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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

Text

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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lostkrbkaccount · 3 years

Text

Kiri's moms.

[Kirishima's house]

Kiri: *brushing his teeth* aww crap-

Hime: what happened, sweetie?

Kiri: shredded another brush..

Hime: ah baby- you've got bristles stuck in your teeth. C'mere-

Kiri: don't stick your fingers in my mouth! Ma! Hey-

Hime: hold still- you don't wanna be walking around with bristles for teeth, Christ Eijiro!

Kiri: maaaaaa I'm gonna be late!

Hime: late for what? You don't have school today.

Kiri: I was supposed to meet up with Bakugo for studying..

Hime: oh right Bakugo. Y'know I like the sound of him, you talk about him non stop and your grades are improving! When am I gonna meet this boy?

Kiri: probably never, I doubt he'd even step foot in this house-

*doorbell rings*

Yuri: I'll get it!

Hime: thanks honey!!

Kiri: ow- ma-

Yuri: *opens door* good morning!

Baku: morning..is Kiri-

Yuri: oh you must be Eijiro's friend, Bakugo! We've heard so much about you! Come in, come in!

Baku: yeah that's me, so I'm guessing your his mom?

Yuri: one of them, yes!

Baku: one of them?

Yuri: we're lesbians, sweetie..

Baku: oh, he never said-

Hime: is this Bakugo? I was wondering when I was gonna meet you! Ei talks about you all the time!

Baku: *smirks* does he now?

Kiri: ma! Stop it, you're embarrassing me! Oh hey, Bakugo!

Baku: so, you talk about me all the time? Is that why you're late?

Kiri: see ma, I told you I was gonna be late!

Hime: oh you boys studying non stop, it's a Saturday. Bakugo can stay over and we can all relax!

Kiri: Bakugo, we don't have to-

Baku: why not? You had watch me suffer with my parents. I think it's only fair, we can take a break. Besides, both of your moms are way cooler than my mom..

Hime: wonderful! I'll bake a cake!

Kiri: is that really necessary?

Yuri: c'mon we all know Bakugo likes sweets, we have to treat out guest!

Hime: you never bring friends over!

Kiri: cuz last time I did you kept asking if Mina was my girlfriend!

Hime: baby, we were just teasing you. We know she's lesbian..

Kiri: you know?!

Yuri: we have incredible gaydar-

Hime: we know you're gay!

Kiri: everyone knows that!

Hime: We know who else is gay *winks at bakugo*

Baku: wow you are good

Hime: it's a gift.

Yuri: Ei, why don't you take Bakugo to your room and we'll bring you a snack!

Kiri: wanna play video games?

Baku: imma kick your ass!

Kiri: bring it, bitch!

Hime: language!

Kiri: sorry Mama!

Yuri: she's very religious..

Baku: then she'd hate my mom

Hime: really?

Baku: swears like a sailor and she ain't sorry for it.

Hime: my my, then how'd you turn out so wonderful?

Baku: I'm an angel, really..

Kiri: bullshit.

Hime: EIJIRO!

Kiri: sorry but it's true! He was a total gremlin when we first met. This *gestures to baku* is all me.

Baku: yeah that's true..

Kiri: c'mon let's go upstairs

Baku: after you, m'lady

Kiri: dude stop it!

Baku: *laughing*

Hime: it's nice he found someone

Yuri: do you think they're..?

Hime: oh for sure.

#bnha #mha #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #kiribaku #bakushima #krbk

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all-that-tmnt-jazz · 3 years

Note

I thought of this idea and was curious if you’d be able to do head cannons on it because your writing is amazing— how would the turtles react to having a human S/O that can turn into a mutant whenever they please?

Ooh I like this one!!

Warnings: Swearing.

Incarnation: Bayverse

Extra Info: The mutant the reader can turn into will be different for each turtle- don’t worry, I’ll explain each one.

Leo:

So, your mutation never really came up in conversation

However, it only came up because you had (accidentally) been dragged into a fight with the Foot Clan

You and Leo had been on a date when Donnie had reported Foot Clan activity not far from your apartment

He tried to convince you to lock yourself inside, but you figured it would be a good time to reveal yourself

So, you managed to be dragged into the fight a few blocks away, joined by Raph, Donnie, and Mikey

You watch the boys struggle. You want to help, but you also want to wait for the perfect time

So you wait until you’re being cornered by four Foot Clan soldiers, and the brothers are busy

Perfect.

One of the Foot Clan soldiers tries to throw a small knife at you…

And you caught it.

“Shouldn’t have done that.”

You throw the knife back and hit the soldier

Using the distraction, you turn

The next time the soldiers look at you, wings have sprouted from your back, your eyes have gotten much larger, talons had grown from your fingertips and through your shoes, and your legs had gotten longer to a scary extent.

You are a half-human half-owl mutant.

“It’s showtime.”

You jumped off of the ground and immediately grabbed two of the three soldiers that had tried to attack you

You flew up above the city, not afraid to press your talons into their skin

You unashamedly flung the two Foot Clan soldiers into the Hudson, then watched them struggle as the current pulled them

You went back to the alleyway where the turtles were, watching from far above as they were continuing to fight the Foot Clan soldiers.

It was like they didn’t notice.

You dove down into the alley and pulled up at the last second, grabbing Foot Clan soldiers as you went.

You dropped them into the Hudson as well

You went back to the turtles, who had retreated to the rooftops to converse about what jus happened.

You were able to grab Leo and brought him many, many blocks away, and he was fighting the entire time

You put him down and landed in front of him- it was weird being taller than him for once…

You turned back, and he gasped.

“Y/N… That was… You?”

You nodded.

“I figured I should tell you at some point but it never came up in conversation.”

He just looked at you, unsure of what to think

He pulled you to his plastron and held you, then pulled your chin up gently

“You’re fucking amazing.”

Raph:

Raph always noticed you looking at him

Especially since oftentimes, you would be looking sad

You knew you had to tell him at some point, but it hurt your heart too much

You had gotten cursed and your lifespan became elongated

Also known as semi-immortal

And Raph was not

You’re body has been 18 for years, but you’re actually nearing your 30s

That was why you had been so against getting into a relationship

You denied him every time he asked you, until the day he turned 19- just to be sure

That was three years ago, and you started seeing signs that he wanted to propose

And you were proven right, one night at dinner

It was just you and him at the Lair- he had talked his brothers into leaving him behind while going on patrol this night

Things were going well, yes, but you knew the reason why he wanted to be alone with you

“Y/N, I’ve loved you for years. I want to be your for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me be in the rest of yours.”

You started crying.

He smiled, thinking they were happy tears

“Raph, I… I don’t know.”

His face dropped, but he nodded

“It’s okay, Darling. You aren’t ready, and I shouldn’t-”

“I’m not mortal, Raph.”

There was a long silence between you two

You tried to stop crying

“I’m semi-immortal, Raph. I… I got cursed years ago. I stop aging and will die eventually, just later than you because my life span will be longer… Much longer… Maybe even by centuries, I don’t know…”

He just stared at you, confused, and almost hurt

The only noise was your crying

You didn’t know what to do

Raph kneeled on the ground in front of you, all possible hurt gone from his face

“Y/N, how old are you really?”

“Um… 29. I’ve been physically 18 for-”

“11 years?” Raph asked you, shocked.

You could only nod.

“That’s why you kept saying no- it felt wrong to you.”

You nodded again.

He hugged you. You tensed, but soon relaxed into him when you realized he wouldn’t be letting go

“Is there anything you can control?”

“I… Just… Yeah.”

“May I ask what it is?”

You hiccupped- you had a bad feeling of where this was going.

“Age manipulation…”

“What?”

“Age manipulation. I can accelerate or reverse the age of organisms and non-living objects…”

You knew the lightbulb went off in his head the moment you said it

He let go of the hug, but remained holding your shoulders

“Raph, I know what your thinking, but no! It can backfire and you-”

“I don’t care-”

“You could forget memories, people, places. You could forget your brothers, even me!”

There’s another long silence

You see the light drain slowly from his eyes

You shrugged his hands from your shoulders and put your face in your hands

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have let it come this far…”

He hugged you again, pulling you off of your chair to put you in his lap

“You’re worth that risk, Y/N.”

“Raph, your brothers-”

“I can’t forget them- I have too many scars and too many memories to forget those assholes.”

You chuckled dryly.

“I’m sorry for not telling you.”

“It’s okay. You were scared… I know it’s easy to be scared when you have such a big secret to hide.”

You nodded against his plastron and snuggled as close as you could

“I love you, Raph,” you tell him. “I really do.”

“I love you forever.”

You smiled- genuinely.

“Then, yes.”

“Yes?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

“To your proposal. I’m saying yes.”

He held you even tighter

Donnie:

Despite loving Donnie with your whole heart, it was hard to be around him while he was in his lab

He had so many thoughts running through his head, it was hard to keep track

So, you often spent your time in the kitchen, talking to you deceased mother

You possess telepathic powers, and you are also a necromancer

You can hear thoughts and speak to the dead after a freak accident you witnessed in your mother’s lab years ago

It was the accident that killed her, but you didn’t know that until your father told you to prepare for her funeral

That was five years before you met Donnie

You were 17 when you met him four years ago, and had been dating for three of them.

You had been able to control it when you were 17, but then when you met Donnie, you had to re-learn

You had never met someone who thinks so much, and so loudly

You can listen to the thoughts of his brothers, too, and you find Leo’s is the most entertaining

(You’ve never heard him physically swear, but his mind is like a sailor)

But Donnie’s is the one who overwhelms you.

