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painsandconfusion · 6 months

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Back To Your Roots

With You - Part Fourteen

(tw: chemical burns, noncon haircut, yandere, domestic abuse, kidnapping) [Previous | Masterpost | Next]

Robin’s hair was red.

At least, it was right now. Ida assumed, anyway. She changed it a lot. Never quiet. Never simple. Never the same for more than a week at least in style, or a month in color. And she’d only had Red for two weeks now.

It was only a couple weeks ago that Robin finally convinced Ida to dye their hair.

“A little something special - to showcase who you are and how you want the world to see you. Not just how you were born,” she’d explained to them.

Ida had been wanting to for a long time. They’d stared at the midnight blue dyes on endless hours of scrolling in bed, and brushed off when Robin asked if they wanted to dye it.

“Nah,” they’d hummed, tucking their phone onto the nightstand. “It would stain my hair.”

“So?” Robin just curled up closer. “Then you can bleach it or dye it again. It’s your hair. You can do whatever you want with it.”

“..it’s too much upkeep. I’ll stick with what I have.” They’d pressed a kiss to Robin’s hand, and that was the end of that conversation.

On the other hand, Oren always loved their hair. Loved it long and straight and white as fallen snow. “That’s what makes you special,” he’d said. “It’s something unique about you - so few people look like you, why would you ever want to change that?” He’d kissed their lips, and that was the end of that conversation.

His words must have still haunted them, even years after they’d left his house, running off into the night and leaving him with a knife in his gut within crawling distance of his cellphone.

It had taken almost five whole years until Robin eased Ida into the idea of making their hair their own again. Not a trophy or a reminder of how they were so different from everyone else. Just…theirs. Nothing special. Theirs.

The hairdresser was so gentle and sweet. She’d massaged shampoo into their hair and chattered endlessly with Robin as she worked. She’d tried to pull Ida into conversation, but Ida shrugged off most of it, more than content to listen to Robin chatter about their cat and her books and the newest cardigan she’d found at the thrift store. Neon green, this time. A ‘perfect match’ for her navy skirt and royal purple scarf.

Ida so often wished they could be like her. Wished they would dare to wear bright, crazy colors and outfits made up of seven different styles. Bold enough to change their color weekly and chatter with hairdressers.

But..Ida was changing. They’d put a little color into their life now.

They’d let someone else touch their hair now.

They were outside and talking to other humans, and even getting a small strip over their left ear shaved away so they could pull the midnight blue and silver streaked mass off to one side.

It was so recent that it barely felt like a memory. It felt as it were still happening. That Oren’s fingers in their hair were the hairdresser’s. That his humming chatter was local gossip. That the aches that puckered across their flesh was just their imagination.

Oren’s voice made quick work of that breach to reality.

“You know, I’m not sure why you did this. I just really don’t understand,” he muttered, fingers tracing over their part where silvery white had started to grow underneath the midnight blue, pushing it up and out of the way.

“It’s not you at all. Were you trying to look like someone else??”

Ida stared at the kitchen wall, numb and hollow and silent.

His hands slid down their jaw and gripped it gently, tilting their head back until their eyes met his. “..that wasn’t a rhetorical question, dove.”

Ida’s stomach twisted as their eyes searched his. Trying to gauge how much danger was behind those words.

“..I wasn’t trying to look like anyone else.”

Oren frowned, thumbs brushing down their cheeks. Resting at the top, then sliding down again. Again and again and again. Petting them like a cat.

“Then why did you do it?”

Ida’s face pinched slightly. Of course he wasn’t going to go long without mentioning their hair. Why did they think they’d be able to get away with that? As if he just wouldn’t notice that their hair was blue now.

“..I…I don’t know.”

Oren sighed, leaning down over the back of the chair to press a lingering kiss to their forehead. “Precious thing,” he murmured. Nuzzling a little. “You don’t know anything when I’m not around, do you?”

Ida’s stomach was starting to churn now. Eyes squeezing gratefully shut. They’d take his lips over his eyes. Gladly.

Fingers curled in, almost bruising at the underside of their jaw as Oren’s breath warmed against their forehead. Ida strained, back aching at the angle as they squirmed away from bruising fingertips.

They hadn’t answered. Right-

“..no-”

Evidently that was good enough. His fingers unwrapped slightly, smoothing up and through their hair again. “We’re going to fix this.” With one more kiss to their forehead, he pulled back, taking their hand to guide them to standing.

Ida chewed on their lip, but followed as he wanted. Anywhere he wanted.

Evidently that was out of the room. The floorboards seemed to creak a little louder than usually as they crossed the foyer and moved up the steps. Into the bathroom.

..that wasn’t figurative, was it. He was going to get rid of the blue. Get rid of what tiny piece of Robin they had here.

Ida’s eyes burned as he dragged a chair to the sink, turning it around. He guided them to it.

Ida didn’t fight it.

How could they?

There wasn’t any stopping this, so why bother.

They just sat, hands curled around each other in their lap. Stomach in knots.

Oren turned on the tap, fingers pressed to their forehead to tilt their head back over the sink. Ida was good. They followed the push and slumped down in the seat so their head rested on the edge of they porcelain, hair ready to shift into the stream.

Oren pressed a quick kiss to their lips as he tugged their hair out into the bowl and started thoroughly wetting it. “This will be good. You’ll start feeling so much more like yourself again. Maybe you’ll start singing, hm?” He took a moment to dip and nuzzle their nose with his.

So, he wanted them singing more.

Ida took a note of that, letting their eyes close against the water and the proximity and the light in their eyes. “..maybe,” they breathed. Staying quiet.

They tried to think back to that little barber shop.

Tried to feel Robin’s hand holding theirs.

They let the world slip away, and let themself believe, if only for this moment, that the hands in their hair were that hairdressers - Ida couldn’t stop kicking themself for forgetting her name-

They imagined the radio playing crackling, distant music - a song they’d heard a million times but never remembered the words to. Country. Warm and upbeat and nostalgic.

Robin’s voice. Janet Finch plots debated, and local gossip. Not Oren’s soft humming. Not his hands. Not the smell of bleach too strong for this to be the hairdresser’s.

Tin foil. That was familiar.

Oren tore it with his teeth, wrapping lumps of hair up in the stuff before tilting them up in the chair. A washcloth dabbed at the drips that moved down their neck.

This was it. There wasn’t any stopping it now. Even if they ran and screamed and rinsed it away, the bleach had plenty of time already to damage the midnight blue that Robin had to painstakingly supported / pestered them into getting.

Ida could see her face in the darkness when their eyes were closed. Her little hands poking and prodding and fretting with how the fresh lockes laid.

Gentle.

Simple and kinda, yet bubbling with excitement and compliment.

But that was then. And this was now.

Ida’s face pinched, eyes finally opening again to look up at Oren. As the world pressed back to the scent of pine and bleach and citrus, Ida’s scalp started to tinge. Started to scratch and burn as if hair was being ripped out at the root.

Their hands lifted, distress on their face as they reached for the foil - only to be caught in Oren’s.

“Don’t touch it, it needs to sit.”

Ida felt a whine press from their throat, hands pulling against Oren’s. “..O-..Oren, it…it burns-”

He shushed them, leaning in to press a kiss to their nose. “It won’t take long. I don’t want you half green now just because it’s uncomfortable.”

Tears brimmed at Ida’s eyes as they started pulling against him in ernest. “N-no it- it’s -ssomethign’s wrong this isn’t right-”

Oren’s jaw set. Fingers tightened around their wrists until bones shifted under his grip. A pressure that promised blooming bruises by tomorrow. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. It’s already going to be ruined with how much I’ve done with it now. It’s not like you can save it.”

The tears slid hot down their face as they shriveled under his grip. “Ore, please-I-Im nnot lying - it- it hurts Oren please-”

Oren’s lips just pinched into a thin line. “It’s only going to take a few more minutes. Just relax.”

Ida’s head shook, pulling against him again. “O-ren please-”

Oren groaned, letting go of one of their hands to reach up to the foil. “Just chill, it’s n-” He stopped, frowning. Touching the foil. Again. “..why’s it so hot-?”

Ida just dissolved into sobs, free hand now clutching at his shirt. Some unknown ghost was ripping their hair off by scalpy bits, shoving flame at the tears to cauterize it. It flickered and tingled and screamed at them in a cacophony of sensation and warnings. “Ore- pl-lease-”

Oren finally let go of their other hand, shoving the foil off.

It splat into the sink easily. What should have freed them left nothing dangling down to touch their neck - even at this angle.

“..fuck,” he muttered, faucet turning on again. “Head back again, love - I’m gonna rinse this out.”

That command, they had no problem following. They shoved themself toward the water, begging it to put out the fire - even if Oren’s fingers on their scalp burned, the water soothed it and helped shove away the worst of the pain.

“..didn’t even take out half the fuckin’ color,” he grumbled, scrubbing at their scalp until Ida was crying fresh again.

They caught a glimpse of the foil as it dropped into the trash can, long strands of blue and white flickering through the air before falling out of view.

..how much was gone???

Their hands pressed over their face, shielding their eyes and stifling their sobs into muffled shadows of what they could be.

They held still.

They were good.

They didn’t move besides shifting as per his instruction as he shoved out the last of the chemical, dried their hair, and fretted with it, trying to coax what was left to frame their face.

Ida couldn’t look at him - they certainly couldn’t look in the mirror.

There was a long silence as he stared at them.

“..I’m just gonna shave it. You didn’t need it, anyway. It’ll grow back fresh and white and perfect.”

..what were they supposed to say to that.

Nothing.

They were supposed to say nothing.

They just trembled a nod, face still tucked safely into their hands. A kiss pressed to their knuckles, and he started moving.

They held still. Listening to him opening the drawer. To the chord unwinding. To the plug clicking into place. To the soft electric hum.

They whimpered, but didn’t move as the teeth of the razor scraped across furious scalp, rippling burning pain down their spine. They pulled their legs up, arms wrapping around them.

They held still.

They were quiet.

They were good.

They didn’t move or breathe more than necessary as piece after piece fell down around them and to the ground.

They’d probably be the one to clean them up later.

It barely took a minute. Then it was gone.

Everything was gone.

“Go on, dove. You can look now.” A hand slid over their hair, roaming over the half inch strands and ghosting over burns they didn’t have to see to know they were there.

Ida looked. They looked if only to appease him.

A stranger stared back at them through the glass. Eyes red and white from crying. Hair hacked down to a patchy remnant of what remained. The white strands were so thin, they barely seemed there at all.

Oren’s shirt.

Oren’s home.

Oren’s dove.

They turned, pressing their face into him. Escaping their own reflection.

Oren cooed soft laments as he scooped them up, keeping their face tucked into him as he carried them out of the bathroom. “It’s all done now. It’s all done and you did so good for me, dove.”

They clung to him even after he set them down on the bed, muffled sobs curling into his shirt even further than their fingers - their entire self buried in him. Wishing he could make the rest of the world go away. At least for a moment.

Oren was good. He obeyed them as they did him. He moved easily and smoothly, pulling them both onto the bed and moving blankets up and over Ida so they wouldn’t have to let go of him or even look up. He cradled them close, rocking back and forth a little as he pressed kisses to the edges of the burns. “It’s all done. All done now.”

This time, Ida couldn’t bring themself to pretend it was Robin’s arms holding them.

He’d never be her.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @kesskirata @wormwriting @batfacedliar-yetagain @paranoiaxagent @siren-of-agony @lwkshrav @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @pinkieglitterheart @whumpasaurus101 @shameless-dumbass @darlingwhump @whumpy-catfish)

As always, just lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

If anyone knows where heathen-whump wibbly-wobbly-whump hold-back-on-the-comfort and mable-donut went please tell :(

This is the color Ida has(d), by the way-

It's shorter and thinner, but that exact same color and fade.

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drop-pop-cola · 1 month

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Haircut

Vaguely angsty, vaguely dimicae. Sth i've worked on on and off for a while LOL

The battle has gone on for far too long. Like the ebb and flow of the tide, for every strong push they give, the enemy pushes back. Weaker, but damn near enough to knock them on their ass. Caedric is beginning to grow frantic, his body and mind tiring quickly as he urges spell after spell through the blade of his sword. His surroundings are beginning to blur together, ally and enemy blending into a din of armor and shouts.

He does not sense the threat behind him until it is too late, until his head snaps back violently. A sharp sting tears through his scalp.

The small handful of hair the enemy soldier has is quickly reinforced. They grab more of the dark tendrils in their filthy glove until only a few strands are left loose.

"Lose your hair tie, mage?" They jeer, and Caedric feels another sharp yank. This one makes him curse. His sword slips from his grip as he reaches for his head, falling useless in the grass.

The enemy pulls him closer still, forcing Caedric to totter backwards and stumble. Another horrid tearing sensation as he falls to the ground, with the soldier still holding his hair aloft.

"Well, makes my job easier."

He does not need to see the man to know he's reaching for a knife. His head is forced upright, his neck straight and tensed, exposed.

There are many ways out of this situation. A teleportation spell, grabbing the hand with his own and sending lightning up the arm, forcing himself back up and spinning around to just tear into the bastard.

But his body is too tired. His mind is too drained to summon even a spark, his legs are a tantruming child, refusing to rise from the ground.

The sound of a blade pulled from a sheath, the cold press of steel against his neck, these barely register in Caedric's mind.

There is one last option. But the thought alone makes his stomach turn to stone.

"Any last words, Mage?"

And yet he must. For even a cornered beast can only be prodded so many times. He grits his teeth, and in one last burst of desperate energy, he reaches for his own dagger.

He tries not to think as he rips it from its sheath, arching it upwards through the air.

There is a soft tearing sound as the blade runs through thousands of strands in a matter of seconds. The enemy soldier is stunned for a moment as the hair in his hands is disconnected from the rest, but a moment is all Caedric needs. With new anger fueling his movements, he forces himself to rise. He does not bother finding his sword just yet, there is no time. Caedric turns on his heels, dagger swinging blindly until it connects somewhere in the soldier’s torso. He finishes the turn, facing the man now, and he tries to ignore the hair still clutched in his fist. My hair.

The soldier grunts in pain, letting the hair finally fall, and Caedric cries out in anger as he watches it form a pile in the dirt. MY HAIR. Again the dagger swings, embedding in a shoulder, again, the chest, again, the collarbone. Again. Again. Again. The soldier crumbles, first to his knees, then to his elbows, and then his face hits the earth. It is unlikely he will rise again.

And yet Caedric has no time to process, to think, the next enemy awaits.

It had been a life or death choice. But as Caedric tangles his fingers into the ends of his hair, he almost wishes he had chosen death.

Mercedes had done her best with a small pair of scissors; she had cleared the remaining long strands and cleaned up the ragged edges. He had tried not to watch the last of the dark strands flutter down around him, but the truth can only be ignored for so long. His hair no longer sits at hip length, instead it now rests right below his shoulders. He runs his hands through his hair again, stopping to tug at the ends of it, as if trying to pull it back to its previous length. With a heavy sigh of sorrow he flops against Nobelle. Caedric does not move after that, once more finding his well of strength empty.

