong on her own. A lone wolf. If becoming a vampire had taught her anything, it was that she needed nobody else to fight her battles for her. She was better than Elena that way. Elena always crawled to the Salvatore brothers when things got tough. Switched her emotions off because she couldn’t handle feeling, and not feeling anything was the easy way out. But she was Caroline Forbes. A brave warrior that had overcome quite a bit in her first twenty years. Who had managed to become a fully functioning, healthy vampire with only a small amount of help.
She could make it in this life without attachments.
She was ready now to leave mystic falls. Nothing was keeping her here.
It was a depressing thought, but she had been wallowing in grief for weeks now. Maybe leaving would magnify her sadness for a brief period, but it was what she needed in the long run. She only hoped her friends saw it her way. They were all stuck here, tethered to the Virginian soil by roots they couldn’t see. She had cut herself loose the minute her mother passed. It was time to stretch her legs.
The gravestone was buried deep in the old cemetery. For such a small town, there were a lot of dead people. Caroline crouched down when she reached the one belonging to her mother and gently placed the white roses against the headstone.
She stayed there, motionless and unspeaking, not knowing what to do. In the movies, they always talked to the dead, in the hopes they could hear you. She knew her mother, wherever she may have been, was listening.
“Hi, mom,” she whispered, her throat tight. “I’m, uh, sorry it took so long for me to come see you.”
Caroline nearly laughed. This was ridiculous.
“Mom,” she sighed sadly, a sob rising in her chest. “Oh, mom. I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She couldn’t get her voice any louder. It was lodged, it was like a tennis ball had found its way into her mouth. “I wasn’t there,” she said. “I didn’t see you, I didn’t say goodbye. I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
“And I’m sorry,” she went on, staring up at the bleak, grey sky, “I’m sorry I didn’t come here before. You have to understand,” she said through the tears. The salty things fell into her mouth. They tasted so bitter. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk in here and see you like this. I wasn’t strong enough–”
Caroline’s voice cut off completely then. She buried her wet, scrunched face in her small hands and allowed a little bit of the sorrow she had barred inside her chest loose. She trembled with sobs, felt tears leaking through her fingers.
“But I’m stronger now,” she said resolutely once the wave passed. Wiping her cheeks with her dark blue cardigan, Caroline smiled sadly. “I’m leaving, mom. There’s nothing here for me anymore. You always said I was better than this town, and I’m starting to think you’re right.”
Caroline didn’t know where she was going. If she would ever come back. She didn’t know if she would be leaving with her entire life packed away, or if she would leave their old house with the memories still inside. Its mortgage was paid off. If she mentioned to one of the guys to look in on it, she could abandon it without a guilty conscience. Pack a small suitcase and finally escape.
“They don’t need me, the others. They’re too busy dealing with their own problems to care about mine. Which is okay,” she said, patting her jean-clad knees. “It’s okay. They’re allowed to not understand. Well, Elena’s apathy has been a little harder to swallow, but I get it. I get it.”
Europe, she decided. She would start with Europe. Ireland. It was closest to the east coast. She would go to Ireland, then slowly make her way around the world.
“I miss you,” she said softly, staring at her mother’s tombstone.
Elizabeth Forbes. What a woman.
Caroline got to her feet, freezing when she saw someone standing in front of the grave opposite the headstone.
Shock ran through her blood, pulling her mouth open. She must have been seeing things.
He couldn’t really be there.
“You–” she started saying, curiosity getting the better of her. But she didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
The figure smiled sadly. It didn’t fit his gorgeous face, sadness. It made him look his age.
Caroline looked him up and down. He wore all black. Typical. He seemed well and fit. Healthy. He glowed in the dismal graveyard like the sun.
“What are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly.
Klaus Mikaelson, hands clasped behind his back, nodded toward the grave. “I heard,” was all he said.
She didn’t know why - no, she did - his admission made her want to cry, but she found herself blinking smoke from her eyes. “Okay,” she choked, “but why are you here?”
Klaus’s blue eyes were softer than she had ever seen them. There was a kindness and warmth behind them she had noticed a couple of times when he still was trying to make Mystic Falls his own. A warmth she was sure nobody else was allowed to see.