“Y/N, you need to tell him,” you mother says to you. “I can tell he’s starting to feel bad- you keep leaving without explanation.”

“I know, Ma. I just-”

“Y/N, who are you talking to?”

You’re heart stopped for a moment. You slowly looked at the doorway, where Donnie loomed

He was totally confused

Thoughts ran through his head

Are they okay? Is something wrong? Maybe they’re just talking to themself. Yeah-

“You’re wrong.” you say to him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. I still heard what you were thinking.”

“I’m sorry- you heard what I was thinking?”

You glanced at your mother, who had moved to stand next to Donnie

She nodded before disappearing

“I possess telepathic powers, and I’m a necromancer. I was talking to my mom- about telling you, actually.”

Donnie looks at you, shocked

His thoughts were louder than ever and were moving faster than you had ever heard

You covered your ears and closed your eyes- like that would help

He noticed this, and realization

They way I think is like someone screaming in your ear as loud as possible?

He thinks, knowing you were listening

“Yeah. I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, not moving

He approached you, but you didn’t see.

That’s why you leave the lab so suddenly sometimes? It gets overwhelming?

You nod.

He gently removes your hands from your ears and you finally look up at him

He smiles at you, almost guilty

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Don. You can’t help it.”

He takes you into his arms and holds you close

“Thank you for telling me, Y/N. Is there anything I can do?”

Mikey:

Okay, your mutation isn’t too spectacular

But it’s a mutation nonetheless

You were a test subject of the first recreation of mutagen that Shredder ordered Sacks and Stockman to make

But the Shredder and Sacks soon realized you wanted to rebel

Besides, your body was having different effects than they had hoped

So, they released you

And you went to the police

But did they believe you? No.

But a few years later, you saw Shredder fall. You saw Sacks get arrested.

Oh, now the NYPD listens

And when the man who “saved New York” was revealed, you immediately could tell he didn’t

“The Falcon” was a fake- you were surprised that everyone believe his story

Then two more years go by, and Shredder escapes prison, and then a “threat from the sky” tried to attack

But it was stopped- supposedly by “The Falcon” again

But this time, you knew it couldn’t have been him

A week after the incident, you saw a police escort heading toward Lower Manhattan

So, you followed.

Well, hitched a ride on the back of one of the trucks- which was easy in your mutant form

You hid when they stopped, then followed the path the officers made to a boat

In your mutant form, they let you onto the boat without question

Then, you saw the things that actually saved the city, proving your point

They were four turtle-human mutants- like yourself, but different animals. Obviously.

As the boat started to leave the docks, you approached the turtles, only you knowing that you shared their status as mutants

The one wearing an orange bandana immediately started cooing at you, picking you up off of the ground

“What a cute kitty… Leo, can we keep it?” he asked the turtle with the blue bandana

“We don’t know where it’s been, Mikey,” Leo had said.

So the one holding me is Mikey…

Mikey holds you the entire boat ride- and you don’t like to mention that you loved the way he pet you

Yup. you are a house cat. Specifically, a calico Turkish Angora

So, you followed Mikey off of the boat, and he kept smiling down at you as he walked

You soon realized you were at the Statue of Liberty

You saw that most- if not the entire police force of New York was gathered, as well as the Falcon, a woman from Channel Six named April, and some Ragamuffin Hockey Player-Turned-Police Officer

Then you saw Chief Vincent standing at a podium as she started speaking about the turtles who stood next to her

She thanked them for their bravery and service to this city and gave them Keys to the City

After a while of talking, she approached them to have a small group conversation for a moment

Then, she let them into the Statue of Liberty, and let them go into the statue’s torch

You followed them, of course

After the turtle’s celebration amongst themselves, you made your presence known by rubbing against Mikey’s leg

He squatted and greeted you, petting you

You soon backed away, though, and walked to the other side of the torch

You knew he followed, so, before he caught up, you turned into your human form

When he saw you, he screamed

The others immediately rushed over, and were shocked

“Hi. I’m the cat you were petting earlier,” you said- rather casually

“How? You’re a- person!” Donatello said- you had heard Chief Vincent say his name

“Yeah, I’m a person who got screwed over by Sacks and Stockman. I got mutated just before he got arrested.”

There was a long silence.

“Prove it,” Raphael demanded.

You turned into your mutant form and sat. You licked your paw, then looked up at Raphael, who had gone pale

All of them had gone pale, really, except Mikey

“Woah- you’re kinda like us, then?” Mikey asked.

You turned back and agreed.

“Awesome, dude!”

That was nearly five years ago now. Now, you and Mikey are dating, and have been for three and a half years

You never knew you’d meet your best friends because of the mutation you had wanted so badly to hate

#tmnt #tmnt headcanons #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt leonardo #tmnt leo #tmnt raphael #tmnt raph #tmnt doantello #tmnt donnie #tmnt x reader #tmnt x mutant reader #tmnt april o'neil #tmnt casey jones #tmnt vernon fenwick #tmnt bayverse the falcon

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reincarnated70sbaby · 3 years

Text

maritime madness

led zeppelin x reader

warnings: swearing, drug use

an: so I was sailing yesterday and I was thinking about this the entire time I might have nearly capsized the boat

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

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this” I spoke, staring out at the large blue yacht that rested on the waters of Normandy. It all started the day before, when we were all throwing around tripped out ideas in our hotel room.

“What are we gonna do tomorrow?” Jimmy asked. I sat by his side, my head resting on his bony shoulder. My dose of LSD had just kicked it, and as it was my first time it probably hit me quicker than the others. I tried to speak, but it felt like every time I moved my mouth, it felt like I would stretch my mouth out of shape, like putty.

“Let’s go explore that cathedral, the big massive one, y’know? The one with the hunchback. Maybe we could bump into him or something”

As soon as the words left Robert’s lips, our entire entourage burst out in giggles. I myself, was having hard time controlling my breathing. I had to rest my head in Jimmy’s lap, Jimmy being doubled down over me clutching his stomach.

“Percy, you dumb fucker, y-you know that’s not a real story” Jonesy informed, all his words all broken up by loud chuckles.

Roberts jaw immediately dropped open in shock, along with his eyes widening and brown trashing in confusion.

“Nah, yeah it was, the uh, the hunchman did the um, bells. Yeah, the bells”

“No he didn’t, because he never existed you nonce. It’s a fairytale from the 19th century” Jimmy piped in, adding his extensive knowledge of mythology and folklore into the conversation.

“But me ma said he existed, you’re gonna say my mum lied to me all those years?”

“Well obviously Perce, it’s just a bedtime story” Jonesy added, still chuckling to himself at Robert’s gullible nature.

“Fine then, someone else give an idea since all of mine always get ridiculed” Robert stated, crossing his arms and craning his head back against the footboard of the bed and staring at the ceiling in a huff.

“How about Père Lachaise?”

“What the actual fuck is pear la chair Pagey?” Bonzo asked, pronouncing the words all wrong in his thick Englishman accent.

“It’s Père Lachaise” Jimmy corrected in a perfect French accent, “and it’s a graveyard in Paris, loads of famous people are buried there - Oscar Wilde, Frederic Chopin, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf”

“Jimmy you must be as mad as Morrison to think we would waste our day off in a fucking dead person museum. Jesus Christ how did we pick you up” Bonzo sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, what about Mont Saint-Michel? It’s this cool island off of the coast. There’s a bridge but once the tide comes in you can’t get in or out. Wouldn’t that be good craic eh?” Jonesy suggested

“No” Bonzo, Jimmy and Robert all said at the same time.

“Ah! You’ve been outnumbered Mr Jones haha. Maybe you and I could go out another time Jonny boy, we could go exploring and see the spirits trapped on the island” I said with a chuckle, the psychedelic in my system making this whole situation very funny.

“Jesus Christ what the fuck did she even say. That her first time on acid?” Robert asked to Jimmy.

“Must’ve been, it hit her pretty quickly” Jimmy replied, staring into my largely dilated pupils. He swore he could’ve seen something dancing in my pupils, but maybe that was just the drug in him.

We all sat in silence for a couple minutes, all of us enjoying our high.

“Innnnnnnnnnnnnnn fourteen hundred ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blueeee” I sang, the lyrics being the only words of a song I could think of to fill the silence. A beat of silence passed and I wondered if everybody suddenly passed out, either into sleep or another dimension.

As I started the next line, everyone else joined in with me. We eventually finished the entire song, even an encore requested by the boys. I sung the encore in a horrendous, deep operatic voice while prancing round the hotel room. A round of applause sounded, and I took my theatrical bows in front of my supportive crowd.

“That’s It! I know what we can do tomorrow. God that is a good idea!” Bonzo declared, jumping up to his feet, not before nearly tumbling backwards.

“Go on then Bonz, don’t leave us guessing mate” Jonesy suggested, breaking the dramatic silence that had ensued.

“Rent a yacht! We can go out early in the morning and stay overnight since our flight back home is in the evening anyway! All we need to do is hire a skipper or something”

We all were stoked at idea of having a private boat to ourselves. Sure, none of the boys were experienced sailors, but that’s what a professional skipper was for, driving rich people around in yachts right?

“Do we really have to do this” I said, making our way through the marina to our yacht.

“The skipper will probably dive off the boat when we get started tonight” Jonesy commented, sharing my lack of enthusiasm for the maritime adventure. “We should have ditched them and gone to Mont Saint-Michel”. I only hummed in response, dragging my overnight suitcase over the gaps in the planks of wood on the dock.