"You need to eat, love." A voice comes from his side. Moving only his eyes he looks over to see Dimitri, holding a bundled cloth likely filled with tonight's rations.

"Give it to Nobelle. I'm not hungry."

"Not hungry? After the battle we had? At least take some bread or-"

"I'm not hungry."

Caedric says again, loud enough this time to draw the attention of those at the edge of camp. Dimitri falters at the bite in his voice. Mercedes had warned him he likely needed space. He sets the small bundle on the ground beside Caedric.

“Please, try to eat something, won’t you?” The blond says, before retreating back to the others.

Dimitri can feel the aura emanating from Caedric's room the minute he steps into the hallway. He’s certain he can feel it at night too, through their shared wall. It feels almost oppressive, growing thicker as he moves closer to the door. Still he presses onwards.

"Caedric?" He calls as he raps on the door. "Love? It's me."

"Go away." The voice holds no malice but the words still sting.

"Please bat, it's been days. Let me see you."

There's a beat of silence, but Dimitri hears the latch click.

He slips in quickly and shuts the door behind him. Caedric sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his hands. His gaze meets Dimitri's for a moment before flitting back to the floor. The air is stale, and the room itself lies in greater disarray than usual, as though Caedric hasn't been keeping up with his usual chaotic organization. A plate sits on his desk, a few crumbs and an apple core on top of it. At least he’s been eating.

"You can't stay cooped up in here forever." Dimitri says. "You've missed meals, meetings, chores."

"I know." Caedric responds meekly. The bed sinks further as the blond sits next to him. An arm around his shoulders does not bring its usual comfort. “I just don’t want to be seen like this.”

“Well, why not?” Dimitri is still unsure of what to say “I think you still look just fine.”

“I don’t want to look ‘just fine’. I want my hair back.”

An appeal to ego was not the correct choice, he can feel Caedric begin to bristle.

“Really, love, it is just hair. It’ll grow back, after all.” Dimitri says.

And he could not have said anything worse.

Harsh and sudden, Caedric pushes off the bed, turning back so he now looks down upon Dimitri. His eyes are almost aglow with anger.

“It is not ‘just hair’!” He speaks through gritted teeth. “It was the only thing I had. My body was their connection to the golems. My blood, their connection to the beasts. But my hair? My hair was mine. And now? Now it’s gone!”

And just like that, realization sinks in once more. His face falls, eyes going dull. Caedric stumbles to his desk chair.

“It’s gone.” he moans, collapsing into the seat and burying his face in his hands. “It’s gone.”

“I’m sorry- I hadn’t realized-” Dimitri starts.

“Just go.” Caedric cuts him off, his voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

“Please, little bat,”

“Just go.”

#op writing #ship: dimicae #u kno that scene in howl moving castle where he freaks out abt his hair color and then just melts into ooze? yeah

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

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Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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sinfulcider · 3 years

Text

Let me cut your hair

Parings: Bucky x Fem!reader

Summary: Bucky has neglected getting his hair cut for a few months and when his friend (who he has feelings for, but he somehow always forgets to mention that part) and him have some time off in the midst of a mission, waiting for a breakthrough, she offers to cut his hair for him.

Warnings: implied smut! Some fluff, I think that’s all.

Bucky grimaced a bit as he looked in the mirror, he hadn’t really noticed how long his hair had gotten. Of course, bucky’s hair was still much shorter than it used to be, but with how busy he’d been in the past months his hair grew out into a bit of an awkward state. He didn’t have much going on today though, him and Y/n were staying in waiting for a breakthrough and Sam was visiting with Sarah while he had the time.

Y/n knew how to cut hair, he had seen her cut her own many tims in the years he’d known her. Though she had skill, and he trusted her with his own life, let alone his hair, but he could never bring himself to ask her for a haircut.

With a heavy sigh he brushed it of and figured he’d get a haircut after they were done with everything. He flicked of the light and set his destination to the coffee pot in the kitchen, leaving the bathroom and swiftly moving to his desired area. “Hello.” Y/n greeting him with a warm smile, the soft kind of smile that made his heart melt in an instant. She could turn Bucky into a puddle of a man with one look and he loved it, but he hated it because he couldn’t tell her. He was terrified of the power she had over him and how much he was absolutely, overwhelmingly overcome with adoration and admiration for her.

Bucky gulped, pulling himself from the fuzzy warm feeling in his head that made his want to watch her face for the next five hours. “Hi,” his voice came out quieter than he’d expected, it was a bit timid, worried. His voice calmed Y/n though, grounding her in the foggy morning that made her head pound in worry for how the day might play out. Seeing him in front of hr and hearing him acknowledge her made her feel hope for a good experience.

Y/n sipped her coffee in content as her eyes followed the tall man before her, she watched him pour his coffee and rub the sleep from his eyes. Her smile never left her lips and she nearly felt giddy at seeing his beautiful face this early, despite having been near him in the mornings before the feeling never withered away. His eyes met hers once he’d gulped down a swig of coffee, the bright blue becoming fully visible and brightened as his eyes widened a bit “What?” She shrugged, “nothing.” He tilted his head like a curious puppy, making her heart flip. “You’re just pretty.” She chuckled, watching the light rose color dust his cheeks.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly feeling flustered at the compliment. Y/n’s eyes wandered to his messy hair that had grown over his ear a bit too much, dark tufts of hair sticking up her and there. She craved to run her hands through the soft locks and maybe even have the privilege of cutting it, feeling it wet as she washed it in preparation and ran her fingers over his scalp, snipping at the end just enough to bring it back to it’s cleaner style, and watching his face scrunch as she dried it.

“Hey- Bucky..” she used a curious tone, grabbing his attention once again. His heart raced a bit every time she asked him a question, out of excitement, fear, worry, wonder, he wasn’t sure. “Hm?” He nearly trembled in his voice, he couldn’t understand why he was so affected. “Can I cut your hair? If you want of course I don’t know if you wanted to keep growing it out or..”

Could Y/n read his mind? It’s like she always knew when h needed or wanted something. She always appeared to be on the same wavelength as him and it baffled him at how connected she seemed to be to him. “Uh- um.” he stammered trying to find his response, “Yeah I was actually just thinking about needing a haircut.” “Ah, we’re in sync.” She hopped off of her sat, mug in hand. He chuckled at her playful tone watching her move around to the living room that the kitchen opened up to.

Placing a seat onto a towel and grabbing her supplies sh patted the cushion, inviting Bucky to sit down. Once seated she draped a second towel over his shoulders, ruffling his hair before turning away again. “Hey now.” he laughed, “Oh hush.” She spritzed his hair, wetting it enough for it to drip and began working.

Her wishes had come true, it was almost a dream the way she got to feel through his hair, pulling it gently and snipping the ends. Ruffling the areas she worked on to let it fall correctly. Although it was going well, she had an issue in the front with getting at a good angle, unable to comfortably hold her hands to cut. “What’s wrong?” Bucky could see her struggle a bit, worry setting in more as seconds passed. “Nothing I just, can’t get close enough comfortably.” A nervous half laugh fell from her lips, he felt the air his his face softly. He blushed enough as it was everytime she grabbed his face gently to move his head and look at his hair, and his heartrate rose everytime she leaned in close enough for her scent to flood his senses, But when the thought that just formed passed his mind it was almost too much for him to handle.

He tried to think of the words to use to invite her onto his lap in an appropriate way, not wanting to make her uncomfortable but he simply opened his arms in an inviting way with a shrug. He could she Y/n think about it and almost heard her say “Fuck it, why not?” in her head before placing herself over his legs. Her legs were on both sides of his own and his hands rested on her thighs in attempt to keep her balanced.

Bucky’s breathing was shallow and shaky, his heart felt like it was about to break out of his chest and lap into her own, his hands shook in their place a little and his eyes searched every inch of every other area away from Y/n.

In finishing the haircut Y/n pulled away a bit to look over him one last time, searching for any imperfections that needed fixing in her work. She gulped when her eyes met his, nearly falling into them and their stl blue beauty. She flashed a smiled to him, setting the scissors on a table next to them,”I can hear you hear beating out of your chest.” A light chuckle danced on her tongue. He inhaled deeply through his mouth, no words breaking past the lump in his throat. Bringing the towel off of his shoulders, Y/n shook it off onto the towel beneath them and ruffled his hair dry. His nose scrunched up and his eyes squeezed shut in a way that made Y/n melt all over again.

Y/n pinched his chin a bit, warm smile still playing at her lips “I’m done. You still look pretty.” a closed mouth grin flashed across his face and his eyes flicked to her lips. “You are too.” Her grin grew and before Bucky could process his own actions he leaned forward, crashing his lips to hers. Y/n immediately kissed back, their mouths moving together perfectly.

The kiss was passionate and gre hungrier with every passing second. Bucky’s flesh hand rose to hold her face and his metal hand pulled her closer by the small of her back while she wrapped her arms around his neck. Once the kiss broke for much needed air and her hands moved to his still slightly damp hair, he moved down her neck to her collar bone, biting gently. The sensation shot hat straight to Y/n’s core, making her gasp. With a roll of her hips she elicated a small moan from Bucky, she could feel him growing hard against her heat and it made her yearn for more.

“Barnes I think it’d be wise if we moved this to my bedroom.” He grinned devilishly, placing o more kiss to Y/n’s lips before picking her up and bringing her towards the room.

#bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky barns x reader #bucky barns x y/n #bucky fanfic #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff

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panda-noosh · 3 years

Text

taste test {kaz brekker x reader}

there are guests today.

little information was given to you, but you don’t mind; you’re not here to entertain anyone. you’re here to do your job and move on. who the king associates with is honestly none of your concern.

you’ll leave the assassins to the royal guards.

you wake on the day to witness the palace in hysterics. chefs bustle around like headless chickens, maids and butlers ironing uniforms that have not had a crinkle in them since the war. the scent of food - a cacophany of it - rises to the surface, making you crinkle your nose at the onslaught of different options. all you want is a slice of toast to prepare you for the day, but the thought of walking into that kitchen has you cuddling up in bed for a few minutes longer.

you’ll have to eat that food pretty soon. just a small bite, just enough to get a taste. a hint.

you close your eyes.

the peace doesn’t last long, because it never does. a knock sounds at your door, startling you from your reverie. you roll over, not even bothering to cover yourself when you call out, “come in!”

a palace guard - rico - peaks his bald head round the door and raises a brow. “still sleeping?”

“clearly not.”

“good. you need to be up and at your post in thirty minutes; we have guests today.”

you pull the quilt over your head. “don’t remind me.” you peak an eye over the top, raising a brow. “who are the guests?”

rico narrows his eyes. “you haven’t been told?”

“well, no. i never really asked.”

“then i’ll leave it as a surprise.” he claps his hands, like you’re some kind of dog. “get ready. i don’t want to come back up here again.”

“then don’t,” you reply, but he’s already disappeared.

you drag yourself from bed to do as he ordered. there’s no point arguing with the palace guards - they seem to think they own the place, even though they live basically under the thumb of every other individual walking the grounds. even you, the lowest of the low, can manipulate them into doing what you want if you just try hard enough. a few sweet words and a confident tone, and they’re like putty in your hands.

but the truth is, you don’t care enough about todays events to put on that confident tone. you pull your clothes on, fiddle with your bow tie, and head downstairs to see what the day has in store for you.

breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

a risky day ahead.

you’re required to be at the kings side long before the guests arrive. you’ve never questioned it. the rules of the palace have never made any sense to you, but you go along with them, because you don’t want to get into any more trouble than you already have. that’s why you find yourself stood by the kings side in silence, hands clasped in front of you, trays of delicious breakfast foods being delivered by hasty, sweaty porters.

the dining room is swathed in beautiful decor. banners hang from the ceiling, red and gold colours matching the grand wallpaper all around. the fancy carpet has been rolled out, tucked beneath the long, mahogany dining table and stretching all the way to the double doors ready to greet the guests.

even the king is dressed well for the occasion, which is another surprise. though the king hardly looks like a peasant, he makes a point to put in as little effort with his appearance as possible, just to show people that he can get anyone to fear him from personality alone. his riches and fancy fabrics have nothing to do with his power.

but today he wears his finest silk coat, the buttons straining against his round stomach. his beard has been freshly trimmed, and you watch his hand rock back and forth amongst the hairs. a few stray ones float from his chin to the table, and you quickly swipe them away. the king doesn’t even notice; he continues staring at the doors, one dark skinned knuckle tight around the arms of his throne-like chair.

finally, after what feels like forever, the double doors up ahead are pushed open. two palace guards dressed in red hold them in place, and a man is ushered in.

a man you recognise immediately.

he’s got a cane now, which is different. there’s those gloves on his hands, the sides of his head still shaved, with that shaggy, dark mess still perched on top, a school boys haircut that looks most out of place on someone with blood on his hands. he’s frowning, because that’s what kaz brekker does - the king shows his power through his booming voice and cruel choices. kaz brekker shows his power through his expressions.

you don’t meet his eyes, though you don’t look away. kaz has his gaze on the king, not even noticing you standing at his side, and for that you are thankful; you don’t think you want to look into those blue eyes again. you promised yourself you wouldn’t, not before the nightmares disappear.

the king slowly stands. he rubs his beard one final time for good measure before saying, “you’re late, kaz.”

“call me mr brekker,” kaz replies, before gesturing to an empty seat at the end of the table - the seat farthest from the king. “shall we sit?”

you swallow; you’re familiar with this attitude from him, but you’ve been in the kings presence too long now to pretend kaz isn’t on thin ice.

the king, however, is clearly in a docile mood, as he nods and sits down. the food in the centre of the table goes unnoticed for a while as the two stare at each other, waiting for the other to crack and begin the conversation. you fiddle with your fingers, uncertain whether kaz has seen you, whether he recognises you, whether he’s just keeping a straight face because he’s kaz, and he’s a professional.

finally, the king clicks his fingers at you. “stack my plate. you know the drill.”

you burst into action, bustling round the table, scooping up different assortments of breakfast foods you know the king enjoys; he’s got his bacon, and his eggs, and the bread, pancakes on the side. you slather beans along the rim of his plate and place a single hash brown in the residue, just as he likes it.

and then you sit down, and pick apart the entire thing.

you can feel kaz’s eyes burning into you as you work, but you pay him no attention. you have to focus, because this is kind of a life or death situation. you sniff the food first, though this very rarely shows you anything you might need to worry about. it’s too fresh, still warm in your fingers when you lift it to your nose. you can smell only the warmth of it all, but you take the precaution anyway, just to show the king you know what you’re doing.

and then you nibble the edges, heart thumping with nerves rather than poison entering your body. that’s what you’re looking for - poison, an assassination attempt. even in his own palace, the king is paranoid. his own staff have turned against him before. you’re not entirely surprised.

you chew, swallow, pause, repeat.

