100 Marvel One Shots✔️

Right On Time >> Kraglin Obfonteri X Reader

"Don't tell Yondu," the hot-shot blurted out, a sort of blush crossing his face, "'Mora hates me, I swear, and Yondu'll only make it hard on me. Ever since his soulmate..."

Kraglin nods. "Lips are zipped, Quill."

But Yondu's protégé's lips were not zipped, and motioning to his arms, filled with permanent ink and little doodles and drawings, he added, "I go to the coffee shop next door sometimes, uh, Screamin' Beans. When I get days off, from you know, horsing around and shit. But there's a barista, with (h/c) hair, and this crazy bright smile, and she..." He frowns.

Kraglin huffs. "She what, knows tomorrow's lottery numbers?"

Peter shakes his head, probably thinking how handy it would be to be a psychic and a gambler, but the words that comes from his mouth aren't anything to do with people who know the future and/or spend money to make money, "No, K. She has pictures on her arms like you do." Peter's phone goes off, the screen lighting up with a girl with purple hair and a murderous smile. "Gotta go. Give Yondu my love, or whatever."

He nods. "Sure, or whatever."

It isn't until he's closing the soap store that Kraglin is standing alone in the sweet-smelling room that he realises that he's got a choice. Make a move now, or be left in the dirt. Loads of people don't end up with their soulmates. His parents were unquestionably soulmates, and all his life, he'd been trying to run away from the idea of having one person in the universe or at least, on Earth, who'd love him until the end of time. Sounded like a capitalist con-job or a Hallmark scam, soulmates. A story to help little kids afraid of dying alone get to sleep at night. But he knew what happened when you wait too long. Yondu was the perfect example of that, and as much as he loved his uncle, he sure as hell didn't want to end up like him.

He whipped out his phone, and sent a text to Peter. Tell your damn girl you wanna be smooshing booties or whatever, man!

Kraglin locks up the place, and all but rushes back to his place, and washes all the pen from his arms. Using nice body wash, he makes sure it's all off, all of it, all the marks and drawings and stains that changing car batteries too many times a week does to a person's skin. He's one for protecting the Earth's water supply usually, but he takes a full ten minutes soaking in the tub, rubbing it all off his body, until he ends up smelling like goddamned grapefruit.

"Please, please, don't be too late," he pleads aloud, but not sure who to. It's almost a prayer. Maybe it is. He just doesn't want to lose someone he hasn't met yet.

You wake the next morning with your bare skin as clean as it has ever been, perhaps better than anything you've ever seen it. No bruises, no pen-marks, nothing from your soulmate. It almost breaks your heart, that it's all gone, because those months where nothing was written on your skin (figuratively) made your heart almost fall right through your chest and through the floor. You tug on slippers, and push your hair from your eyes. Pop the kettle on, and grab a marker from the mug on the desk (pink). Waiting for the water to boil, you sit upon the counter, and write.

Who are you?

You place the marker down, pouring yourself a hot cup of tea, sliding toast down to slowly brown, humming a song to yourself. You almost miss the words growing on your skin, and taking a sip of your tea, you almost choke.

Kraglin Obfonteri.

Your heart stutters. A reply. A reply! At once, you scribble back your own name, trying not to show how excited you are to see a response. Before you cap your marker, though, you pause, and where all the i's are, put hearts over the dots. I'm a barista, at Screamin' Beans.

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh," you mutter aloud to nobody, heart racing a million miles a minute. "It's happening, it's happening, gosh, it's actually happening!"

I work at Starscape. You makin' coffee today?

Your poor heart almost stops. The whole soulmate phenomenon was as unpredictable as it sounded, and it sounded pretty unpredictable. Heck, you'd doubted it for most of your life. And here you were. Sitting on the kitchen bench, talking to the person who was destined to be with you.

Meet me there at midday, you scrawl back. At this, you check the clock on the wall, and screech. Your shift would start in half an hour, and apart from living across town, you'd just woken up, and you'd have to bust ass trying to get there in time. Rushing around, you abandon your tea to throw clothes on, and dry shampoo, and shoes. Picking up the marker, you add, three little words to confirm the gravity of the whole situation. Don't be late.

It's midday, and Kraglin is doing his best not to crap himself. Probably not the best way to word it, but it's true. He's nervous as hell, and when the clock turns from 11:58 to 11:59, he turns the sign on the door to the store to Closed! Be back in fifteen minutes! and walks over to Screamin' Beans as calm as he can. He feels like a teenager all over again, or at least, what he imagined a teenager to be like when they're giddy from the prospect of love and soulmates and all that schite.

It's 12:00 as he walks through the door. Inside, he sees four baristas. One is bald and wears a black turtleneck. That can't be ______, Peter had said she had (h/c) hair. One has a wedding ring. His soulmate can't be married, gosh, that would make everything so much complicated, and one has (h/c) –

"Kraglin Obfonteri?" He hears the voice on an angel call out. He turns, seeing a fifth barista, with (h/c) hair, and a kind smile, and pink marker on her arms with the same handwriting he has on his wrists. She tilts her head, a kind smile upon her lips, "Right on time."