“Um yeah, about that skipper. We couldn’t exactly book one on such short notice” Cole confessed.

“What the actual fuck Cole? Are we just supposed to sail ourselves and drown? I can’t tie a knot to save my bloody life” Robert shrieked. We all stopped in our tracks and turned to the tour manager, glaring at him through our sunglasses.

“Of course not Percy, why would we do that to our cash cows hm? And this is a motorboat, no ropes involved. It’s basically like driving a car. In water. In fact, all you need to drive it is a drivers license, which I’m positive you all have judging by your expansive car choices. Forgot to mention that myself and Peter have opted out” With that note, Cole dropped the yacht keys into Bonzo’s hand and scuttled away.

We all stood there, bags in hand, confusion over our faces as we watched Cole’s figure disappear behind the hundred of other boats.

“Well shit” Jonesy said, the sourness in his voice barely hidden.

“Let’s just go check it out, we don’t even have to leave the marina if we can drive it, we’ll just park out all night” Bonzo affirmed, being unusually optimistic.

We all found the boat and as the boys started embarking aboard, I thought out loud.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this”

“Cmon darling, let’s just see what it’s like. If you hate it we’ll do something else” Jimmy compromised, outstretching his hand to me.

The boat bobbed a bit on the water as I stepped on.

“It’s not hating it I’m worried about, I was practically raised on a boat Jim, I’m just not sure 4 rockstars and a boat is a great combination”

“It’s okay we won’t go too hard, at least one of us won’t, I guess. Anyway, you were raised on a boat? Like a houseboat or something?”

“No, my dad was a skipper. Whenever he was home from trips, he would teach my and my siblings to sail. Y’know the whole nine yards, all the different knots, pulling in the ropes, steering, navigating charts. It’s just been a while since I’ve been on one and I hope I can remember everything”

“Gosh you are fabulous, my dear, I learn something new about you everyday” Jimmy said, pulling me in for a kiss. There was a loud bang of the engine, which we both jumped apart at.

“What the fuck are they at now, Christ” Jimmy sighed.

“Here, go set down our stuff in the biggest room, I’ll go see what they’re messing with”

We both parted, Jimmy heading downstairs, myself climbing onto the helm.

“Oi, Bonz, Percy, step away from the wheel until I get us out of this parking lot” I commanded. Both Robert and Bonzo looked at me funny, before slowly raising their arms and stepping away.

“And you know better?” Bonzo asked, still not sure where my bossiness came from.

“I think I do, unless you have your skipper license on hand?”

“Wait, you have a sailing license?” Robert interjected.

“I actually don’t, but I know everything you need to not drown. My father was a sailor and he taught me how to run a boat. Thank god we have a motorboat, as we might’ve been a little trouble if we have a proper sailing yacht. If we were, it wouldn’t have been as relaxing as simply steering a wheel” I answered, switching the engine on.

We warmed up the engine for a couple minutes, then casted off and finally escaped the madness of the marina. Soon were out on the French coastline. We continued sailing perpendicular to the coast, not wanting to stray too far. All the boys took turns steering, with Jonesy being the best skipper in-training out of all of them. Only once had we had anchored the boat again was the real party going to start.

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

if only sailing was this easy in reality 😒

anyway I’m gonna do a spicier part 2 riiight now😎

leave any comments/ideas down below!!!!

navigation

tag list : @rebel-without-a-zeppelin @princesspagey @dreamersdrowse

#led zeppelin #led zeppelin x reader #jimmy page #john bonham #john paul jones #robert plant

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amberwild420 · 3 years

Text

one step back, two steps forward (pt. 7)

masterlist

Dragon and snake and the chaos

Classes went on without a hitch, Lila didn’t returned after the first humiliation. Alya who was still glaring at Marinette despite all that went down, but Marinette ignored her.

She realized a lot of things now. Like how if they were really her friends then they would never had just believed the liar and started bullying her. If they were really her friends they would have asked her permission and asked for help not demand her to be at their beck and call.

She needed to talk with Tikki. And about Adrien being chat noir. She needed to take away his miraculous. There is nothing more problematic than her black cat being corrupted because he wasn’t the true cat. She needed to find one. The faster the better.

Lunch time came rather faster and both girls walked out, not before stepping on the foot that sticks out to trip them or rather Marinette. The howl of pain made Kaylan smirk, and wink at the pink haired skater who glared at them.

Are you not worried that they may become an akuma?

Marinette became worried when she saw anger on Alix’s face. It was enough to attract akuma.

I would rather they become akuma when they are angry than to bottle up all the emotions before exploding and become the deadliest akuma.

Kaylan said pulling the girl out before heading towards the bakery. Stopping in front of stairs, she turned towards the designer.

My mom is a psychiatrist. Well……….more like a freelancer. Um….. She saw all the videos of the recent akuma. That’s the conclusion we came to.

Marinette nodded and both started towards the bakery.

The first akuma we faced was so full of negativity that even my mom felt it. As a psychiatrist she know when someone is bottling up negative emotions and she can definitely feel it. It’s like a second nature to her.

So she told you that the akuma would be weaker if a person was not bottling up the emotion?

Not exactly but, yes. The nurse that got akumatized……..she came at some point the very same day. My mom gave her a coping mechanism where she can let go of all her emotions and not get akumatized.

Wait that can happens?

Kaylan smirked. She looked smug. Was that a valid trick?

Marinette looked like she wanted to say something but they reached the bakery.

Mari-hime! It’s good to see you here.

Ma-ma-Marinette. Your song is rather clear.

Turning they looked at the pair. The girl was Asian descendent. She had short navy bob and sharp brown eyes, that soften up at the sight of the designer but when they turned to Kaylan they turned sharper. She was glaring at her.

The boy looked older than them. The dye in his hair was more prominent. He looked like a musician with his punk rock style. He looked rather calmer than both of them.

Kagami! Luka! You came!

Marinette quickly hugged them before gesturing toward Kaylan.

Meet Kaylan, she is new to our class and sits next to me. And she’s my friend. I wanted to introduce her to you guys.

Of course Mari-hime. I’m Kagami Tsurugi and I challenge you to a duel.

Kagami! No!

Kaylan Fox and I would be pleased to dual. Having a challenge always excite me no matter physical or mental.

Please don’t!

Poor Marinette kept looking at the girls who shook each other’s hand with as much force they could exert. None of their expression flattered.

The musician looked rather amused at their antic, when they released each other, he introduced himself.

Luka Couffaine. Normally I would do the intimidation but if you can survive Kagami than I’m sure you can live mine.

There’s no way I’m hurting Marinette. I would rather hurt those who hurt her. Someone like a certain liar.

That caught their attention and they looked at her and then at Marinette. The designer sighed and nodded. The smiles that passed between three of them were all the same. Sadistic.

Marinette regretted introducing them. She heard Tikki sniggering quietly before leading them all up towards her room. She really prayed that Lila can live with these three teaming up. They are all vicious individually and together they will be unstoppable. Just thinking about the chaos they will cause in the future makes her head hurt.

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

Kagami and Luka were head of MPS (Marinette protection squad). With Kaylan, their strategist for petty revenge, they felt that they can now work far better. Their stories of Liar turned to her becoming akumatized and lead to the conversation earlier.

But seriously did that actually work?

Marinette asked. While it might be a healthy mechanism to let go of the emotion for a limited time before composing themselves but with an emotional terrorist on lose it would be too good to be true.

My mom and I do it every day.

She giggled picturing how ridiculous they must have looked.

It’s more like letting all your stress, anger and frustration out in one big scream and then drink some water to cool down. It’s likely to attract akuma but once you have cool down it won’t be attracted to you.

(yes. this works. letting out your frustration by screaming, loudly cursing and angrily punching the pillow, can help you cool down faster. I tried all of these. and I felt far lighter than before.)

They frowned, still not believing at her. She shook her head with a smile before taking out her phone and calling someone.

Hey mom, do you have something on the schedule for today?

The trio raised their eyebrows.

………………

No I mean are you free or do you have an appointment or …….

……………………..

Yes but number increased to three.

……………….

I still need to ask if they are free, hold up. Hey, I know it’s on short notice but can you make time for dinner today?

She looked at Marinette who stood up and ran to her parents. Kagami and Luka took out their phones to call their parent.

I can make time!

Marinette came running before bending to catch her breath. Luka nodded too. Kagami was looking a little reluctant but when Kaylan gestured she passed the phone to her.

Moshi, Moshi, Tsurugi-san!

………………..

Kagami looked alarmed but focused at the girl talking to her mother.

Kaylan Fox. Kagami o yūshoku ni shōtai shitakatta nodesuga, de~yuaru mo yakusoku shimashita. Kagami ga watashitachi no yūkō-tekina kyōsō no tame no jikan o tsukuru koto ga dekiru koto o hontōni nozonde imasu.

(I don’t know a speck of Japanese, I’m just using google translate and if you find some thing wrong with the translation blame google, not me)

(Kaylan Fox. I wanted to invite Kagami for dinner and we even promised for a dual. I really hope Kagami can make time for our friendly competition.)

……………….

Tokuni arimasen. Shikashi, yori budō ni katamuite imasu.

(Not particularly. But more inclined towards martial arts. )

…………………

Mochiron chigaimasu. Watashinohaha wa seishinkai de, keganin ga inai koto o kakunin dekimasu.