“all clear.”

you hand the plate back, tuck your hands in your lap and look down at the table at kaz. he’s staring at you, an eyebrow raised, and you understand immediately that he recognises you, probably knew you worked here before he even entered the premise.

was he here for you?

you banish the thought and look away. you wait until the king has started digging in before excusing yourself and exiting, your job for the morning complete. at lunch, you will have to repeat the process, and again at dinner, but until then, you have the morning to yourself.

you walk through the gardens, because fresh air is all you need right now. your heart is hammering, and you curse yourself for it - kaz brekker has not been in your life for months. he shouldn’t have a grip on you. he shouldn’t even know you are here, and yet he does, because of course he does. kaz doesn’t step foot anywhere until he knows the ins-and-outs of the entire place. he keeps his ducks all in a neat row, and you were a fool to believe you had escaped it.

it’s not like kaz is a bad man. he’s evil, certainly, with horrible actions under his belt, but you can understand his reasoning. he kills a man, and maybe that’s an overexaggeration, but the man was also seconds away from traumatising a poor woman walking home from work. kaz takes a life, saving the day in the process. it’s how he works, how he’s always worked for as long as you’ve known him.

and you’ve known him for a while.

you haven’t been by his side in months, but someone like kaz brekker is someone you never forget. once you know kaz, you never stop knowing him, which is a curse more than anything else. oh, how you wish you could wipe the slate clean, pretend you never got involved with him and his gang in the first place. but that was your decision - your stupid, careless decision - and you need to face the consequences.

having him here, at your place of work, was a consequence.

you sit down by the stream just outside the palace grounds. a duckling struts past, paying you no attention whatsoever. a stray lilipad floats gently through the water, spurred on by the tiny breeze ketterdam has for you today.

you like to come here sometimes, just to clear your head a little bit. nobody else bothers with the nice scenery and the nature; they think it’s a waste of time. if it wasn’t for the gardener, this place would be a wasteland, left to shrivel and disappear into shadow. you’re thankful it’s been kept pleasant, though - it’s a good place for someone who wants to have no thoughts for a little while.

you lean down and run your fingertips along the water. it’s cold, and a weed gets tangled between your fingers. you lift it from the water with a wince, flicking your wrist to get it off-

a cane clamps down on your fingers, shoving your hand into the grass.

you inhale sharply, straightening up but not turning around.

“so easy to startle,” kaz hums. “you’re losing your touch, y/n.”

you twist your hand and catch the bottom of his cane, using it to pull yourself to your feet. kaz doesn’t stumble, but you never expected him to; kaz doesn’t stumble. he’s much too stubborn for that.

you whirl around, and there he is, that frown on his face, his head tilted like he’s analysing you even before you’ve said two words. a heat festers in your belly. you don’t know if you want to hug him or slam your fist into his nose.

“so this is where you ended up, is it?” he glances at the grand gardens, the glistening lake, the ducklings swimming past. “you’ve surprised me, i gotta say. i never thought you’d be into such grandeur.”

you fold your arms over your chest, cheeks heating up. you will admit, the palace is certainly not the place you thought to find yourself, either; after living in the barrel your entire life, you had grown used to dirt stained clothes, weeks without washing, hunger pains. this was different. this was a different type of hell, a hell in fancy clothes.

“cat got your tongue?” kaz continues, swinging that stupid cane back and forth. “shame. i think we have a lot to talk about.”

“why are you here?”

“ah, asking the right questions now!”

“just tell me, kaz. tell me, and then we can go our separate ways - just like you wanted.”

his expression falters for a moment, so quick that it’s clear he doesn’t want you noticing the power you still have over him, even just a little.

“fine,” he says. “let’s walk.”

you do just that, hands tucked into pockets, head tilted down. it’s easier to talk to him when you’re not subject to his facial expressions, too - handling both of them is too much.

“you want to know why i’m here,” he begins. “i’m here looking for you.”

your stomach drops, even though that was kind of what you were expecting.

he pauses, giving you a chance to fill in the silence with your own thoughts, but you don’t even look up.

he barrels on. “we had a tip-off from someone that you were working here now. no one else believed it, but me? i know you a little better than them. i was surprised, but i could picture it. you’ve always been irrational when you’re desperate.”

you wince. “you don’t know me at all, kaz.”

he smiled at the sky in response, like you had walked into his trap.

“i hope you didn’t come here thinking you can coax me back to the barrel,” you continue. “that’s not going to happen.”

his jaw clenches, head still tilted towards the sun. his skin is a little darker now, a little more tan. he’s probably been out and about, you think, causing havok in the sunshine, ruining people’s holidays because he can.

“i thought you would say that,” he says. “so i’m bringing the problem to you.”

you nearly stumble. “what?” freezing in the middle of the path, you grab his arm and whirl him around, forcing him to look at you. “what have you done, kaz? what problem?”

“she asked for you.”

“kaz-”

“inej is sick.”

your breath falters. those words, so simple, yet so . . . unexpected. inej ghafa - the wraith, your best friend, the girl designed to be indestructible. that’s why kaz picked her. that’s why she worked alongside you. that’s what made you the best damn crew in ketterdam.

“sick.”

kaz nods, shrugging his arm from your grip. “sick. ill. not well. poorly. whatever you want to call it. she’s not doing good, and the only person she’s asking for is you.”

“so where is she?” you whirl around. “is she here?”

“not walking alongside us, no.”

you scowl. “i mean at the palace, kaz. is she at the palace?”

“she will be.” kaz pulls a golden watch from his pocket. “in about three hours. that should give your employer plenty of time to set my room up and make some space in the hospital wing, don’t you think?”

you close your eyes, trying desperately to steady the thumping of your heart. he could be lying, and you know that, but what if he isn’t? what is inej really is on her death bed, and you never even got to say goodbye?

the thought terrifies you to the point your hands begin to tremble. when you open your eyes, kaz is staring at them, and you’re almost certain there is something close to pity sparking there.

you quickly snap your arms behind your back and nod. “fine. okay. i’ll see her. but once i’ve done what i can, you leave. both of you.”

kaz studies your face. the fire in your stomach burns even brighter, forcing you to look away and keep walking.

kaz follows, all soft footsteps. “i’m not here to bring up the past, y/n. i hope you know that.”

“you can understand why i find that hard to believe.”

“well, yes. but i’m serious. what we had, it means nothing now. you’re a different person, and so am i. we can let it go.”

you swallow the lump in your throat, trying to pretend those words are exactly what you wanted to hear. but a knot twists in your heart, almost to the point of pain.

you take a deep breath and glance at him over your shoulder. he’s only a few steps behind, but his presence is so large, so there that you nearly trip.

and then you say, “we never had anything, kaz. remember that.”

----

it’s like you’re trying to hurt each other.

that’s how it’s always been between you and kaz, but at one point, it felt natural. it was a bit of fun. a few snide remarks here and there, followed by kaz confessing he thinks your eyes are a very pretty colour. a bit of sparring, followed by you telling kaz he’s the most important person in your life.

this time, however, the mere sight of him is a torment, one you don’t find fun in the slightest.

the king tasks you with leading kaz through the palace. this was a job you fully expected to be given, but it doesn’t make it any easier. kaz stops to examine every little thing, tracing his fingers along artefacts you would be murdered for touching.

you swat his hand away when he reaches for a bust of the kings father. “stop it. if you knock that over, he’ll have you hanged.”

kaz raises a brow before touching a gloved fingertip to the stone. you groan and march off, trying to ignore the butterflies at the sound of his soft, hidden chuckle echoing behind you.

you show him his room, a beautifully decorated space much grander than any room the king has ever given you. kaz whistles when he walks in, looking at the wine bucket on his chest of drawers, and the freshly made bed with the thick linens, and a view to die for.

“spoiled,” he says.

you roll your eyes. “i’ll leave you to get comfortable.”

“or.” he whirls, catching your arm. his fingers slot in the crook of your elbow, the leather of his gloves sparking unwanted familiarity within you. “you can stay, and we can talk some more.”

“i have things to do, kaz.” you rip your arm from his grip. “the king will be having lunch soon, and i need to be there.”

kaz scoffs, slowly sliding the knot out of his tie and slipping it from beneath his collar, like undressing in front of you is no big deal. “so you can do what? potentially die? you know, y/n, i once thought you were a tough son of a bitch, but the longer i’m here, the more i’m realising just how weak you are.”

ouch.

“we’ve all got to make a living somehow,” you reply. “you murder people, i keep the king safe.”

“the same king you wanted to assassinate a few months ago?” he tilts his head, pursing his lips. “what a drastic change of heart.”

“go to hell, kaz.”

he raises a hand. “wait for me outside; i’ll come to lunch with you and your king.”

you pause. “has he invited you?”

“i don’t need an invite.”

“you’re not permitted to be there-”

“i’ll be there.” he starts unbuttoning his shirt. “i want to watch you in action. you’ve always been very good in action.” he smirks, and you know he’s just teasing you, trying to get a reaction. your cheeks heat up, but you quickly turn on your heel and scurry out before he can notice.

you don’t wait on him outside. instead, you hurry to the dining hall, where the king is already seated. he looks up when you enter, fingers already tangled in his beard. his wife sits beside him, grand and tall and everything a queen should be. she scowls when you enter, but you ignore her, immediately taking your seat by the king and fanning a napkin over your lap.

“sorry,” you say. “kaz brekker kept me.”

“it’s mr brekker,” the queen snaps. “have some respect for our guests.”

“y/n can call me kaz.”

you close your eyes, listening to the thump of his feet and cane against the carpet.

“y/n can call me kaz,” he repeats, lowering himself in the chair at the head of the table. “mr brekker is a little too formal for them.”

“mr brekker,” the queen exclaims, fanning her reddening face. “i wasn’t aware you would be joining us for lunch!”

you nearly roll your eyes at her flustered state - okay, so kaz is attractive. he’s also half her age.

kaz leans back in his seat, tapping his fingertips together. “oh, no, i’m not eating. i’m just here to observe.” at the confused silence, he shrugs. “i have nothing better to do, and i’ve always been fascinated with the hobbies y/n takes on. such a talented soul they are.”

you’ve never heard kaz speak so formal before, and you have half a mind to laugh. instead, you glance over to see his own lips trembling in his attempts to keep a straight face - he finds this just as amusing as you do. messing with the royals, it’s all a game to him. they are the fools.

“do you two know each other?” the king asks, handing you his stacked plate.

“no,” you snap. kaz grins behind his glove, staring at you over his fingers as you hasten to add, “no, we don’t. i just met him today.”

the king nods slowly, not quite sure whether to believe you or not. you don’t give him a chance to doubt any further before picking up your knife and fork and cutting a small chunk from a slice of tofu. you go through the usual routine with everything on his plate, but all the while, kaz stares. you feel his eyes like a fire sinking into the side of your face, putting you off from paying proper attention. you pop the cut-off’s in your mouth and chew, turning to meet his gaze, as if making eye contact with him is some kind of power move. however, he actually looks a bit. . . worried? concerned? you’ve never seen that expression on his face before, and it makes your stomach flip as you swallow the food.

you give a final nod, handing the plate back to the king. you repeat the process with the queen before standing, straightening your trousers and excusing yourself.

kaz’s chair screeches as he stands.

“mr brekker, would you not care for some lunch?” the queen asks.

“no.” he turns and follows you out the dining room, catching your arm when you try and run. “what the hell?”

you spin, snatching your arm away. “can you stop grabbing me?”

“what happens if their food actually has been poisoned?”

“then i get poisoned.”

he raises a brow, skin paling. “and do they have someone on hand for if that happens?”

“on hand to do what?”

“don’t play stupid, y/n. on hand to save your fucking life.”

you scowl; it’s been a long time since you’ve heard kaz curse, and it shames you to feel the same thrill run over you.

“i get sent to the infirmary,” you reply. “but it’s never happened before.”

“never happened-” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “this is the kind of life you want to live? you left the barrel for this?”

“no life is as bad as the barrel.”

kaz’s lips tighten, eyes fluttering closed for the briefest moment before he opens them again and says, “you left the place where people loved you, cared about you, and you came here. to this shit hole. you’re risking your life for them, and you have the nerve to tell me this life isn’t as bad as the barrel?”

even to you it sounds ridiculous, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

“the barrel wasn’t a life,” you say. “the barrel was a beginning for me, but i’ve moved on.”

“you don’t move on from that.”

“maybe not mentally, but i can damn well get away physically.” you lean in, lowering your voice. “i just wish you’d let me.”

his eyes scan your face, drawing attention to just how close you are to him. his breath fans your cheeks. you can make out every line on his lips, every crease in his face. you could lean forward if you wanted to, close that distance.

you step back, once again straightening your trousers. “tell me when inej arrives and i’ll come meet her in the infirmary.”

kaz doesn’t say anything. he watches you leave, and part of you - a retched, traitorous part - is disappointed he doesn’t follow.

----

inej really is sick.

“so it’s true,” you say, sauntering into the infirmary. “the wraith has been beaten.”

you’re trying to jest, but there’s little humour to be felt when she looks like that. her dark skin is pale and sickly, warm drops of sweat clinging to her forehead and rolling down her neck. she’s dressed in only a thin night gown, revealing collar bones and stretched skin where her muscles once were.

she looks up, bloodshot eyes meeting your own, and even in sickness, she manages a smile when she sees you. that’s enough to have you breaking. you rush to her bedside and bundle her in your arms, nearly sobbing with relief at the feel of her pressed against you, her hands in your hair, her mouth inches from your ear.

she whispers, “it’s you.”

you pull away, nodding. “yes. it’s me.”

“what are you doing here?”

you pull a chair over and sit down. “that’s not important.”

“yes, it is.”

“i’ll explain later.” you lean forward, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. “you talk first; what’s going on?”

inej coughs into her elbow; something rattles in your throat, and you try desperately to hide your wince. “i just got sick. i fell in the brig a few days ago, and i don’t think the water was very healthy.”

“of course it wasn’t,” you grumble. “it’s the barrel, you stupid girl. what did you expect?”

“i cleaned myself pretty well afterwards,” she defends.

“clearly not well enough.” you place a hand to her cheek. “has anyone come to see you?”

“some man in a coat,” she replies, nuzzling down in the pillows. “he checked my temperature and my blood pressure and all that stuff. said he’d be back soon.”

“and he didn’t seem . . . concerned?”

inej shrugs. “i didn’t look him in the eye. men like him don’t sit right with me, y/n. i let him do his job, but i’m not looking at him. i’m not giving him ideas.”

you nod. there is a silence, but those are okay between you and inej.

finally, you reach over and take her hand. her palms are clammy, cold, but her grip is strong.