The asphalt is crumbling away at the freeway shoulder where Stiles is walking, and he keeps tripping off into the gritty sand that marks the break between the road and the fat lot of nothing beyond it. Straggly grass and broken bottles are just about the only thing there is in the no-man’s-land south of Beacon Hills, plus a few thorny flower bushes and the ever-present hills rolling off to either side, burnt umber with summer heat and drought. Less often than you’d think a car rushes by, here and gone in a whoosh of noise and pulling air currents if Stiles is standing too close. He keeps trying to stick his thumb out in time, but he never quite does.
Which is fine. His feet are getting sore and hot, but it’s only late afternoon and he’s not that tired. It can’t be more than a few more miles to Redding, from where he’s almost certain he can find public transportation to Sacramento, and from there to Berkeley. And then… he hitches his backpack and lacrosse bag higher on his shoulder. He has clean clothes, his computer and debit card, some cash. It’ll be rough for a few weeks while he gets on his feet, maybe, but it’s not like there’s no plan. Another car shoots by, and Stiles flails a hand after it, again a few seconds late.
Only this car breaks sharply and pulls over. It’s a black sports car, a little familiar looking, which probably means that if Stiles was better at being a guy he’d know what make and model. As it is, he’s so shocked that he wastes a moment just standing and staring like an idiot before he catches himself and dashes up to where the car had stopped. Fingers crossed it’s not a serial killer, he thinks. It’s not like he’s some strung-out punk who nobody’d miss, but the person behind the wheel doesn’t know that.
It’s worse than a serial killer.
“Stiles?” the man asks. His expression is somewhere between confused and worried as he pulls his shades off to get a better look, because the person behind the wheel is Derek fucking Hale, heartthrob and basketball star, closest thing to James Dean to ever grace the scuffed linoleum halls of Beacon HIlls High. Stiles stares, head and shoulders into the car, his bullshit story about why he was hitchhiking dead on his lips.
“Yeah,” Stiles says reflexively.
Derek must misinterpret the pole-axed expression on his face, because he says, “Derek, remember?” like anyone could forget Derek Hale. He’d graduated just a year ago, jetting off to NYU where there were presumably other people as hot and cool as he was. The shocking thing here is that Derek remembers Stiles. Personally, the first thing he intends to do at college is wipe the entirety of high school from his brain.
“I know,” Stiles says dumbly. “We had AP calc.” He’d gotten a special exemption to take the class his sophomore year, and that’s probably where Derek remembers him from. He’d been the youngest, easiest to pick on person in the room. Not that Derek had been anything but polite, but maybe the others’ teasing had made an impression. Or… his mouth goes dry with sudden fear. Derek must have tons of facebook friends still in Beacon Hills. There’s enough overlap between the lacrosse jocks and the basketball team that it’s not inconceivable that he’s seen the video.
“Right, with Ms. Fleming,” Derek says, and flashes a quick, devastating smile.
“Right,” Stiles echoes, weakly. Trying to play it cool while stuck in a car with the A-list celebrity of his oh-shit-I-like-dudes wet dreams is pretty fucking low on the list of things he wants right now… But then again, the absolute last thing on said list might be to walk another four hours down this shitty highway, blistering his feet and burning the back of his neck even worse than it already is. “Can I, um, get a ride?”
“I thought you had a jeep,” Derek says, and Stiles blinks in surprise that he remembers that, too.
“In the shop,” he admits. Also, my dad would abuse his power as sheriff to put out an APB on my license plate, he does not admit.
Derek opens his mouth, his eyes flicking to Stiles two bags, but then he shuts it without commenting and shrugs. “Well, get in,” he says and Stiles does.
“I’m eighteen, now, so,” Stiles says in answer to the unasked question. No, this is not kidnapping a minor. Yes, I know what I’m doing.
“‘Cool,” Derek says lightly. “Where you headed?”
“Anywhere,” Derek says with a sudden, cutting intensity, and pulls back onto the freeway with a gut-dropping swerve, gunning the engine up to 70 before Stiles even gets untangled from his bags and buckled in.