(Of course not. My mother is psychiatrist and can make sure no one is injured.)

…………………

Mattaku chigaimasu, mama. Watashi wa machigainaku jibun no kachi o shōmei suru jikan o tsukuru koto ga dekimasu.

(Not at all, mam. I can definitely make time to prove my worth.)

……………………

Arigato, Tomoe-san.

The call ended and Kaylan turned to her own phone.

Sorry for the wait but yeah all of them are coming.

………….

Just dinner. Sleep over have to wait. Boundaries mama. Respect the boundaries.

……….

Sure. Take care and don’t stress. The last thing I want for you is to become an akuma.

She turned to the trio, taking in their various level of surprise.

What?

You managed to persuade Tomoe-san/my mother?

Both girls spoke at the same time but Kaylan still under stood.

It wasn’t that hard. When I said I would come and prove my worth as her daughter’s friend and the mention of our competition, she was very much persuaded. By the way I got her number and she invited me for another match at your place. Hope you don’t mind.

Kagami shook her head. The small twitch of her lips didn’t go unnoticed. True Tomoe-san is rather strict with her daughter but when it comes to good influence and worthy friends she lets her daughter keep the company.

It’s good to have someone who can speak Japanese. They’re just learning.

Kagami gestured at the other two.

I speak a lot of languages. English isn’t my first one. We move a lot. So learning language is rather compulsory to make sure I don’t get ‘tricked’.

(language barrier can be a reason why tourists get scammed.)

She air quote tricked.

Japanese was my third language, right before English. First it was Chinese because I was in Beijing at that time then it was Hindi because a few of my mother’s family member were in India and I learnt it while we had contact with them and I took French when we were in America. So yeah!

She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but turned her gaze towards Kagami, looking at her expectedly. The said girl smiled and started counting.

I speak Japanese, French, English, Chinese and I’m learning Mandarin.

I speak French, Chinese, I’m learning Mandarin and uncle Jagged and penny are teaching me English. Kagami is teaching me Japanese that’s for now.

French, English, learning Japanese. If you count me swearing like my mother then the sailor language

Now that’s a language we have to be wary of.

The amused chuckle that left her lips initiated the laughter session before they started to get to know each other before they return to school.

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

The classes after lunch were quick to pass with a few glare here and there but no ne dare to openly antagonize the young designer. Especially now that Lila wasn’t there to fan the flames.

Seems like the morning humiliation was more than enough to keep her down.

Kaylan mused before listening to the teacher.

_______________________________________________________________

Okay she was wrong! Like really, really wrong!

So let’s backup.

The day without Lila was rather peaceful. I mean if there is no liar to fan the flames then there is no new rumor and no one glaring at them or rather at Marinette. Well the morning humiliation was something.

Marinette sighed and relaxed when the last bell rang, with no Lila and fake friends around she had so much time.

Marinette! How could you?!

Aaaaaand there goes the peaceful day she hoped. She must be really tired or angry because she scowled openly at her former best friend.

What did I do this time Cesaire? Lila isn’t even in the class. What did I do to her this time?

She isn’t here in the class that’s why you sent her nasty texts! She sent me the screen shots of all nasty things you have said!

And yet she still doesn’t wants to file a cyber-bulling complaint.

Ah! Maybe that’s why she talked back. Kaylan stood right behind her, putting her chin on Marinette’s shoulder smiling coldly at the class in front of them. They looked rather intimate.

Tension rose to the roof and the temperature dropped several degrees making several of them shiver. Alya gritted her teeth shoving the fear at the back of her mind.

Well maybe because Lila is too nice for her own good and didn’t want Marinette to get in trouble.

And yet, you the ever so poetic justice, still want to trouble Marinette.

The bluenette giggled before covering it up with a cough. Kaylan had so many comebacks that she could never get tired of listening to them.

Many of their classmates shuffled nervously. Sure Lila had said a lot of times that she didn’t want Marinette too be trouble but Marinette needs to know what it was like to be bullied. Before any of them could say anything, Kaylan lightly pushed Marinette towards the door.

Before they can make their way out, Kaylan said.

Oh and Cesaire! Be a bigger person and a good example. I’m sure Marinette can be nice if you show her how to be a good example.

They left the school halls before any of them could comprehend.

taglist:

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@mlnchlymrshmllw

@gyrsaker365

@elmokingkong

@bookblokeanoid

@rainbowunicornspluscake

@irealydontcare

@pxtrichxr

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@lonestarfangirl2014

@thecarton

@sweetspyalienfestival

@kristycocopop

#miraculous ladybug #one step back #two steps forward #original character #ml salt #class salt #marinette needs a hug #marinette protection squad #someone give Marinette a hug

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fizzychocolatemilk · 3 years

Text

Totally Normal...You Know Until (Part 2)

Hey! I’m back with part two for the people who would rather read it on Tumblr. I’ll still leave the AO3 link for those who missed the first part. Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33074071. Remember to leave comments (if your comfortable)!

Since they had returned from the agency earlier than normal due to the accident, none of their other classmates had returned to the dorms yet. So Deku followed Katsuki up to his room so they could chat with their mothers. They were seated together on Katsuki’s bed with a laptop between them when the call connected and Inko and Mitsuki’s faces appeared on the other side of the screen.

Mitsuki grinned ferally at the two boys, “Hey Izu-kun! Hey brat! We heard you got into a quirk accident today. Should we be worried you’re gonna keel over?”

Inko glanced nervously at her son, “Hello boys. Are you sure you’re okay? I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Deku scoffed and turned his head to stare at the far wall, “Nothing Bakacchan and I can’t fucking handle. We’re fine. It’s just a fucking personality swap quirk. The worst things we’re gonna have to deal with is the extra attention from our dumbfuck friends and the headache when the quirk wears off. Stop fucking worrying over nothing!”

Inko gaped at her son’s language as Katsuki snickered beside him. “Yeah, we’re fine, Ma, Auntie. ‘T isn’t anything you need to worry about.”

Mitsuki laughed out loud, “Damn maybe you should stay like this! Katsuki’s ten times more respectful than normal! Didn’t even call me a hag!”

Deku scoffs again and turns a burning stare towards Mitsuki, “Even if we wanted to, the quirk wears off within 12-48 hours. Which I fucking don’t. It’s annoying as fuck to not be able to express my emotions the way I fucking want to.”

Mitsuki barked another laugh when Inko stepped in. “Midoriya Izuku! Where in the world did you learn that language?! I know you’re affected by a quirk, but that doesn’t mean you can go around swearing like a sailor!”

Mitsuki nudged her shoulder and stepped in, “Don’t go too hard on the boy, Inko. He’s lived with my son his whole life. It was kind of inevitable that he picked up the language, and,” her voice lowered to a loud whisper, “he’s just swearing because it’s harder for him to express his emotions. That’s mostly why Katsuki goes around swearing all the time. So you shouldn’t rag on him too much.”

Inko sighed and shook her head. Then smiled at the boys, “Just don’t go around being too mean to people, okay Izu? Try to be as respectful as possible even though it’s hard to express things correctly. Now, tell us about how your day has been so far.”

”Tch. Whatever,” Deku tactfully responds.

Katsuki grins at him (to which he gets a scowl in return) before saying, “It’s been pretty weird. I’m not doing anything that I wouldn’t normally do, I’m just doing it how Deku would do it, but I still sort of feel like my actions are not my own. It’s a lot easier to express what I’m feeling, but I also show my embarrassment more obviously. I don’t really like that. ”

Deku stared at him thoughtfully for a few seconds before scowling again and looking away, ��Dumb Kacchan, we already fucking knew you’re secretly a goody-two-shoes nerd. Just because that fact ‘s more obvious now doesn’t mean you never fucking were before. Dumbass. Trust yourself.”

Katsuki was aware of his usual emotional constipation. He had been trying to work through it, but breaking a habit that he’s carried most of his life is harder than people seem to think. Therefore, Katsuki knew the vague idea of what Deku actually meant to say. That he should trust that he’s kinder now. Trust that he’s not the bully from middle school anymore. Trust that he’s someone worth knowing. The fact that Deku saw through him made him blush and once again bring his arms up to cover his face in a rendition of what happened earlier in the halls. “Th-th-thanks,” he stuttered with his eyes averted away from Deku.

Mitsuki burst into more excited giggles. Katsuki had forgotten they were speaking with their mothers. His body seemed to realize that and just flushed deeper. So embarrassing… “Ahhhh….Brat...you’re being so adorable! I kind of wish you had come home now so I could get pictures!”

Katsuki’s face kept its flush at his mother’s words, but he removed his arms from around his head. “Ma,” he whined, “Stop it!”

Mitsuki opened her mouth, most likely to keep teasing her son, when Katsuki heard a door open on the other side of the line. “Mitsuki! I’m home,” Katsuki heard his father say from outside the frame.

Inko had cut in when Mitsuki left the frame, presumably to greet Masaru, “We’re very glad you boys are alright, but we should get started on dinner. Continue to stay safe. We love you!”

Mitsuki popped her head back into the frame and continued, “Love yah, brat! Remember you’ve gotta call me when the quirk wears off. Don’t you go conveniently forgetting! See you later, Izu-kun!”

The call cut off, and Katsuki and Deku were left in the room together. Both of them seemed to realize there was still about an hour until their classmates returned from their internships, so they began working together to complete their leftover homework.