“i’m sorry i wasn’t there to help you.”

her head snaps around, eyes widening. “y/n-”

“i know you always say you understand why i left, but it’s just. . . i don’t know. i feel guilty about it. i feel selfish sometimes, and you’ve had to travel all the way here whilst you’re in this state all because i wasn’t there to-”

“has kaz been making you feel guilty?”

your mouth snaps closed. “i don’t. . . i don’t think so?”

inej sighs, head dropping back into the pillows. “don’t listen to him. i understand why you left; i always have. kaz just. . . i don’t think he ever got over it when you disappeared. it was like a part of him went with you.” she shrugs. “a part of him did go - you.”

silence again, because you have no idea how to respond to that. kaz was hurt when you left, and you know that, but he’s kaz. he’s tough. he’s been through everything a person should never have to go through. the thought of his final straw being you is almost laughable to think about.

“he loved you,” inej continues, even though you don’t want her to. “he really, really loved you.”

“past tense,” you whisper. “not any more.”

inej smiles sadly, and that’s all you need to see to understand you’re right - he’s moved on. he’s here with you now, but that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. he’s here on business. he doesn’t care about you, and he said it himself - whatever the two of you had is gone, non-existent. you thought you had come to terms with that, but seeing the confirmation on inej’s face makes you feel suddenly exhausted.

“well this isn’t about kaz and i,” you say, pulling your shoulders back. “come on. tell me what’s been going on since i left.”

---

you’re trying to sleep when you hear the bang.

trying being the key word. always. every night, you put your best efforts into drifting to sleep, but it never seems to work how you want it to. you toss and turn for hours on end, drifting in and out of your associative state, but not really falling asleep. time just passes, and then it’s day time, and you’re working again.

tonight is no different.

the bang is loud, just next door to your room. your ears immediately prick - the palace guards aren’t moving towards it. you’re already awake, so you may as well see to it yourself.

you swing your legs out of bed, grab your dressing gown and walk into the hallway. glancing back and forth, you see nothing out of the ordinary.

the bang sounds again.

you narrow your eyes, walking further down the hallway. turning a corner, the bang sounds one final time before a pair of shoes flies at the wall and crashes to the floor in a heap.

you rush forward, eyes wide. “what the-”

kaz spins, another pair of expensive shoes already in his hand. “oh. did i wake you?”

dazed, you snatch the shoes into your possession and toss them to the floor. “what the fuck are you doing, kaz? people are trying to sleep!”

“i was also trying to sleep,” kaz replies. “i am one of those people, so why are you yelling at me?”

you rub your eyes in frustration - sometimes talking to him is like pulling teeth.

“oh, come on,” kaz says. “i was just doing a bit of late night cleaning. this room is a fucking shit hole.”

you raise a brow, sighing. “what are you on about? this room was pristine when you came.”

“yeah, well, i thought so too. and then i found this.” he motions for you to enter the room, and though you know it’s a bad idea, you do so. he hooks his foot around something beneath his bed, and pulls out a box overflowing with expensive shoes.

you narrow your eyes. “what’s the problem?”

“rich men shoes,” he says, like that explains everything. after knowing kaz as deeply as you do, it kind of does make sense.

you sigh again, kicking the box back beneath the bed. “go to sleep, kaz.”

“i can’t.”

“try.”

“you know i can’t.”

you pause, overcome with a sudden chill. you wrap the dressing gown tighter around your body, trying to refrain from looking at him - he’s still dressed in the fancy clothes he wore this morning, but the top button is pulled loose, and his hair is a mess. his eyes droop a little, evidence that he really wants to sleep, but genuinely just can’t.

and you know why.

“i’m not asking you to stay with me,” he continues, grabbing a pair of socks from the floor. “i’m just saying - you have no right telling me to sleep when you know what it’s like.”

“are they bad again?”

kaz purses his lips. “they’ve been bad for a while.”

a while. that’s how he always phrases it. when he says it’s been a while, he means it’s been a while since you left the crows, left him.

you swallow, looking to the ceiling like the intricate design will give you clarity. “i can get you tea or something. a fresh blanket. whiskey.”

“trying to get me drunk?”

“kaz, i’m serious.” you meet his eyes. “you look terrible.”

he laughs, a sly sound that reeks more of danger than amusement. “thank you.”

“let me get you something.” you turn, but he catches your elbow. you glance back just as he drops his hand like your flesh has burned him, an uncharacteristic redness adorning his cheeks.

“didn’t mean to touch you,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “but i’m serious; i don’t need anything. it’s useless anyway.”

everything is useless. every remedy he’s ever been given has never worked. the only remedy for insomnia that has worked for kaz brekker is you.

but you can’t do that to him. you can’t do that to yourself.

“okay,” you mumble. “just. . . stop making so much noise, alright?”

“did i really wake you?”

“i couldn’t sleep either.”

you stare at each other. it’s like you’re waiting for the other to break. you hate that you kind of want him to break.

his adams apple bobs. “make yourself some tea, then. i’ll be a bit quieter.”

you nod. “thanks.”

“how’s inej, by the way? did you see her?”

“i did. she seems. . . okay.” you shrug. “the doctors are going to do everything they can to help her get back to normal. then you can go back to the barrel.”

kaz nods, though his movements are slower this time around, shoulders a little more slumped. neither of you say anything else as you walk out, tugging your dressing gown a little tighter around your body.

you don’t take his advice. you don’t need tea, or whiskey, or a fresh blanket; with kaz’s words and his expressions and him, you know there is no way you’re getting to sleep any time soon, no matter what remedy you use.

----

“good morning, royalty.”

the king looks up from his breakfast, the very breakfast you have just tested for poison. it sits weirdly in your stomach this morning; after a sleepless night, your appetite has deserted you, but you have no choice besides eating.

kaz strolls into the room, dressed in a suit. his white shirt sits against his chest, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal the crow tattoo on his arm. you awkwardly rub your own crow tattoo, suddenly very aware of how permanent it is.

“good morning, mr brekker,” the king says. “again, you surprise me with your presence. we weren’t expecting you for breakfast.”

“i am just full of surprises.” he sits down in his usual seat and meets your eyes. “how are you this morning, y/n?”

“y/n was just about to leave,” the king replies, as you knew he would; he likes hearing your voice as little as possible.

kaz, however, keeps his eyes on you. “i asked y/n. not you.”

you stare straight at him, a silent warning. “i’m good, mr brekker. well-rested.”

“you can call me kaz.” he leans back, grinning. “i’m glad to hear it. maybe you and i can take a walk amongst the duck pond again later on.”

there he goes, putting on that god awful formal accent that he thinks is so funny.

you scowl. “i’m a bit busy today, mr brekker.”

“kaz.”

“he asked you to call him kaz, y/n,” the king snaps.

kaz nods. “i asked you to call me kaz, y/n.”

you bite your lip, pushing back the retort that so desperately wants to rise. he’s just sat there, grinning with no shame. the king is looking straight at him, and he doesn’t even care.

“any duties you’ve been given today can be postponed until later,” the king says. “mr brekker is our guest, and if he wants your company, your company he shall receive.”

kaz’s grin gets wider, and oh, you want so desperately to punch him square in the face. instead, you force a smile, turning to the king to tell him just how honoured you would be to give kaz brekker your company on this fine morning.

and that’s how you find yourself strolling through the gardens with kaz, yet again.

“you’re unbelieable,” you mumble, arms folded over your chest like a school kid having a tantrum.

“i’m good,” he replies. “you know i’m good, y/n. i don’t know why you act surprised.”

“he’s the king, kaz,” you hiss. “can you not tone it down a little?”

“tone what down?”

“the-” you gesture vaguely, though the only word you can conjure is flirting, and there’s no way in hell you’re letting that slip into the conversation. “the shit. tone down the shit!”

“i’m not scared of him. i know you want me to be, but i’m not.”

“oh yes. how could i forget? kaz brekker isn’t scared of anything.”

kaz scoffs. “kaz brekker is scared of plenty of things - men aren’t one of them.”

such a kaz thing to say. the most frustrating bit about it was that he was telling the truth.

“i told inej what your job is here,” he continues after a moment of tense silence.

“oh?”

“she understands. says you’ve always been one to do anything to survive.”

you shrug. she’s right.

“that worries me, you know.”

“nothing worries you, kaz.”

“the thought of you in danger does.”

you shake your head. “don’t start this now. you said it yourself; what we had was nothing.”

“why can’t i worry about you without it having to mean something bigger?”

“because everything you say means something bigger.”

kaz falls silent. he knows it’s true, and so do you. kaz has never been able to speak his full extent, always letting people think less of him so he can take them by surprise when the time is right. you have learned first hand how frustrating that can be, but it was also a part of him you grew to love. it was what made him so intelligent, so cunning. it was what made him kaz.

“are you not ever worried you’re going to get unlucky one day?”

you glance over. he keeps his head ducked down, one hand curled around the head of his cane, the other tucked into his pocket. “i know what i signed up for. getting poisoned was kind of part of the risk.”

“since when did you even know how to identify poisons?”

your lips twitch. “jesper taught me.”

kaz rolls his eyes skyward, running a hand through his hair; the sun glows against his tan skin. “of course he did. honestly, the shit you two got up to when i wasn’t around-”

“we had fun,” you say. “we could only do that when you weren’t hovering over our shoulders.”

kaz glares.

you look to the floor, afraid to smile at him, afraid to open this conversation into something even mildly pleasant; if you can get through this entire visit without thinking of kaz fondly, maybe it will make all of it a bit easier. maybe you’ll be able to trick yourself into thinking you’ve moved on, grown stronger since your time in the barrel.

“how is jesper?” you ask, because you suddenly feel like you can’t help it.

kaz shrugs. “how jesper always is.”

“worse?”

“for a while. he didn’t take you leaving very well, but he straightened himself out.” kaz tugs on his lapels. “he always does.”

“yeah. he does.”

you wonder about jesper sometimes. it hurts to know he took your leave badly, though you should have known; jesper has never been one to handle his feelings well. that was your job on his behalf. you would often sit with him at night, just to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. you once handcuffed him to his bed post to stop him heading out into the gambling hall of the hotel you were staying in.

he was the only one you could ever really properly speak to about what was going on between you and kaz. inej understood kaz, but jesper was kaz’s right-hand man. he was the one kaz would go to about things like that.

“does jesper know how to make your brew?”

there is no moment of confusion, like he was expecting the question. “i’m sure he does. i never ask him to make it, though.”

your nostrils flare. “kaz-”

“listen, the nightmares aren’t going to disappear,” he says, raising a silencing hand that you swat away before he can think it works. “i don’t need some special brew helping me sleep.”

“no, you’ll just stay awake until you drop dead.”

kaz grins, sharp as knives. “that’ll be the way to go, won’t it?”

you shove his shoulder, suddenly furious. he looks over, still grinning, because kaz has always found your frustration amusing. he used to say you looked like a chipmunk who just got their nuts stolen.

“for someone so smart,” you hiss, “you’re pretty stupid.”

“because i won’t indulge in your famous sleep remedy?”

“because you’ll let yourself suffer before asking for help.”

his smile fades. “i only ask certain people for help, y/n. it’s not my fault those people keep leaving.”

your heart drops; there he goes again with the impersonal little jabs, knowing he’s cutting you so, so deep. you don’t even humour him with a response, instead quickening your pace until you begin to feel like he isn’t even there.

but that’s impossible, because he’s kaz brekker. he’s yours. even when he truly isn’t there, it’s like he’s walking right beside you, and you’re beginning to get very annoyed by the attachment. it’s not fair on you, and it’s not fair on kaz, but neither of you seem able to help it.

you continue walking until the cold gets a little too much. then you head back to the palace in silence.

----

final meal of the day. you will make sure it’s not poisoned, and then you will go to bed.

kaz is there, as per usual. the king and queen don’t even act shocked any more, simply welcoming him into the dining hall. oftentimes, he’ll stroll in by your side, his cane clicking against the marble and that smug little smile playing on his face. you always ignore him, even though the king says it’s disrespectful to do so.

tonight, you do just that. you take your seat beside the king, gather up his food and start the process. the beef is smothered in gravy, making the scent test a little difficult, but you give it a go anyway, because it’s protocol by now.

kaz watches from afar, one finger pressed to his lips. he’s lounging back like he’s comfortable, like sitting in a palace is what he does every day. his eyes are narrowed, focused.

you pop the beef into your mouth and chew; nothing.

you move onto the potatoes. nothing.

finally, you dip your fork into the sweetcorn and raise it to your lips.

kaz slaps the fork from your hand. he makes no noise. one minute he is sat at the head of the table, and the next he is by your side, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you from your seat.

the queen shrieks as the fork flies directly at her, sweetcorn and all. a glass of wine tips over when kaz pulls you to your feet, your knee slamming against the underside of the table. palace guards run inside, but none of them know what to do - nobody in the room shouldn’t be there, and so they stand by the door, glancing at each other.

your eyes, however, are trained on kaz.

“what. the. fuck?” you hiss under your breath as the king tends to his startled wife.

kaz meets your eyes dead on. “you really need to get better at your job.” he grabs your arm and starts for the door. the king hollers after him, demanding to know what is going on, but kaz pays him no attention, and you have no idea why you’re not fighting any of this. your heart is hammering in your chest at a million miles per hour, and you have so many questions, but it’s just reflex by now to trust kaz.

he drags you through the halls until reaching his room, where he pushes open the door and leads you inside. it is only then, when it is just the two of you, that you come to your senses, replaying that scene over and over in your head.

you whirl around, yanking your arm from his grip so harshly that you stumble back. “what the hell was that, kaz?”

“how much training did they actually give you before throwing you in to risk your life everyday?”

“why do you care?”

he starts pulling his tie loose, not even looking at you. “just tell me.”

you fold your arms over your chest, trying desperately to keep your attention away from the way his gloved fingers tug and pull at the knot on his tie. “i did a course at the start where i could identify all the different types of poisons.”

he quirks an eyebrow. “that all?”

“it was enough.”

“if it was enough, y/n, you would have noticed the soft spots in the sweetcorn.”

your head snaps up. soft spots?

he hums, despite you saying nothing in response. “wilde yolk makes food go soft in certain places. it also kills people in about ten seconds if consumed in even the tiniest amount.” he looks up, flicking his tie off completely. “did you not learn that in your course?”

you bite your lip and look away. you were so distracted at that dinner table these days, focusing mostly on kaz brekker at the end of the table. you had no idea he was examining your food just as much as you should have been. you had no idea he was keeping an eye out for you.

“so is this experience enough to get you to move back to the barrel?”

your eyes snap up. he’s staring right at you. he doesn’t even look fazed by his question.

and that makes you so, so angry. in seconds, you have gone from grateful to furious; only kaz can elicit that response from you.

you step back, glaring. “so that’s what this is then? you came all the way here to drag me back to the barrel?”

“well, no. i came here to get inej help, but she seems to be healing up pretty well with all the goods your people are giving her.” he shrugs, bottom lip protruding. “so i thought i’d try my hand at this.”

“you are unbelievable.”

kaz raises a brow. “are you getting mad at me?”

“you are unbelievable!” you want to throw something at him. you want to break down and cry. you kind of want to go with him. “it’s like you haven’t listened to a word i’ve said. are you that self-centred, kaz?”

“you know i am.”

you close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. maybe you’re overreacting. maybe you really are better off in the barrel, where you were born and raised, where you learned everything you ever knew. but here, with kaz being the one to drag you back - it reminds you so harshly that you’re his. you are his, and that is all anyone will ever see you as, and that thought. . . you don’t know how to feel about that thought.

“this isn’t the life for you, y/n,” he continues. “you know it isn’t. once the barrel has you, it doesn’t let you go. we’ve all learned that the hard way.”

“is that what you are?” you spit. “the hard way?”

he shrugs. “you should be grateful it’s me and not someone worse.”

“there is no one worse, kaz.”

his lips twitch, the only sign that your words have actually struck a nerve. “you mean that, do you?”

“don’t act like you’re the good guy. you know you’re evil. you’re proud of it! that’s why i had to leave. that’s why i’m in here risking my life every single fucking day! i wanted to get away from you!”

and oh, saints, this isn’t going how you wanted it to go. the words are spilling from your mouth before you can stop them, mind racing too quick for your mouth to catch up. his face continues falling with every word, but you don’t stop.

“saints, kaz, when are you ever going to grow the fuck up? you walk around pretending you have everything under control, that you own the place, but you’re nothing - nothing - without the rest of us. you would be dead twenty times over if it wasn’t for that little crew of yours, the people you have under your god damn thumb.” you step forward, teeth gritted. “kaz dirtyhands brekker can’t even take his own fucking gloves off.”

“is that what you want?” he steps closer, so close your chests are almost touching. his face is red, a line of sweat glittering upon his upper lip that only ever shows itself when he’s furious, out of his mind with anger. “you want the gloves to come off? fine.”

and then he plucks the gloves from his hands and throws them on the floor.

his hands. the hands you have seen only twice in the years you have known him, the hands that have never touched your bare skin. suddenly they are in full view, free reign to do whatever you want with them, but all you can do is step back, one hand covering your mouth as you try and process what you’ve said, what kaz has done, how the situation could have taken such a harsh, grim turn.

but kaz isn’t finished. kaz is never finished.

“is this what you want, y/n?” he demands. “you need me to bear myself completely for you to believe i’m in love with you? or is this not enough?”

“kaz-”

“what else is it going to take, huh? tell me.”

“kaz, i’m-”

“what about this?”

he’s crazy. he’s crazy, and making mistakes, and you know this because he reaches forward and cups your face in his bare hands, flesh against flesh. shock ricochets through you, eyes widening as kaz lets out an anguished groan, his own eyes slipping closed. you feel his fingers trembling upon your skin.

you wrench away from him, gasping.

he immediately spins around, clutching his hands to his chest. he groans low in his throat, pressing his head against the wall. sweat trickles down the back of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. you catch a single tear run down his cheek that he can’t wipe away because then his fingers will be touching his skin, and he hates that. it kills him. you know it does.

you rush forward, placing a hand safely on his jacket-covered shoulder. his breathing is ragged and shaky.

“kaz,” you pant. “oh god, kaz, i’m so sorry. i’m so, so sorry. why did you do that?” you whirl around frantically. “your gloves. where are your gloves?”

he doesn’t reply. you’re talking to yourself at this point. you spot his gloves on the floor and grab them, immediately handing them back without so much as a brush of your fingertips against his. he’s hurried and distressed when he tugs them back on, clenching his fist over and over again, as if to ensure his hands are safely hidden beneath the leather.

he doesn’t turn around. you stand behind him, one hand pressed to your chest, eyes swimming in tears you didn’t even feel rising to the surface.

“kaz,” you whisper. “i’m. . . i didn’t mean. . .”

“you got what you wanted, didn’t you?” he mumbles, straightening up. “i’m not asking you to return to the barrel with me so you can serve me, or whatever you think this is. i’m asking you to return so i can have you there. so we can be together again.” he glances over his shoulder. “as it should be.”

you stare at him, wanting to respond, wanting to tell him to go to hell, but you can’t lie. never before have you been able to look kaz in the eye and lie, and maybe that’s why you say nothing. he’s right in every sense - you and him are meant to be by each other’s side, no matter what. barrel born and raised, nobody understands you quite like he does.

but admitting that, throwing away every barrier you have worked so hard to put up . . . you can’t do it.

kaz waits a moment longer before laughing half-heartedly, sounding more exhausted than anything else. he lowers his head, black hair falling in his face before he swipes it out of the way, looks at you and says, “get out.”

“kaz-”

“stop saying my name.” he turns, tossing his tie onto the bed. “get. out. inej and i will be gone tomorrow.”

you swallow thickly, pushing away the tears. and then you do as he said, because standing in his presence for much longer is going to send you into a spiral you don’t think you’ll be able to crawl out of again. you’ve been down that road before, and it took everything in you not to be consumed.

----

“why do you look like you’ve been crying?” inej asks. she’s sat up now, a tray of soup perched on her lap. the colouring has come back to her skin, and she stands up whenever she wants to. whatever the palace medics did for her is working wonders, which you suppose is one thing you should be grateful for.

you lean over and dip a slice of bread in her soup.

“are you checking if it’s been poisoned?” inej jokes, and when you don’t respond, she sighs. “you and kaz have a fight?”

you wince, which is answer enough.

“what about this time?”

“he wants me to go back to the barrel with you.”

inej pauses, eyes still cast to her soup. you look at her, stomach curling in sudden realisation.

“wait,” you say. “did you know that was his plan this entire time?”

“no,” she replies, though she looks sheepish. “i genuinely was sick. kaz just. . . came along for the ride when he heard you were here.” she looks up and groans. “you can’t act surprised, y/n. what were you expecting? for him to just walk out and leave you here?”

“that would have been the right thing to do, yes.”

“well, you know kaz better than that. use your brain.” she waves a hand in your direction. “pass me another slice of bread and tell me about this argument.”

you don’t want to. all day you have been thinking about the feel of his hands on your face, his flesh against your own, the anguished groan ripped from his throat. he put himself through that to prove - what? that he loves you? that’s what he said, but it was only a few days prior he was claiming what you and him had was nothing. it was forgotten, and you were happy about that for the briefest moment. if kaz moved on, you could too.

but then he took the gloves off, and it was just. . . messed up again. you were left confused and guilty and pining, and you hated yourself for it. it was as if all that hard work you had put in to forget about kaz had been thrown out the window - trust kaz to come in and ruin everything.

“i can see what you’re thinking, you know,” says inej suddenly.

“can you?”

“take it from me,” she says. “kaz is never going to get over you. he’s never going to let you go. he’s never going to stop trying for you. he’s a stubborn bastard, and a stubborn bastard is even worse when they’re in love - which kaz is. disastrously, madly in love.”

“he said we were nothing.”

“he’s a stubborn and prideful bastard.”

you close your eyes, heart thumping. “i don’t know what to do, inej.”

“well, do you love him back?”

your eyes fly open. “what kind of question is that?”

she shrugs. “an obvious one, but i want to know the answer.”

you know the answer. your brain screams it at you. you have felt the answer in your bones every day since you left the barrel, and yet speaking it aloud feels like a betrayal of yourself from yourself.

so you look away, and as inej always claims, she can see exactly what you’re thinking.

a soft chuckle slips past her lips. “the barrel never leaves a person, y/n. and apparently, neither does kaz brekker.”

“what are you suggesting?”

inej shrugs. “kaz and i are leaving for ketterdam in the morning. there’s definitely room for a third person.”

----

you don’t sleep that night. neither does kaz.

you can hear him pacing back and forth in his room, no doubt replaying the days events over and over in his mind in the same way you are. his hands against your skin, his eyes piercing your own, those words he spoke that left you tingling all over.

even now, laying in bed, you can’t get over what he said. i love you. that was the jidst of it, and though you had heard that confession from him a few times in the past, it was different this time around. it was kaz trying to prove himself, which he never did before. if someone didn’t take kaz at face value, he wouldn’t bother.

and you have to admit, hearing him say those words was like a shot to the chest. they are the very words that have been on the tip of your tongue for months now, spoken only in dreams when you finally allow yourself to sleep. you can say them to no one else - just kaz. always, always just kaz.

and maybe this realisation is the reason you find yourself getting dressed at six in the morning. maybe this realisation is the reason you pack all your things into the ruck sack you came to the palace with. maybe this realisation is the reason you tip-toe to the courtyard, avoiding the eyes of the staff who all look at you like you’re some kind of prisoner escaping your cell.

it’s still dark. the grass is wet beneath your thin shoes, the jacket you have pulled on doing little to protect you from the icy winds coming from the ocean just feet away from the palace’s front door. hovering on the banks is a boat, a boat you recognise as The Mast, one of the many boats kaz has won from different people around ketterdam.

you nearly cry at the sight of it.

you don’t waste time waiting on kaz and inej - you don’t want to have this discussion with either of them until you’re safely on the water, until you can’t change your mind.

you clamber onto the boat, giving a sheepish smile to the stunned crew member - Daryl, you think he’s called - as he stares at you approaching. he offers you a hand when you finally reach the deck, his eyes never leaving your own.

“morning,” you say. “i’m y/n.”

“i know,” daryl replies, before tipping his hat. “it’s wonderful to have you back on board.”

you smile awkwardly, unsure how to respond; how much do the crew actually know about what happened between you and the crows? how many people bore witness to that god awful aftermath?

you decide not to wait around to hear the answer. instead, you tell daryl you’re going down to the cabins, and he doesn’t argue. you disappear beneath the deck, finding the first room with a bed and immediately claiming it as your own; despite the lack of sleep, you are not tired in the slightest. you can’t get kaz out of your head, how he is going to react when the boat eventually docks and he sees you strolling off of it, greeted by that rancid ketterdam air. back in the barrel.

you lay down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. you will fall asleep eventually. you’ll trick yourself into it.

and then the door opens.

your eyes snap open with it; you must have fallen asleep eventually. groggily, you lift your head and look at the intruder - and your heart immediately falls.

“kaz.”

he looks crazed, hair stuck up, eyes wild. behind him stands inej, grinning from ear to ear, though the minute kaz steps into the room, she disappears into the shadows, leaving you and dirtyhands alone.

his eyes never leave yours as he approaches. he marches to your bedside, grabs your hand and pulls you up.

“kaz-”

he shoves you against the wall, gun pressed to your temple. you inhale sharply, though you can’t claim to be surprised or scared. you stare into his eyes, watching his own trace your features, looking for any sign that you are here in bad company.

“kaz,” you whisper, because it’s always his name that fights past your lips. “it’s me. i’m going home.”

his grip slackens. the gun crashes to the floor, and before you can say anything, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into him. you are careful to rest your head upon his shoulder, not touching his flesh, but feeling him nonetheless. tears spring to your eyes, dribbling down the bridge of your nose and soaking the shoulder of his fancy suede jacket - one he stole from the kings wardrobe, you notice.

but you don’t pull away, afraid to go without his touch for another second.

“is this what you want?” he asks, voice muffled by your hair. “is this really what you’ve decided?”

“yes.” you pull away, hands sliding down his arms. “you’re right, kaz. the barrel is . . . it’s a shit hole, but it’s where i belong. it’s all i know. and you and me. . . we have to do this thing together.”

he narrows his eyes. “what thing?”

“everything.”

the corners of his mouth twitch. you can imagine kissing those lips, drawing him close and embracing in that way lovers often do. however, you’re content, happy even, with the way things are. you hold his gloved hands, and he says he loves you. you confide in him, and he confides in you, and sometimes you fight like children, but in the end, he will have your back no matter what.

“everything,” he repeats. “yeah.” he slips his gloved hands into the sleeve of your jacket, tracing his fingers along your crow tattoo, the one he matched, the one everyone matched when they decided to let the barrel take them over. you shiver, biting your lower lip. “you still have it.”

“i could hardly get rid of it,” you reply. kaz looks up, and you sigh. “i would never get rid of it, kaz. no matter what.”

he nods, rolling your sleeve back down. he pulls it over your wrist, covering your fingers before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the soft, rain soaked fabric.

he looks up at you again. “yes. no matter what.”

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker fanfic #soc #soc fanfic #kaz brekker fic #kaz brekker fanfiction #soc fanfiction #soc fic #six of crows #six of crows fanfic #six of crows fanfiction #six of crows fic

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j-amespotter · 3 years

Text

★ mirrorball - j. p.

“i'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me.”

Pairing: James Potter x Gryffindor!Reader

x. x. x.

Summary: James Potter has only ever had one girl on his mind. You’ve always known that. You decide it’s time for a new haircut.

Genre/Warnings: slight angst/FLUFF, insecurity (?)

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: fluff?? from me??? who would have thought? first time writing for james! this is just me finding out lily had shoulder-length hair in ootp and rolling with it ;p let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist

masterlist

“Are you sure about this?” asked Mary Macdonald, a fellow sixth-year, close friend and roommate of yours.

Open scissors hovered around a section of your thick hair. You eyed yourself in the mirror contemplatively. “Positive,” you affirmed.

Mary shook her head disapprovingly and sighed. “If you insist. I really like your long hair, though.”

A small, almost-undetectable part of you agreed. “Change is always good.”

“For the right reasons,” retorted Mary. Nevertheless, she trimmed off the allotted portion of your hair. Gulping at the lopsided haircut, you knew there was no turning back. You assumed that cutting your hair to match Lily Evans’s new hairstyle was not what Mary considered to be “for the right reasons.”

“You know,” said Mary after snipping away in silence for a few minutes, “I think he likes you just the way you are.”

That’s the problem, you wanted to answer. I want more. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mary glanced towards the door of their dormitory. “Copying Lily’s haircut is not the way to go about this, (Y/N),” she said in a hushed whisper.

Yes, it is. He chose her. “I’m not trying to copy Lily,” you hissed defensively. “I just wanted to try something different. And what better way to celebrate a Quidditch win than to debut a new haircut?”

Suddenly, you caught sight of a new face in the dormitory. With a quick glimpse of her, you couldn't help your defeated sigh. Lily Evans was bright and funny. She was the physical embodiment of sunshine, with hair the color of red wine and vivid green eyes. It was for these reasons and more that, unfortunately for you, Lily became the object of James Potter's affection, nearly as much as he was yours.

But even that was untrue. Your love for James, despite its unrequited nature, was different from his love for Lily. You and James were two sides of the same coin, just different enough to complement each other perfectly. It had been six years. The boy who had overpowered every waking thought of yours was yet to come to the same realization.

“Hey,” greeted Lily. “Great game today, (Y/N)! Party just started downstairs. What’s the hold-up?” She spotted the scissors in Mary’s hand and your sheepish gaze through the mirror. “Merlin, you cut your hair! It looks amazing!”

You wished you could hate her, but such was the unmistakable appeal of Lily Evans. “Thanks, Lily,” you said with what you hoped was a genuine smile. “I was freshening up. We thought I could use a little spruce.” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Mary turn away hastily.