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

A little over an hour later, Katsuki had finished his last worksheet for the night. He had started hearing his classmates’ movement around ten minutes ago, but he wanted to delay the inevitable teasing for as long as possible.

Unfortunately at that moment, his stomach released a large growl. He blushed, unsurprisingly at that point, as Deku glanced over at the noise. The other boy scowled before getting up from his spot on the floor. He grabbed Katsuki’s upper arm and hauled him upwards into a standing position.

“Come on, stupid Kacchan, the dumbasses have probably already started dinner,” Deku growled at him as he dragged Katsuki out of the room and down the hall to the elevator. Katsuki was taken off-guard and was still heavily blushing from a mixture of his embarrassment, surprise at Deku handling him, and being flustered that Deku was dragging him down the hall.

”Wait. Wait! Deku!” He yelped at his friend. “Can you m-m-maybe stop dragging me so we can walk like n-n-normal people?”

Deku turned to look at him with a blank face. He let go of Katsuki’s arm, put his hands in his pockets, and started walking at a more leisurely pace towards the elevator.

Katsuki released a relieved sigh and jogged to catch up with him. “Thanks for worrying though, Deku,” Katsuki smiled warmly at Deku. His cheeks were probably pink, but at this point he was mostly used to it.

Deku grunted and pushed the G button on the elevator, but his ears went red again, so Katsuki knew he was happy with the praise.

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

They walked into the common room side-by-side. Deku with a scowl on his face, and Katsuki with a relatively blank one. But both occurrences turned heads.

Mina rushed over first. “OMG! Blasty? Mido? What the heck happened to your faces?! Mido you looked like you ate a lemon! And Blasty! You actually look like you didn’t eat a lemon for a change!” She had wrapped her arms around Katsuki’s neck from the back, in a half-hug half-suffocation maneuver.

Katsuki grunted from his lack of air, but wheezed out, “Mina-chan...get off’a me. Can’t breathe.”

She squealed and ran around to bounce in front of him. Then she leaned forward quickly and placed her hands on his shoulders to shake him as she told him excitedly, “Now you’ve GOT TO tell me what happened! Blasty you’re not being all growly! You called me my name!”

Deku growled and nudged her out of Katsuki’s personal space. “Get outta here, Alien Queen! We’re just expressing our fucking feelings and acting the way the shitty other would. It’s not that big of a deal, just some dumb kid’s quirk.”

Mina grinned and looped her arms through both of theirs, “Awww! That’s so cute! Mido acting like Baku, and Baku acting like Mido! Okay...I guess I could leave you guys alone...but I’m not done teasing yet!”

Katsuki glanced over to Deku, whose face was blank, but had the beginnings of annoyance on it. So he turned to Mina and gave her a half-smile. “Hey? Mina-chan? We’d kind of appreciate it if you dropped the teasing for now? Okay?”

Deku grunted in affirmation, “I said get the fuck outta here, ya shitty Raccoon! You better listen this time!” Deku broke out of Mina’s hold, once again grabbed Katsuki’s arm and started walking them both towards the kitchen.”

From behind, he heard Mina’s laughter as she followed them, “Alright! If scary Mido says I’m done teasing, then I guess I’m done! Damn Blasty, seeing you agreeable is weird! You’re nice all the time, but it’s always so covert! I actually kind of miss old Blasty!” They finally entered the kitchen to find Ochako cooking, while Eijirou helped and Denki tried to help.

Ochako turned and greeted them quickly before going back to the meal. Same with Eijirou. Denki came over to greet him, while Deku went to check the progress of the meal and help out where he could.

“Hey~ Kacchan,” Denki greeted as he wrapped an arm over Katsuki’s shoulder, “How was your day at the agency? You and Mido got back early! Neither of you got hurt, right?”

Katsuki’s face pinkened at the proximity of his friend, but he still replied with a smile, “Uhhhh...t-t-t-today was fine. Deku and I got h-h-hit with a kid's quirk. It’ll wear off before M-m-monday though. So don’t worry!”

”Awww! Kacchan! You’re being so cute!” Denki cried. “What does the quirk do? Get rid of emotional constipation?” Denki laughed.

Deku suddenly starts violently taking charge of the cooking efforts. “We’ll never fucking eat at this rate! Give me the spatula, Floaty! Go help Shark Boy!”

Denki’s face was now pale, “Oh. Personality swap, I presume?” Katsuki nodded. “Mido sure is scary. Scarier than you, I think”

Katsuki chuckled, “He just cares, I think. No different than me when I have my own personality.” He shot Denki a smile, “Don’t be too scared of him...okay?”

Denki cried and clung to Katsuki, “Kaaaaaaccchaaaan!!! You’re too cute!!! I’m not going to survive if you keep smiling at me!”

Katsuki blushed and pouted, “I’m not cute,” he mumbled to Denki.

Mina jumped in again so the three were in a group hug as she squealed, “He’s right! Baku you’re being so cute!”

Katsuki continued to pout, but accepted the hugs from his overexcited friends.

They continued to talk about their days at the agency as the smell of food filled the kitchen along with laughter, exclamations, and shouts (mostly from Deku). And soon the class all came down to eat together.

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

They told the class about the quirk as they worked to place the food on the table. Iida was the first to stand, opening his mouth to lecture them about safety on patrol or something similar, when Deku barked, “Sit the fuck down and eat, Robo-Prez!” Then Deku turned his burning stare to the class, “If you dumbasses start running your mouths instead of putting food in them, I’ll kill you! Floaty, Shark Boy, and I fucking worked hard on it!”

The class murmured to each other, before everyone began to eat, making boisterous conversation like during any other meal they shared together.

Eijirou turned to smile at Katsuki, “I haven’t gotten to talk to you yet about your patrol, man! Mido-bro is doing a pretty spot on impression of you, but how are you feeling? I imagine it’s pretty weird for you too, right?”

Katsuki gave his friend a small smile before responding, “Yeah...It is pretty weird. It’s way easier to express what I’m feeling, but I blush super easily now too. So it’s sort of a win-lose situation. How was your patrol? You had one today, right?”

Eijirou responded, and they talked about their internships for a while before they overheard Ochako talking to Deku. “Deku! You’re acting so similar to Katsuki-kun! It’s almost as if you switched bodies instead of personalities!”

Deku scowled at the brunette, “Our feelings and choices are the same, Floaty. I’m just doing the shit I wanna do the way Kacchan would. If I’m actin’ like him, that means he’s just as kind as I am.” At that point, Deku pushed his chair out and grabbed his plate before taking it to the kitchen. But Katsuki was blushing, hard.

Eijirou snickered at Katsuki’s expression as Katsuki’s face continued to heat up. “Damn, bro! You just got a compliment outta Mido! I mean...he usually worships the ground you walk on, but this time he did it with your personality. Notoriously difficult to get a compliment outta you, man!”

At some point, Katsuki’s arms had come back to wrap around his head and hide his embarrassment again. It was just then that Deku came back from the kitchen. He saw Katsuki’s embarrassment once again and frowned. Katsuki, who had brought his hands back down to sides, shot him an awkward smile, and booked it towards the stairwell and up to his room.

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

Katsuki rushed down the hallway on the fourth floor before making it to his dorm. He placed his hand on the door knob, when he heard Deku’s voice behind him.

”Bakacchan.”

Katsuki turned from his door to look at Deku. “Yeah?”

”You like me. Romantically.”

Katsuki panicked. He ruined it. He knew he would. “WE DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING! I-I know you probably don’t like me back. I mean...who would want to date the kid that bullied them for years...right? I’m sorry...I…” Katsuki looked fearfully at Deku as he approached him. What was he going to do?!

Katsuki looked up into the dark, green eyes and gulped. This was the end of his normal, wasn't it? Deku wouldn’t want to be his friend or hero partner after this. He would be alone and Deku-less, and that probably hurt more than Deku figuring out his feelings. Katsuki began to tear up as Deku continued to stare at him.

”Dumb Kacchan,” Deku said simply, before leaning down their two centimeter height difference to capture Katsuki in a kiss.

Katsuki’s mind blanked as Deku moved his lips against his own. It was probably the greatest thing he had ever felt. Warm like coming home and happy because Deku wouldn’t be leaving him. Deku felt the same way.

Katsuki grabbed the door handle behind him and opened the door as he and Deku continued to kiss each other. Somehow the both landed on the bed and they stared at each other fondly as their impromptu makeout came to an end.

Katsuki opened his mouth to say something when the headache started. They were changing back. Katsuki’s head pounded as his thoughts swirled in a blender, but before he passed out he whispered, “Shitty Deku...I love you.”

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

The next day, they walked into the common room hand-in-hand.

The class did not look at all surprised, but Katsuki wasn’t really paying attention to them. He sent a fond look over to Deku and left a chaste kiss on the side of his head.

Deku smiled at him before pulling their linked hands toward the kitchen for breakfast. Yeah. Katsuki was perfectly fine with his new, totally normal.

FIN.

Stay tuned for a WIP Update!