“Well, hurry up and get changed! Everyone’s waiting,” Lily added with a cheeky smile, one you could not entirely understand.

You stood up, shaking the hair off of your uniform. With a silent incantation and a flick of your wand, it disappeared from the floor. Glancing at Lily, an idea popped into your head. “I just need to get changed. Lily, can I borrow that yellow dress of yours? The one with the daisies? You wore it at the last game and said I could try it on some time.”

Lily nodded, as unassuming as ever. You decidedly ignored Mary’s glare as you waited for the dress to make it into your hands.

☆

“Took you long enough,” teased Sirius as you sauntered down the stairs with Mary and Lily at your heels. As you reached the bottom of the steps, he peered closer at you. “You look different, (L/N).”

You grinned. “Good different? Or bad different?”

“Ask Potter,” said Lily from behind you.

Feeling the heat rise up your cheeks, you dismissed the supposedly good-natured comment. Instead, you took in your surroundings. An impressive display of scarlet and gold ornamented the common room. Your inner lioness roared in delight. As a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, the best House team in Hogwarts history, you couldn’t help the immense pride awakening in your chest at your latest win. You closed your eyes. In an instant, you remembered the exhilarating feel of a soaring broomstick in the brisk air. You imagined yourself in perfect formation with your teammates, trailing after a flash of dark, ruffled hair. You looked into his resolute eyes as he seamlessly passed you the Quaffle.

“Did you cut your hair?” interrupted James’s silky voice.

You turned around with a dazed smile on your face. Meeting his unreadable gaze, you hummed affirmatively. “What d’you think?”

For an unknown reason, he seemed taken aback. Slowly, his eyes raked over your body, head to toe. “It’s pretty,” he said quietly. You didn’t respond immediately, confused by the sudden tortured expression on his face. “Isn’t it a bit cold for that outfit?”

You chuckled darkly. “That’s not what you said when Lily wore it last time.”

James stared at you open-mouthed. Without a word, he stalked away, joining Peter for a butterbeer in the corner of the room.

“What happened?” asked Lily.

You stumbled backward. At this moment, you regretted wearing the high heels you found at the bottom of your trunk. “Nothing,” you snapped.

Lily raised her eyebrow. “There’s no need to take that tone with me,” she said coolly. “It’s not my fault both of you are completely blind.”

“You don’t have a clue, Evans,” you responded, involuntarily blushing at her veiled insinuation.

“I think I do. He has feelings for you, (Y/N).”

You laughed, though you found nothing funny about it. “He likes you, Lily.”

“Maybe,” said Lily, “but he’s in love with you. Everyone can see it.” She paused, placing a friendly hand on your shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

Not a single part of you wanted to have this conversation. As Lily walked toward a tired-looking Remus, you exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

Talk to him, said a firm voice in your head. Maybe he feels the same way.

Impossible. There was no way he could feel what you felt just thinking about him. Loving James was like flying. He was the adrenaline rush of being suspended in mid-air. He hit you with the speed of a Bludger whirring past your face. He was the Snitch that delicately fluttered in front of you, brushing your skin. He was the Quaffle that thumped perfectly in your hand.

You scanned the room for the hazel-eyed boy that owned your heart, only to discover that he had left Peter to his own devices. Something heavy settled in your stomach when you finally spotted him, seated on the space on the couch next to none other than Lily Evans. James chatted with her animatedly. You found no comfort in the tell-tale signs of her typical irritation.

Without a second glance, you tripped over your own two feet as you dashed for the portrait hole, wanting more than anything for fresh air and a free spot to scream yourself hoarse.

☆

It was by sheer stealth or unshakeable determination that you did not get caught. Students weren’t allowed on the Quidditch pitch without permission, but it was the only place you wanted to be. It was the only place you could bear to be.

You stood in the center of the pitch, hugging yourself as the prickly cold attacked you from all sides. You thought of lying down on the icy ground but knew not to subject yourself to any more physical agony.

Instead, you stood. You stood in heels that were tight around your ankles, sinking into the grass and bruising the underside of your feet. You stood in a strange, sleeveless dress in a January in the Highlands. Your eyes burned with tears that refused to fall.

Without warning, something feathery grazed your shoulder. Tilting your head slightly, you spotted a Golden Snitch. Gone rogue, you supposed to yourself. It floated at eye-level like a taunt. You reached forward and closed your fingers around it, surprised at the warmth the small object exuded.

“I should have you play Seeker,” uttered a familiar voice.

Startled, you whipped around, only to see nothing behind you. Having pivoted too fast, you felt yourself lose balance and topple backward, straight into the frosted grass you were avoiding.

Peeling off his Invisibility Cloak, James struggled to stop laughing long enough to help you up. Instead, he sat right next to you, wrapping the Cloak around both himself and your blueing body.

“You’ll ruin it,” you warned, teeth chattering.

“It can take it,” he assured. “You’re missing the party.”

“It’s your party, Captain.”

James shook his head. “It’s our party. We’re a team, you and me.”

You didn’t have anything to say to that. The two of you sat in silence, your hand still clutching the Snitch.

“You were so tall,” said James unexpectedly. “In your shoes.”

“I’m not even sure they’re mine,” you said lightly.

“No, they aren’t, are they?”

You didn’t answer. You pulled the Cloak tighter around you, unknowingly pulling James and all of his accompanying body heat along with it. The two of you were so close. You could see every speck of gold in his eyes.

James tentatively lifted his hand and reached for the ends of your hair, twirling a piece around his finger. “Your hair grew back.”

You gasped. “How? I didn’t…”

Grinning, James gently tugged the strand, pulling your ear closer to his lips. “Magic,” he whispered.

“Idiot,” you said, playfully shoving his chest.

Like a magnet, he leaned towards you again. There you were, together, under his Cloak, beneath the stars, in your favorite place in the world. With a hand cupping your cheek, he pressed his lips against yours. You inhaled his earthy scent and melted in his slow, seemingly eternal kiss.

Reluctantly, you pulled away. Your foreheads were touching. His hand remained as it was, cradling your face. “That was…”

“Breathtaking,” finished James without hesitation.

“Yes, it was,” you said, nodding fervently. “But James… what about Lily?”

He frowned. “What about her?”

“You’ve liked her for ages, James–”

“Stop,” he interrupted firmly. “This is our moment, (Y/N). I like you, and I think I always have. Scratch that… I liked Evans. But I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes widened in genuine surprise. “You are?”

“You’re my best friend,” said James. “I’ve been running away from it for so long. I didn’t mean to hurt you (Y/N). But I want to spend every waking moment with you. I can’t stop thinking about you even when I try.”

“But… I’m just me, James. Little old me.”

“Exactly. I don’t want you to be any different, (Y/N). Not for me,” he added sincerely. “I’m in love with you exactly the way you are. I’ll love you no matter how you look. But you shouldn't change who you are because of me.”

“Bighead,” you teased, swallowing the lump in your throat, “thinking it’s just for you.”

He smiled. James Potter was in love with you: the girl in an oversized Quidditch uniform, her hair cascading behind her, one that could easily deliver a kick in the shins in her trusty trainers. James loved your unfailing wit and uncontrollable nervous energy. He loved the way he felt when he looked at you. He loved the sound of your giggly cheers when you were both in the air. Most of all, he loved the way your lips felt on his. “Your hair grew back,” he repeated, this time with awe he couldn’t conceal.

“Guess we’re one crazy-haired couple,” you joked.

“I like the sound of that,” said James, pressing a kiss against your temple.

You snuggled into him, frozen temperatures now trivial. “I’m keeping the heels, though. I like being tall.”

James snorted. “If you can walk in them.” He proceeded to slip out of the Cloak, stand, and put on a very realistic show of twisting his own ankle.

“Shut up,” you said as he slid back in, snickering uncontrollably. Releasing the Snitch from your grip, you kissed him hard as it flapped in front of you.

Without tearing his lips away, James reached for the Snitch and pocketed it. “I love you,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I love you,” you said, tasting the words on your tongue for the first time, “but if we stay out here, I’ll freeze.”

“Let’s go have our own fun,” said James with another kiss and a wink to follow. “I could get used to this, you know.”

“Me too, Captain. Me too.”

Taglist: @iwritesiriusly @mads-bri @she-seeks-magic @sarcasticallywitty15

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ayellowcurtain · 3 years

Text

Maybe a convo during a date were Sander talks with Robbe about their future like being engaged or moving in together.

Robbe bites his lip, taken aback by the loud noise the electric shaver makes, and how it vibrates in his palm and makes Robbe doubt he can really do this because he can barely feel his fingers now. Sander's always warm hand sneaks inside his shirt, squeezing his waist, and Robbe meets his comforting gaze sitting there, with Robbe standing with one of Sander’s legs in between his.

"It's just hair, it'll grow in like a second." Robbe whines, not sure he can explain and not sound stupid how attached to a hair he is. Sander's hair to be specific. Everything about him, actually. Robbe loves every inch of this guy so much it's hard to let go, to accept change even if they don't matter, if they won't change who Sander is.

"If you don't do it, I will." Sander challenges him, and Robbe looks at what he already did.

"But I already fucked up!"

"We agreed to just cut everything off already. It's fuckig summer, and I'm always hot, and my hair grows ridiculously fast.'' Sander sits up straight again, the pool of dark hair that was in his nape slipping to the floor with no ceremony like it’s that easy to let go.

Robbe moves his head, not at all certain if he should do it but he knows if he doesn't, Sander will do it ever faster and he will probably cut more hair than Robbe is willing to accept. So he puts one hand at the top of Sander's hair or what’s left of it, finding some comfort in still finding layers and layers of long, thick locks of hair that he won't touch at the top of his boyfriend’s head. He holds with his thumb the longer pieces, and carefully runs the machine through Sander's temple to the back of his neck. He forces himself not to think about it until the left side is completely done, basically no hair left. He turns the shaver off not to cause any more damage and notices Sander's eyebrows going up, looking at him, waiting to be allowed to move.

"Okay...now it's done so no complaints if it looks bad!" Sander snorts, putting his arm around Robbe's waist again, making him stand in between Sander’s legs now so he can reach the other side.

"Come on, baby, just one more. I believe in you!"

"I'm gonna close my eyes and do it!"

"Hey!" Sander slaps his thigh. "Don't be mean now."

Robbe laughs, and bends down to kiss him just for a second to regain more confidence that Sander has to share.

"Let me just get this over with before I have a heart attack." Sander nods his head and tries to keep a straight face. He keeps looking forward, sitting still like Robbe told him to do, based on the five haircut tutorials he watched before starting this.

Robbe turns the machine on again and adjusts Sander's hair, keeping everything he's not going to cut safely underneath his hand. He tries to do it fast this time so he won't have second thoughts. It's easier than the first side but Robbe is still very unsure about the haircut Sander ends up with once he turns the shaver off for good, putting it back on the bathroom counter. It looks way too short on the sides, and that was not intentional.

He steps back as Sander gets up slowly, making all the hair slip down his shoulders and back. He looks at himself up close in the mirror, opening the faucet, wetting his hands a little bit, fixing the bad edges Robbe created. As Sander is busy, focused on cleaning himself a little bit, Robbe tries to really look and take it in. Sander standing there, with his pants a little too low on his hips, his black and fitted boxers appearing underneath it, the muscles in his back moving as he plays with his new haircut, and maybe, somehow, Sander can rock this haircut like very, very few could. He looks so hot it's making Robbe dizzy with want.

"You look hot." Sander snorts, looking at him through the mirror.

"Yeah? I thought you hated it." He turns around, pulling Robbe closer by his waist.

"I could never hate you, or your hair. It's like my two favorite things ever."

"Me and my hair, huh?" Sander bites his botom lip not to laugh, nodding his head slowly. Robbe smiles, putting his arms around Sander's neck. "And other things..."

"Other things..." Sander presses them even closer, kissing Robbe's neck very slowly.

"Yeah, I can't live without you, not even one of the million things that make you who you are."

"Never?" Robbe shakes his head, hugging Sander tighter, laughing when they hook into one of their positions, Sander so easily picking him up just right, his hands fitting so well in the small of Robbe's back and his ass, how Robbe can so perfectly keep his legs around Sander's strong waist.

"Never! Can you?"

Sander smiles, shaking his head, kissing him again. "Never. I wish I could spend every second of my life glued to every inch of the million things that make you." Robbe laughs, playing with the hair in the back of his hair, it feels so much longer now with nothing on the sides.

“So cheesy."

"You started it." Sander kneels on the bed like it's easy with the extra weight, and limbs, putting Robbe down on the bed like he was made for this, and Robbe lets go of him, even though he doesn't want to, keeping his legs around Sander's waist so he won't escape somewhere else.

"Will we get married?" Robbe asks genuinely but in a light way, not worried about the answer to that, just curious about Sander's actual real plans. He frowns like Robbe just called him the worst name.

"Of course we will! What kind of question is that?"

"And we'll live here forever?"

Sander thinks about it, pressing his lips together again, the front of his hair almost covering his eyes these days. "Do you wanna live somewhere else?"

Robbe never thought about it but it feels like it's something Sander would like to do, and Robbe would love to do it with him.

“I have nowhere in mind, actually but the idea sounds fun."

“And...do you think about living together in the near future?” Sander smiles quietly, nudging Robbe’s jaw with the tip of his nose.

Robbe smiles wide, turning his face to look at Sander, with his big, innocent, puppy eyes, and he nods his head. He would be living with Sander already if it was his personal choice but they both need to want to live together…

“Yeah? Really?”

“You don’t?” Robbe asks, a hint of insecurity starting to take over his thoughts, focusing his attention on Sander’s hair to not look at Sander and maybe see that it didn’t cross his mind until now.

“Of course I do. I think we could start really thinking about it...maybe go check some places…”

Sander lifts his eyebrows, like he’s making sure with Robbe if that’s okay. He pushes himself up on the bed, fluffing the pillow behind him, his heart starting to beat faster and faster.

“A place just for us…”

“Yeah, with a nice bed, thick walls, and a good enough bathroom.”

Robbe laughs, clinging onto him, “Do you like buying home stuff?”

Sander laughs with his enthusiasm and curiosity, wrapping his arms tightly around Robbe’s waist again to keep them flat against each other.

“I never bought much but I’m sure it’ll be fun with you.”

“A nice comforter…”

“A heavy one, please.”

Robbe nods his head, kissing his cheek, slowly going down to his warm, inviting neck.

“I want a new pillow too.”

“Fancy ones.” Sander puts his hands carefully inside Robbe’s shirt, scratching his back, making him squirm.

“Yeah. We deserve fancy ones.”

“We’ll have to go grocery shopping together every time.”

Sander moves back to look at Robbe, smiling. “We’re the best team to ever grocery shop.”

“Yeah, we’re the fucking best!”

“The best thing is: if there’s ever another lockdown, we’ll be together. Forced to be locked together, what a tragedy.”

Robbe laughs, kissing his boyfriend, hugging him with arms and legs, letting Sander turn them around, and Robbe sits on his thighs.

“What a tragedy, baby.”

#wtfock #robbe ijzermans #sander driesen #sobbe #robbe x sander

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tooweirdforyou · 3 years

Text

Luffy With A S/O Who Has A Tattoo Of The Jolly Roger

A/N : this is a request from my sister so I’m excited to post this! This was actually really cute so I hope you enjoy! :)

Summary : In which, one day, Luffy finds out about his female significant other’s hidden tattoo of the crew’s Jolly Roger.

note : if you all would like a post of where the crewmates might have their Jolly Roger, or have any ideas or thoughts yourselves, please share! I’d love to hear it.

“The crew is rather lively today, aren’t they?”

You smile at the sight of Luffy running around with a water gun, chasing after Usopp and Chopper and spraying them with it.

Nami and Robin sat on the lawn chairs beside you, the shade of the umbrella taking over your bodies to protect from the heat of the sun.

Nami was wearing a white bikini, Robin wearing a black bikini top with a white skirt that reached her knees, while you settled in a white tank top and some light blue denim shorts.

Sanji was coming down from the upper deck, having just exited the kitchen with a silver plate of beverages on top.

Brook and Franky sat off to the side, Brook drinking his tea and enjoying the sight of the trio, while Franky watches in amusement as well, whilst tinkering with his torso.

Zoro laid by the railing, swords at his side and arms crossed with his body leaned back. His eyes were closed and he was resting, but you could tell he was listening in to everything.

“They always are.. it seems we can never get just ten minutes of peace.” Nami exhales heavily, shaking her head disappointedly as the sound of yells and laughter filled the air.

Nami’s comment caused Robin to giggle as she turns the page in her book, that was resting on her lap.

“It’s always fun with them around.” She points out, keeping her eyes trained on her book.

You laugh along as well, Nami only sulking for a brief moment before seeing Sanji returning with fresh drinks for them.

“Nami-swan~, Robin-dear~, [Name]-chan!~ here are your freshly made beverages!~” Sanji sang, lowering his hand with the plate down, setting down the drinks onto the table for the three of you.

“Thank you, Sanji.” You and Robin thank the blonde in unison, Nami immediately grabbing the glass and smiling brightly. “Thanks, Sanji.”

As Sanji swoons at the three of you, you turn back to your captain and lover and call out to him with a grin.

“Luffy! Are you thirsty? Come here, Sanji made drinks!”

Ignoring Sanji’s small protests that it was only meant for the ladies, Luffy’s eyes lit up and he grins brightly right at you. “Ooh, yeah!”

He quickly runs over, still dodging Usopp’s and Chopper’s water attacks with ease before landing right in front of you.

His straw hat hung around his neck, resting on his upper back and wore nothing but his red shorts. Water glistened against his skin in the sun from the splashes of water from Usopp’s shot.

“Seems like you’re having fun.” You sit up from your chair and held out the fresh glass that Sanji had placed down for you, holding it out for Luffy, who took it after thanking you.

Luffy stands in front of you and brings the glass to his lips, taking a long sip before exhaling in satisfaction.

Luffy smugly grins. “Shishishi~, Yeah, I keep hitting Usopp and Chopper easily! They kind of suck at aiming.” He mindlessly states aloud with a laugh, Usopp’s brow twitching at his words.

“Oh yeah?..” Usopp began fiercely pumping his water gun before smirking and pointing it at Luffy’s back. “I’ll show you the skills of Mighty God Usopp! Sniper King!” He shouts and pulls the trigger instantly.

Luffy only grins cheekily and moves aside before the water made impact.

Unfortunately, you became the target.

With Luffy having moved aside, you were shot in the face which resulted in your clothes and body to become wet and completely soaked.

“Haha! You missed again!” Luffy laughs wholeheartedly at the sight of your wet form, pointing at Usopp as he doubled over from laughter.

Nami and Sanji gasps at the sight, Sanji’s anger building up as he shouts at Usopp. “USOPP! YOU BETTER GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES AND APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW! HOW DARE YOU SHOOT [NAME]-CHAN!?”

Usopp sweatdrops at Sanji as Brook’s laughter fills the air. “Yohohoho~ that was quite unexpected!” Franky joins in the laughter as well. “That was definitely a suupperr~ shot!”

Robin giggles and smiles. “That was certainly quite the aim. Are you alright, [Name]-san?” She hums, turning over to you, who was recovering from the shock and wiping your wet face.

You couldn’t surpress the smile forming as you chuckle lightly yourself. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just water.”

Seeing Chopper walk over with a hand towel, you smile gratefully to the little reindeer who was currently in his monster point.

“Sorry, [Name]! We didn’t mean to get you involved.” He apologetically smiles, you taking the towel from his hands and began wiping your face.

“No worries, Chopper.” You assure him, standing up straight to go change when Nami audibly gasp at the sight of your back, her eyes widening.

“Huh? What’s that on your back, [Name]?”

Since you got wet, your shirt was wet as well and the water expanded towards the back of your shirt, so it exposed your skin.

You hum questioningly and turn around to see her eyeing your back, the others widening their eyes at the sight of it, besides Zoro and Luffy.

“Woah! Is that what I think it is, [Name]?!” Usopp gasp in awe at the sight.

“When did you get that done, [Name]-san?” Robin asks, sitting up and setting her book onto the table.

“My, that’s quite a magnificent sight.” Brook hums, nodding at it.

“YA-OW! That looks great, [Name]!” Franky grins, giving a thumbs up towards you.

“It’s really cute! When did you do it?” Nami smiles, leaning closer to inspect it properly.

“No matter what it is, even if it was something else, it sure looks amazing on you, [Name]-chan~!” Sanji swoons, admiring it.

“Ah, it looks amazing, [Name]!” Chopper compliments, returning to his smaller usual form.

You bring the towel down from your face and smile at the others. “Thanks! I got it done in the last island we visited.”

“Got what done?” Luffy tilts his head in confusion, crossing his arms at the others’ awe of your back.

He didn’t understand. You didn’t look different. “Did you get a haircut or something?”

You laugh softly at him and shake your head at his question. “Nothing like that. Here.”

You turned around and moved your hair and towel down. You then lifted the hem of your shirt to expose your lower back.

Zoro, who was listening in, opens his eye to see what the crew was so excited about. His eye widens before a small smirk took over his lips. “I see, not bad.” He hums, approving of it.

Luffy just blinks a bit, staring at your back blankly before his eyes widens in surprise, completely shocked from the sight.

“EHH?! NO WAY!”

Right on your back, similar to the place Ace had his tattoo, was your own tattoo of the ship’s Jolly Roger, just a bit lower.

A skull with crossbones, as well as a straw hat, printed cleanly across your skin and matched well, as if it was always there from the beginning.

“Cute, right?” You grin at Luffy’s reaction, pulling down your wet shirt again and faced your captain.

“I thought it’d be nice to have the mark of the Straw Hats. What better than the Jolly Roger?”

The others smiled at your response and hum. “The tattoo looks great, [Name]. I wish you could have told us, maybe we could have had one with you.” Nami sighs and you giggle softly.

“Don’t worry yourselves about having to get one. If you guys want one too, be my guest, but this was just my own choice is all.” You say, waving your hand dismissively towards her with a gentle smile.

“Man, that’s so cool! Why didn’t you tell me about this before?!” Luffy eagerly shouts, eyes turning into stars for a moment before he looks up at you excitedly.

“I guess I must’ve forgot.” You sheepishly hum, rubbing the back of your neck with your hand. “Anyways, at least you guys saw it now.”

Before the others could question you any further, you pick up your stuff left on the lawn chair and smile at the crew. “Well, since I’m soaking wet and I’m getting cold, I’m going to go ahead and shower first.”

With that, you began walking off with a small hum of a tune, making your way over towards the bedroom to grab your change of clothes first.

Luffy watches as you go, a small grin still across his face as he chuckles heartily. “Shishishi, I didn’t know [Name] had a tattoo of the Jolly Roger. That’s really cool!”

“It is unexpected of her to suddenly get a tattoo or mark out of the blue.. but that’s our [Name]-san! Yohohoho!~” Brook joyfully laughs, Usopp smiling and nodding in agreement. “It’s definitely the real thing, it looks just like it too.”

“I wonder why she chose her back of all places though.” Chopper innocently hums, glancing down at his water gun and shook it to see if there was still water in it.

“In any case, it looks great and that’s all that matters. For now, I’ll get started on dinner.” Sanji smiles, taking a cigarette out of his carton and lit it up with his lighter.

“EXTRA MEAT FOR DINNER, SANJI! MEAT! MEAT! MEAT!”

“ALRIGHT ALREADY! STOP YELLING!”

You let out a satisfied and pleased breath, letting the towel rest around your shoulders and hair air dry. You wore a t-shirt and shorts this time, feeling comfortable from your shower.

Going into your bedroom, you became startled at the sight of Luffy sprawled across your bed with his eyes closed.

“Oh, Luffy.”

Hearing your voice, Luffy snaps awake and sits straight up. His body was still wet from earlier so it did dampen your sheets a bit, but you didn’t mind.

“[Name]. Took you long enough!” Luffy hums, crossing his arms with a pout forming on his lips. “I was waiting for you.”

Your eyes soften at his action and you smile lightly. “Sorry, Luffy. I lost track of time while I was in there.” You explain, making your way over to the dresser, picking up the hairbrush.

Luffy nods, signaling he understood as he watched you began heading towards him and took a seat at the edge of the bed, where it wasn’t wet.

You began brushing your hair, noticing that Luffy was staring at you and you glance over. “Something wrong?”

“Can I see it again?”

Knowing what he meant, you turn so your back faced him and lifted the back of your shirt to expose the skin.

Luffy stares blankly for a few seconds before giving a small smile.

“..you chose that spot for Ace, didn’t you?”

Your eyes widen at his question before a gentle smile appeared on your lips. Nodding, you spoke. “Yes, I did.”

Luffy looks down, his smile widening slowly before he eventually looks back up with a cheerful grin and closed eyes.

“I see. Shishishi! Well, it looks great!”

Luffy reaches his hand over and carefully glided his fingers across your tattoo-covered skin, admiring the sight of his mark on your back.

A warm smile casted over his face as he then pulls your body back into his chest and hugs you tight.

“On the next island, I’ll get the same as you, but I’ll get it on my chest! Sound good?” Luffy hums, arms wrapping around you as you leaned into him.

You chuckle heartily at him and nod. “Sounds good, Luffy.” You turn your head and peck his cheek lightly, causing Luffy to smile wider.

Luffy returns a kiss onto your head and smiles lovingly with pink-tinted cheeks.

“I love you, [Name]!” Despite his voice sounding so cheerful and childish, it was the most sincere tone you’ve heard from him.

You smile back at him with closed eyes, hands placing themselves onto Luffy’s arms around you as you curled into him more. “I love you, Luffy.”

“Oi, dinner’s ready!” Sanji’s voice calls from the kitchen, and you hum. “Mmh, it seems Sanji has finished cooking.”

“Yeah, Sanji made lots of meat! Let’s go already, [Name]!” He quickly lets go of his hold on you, leaping off the bed as you sat up straight and fixed your shirt.

“Okay.” Luffy grabs your hand and began pulling you up and out of the room, quickly heading to the kitchen to feast on the delicious dinner awaiting you both.

“Time to eat!”

A/N : heyyy, hope you guys liked this and enjoyed! :D I thought it was cute.

#tooweirdforyou #one piece #one piece x reader #op x reader #x reader #luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy #monkey d. luffy x reader #op #one piece scenario #scenario

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haus-seeblick · 3 years

Text

Suptober Day 4 - Secrets

Title: “Messy”

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 3,503

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Original Characters

Tags: John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Angst, Breaking The Rules, Dean is Sam's Real Parent (But he shouldn't have to be), Dean Giving Sam a Childhood, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Meets a Cute Boy, Unwanted Haircut, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dean is 13 and Sam is 9

Summary: John leaves Dean and Sam alone at a motel the day before Halloween. Despite John's hard-and-fast rules about leaving the motel room, Sam convinces Dean to take him trick-or-treating. While they're out, Dean meets a boy who makes him feel like breaking the rules was worth it.

On AO3 Here

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

“Dean, you know the drill,” John says brusquely as he hoists the duffel over his shoulder. “Tell me the rules.”

Dean stands up from where he’s folding laundry on the motel room floor. They stopped at the laundromat this morning, John tossing Dean just enough quarters for two small loads before taking Sam along with him to the local library for research. They’ve been tracking a creature for days and John’s still not sure exactly what it is.

Dean would have loved to help with the books. Instead he sat in front of the laundry machine, exactly the same as the hundreds of others he’s fed with quarters over the years, and watched their clothes spin around and around. He noticed new holes in Sam’s jeans and socks when he moved them to the dryer. If his dad will let him use some of their wound-stitching thread, he’ll repair them after this hunt.

He faces his dad, posture straight and hands behind his back. “The rules are stay in the room, keep the doors and windows locked, don’t answer the door for anyone except you and Bobby, only spend money if I absolutely have to, and always have a weapon in reach,” he rattles off.

John nods, face impassive. “And the most important rule?”

“Protect Sammy,” Dean says firmly. He glances over to the rickety table under the window, where his scrawny little brother is filling out a worksheet. It’s part of the last round of homework their teachers had given them at their previous school, right before John took them out again to hit the road.

Dean quietly tossed his own homework in the garbage and told Sammy to finish every worksheet, because he was going to mail it back to the school and his teacher would check it. Sam’s even writing a letter in the cursive he’s learning to go along with it.

Dean has no clue what the address of the school is.

John pulls the Impala key out of his pocket and opens the door. “I’ll be out of cell range during this next leg. Check in date is Thursday. Don’t call for help until Sunday.”

Dean nods. John steps halfway out the door before turning back. He eyes Dean for a long moment, as if he’s trying to come up with something to add. Eventually he just says “I’m cutting your hair when I get back. You look messy.”

The door closes. In the silence of the room, Dean reaches up and touches his bangs. Just this morning, in the reflection of the washing machine door, he admired how his hair was curling a bit over his ears. It framed his face and made him look softer. Less skinny. More like the other boys he’d seen at school.

Oh well.

The Impala roars to life outside in the parking lot, and Dean listens until the purr of the engine fades away down the road. He looks at the half-folded pile of laundry at his feet.

“Tomorrow’s Halloween.”

Dean jumps a little. Sam’s right next to him, eyebrows raised expectantly. Dean pushes him away and drops onto the couch, nudging a balled-up pair of socks with his foot. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

Sam sits down next to him. “Dean, I think Dad forgot about Halloween.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “He didn’t forget, Sammy. It just doesn’t matter.” He avoids looking at his brother, running his fingers over the ridge of threads barely holding together the hole in his own jeans.

“But I told James I’d be a doctor,” Sam needles. “He’s gonna be a pirate.”