#fizzy's fics #Totally Normal #bakudeku #bkdk #bkdk fic #bakudeku fanfic #soft bakugou katsuki #tsundere midoriya izuku #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki

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nataliedanovelist · 3 years

Text

GF - Amalia pt.2

For @artsymeeshee. Thank you so so much for being you and for always brightening up my day! Sorry for the wait, but I hope you like it.

pt.1

~~~~~~~~~~

“Dipper, come on! They’re ready!”

The thirteen-year-old boy quickly joined his sister on her bed, lying on their stomach so they could see the laptop comfortably. Yes, they texted their grunkles at least three times a day and constantly sent emails and usually got to have a video call once a week, but that didn't make their interactions any less exciting and enjoyable. Dipper and Mabel’s parents were busy working so the twins had the house to themselves and could talk freely.

The laptop ringed a few times and soon they were graced with two nearly identical faces with distinct differences, both smiling widely at the young teenagers. “Hey there, kiddos!”

“Hi, guys!” Mabel returned, waving and grinning. “Did you get my package, did you, did you, did you?!”

“Yes, I have it right here.” Ford chuckled warmly and placed the package on the dining room table, where the old men were located.

“Well go ahead and open it!” Mabel squealed and Stan used his pocket knife to cut through the tape and they opened the box to find a large, brand new knitted blanket.

“Oh, wow! Mabel, sweetie, this is… wow.” Stan admired with shining eyes as he pulled the blanket out of the box.

“This might be your best work yet, my dear!” Ford complimented as he grazed the yarn with his fingers. “It’s so soft, and how on Earth did you manage to make it so big?”

“Big knitting needles!”

“She used her arms to knit it, like she had it looped around her actual arms.” Dipper answered honestly with a small, proud smile while Mabel blushed furiously.

“That’s very impressive.” Ford said.

“I’ll say! It’s beautiful! I love it!” Stan wrapped it around his shoulders and hummed; he could distantly smell his niece’s shampoo and cheap strawberry perfume. “Thank you, pumpkin.”

“You’re welcome, I just don’t want you guys to be cold or freeze to death up there.”

“Mabel, for the millionth time, I swear we’re fine.” Stan assured, unable to keep the laughter in his throat down.

“I know, but as the professional knitter in the family, it is my sworn duty to ensure you two stay warm and cozy, despite the challenging environment!” She said victoriously with her hand pointing upward, like she was pretending there was a flag behind her or something. “Anywho, what’s new with you guys?”

“Oh, nothing out of the abnormal.” Ford said casually, rocking his hand side-to-side in a painfully casual manner. “Iceland was interesting, we’re planning on heading back up North shortly to make it to Gravity Falls in time for summer, but we have about a month to spend exploring the United Kingdom until we have to start our way back.”

“Great!” Dipper commented. “See anything cool in Iceland? Any mountain trolls?”

“No, no trolls.”

“Although we did see this big smelly guy in a bar that looked half-troll to me.” Stan added in.

“But… we…” Stan gave Ford a dark look, so the eldest twin corrected himself quickly. “I… I did something.”

“Oh boy, did you burn a hole into the counter again, Grunkle Ford?” Mabel guessed.

Ford chuckled warmly and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. It’s… well, I’ll show you, hold on one minute.”

Dipper and Mabel watched one uncle get up and leave while the other held his head and rubbed his temples. “Grunkle Stan, what did he do?” Mabel asked.

“Something a certain pumpkin once did to me and I don’t appreciate it anymore now than I did before.” Stan mumbled.

Ford sat back down next to his twin, resulting in Mabel screaming and then quickly covering her mouth, her eyes wide and shining like stars. Dipper just stared, smiling, but mostly confused at the tiny furry thing on his grunkle’s chest. Ford couldn’t keep the dopey smile off his face as he petted the anomaly’s back and she licked his cleft chin. “This is Amalia.”

“OH MY GOSH, YOU GUYS!” Mabel squealed, making Amalia jump a little and start looking around the boat for whatever was causing the sudden noise. “She’s so cute! I didn’t know you guys were gonna get a pet!”

“Neither did we.” Ford chuckled as Amalia sat on the table, still looking around. “She came aboard in Iceland and never left. She’s quite gentle and well-trained, very well behaved.”

“She’s a cute, furry jerk.” Stan growled.

“Stanley’s just mad at her because she knocked over his favorite mug this morning.”

“Daw, she probably wanted your attention, Grunkle Stan.”

“Well, she has it now.” Stan sneered and pointed his fingers from his eyes to the pet, still curiously on the hunt for the mysterious noise.

“How interesting.” Dipper muttered with a smile. “Do you know what species she is?”

“Not quite sure.” Ford answered. “She has many cat-like behaviors, but obviously she’s more than some exotic breed of a domestic feline. I’ve run a few tests, simply playing games with her to test her intelligence and watching her through the day, but so far nothing too abnormal has come up.”

“Well, as much as she doesn’t look like any breed I know of, she might be a hybrid we’ve never seen before, a mixture of two breeds of cat. I could do some research to see if she resembles any cat breeds.” Dipper pulled out his cellphone while Amalia looked at the scream, her eyes big at the teenagers.

“She’s looking at us, she’s looking at us!” Mabel whispered excitedly. “Hi, Amalia! Hi! I’m gonna knit you a cute sweater, yes I am!” She cooed.

Amalia pawed at the laptop, getting closer to it, and eventually walking on the keys.

“OY! Get off!”

“Stanley, don’t hurt her!”

“She’s gonna…”

And suddenly Dipper and Mabel were faced with a blank screen, making them laugh and quickly send snarky text messages to the old sailors.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stan’s eyes slowly opened, lying on his back, and therefore first seeing the ceiling of the bunker of his beloved boat. He was stiff; his whole body was stiff and his eyes were crusty and he wanted to go back to sleep, but his body had had enough of sleep and it was time to leave his bed for the day.

Taking in a sharp breath to brace himself for the pain of first moving his old back, Stan sat up and placed his feet in his slippers. He reached for his glasses, surprised to find a note by them. He slipped on his aid of vision and immediately recognized his brother’s neat cursive writing.

Stanley, We needed a few supplies and I felt like going on a small walk early this morning, so I left you alone to sleep. I’ll be back by lunch. Please look after Amalia while I’m gone. Stanford. 6:18am

Stan swore under his breath. Not only had Sixer probably not slept well, Stan was willing to bet money on it, he was stuck babysitting the stupid animal. Who, by the way, was playing with a fluffy ball on the floor, silently amusing herself and leaving Stan alone. Well, fine then. He could work with that.

The younger twin stood and slipped on his bathrobe over his pajamas, making his way upstairs for coffee and maybe some breakfast. The clock over the stove read two minutes before ten, so coffee should tie him over until lunchtime. Stan filled the machine with a filter and grounds and turned on the pot after filling it with water, but he was disturbed from his work when he heard tiny footsteps and saw Amalia climbing up the steps and walking up to him.

“Whatcha want?” He growled sleepily.

Amalia, of course, didn’t answer, but instead sat next to where Stan stood and rubbed against his bony legs, purring her strange purr; it wasn’t normal like a cat’s but there was no other way to explain the sound she made. Stan snorted.

As the coffee pot filled with the caffeinated breakfast beverage, Stan fished out an apple from the fridge and bit into it. Okay, a small snack would be okay. His eye caught the small stacks of canned tuna Ford had put there, claiming Amalia preferred her fish cold, and he shrugged and decided to go ahead and feed the weird thing so he wouldn’t have to get up from the couch to do it later. At the sound of the can opening the little cat-like beauty sprung up on the table and tapped the surface with her little beanie paws, a bad habit Ford had installed early because “Amalia is too lady-like to eat on the floor,” the aged scientist had cooed as he placed the can on the table and scratched his pet.

Stan rolled his eyes and decided not to fight it. He sat Amalia’s breakfast on the table and she happily indulged in the cold fish while Stan poured himself a mug of coffee. He watched the anomaly eat peacefully, her tiny face almost completely engulfed in the food. The old conman couldn’t help but smile as he sipped his black drink. “You’re quieter than the pig. I’ll give you that.”

Amalia sat up, a bit of damp food on her face, but she licked it off and then began to clean herself by licking her paw and rubbing her face. Stan accidentally found himself watching her as he sipped his coffee, a small smile on his wrinkly face.

Really, the main reason why he was being the bad guy was because someone had to be in this type of situation. Someone had to try to be reasonable, someone had to oppose a potentially bad idea, and with Stan’s tough-guy persona and Ford opting out of being the cold, realistic, mad-scientist in order to be a big marshmallow for a weird cat, Stan was the perfect candidate. With that being said, Stan reminded himself of an incident he was faced with over fifty years ago.

“Stanford, please!”

“Stanley, I’m sorry, but he’s a wild animal. Don't you think he’ll be happier out in nature? And what will Ma and Pa say?”

“They… They don’t have to know…”

“Stanley!”

“Sixer, please! C’mon! I’m begging you! I’ll do anything! Just please don’t rat me out!”

“Whoa, whoa. I’d never tattle on you, I… I won’t tell, but I really think you shouldn’t keep him as a pet.”

It was only a week, but by the time Stan re-introduced the animal as Shanklin the Stab-Possum, Ford’s appreciation for the strange pet was much stronger and he even used him to help free the Jersey Devil. Plus it was easy to keep the possum a secret when they were grounded in their room all summer. Ford never did tattle and he loved that possum almost as much as Stan loved Shanklin. So, okay, if a couple of weird nine-year-olds can have a possum for a pet, then a pair of eccentric old sailors can have an unknown cat for a pet.

Stan left the kitchen-area for the couch and pulled out a newspaper he had snagged yesterday to finish. He opened it with a rustle and sat comfortably, but not long did he feel something join him on his right side and then two little paws land on his leg. Stan lowered his reading material and raised an eyebrow at Amalia, who just looked at him with sparkling eyes. “What?”

Of course the anomaly didn’t answer, but she did climb across his legs for his lap and sat in a curled-up ball for a mid-morning nap. Stan sighed with a smile, scratched her behind the ear, and rescued his reading.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three weeks later and the Stan O’ War was harbored at Ipswich, UK. Having traveled through the Irish Sea and around England, the ship was about to head up north, beginning the journey for home. But Mabel had given the twins another city to be in for another package, and so with Amalia in Ford’s hoodie and Stan holding two bags of groceries, they stopped by the post office and picked up their mail.

Cushioned in a new baby-blanket for Amalia were two small sweaters just perfect for the little anomaly. One was purple with a golden six-fingered hand and a golden crescent with each symbol having an ‘s added to it, and beneath all of this the word “pet” was stitched on in colorful letters. The second one was fluffy white with a baby-blue paw-print on it, each sweater big enough to not squeeze Amalia and with the designs on her back so the humans could see them easily.

While Amalia was never shivering or actively cold, Ford ignored Stan’s laugh-filled orders not to torture their pet and the fluffy-haired twin had Amalia try on the white sweater, who loved it so much she refused to let Ford take it off of her for a few hours. Stan, of course, had to end a picture to their niece, who may or may not have cried at the sight and at the caption her uncle sent it with, “Amalia loves Auntie Mabel’s sweaters.”

#gift #fanfiction #Amalia #gravity falls #grunkle ford #grunkle stan #sea grunks #this is the part where i post something cute in the tags #but i got nothing

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theonetheycallhannah · 4 years

Text

The Treatment of Capt. Syverson-Chapter Two: Therapeutic Procedure

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: Shane and Sy share some moments during their treatment sessions…and a phone call that could set the tone for the next few weeks.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: None, yet… ;)

Author’s Note: Sorry, I was so eager and excited to post the first chapter of this last night, I totally put some inaccurate info in my description notes. I will correct that in the original post and try to do better henceforth! Hope you enjoy Sy and Shane totally flirting some more and getting more friendly in this chapter. Feedback is appreciated! Even constructive criticism! :D

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags: @onlyhenrys @cavillryarchive @summersong69 @titty-teetee

Let me know if you wish to be added to the list! I’m happy to do it!

Shane woke up that morning with knots in her stomach. She dropped every product she picked up in the shower, she was shaking so much. She accidentally ordered the wrong coffee on her way to work and was now drinking something much less caffeinated and far too sweet for her taste. The barista had informed her it was a grande caramel macchiato with an extra pump of vanilla and extra caramel drizzle…with only two shots of espresso…she couldn't begin to describe how wrong that drink was for her. But it was better than nothing, she told herself, not fully convincingly.

She had chosen her clothes with extra care, even though, with the dress code, her options were limited. And she had made sure to put on a bit of mascara and just a touch of perfume, even though they weren't strictly supposed to wear it…she didn't know why she was bothering.

Well, actually, she did know why. She had been checking her schedule extra diligently lately to make sure she didn't look like a hobo when Sy was coming in. He'd been coming for three weeks now, and after the initial bellyaching about Jordan not being as pretty as her…her heart!...and his feeling extra sore after his visits with him, they were on a roll and had a great chemistry together as far as their treatments went…she tried not to think about…beyond the world of therapy.

She thought back to their first session after she got back from her trip. And the conversation they had.

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

"I think the next time you can't see me, I'm just going to cancel." he had sulked as he wiggled his mass of muscle onto the mat.

"Sy, no. you need therapy. Don't be like that to Jordan. He's an excellent therapist."

"He ain't you though." he smirked, sending her heart racing with that smile that somehow managed to look both boyish and rakish under his full, dark beard. Fucking hell. He needed to stop.

"Well, we can't fault him for that, can we? Lay back, Mister." She demanded. Done with the niceties of the evaluation and onto the treatments where she was in charge. The boss.

"Yes, sir!" she laughed at his clear avoidance of calling her ma'am.

"So where'd you go last week? Vacation or stay-cation?" he asked, the term "stay-cation" sounding downright comical coming out of his country-boy mouth.

"I went to the beach. Gulf Shores."

"I thought you looked like you got some sun."

"Yeah," she pretended his noticing the detail of her awesome tan did not send her reeling. "My folks rented a condo right on the water for my siblings and I to come and stay with them. They're still there. It was tough to leave all that beauty." the beach, pretty much any beach, was her favorite place to be.

"I bet…" he looked at her, something dreamy in his eyes, but he looked away before she could process it. "I thought I had my fill of sand and sun when I was over in Iraq. But you make it sound…like paradise." he smiled softly up at her as she worked on his knee, trying to break apart some of the scar tissue from the injuries and surgeries he'd had…and focus on that, and not the warmth rising in her.

"That's the perfect way to describe any place on the Gulf of Mexico. I doubt it's anything like Iraq, since there's so much water around. It's my favorite vacation destination. Well, apart from London."

"Them British folks always seem so stuck up. Don't know if I'd get along with any of 'em."

"It felt like a second home for me. Everyone was very kind and polite, for the most part. At least it was no worse than it is here."

"Maybe it's just because you're so nice."

"Wait 'til about week eight or ten of your protocol. You won't think I'm nice then. You'll be cussing me out and ready to ring my neck."

"Promise?" he asked, a dark grin on his lips and in his eyes…she faltered for a moment, gulping.

"Cut it out, Syverson." she rolled her eyes, covering…without great effect the way he made her feel.

"Yes...ma'am." he smirked with satisfaction.

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

And now, today, she'd be treating him again, fairly early in the day, and she had to prepare herself. She'd checked the policy, and although there wasn't anything strictly against dating a patient, it was clearly a conflict of interest, and would be frowned upon by her frigid tyrant of a boss. Best to let things remain platonic for now.

Her 9:30 was a no show, so she finished up some notes and was working on some continuing education credits when messenger popped up around 10:00.

Sergeant Sexypants is here. He's quite early and he knows it…*smirk emoji* he must like you, Shane!

Heather, come on, be respectful…he was discharged at the rank of Captain! *rofl emoji* and I think you might be right about him liking me…*nervous emoji*

Oooooooooh!!! You guys are gonna *couple kissing emoji* *eggplant emoji* *okay emoji* *explosion emoji* *baby emoji*

Omg…*three facepalm emojis* I am going to go ahead and start him early since my 9:30 was a NCNS.

Don't finish him too early. Make it last. *smirk emoji*

Jeez. She closed the chat and went to grab him from the waiting area.

"Hey Sy, you ready?"

"You bet, sunshine!" he flashed her a crooked smile. He was calling her sunshine now…ad that to the list of things she'd have to pretend didn't make her swoon.

"Great. Let's start on the bike. How's the knee feeling today?"

"Oh, it's…about the same. Stiff. Lil' sore."

"Well, it's a slow process, like I told you at your eval. You've got a lot going on in there."

"I know…just…it hasn't taken me four weeks to do anything in my life." he sulked. "So…thinking about this taking…twelve or more…" he grimaced as he sat down on the bike, and adjusted it for his longer than average legs, putting his feet in the pedal stirrups.

"You may not see it, Sy, because you're so close to it, but trust me, you're making progress. I can tell you're doing your exercises at home, and you're always willing to put in the work here. You have no idea how much that sets you apart from…some of these other people." she leaned in closer and spoke the last part more quietly to him. It was true. So many of her patients were either lazy or just in it to appease their MDs into writing them scripts for pain meds. That wasn't Sy.

"You really think so?" he gave her the side eye with his baby blues, crushing her with the color like the waves of the ocean she'd just returned from.

"In fact, I know so." she placed a reassuring hand on his broad and thick shoulder. She felt the tension between them hum, like electric current.

"Now, level one, and a steady pace. You're not trying to win any medals here. I'll take those crutches."

"When ya think I can 86 'em damn things?" he griped as he handed over the assistive devices.

"Well, you see Potter again tomorrow? I'll write an update today and send it to him. If he likes what he reads, or more likely pretends to read, regarding your progress, he may discharge them. Do you feel like you can be good to the knee and treat it nice without using crutches? I don't want you to regress and re-injure yourself. That's not gonna get you into your running shoes any sooner."

"I'll be nice. Real gentle." he winked at her…he wasn't just talking about the knee. And she knew it. But again, she pretended she didn't, ignoring once more those butterflies threatening to choke her they were multiplying so fast in her belly.

"Okay, I'll put that in my note. Patient compliant with instructions to be nice." she laughed.

They talked as they biked, Shane sat on the one next to him and pedaled along with him for something to do other than be idle. She thought it made him feel better as well. Like he wasn't doing it alone. They covered the subject of her siblings, an older brother in IT and a younger sister who was an MA, and his German Shepherd, Aika, which he was allowed to bring home from Iraq after they were both honorably discharged. Music, both of them completely in agreeance about the superiority of classic rock.

"I noticed you've worn a Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt a few times and meant to say something before now."

"Yeah, they're one of my favorites. But there are a few newer groups that I like a lot, too. Kings of Leon got me through some tough times, honestly."

"Oh, they're great! I love their sound. And their lyrics…poetry."

"No shit. Sorry." she shook her head and raised up her hands to indicate that he didn't need to apologize to her for swearing. She'd been known to make sailors blush when she was off the clock. "Only by the Night…that whole album is…it's just in my blood, ya know? Ya ever have an album do that?"

"I have. Whole artists catalogs, actually."

"Which artist?" he prodded.