Sam’s ability to instantly make friends always leaves Dean feeling half-proud, half-nervous. Sam was in third grade with James for less than two weeks, and he still talks about him constantly.

Dean thinks it’s better not to get attached. He just can’t bring himself to teach Sam that particular lesson yet.

He sighs and glances at Sam. “You know you can’t trick-or-treat with James anyway, right? He’s in Denver.”

Sam groans dramatically and flops against the hard backrest of the couch. His shaggy hair falls into his face. Dean looks at the longest strands, curving past Sam’s cheekbones.

“We can just do Halloween here,” he suggests, even though he knows “buying candy from the gas station” definitely doesn’t count as necessary spending.

Sam shakes his head where it’s still resting on the couch. “That’s not real Halloween.”

“We’ve never done a real Halloween, so how would you know?” Dean’s just buying time now, putting off the moment when he has to say “no.”

The stink-eye that’s sent his way is of epic proportions. “I watch TV, Dean.”

Dean rubs his face. “Sammy--”

“--Oh, please, Dean, please!” Sam shifts into begging mode, sitting up and whipping out the puppy eyes. His left eye is half-covered by hair. “I know we’re not allowed, but can’t we break the rules just one time? It can be a secret.”

They hold eye contact for a moment, but Sam’s more stubborn. Dean looks away first, his eyes falling to the laundry on the floor. Almost unconsciously, he reaches under the lumpy couch cushion next to him and lets his fingers graze the pistol stashed there. His stomach rumbles and he wonders how far he can stretch their last cans of soup.

Suddenly, a secret doesn’t sound so bad at all.

“Okay,” he says.

Sam must’ve not expected Dean to relent, because he’s silent for a couple seconds before whooping and launching himself at Dean. “Ahh! Thank you thank you thank you!”

Dean can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. He hugs Sam back, the kid’s bony shoulder digging into his ribcage. After a moment, he pulls away and puts on his most serious face. Hands on Sam’s upper arms, he looks him straight in the eyes. “Sam, if we do this, you cannot tell Dad. Do you understand?”

Sam nods enthusiastically, still grinning. Dean digs his fingers into his arms. “Listen to me, or we’re not going.” He waits for Sam’s face to fall a little before continuing. “You can’t just not tell Dad, you can’t drop hints. You have to clean up all your wrappers. We can never talk about it. Do you get it?”

Sam’s eyes are wide now. He nods again, very small, and Dean knows he’s gotten through. He loosens his grip on Sam’s arms. “All right, then. How are we gonna make you look like a doctor?”

Sam beams.

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

The next night, they lock the motel room door behind them and head out. The neighborhood that starts a few streets behind the motel is pretty normal, as far as Dean can tell. The houses aren’t super big, but the yards are, and there are toys scattered on some of the lawns. The biggest house on the corner even has a tree swing. The big tree reminds him of the one in their front yard in Lawrence. He tries not to think about that too much.

It’s dark, and chilly -- they’re still in Colorado -- and Dean holds his jacket closed in front of his chest. The zipper broke a couple weeks ago. Ahead of him, Sam doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. His “doctor coat” flaps behind his legs as he skips down the sidewalk. It’s just a sheet from the bed that Dean stuck together with safety pins in a certain way (it doesn’t look like a coat at all, but the mirror in the motel bathroom was shattered so Sam couldn’t see it anyway). He hung their stethoscope from the big first-aid kit around Sam’s neck, with the express instruction not to lose it, and he emptied the rest of the first-aid kit onto the couch so Sam could carry the empty box with the big red cross and look professional.

Sam hasn’t smiled this much in weeks. Dean’s neck is crawling with the knowledge that he’s breaking rules, bigtime, but he shakes it off. They’re out now. It’s done.

Sam has already latched on to a group of kids making their way up the drive to a single-story brick house. Dean hears him introduce himself, sees him flash the big toothy smile that Dean told him makes him look friendly. The other kids compliment his stethoscope, and Dean relaxes a little.

Everyone in the group is wearing what looks like homemade costumes, too — there’s another bedsheet, draped over a short kid’s head like a ghost (if only ghosts actually looked like that, Dean thinks); and a long black coat, obviously from an adult, dwarfing a kid who Dean’s pretty sure is supposed to be a vampire. Sam, in his makeshift getup, fits right in.

Dean’s trailing behind the group, letting Sam do his making-friends thing, when he notices another older kid doing the same. He looks about Dean’s age, maybe a year older, fourteen or so, and he’s dressed like an angel with a blue halo made out of pipe cleaners. The rest of his outfit is normal, though — a t-shirt that’s printed to look like a suit and tie, under a regular puffy winter coat. Dean’s eyes linger on him as they follow the younger kids up to the house. When they come to a stop so Sam can ring the doorbell, the other boy looks over at Dean, too.

“Hi,” he says. In the yellow glow of the porchlight, his eyes look greenish blue. “I’m Al.” He reaches out a hand. Dean looks at it for a moment, then takes it. They shake. Al’s hand is warm and smooth, a stark contrast to Dean’s freezing, calloused palm. Dean wishes he could hold on a bit longer.

“Dean,” he replies, dropping Al’s hand. He’s not sure what to say next. That’s Sam’s area of expertise.

Luckily, Al doesn’t let him flounder long. “Do you live around here?” he asks, friendly and curious. Dean’s used to hearing that question asked with a thick layer of suspicion, usually out of the mouth of some nosy adult. He still gives his practiced answer, though.

“No, me and my brother are just visiting our grandparents for a couple days.”

Al nods, accepting the lie easily. “I thought I’d never seen you at school.” He points at the sheet-clad ghost. “That’s my sister Katie. She’s seven. It’s the first time our parents are letting me take her trick-or-treating on our own.”

Dean smiles and gestures at Sam, who’s holding the empty first-aid kit out to the homeowner for candy. “That’s Sam. He’s nine. Same deal for us.”

“I like his costume,” Al says. Dean bristles for a moment, until he realizes Al’s being sincere.

“Thanks,” he replies. “I like Katie’s too.” He sweeps his eyes over Al again. “Why are you wearing a fake suit with your halo?”

Al looks down at himself and laughs sheepishly, smoothing down the front of his t-shirt. “I wanted to do a toga with a sheet, but it’s way too cold. I just dressed up ‘cause Katie wanted me to. The halo was the quickest thing.”

“It works,” Dean assures him, suddenly wanting Al to feel good about himself. He shuffles his feet a little, kicking at the fallen leaves littering the walkway. Al smiles at him and something grows in Dean’s chest, a warm, glowing ball, making everything feel tight and tingly. He’s not sure what to do with it.

Sam appears at his elbow suddenly, much to Dean’s relief. He ruffles Sam’s hair. “What’d you get?”

Already chewing on something that looks very caramelly as it squishes between his teeth, Sam holds out the first-aid kit. “She gave me two big ones!” he announces around his mouthful. Two full-sized Milky Ways, one already half-unwrapped, slide around in the box.

“Cool,” Dean says. “Don’t get a stomachache.”

“They’re gonna get stomachaches,” Al says ruefully as Sam and Katie bounce down the driveway to hit the next house. “We should steal some of their candy, y’know, just to protect them.”

The word protect briefly jolts Dean out of his growing sense of relaxation and he sneakily pats his chest, feeling the sheathed knife tucked away in the inside pocket. He makes sure he can still see Sammy (now bounding up the walkway of the next house), and takes a breath. Everything’s under control.

“You okay?” Al’s looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together, a lock of dark hair falling into the crease. He has nice hair, Dean decides. Floppy and kind of messy, squished flat in the middle by the band of the pipe cleaner halo.

“Yep,” he says, forcing the cheer into his voice. If Al notices, he doesn’t say anything. They continue to follow their siblings through the neighborhood, leaving some distance so they can talk. Al tells Dean about school, that he likes science and hates history, that his favorite band is Journey, that he wants to play soccer but his dad wants him to play football, and that he wants to be a veterinarian.

“I like cars,” Dean says in response. “I’m not great at school. Not sure what I wanna do when I grow up.”

Not sure how to tell you that I’ll probably be hunting monsters for the rest of my life.

Al leans on the picket fence of the house that they’re currently waiting outside. “You could be a teacher,” he says.

Dean narrows his eyes at him in confusion. “I just told you I’m bad at school.”

Al shrugs. “My favorite teacher says he didn’t like school. That’s why he’s so good at helping us. He gets it.”

The heavy layer of clouds above them breaks, and a ray of moonlight lands across Al’s face. They’re standing between streetlights, so the silvery glow makes Al’s blueish eyes gleam. Dean finds he has to breathe a little harder than normal. He shakes his head.

“Nah, if anyone’s gonna be a teacher, it’s Sammy. He’s really smart.”

Al hums and pushes off the fence. Sam and Katie are moving on again. “I don’t know, man. You seem smart to me.” He pats Dean on the shoulder, the warmth of his hand seeping through Dean’s threadbare jacket.

In the relative darkness, Dean smiles so hard his eyes squeeze shut.

Eventually, they’ve stopped at every house in the neighborhood. Dean’s pockets are full of the candy that doesn’t fit into Sam’s overflowing first-aid kit. Al’s coat pockets are bulging, too. Sam and Katie run sugar-hyped circles under a streetlight while Dean and Al stand on the corner, looking at each other a bit awkwardly.

“Uh-- I’m glad we ran into you guys,” Al says finally. “You’re really cool.”

Dean’s glad that he’s the one facing away from the streetlight, because his cheeks heat up and probably look way pinker than they would from just the cold.

“You too,” he says. “Wish we lived around here.”

“Where do you live?” Al asks. “You know, just in case we ever take a road trip.”

Unless your destination’s my dad’s car, I don’t think you’re gonna run into me.

“Sioux Falls,” he says. “South Dakota. I live with my uncle.”

If Al finds that strange, he doesn’t pry. Dean could hug him. He wants to hug him.

Katie comes barrelling over, dragging her pillowcase of candy along the pavement. She’s huffing from running around, ghost sheet dangling half off her body. “Al, I’m soooo tired.” She flops against her brother. Sam comes trotting up behind her and grins at Dean. Dean tries to smile back, but there’s a lump in his throat, something that’s making it hard to breathe.

Al pats Katie on the head. “We should probably go home, anyway. It’s getting late.”

Still taking tight little breaths, Dean nods. “Uh-- yeah, us too. See if Sam can sleep off the sugar rush.”

“How long are you staying with your grandparents?” Al asks.

Dean looks at his feet. Weighs the pros and cons of sneaking out again. He’d have to take Sam; there aren’t actually any grandparents who could watch him.

He can’t risk it.

“We’re going home tomorrow morning,” he says, every word dropping like lead. Sam shoots him a confused look, but he ignores it.

Unless he’s imagining it, Al’s face seems to fall. “Aw, too bad. Wait! Hang on.” He rummages through his candy-heavy pockets until he pulls out a little spiral notebook and a nub of a pencil. He writes something on a page and rips it out. He hands it to Dean.

“Our phone number,” he says with a little smile. He steps forward and the streetlight catches his eyes again. Dean thinks that in the sunlight, they’d be bright blue. Al gestures at the paper. “You’ve got a phone at your uncle’s, right? Maybe you can call me sometime.”

There are way too many feelings jumbling around in Dean’s chest for him to say anything coherent, so he just nods. Al smiles wider. “Cool. I’m happy we met you.” He takes one more step forward and — Dean stops breathing altogether — wraps his arms briefly around Dean’s shoulders. He’s very warm. His hair smells good. Dean’s brain doesn’t catch up quite in time, and he misses his chance to hug back. The edge of Al’s halo brushes Dean’s forehead as he pulls away.

“Thanks for hanging out,” Al says, putting his arm around Katie’s shoulders and turning to go. “Have a good drive back home!”

Dean clears his throat. “Bye, guys,” he says lamely. Sam waves enthusiastically to make up for it. They stand under the streetlight for a long few minutes, watching Al and Katie go.

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

Sam manages to eat every piece of candy by Thursday morning, which is the day they’re supposed to hear from John. Dean makes him eat canned vegetable soup in between meals of Mars bars and Skittles. They scrounge the motel room for wrappers, tossing them all into a big garbage bag that Dean’s going to throw into the dumpster outside. He finishes folding the laundry, counts the money to make sure it’s all there, re-packs the first aid kit, and puts the sheet back on the bed without the safety pins.

Anytime the unease creeps in about having broken the rules, he looks at his brother’s shining face and pushes it back down. He and Sam rehearse their story in case John asks them what they did and Sam even finishes all of his worksheets. Dean folds them up and hides them at the very bottom of his duffle. He tells Sam he put them into the mailbox in the motel office.

And every few hours, he pulls the folded little piece of notebook paper out of his pocket and looks at it. In careful handwriting, Al had written:

Alan Montgomery

(from Halloween. I hope you call.)

And his phone number.

Thursday afternoon, Dean takes the candy-wrapper garbage bag out to the parking lot. At the last second, he pulls Al’s note out of his jeans. After a long moment of reading and re-reading it, he gently folds it back up and tosses it into the bag. He throws the whole thing into the dumpster.

But not before memorizing the number.

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

John gets home late Thursday night. Before they check out of the motel on Friday, John sits Dean down on the toilet seat in the bathroom and pulls out his electric clippers.

While John has his back turned, plugging in the clippers by the sink, Dean pushes his hand through his hair, feeling the soft strands bunch up between his fingers and fall back down onto his ears. He remembers Al’s messy hair brushing his cheek when they hugged.

John flips the clippers on and the buzzing fills the bathroom. For the second time, Dean is glad that the mirror is shattered.

With every lock of hair that tumbles to the ground, Dean recites Al’s number in his head.

“There,” John says gruffly, after the floor and Dean’s lap are littered with honey brown strands. “You look like a man again.”

Dean stands up, brushing off his jeans. His head feels cold. “I’ll get a broom,” he says.

He’s halfway out the bathroom door when John says “Dean.”

Dean freezes, already wondering where he left a wrapper, how John found the garbage bag, if Sam let something slip. He slowly turns back. John’s wrapping the cord around the clippers.

“I need you to come on the next hunt. We’ll drop Sam off at Bobby’s.”

Bobby’s, where the telephone is. Dean’s heart beats hard for a different reason now. He tries to look casual. “Are we gonna stay for a bit?”

John’s already shaking his head before Dean’s done talking. He pushes past him and drops the clippers into his duffel bag on the bed. “No. We’ll be on the road for a while.” He stops and looks at Dean. “Weren’t you going to find a broom?”

Dean loads a dustpan with his hair and empties it on top of the garbage bag in the dumpster.

He whispers Al’s number again.

#suptober21 #sorry for the angst #it's Hating John Hours over here #Al is not intended to be a time-traveling Cas btw #I just liked the idea of a pipe-cleaner halo and of Dean having a type #Anyway Dean is Sam's parent #Fuck John Winchester #Dean deserved a cute teenage boyfriend #spn fanfic #ficlet

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