"The Beatles. Pretty much every song. Like you said, it just, like, I dunno, it's almost deeper than the veins. It's in the marrow. My soul." she stared off out the windows ahead of them, thinking about her favorite band in the world and how magical it was to experience Sir Paul McCartney playing some of her favorites live…twice…and the timer on the bike went off, pulling her from her daydream.

She looked over at him, startled by both the noise, and the dreamy look in his eyes that was becoming all too familiar.

"Sorry." she stood, grabbing his crutches for him and handing them back to him from where she had leaned them as they rode.

"Hey, don't be sorry for…ahem…for loving what you love. We should all…hold on to the things that make us feel like that." she nodded.

"Thanks…I don't think a lot of people…understand the way I…my tendency to take things like music, movies, and shows…books…so deeply to my heart." they walked to the treatment room from the gym, taking their time, since they had it. A rare occurrence for Shane, always needing to capitalize on every spare minute. To make productivity a priority.

"I think…that…well, seeing a pretty grim side of the world like I have…seems like there's enough darkness and bullshit making everyone miserable. If we find something…or…someone…that brings us some happiness or even just makes that misery bearable…we oughta hang onto 'em real tight. Cherish it like gold." the silence in the small room was loud with that electrical hum of their tension again. He'd said all the right things, as he always seemed to, but under the absolute wrong circumstances. She just nodded.

"They teach you philosophy in Basic?" she giggled. He laughed back in response.

"Oh, no, Basic was way easier than…whatever goes on inside of us."

"Speaking of which," she segued deftly, "lay back, and let my try to get some range out of that knee before I take new measurements for this update I'm gonna write."

"Yes, ma'am!" he chuckled.

"You get some sick thrill out of calling me that, don't you?" she scowled playfully at him.

"Oh, you have no idea…ma'am." he winked at her.

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

The next day, Shane was wondering how Sy's appointment went as she ate her soup at lunch and caught up on her morning notes. She got a ping on messenger.

You have a gentleman caller…*eggplant emoji* hehe, he's on line three.

Geez…thanks Heather.

No need to ask for a name. She knew Heather meant Sy.

She picked up the phone at her desk in the treatment room.

"Hey Sy! How'd the appointment go?"

"Hey, sunshine…eh…he said I'm doin' good, but he wants me to stay on crutches another two weeks." she could hear grave disappointment in his voice. She felt for him.

"Aww, I'm sorry Sy. I know you wanted off those. And I know they're a pain. Literally and figuratively."

"Why wouldn't he want me off 'em?" he was so frustrated. He must have just left the office.

"Did you ask him that question?"

"You know doctors, Shane. Not like I would have got an answer in plain English. Figured you'd know."

"Well, I haven't seen your post-visit report, but it's my presumption that he wants to play it safe. You know he spent most of his day in the operating room with you, right? An eight hour surgery, you had. He probably doesn't want to undo all that by d/c'ing the crutches too soon."

"I was gonna be careful though, Shane!" he was worked up properly, and she could hear it over the roar of his pickup in the background.

"I know you were, Sy. I'm sure you were going to take all kinds of precautions. But what if you're walking into your kitchen, during a storm, and there's a loud clap of thunder, and Aika gets startled and busts past you? What if you're feeling good one day, and forget about it, and jog to catch up to someone holding the door open for you and miss a stick or something under foot? You can't prepare yourself for every pebble or patch of mud in your path, Sy. Accidents will happen. Some circumstances are beyond our control…we just have to do the best we can. The crutches are going to help you until we get you stronger. That's what we'll focus on until those two weeks are up."

"Why is it you can calm me down like this?" he asked, sincere and truly calmer than he had been.

"I'm just a good therapist, is all."

"Ya don't think that's really all, do ya?" the sound of his deep drawl in her ear from the receiver made her shiver. He was implying something that she just couldn't entertain. It wasn't possible for them right now. Maybe…down the road…in a few weeks…

"I'll see ya tomorrow, Sy. Come ready to work that knee."

"You didn't say no…" he was too hopeful. Damn it, he was cute when he was hopeful. She was glad she couldn't see his face light up like she knew it was doing.

"You may have noted I didn't say yes, either."

"Yet. See ya in the mornin', sunshine."

"Bye, Sy."

She put the receiver in the cradle and her face in her hands.

"Shit."

She had a feeling this particular patient was about to become much more complicated.

Up Next: Chapter Three-Therapeutic Activity

#netflix sand castle #sand castle #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x ofc #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc

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shieldkeeper · 4 years

Text

FFXIVWrite2020 Prompt 11

Writing Prompt: ULTRACREPIDARIAN Words: 981

“I’m tellin’ ya ye damn fool! Listen when someone tells ya them waters are dangerous today! One wrong turn and you’ll find yerself swept overboard and left with nothing short o’ yer life!”

“And I’m tellin’ you that I needn’t hear any of your drivel! I’ve charted across these waters plenty a time and lemme tell you somethin’. Not once has there been a little storm worth worryin’ over! Especially not against my boat.”

Two adults were bickering back and forth on the Limsan docks with much gusto. Sailor curses and swears being thrown in here and there as they made their opinion quite plain on what they thought of the storm that seemed to be brewing out at sea.

“Da…” A young lalafellin with messy blonde hair came swiveling out from behind one of the cargo boxes. “Is he really going out there…?” He had been listening to their drivel this whole time and was having just about enough of it. His brows furrowed in worry as he stepped closer to his father and hid from behind his taller frame.

“Aye! I see no point in being a coward over a buncha rain or another!” Blurted the other man opposite of his father. Some hotblooded hyur youth whom seemed to come from a family of wealth by the looks of his fancy garbs and bobbles.

His father, who had attempted to but a stop to the lad before he made a mistake, simply fumed and shook his fists as he bellowed. “A bit o’ rain can and will turn into a whole world o’ trouble! I’ve seen the skies today and I can feel it myself. There’s a big one on the horizon and you’re too foolish to see reason!”

“Can it old man. Just cause everything in the world seems like a big disaster for one your size doesn’t mean ‘tis the same for I!”

Garen could tell his dad was reaching wits end. He was only looking out for the guy before he ended up hurt or worse. For that, Garen chose to speak up if only a little.

“Da never lies sir. If he senses danger, ‘tis usually best to save a trip for another day… Please believe him!”

The young man simply laughed at the young lad’s pleas. Waving a hand dismissively as he turned round to make his leave. “Rest assured young boy! I’ll show your father just what it means to be a proper sailor.”

“Oh I’d love to see it.” His father grunted in turn. “Have it yer way then. But don’t say I didn’t warn ye!”

…

As predicted, the storms bared down with great strength. A whirl of gusts unlike any that have swept the seas in any recent days. Rain poured in massive sheets and pounded the rooftops of the la noscean homes.

At this point, many of the boats that had been out at sea were now docked at the port. Save for one boat in particular—the boat of the guy from early morning.

“That fool…” His father swore once more beneath his breath as he stepped towards the docks himself. “He couldn’t have gone too far. I’ll have to fish ‘em out before it’s too late…”

“I’ll help!” Garen chirped as he sprinted after his da with a big grin on his face. Dressed to the nines in boating equipment and gear, as if he were expecting this to have happened.

His father cocked his head to the side and bellowed out a laugh. “Yer dear Ma will kill me ye know? If anything were to happen!” Still he smirked and placed a hefty hand on Garen’s head. “Hmph. It’ll be good experience for ye. Stay close and help me with the sails will ya?”

“Mhm! Because we’re Limsan men!”

Another laugh followed. “Because we’re Limsan fishermen boy.”

Soon enough they were out to see in their own rinky dink boat. Yet it was da’s pride and joy which he had personally built himself with his own two hands so many years ago. Garen manned the sails as his father steered and kept a look out for the man from earlier. Searching far and wide as they went further out into open ocean.

The winds were strong. The seas raged. The storm throwing all of nature into haywire as their boat fought against the tide. So many close calls where it looked as though a wave would crash down on them or throw them overboard.

No harm ever did come to pass. Garen’s father was a seaman through and through. A shine in his eyes as he expertly steered and weaved them out of trouble. Occasionally barking an order at his son to change the sails, but otherwise having a handle on the entire boat itself.

“There!” He yelled suddenly as he pointed a mass out in the raging seas. A broken apart boat very swiftly dispersing into tinier pieces of plank wood by the second. On one of them… the youth from that morn.

“Get us closer boy! And whatever you do, do not let go.”

“I won’t!”

As they circled closer, his father hollered at the man in the water to see if he was still yet conscious. The youth slowly raised their head with wide fearful eyes, followed by a call back for help…

…

“Yer lucky I thought to search for ye boy.”

A grunt of acknowledgement. A begrudging one at that.

“Had it not been for—”

“Save it! None of yer excuses. Accept yer mistakes or you’ll never improve.”

“Hmph.”

Garen was giggling from behind his father as a gentle hand ruffled his messy windswept hair. Scary as the storms had been, he had showed little fear. Excited even! That he was able to be of some help… and to witness for himself the boat ride of a lifetime.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2020 #writing

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jos-corner-of-the-world · 4 years

Text

Last House on the Left - 31

(30)

The night ended well into the morning.

You had a good laugh when Minghao was right about his mom drinking the boys under the table. She'd even lasted longer than half of them before going to bed.

Shownu had left with Kihyun and Wonho a little after one. You guys had exchanged numbers and agreed to get together next week for your date.

You'd gone to bed drunk, but happy, with how the night went as a whole.

When you woke up the next morning you were feeling rather rough.

“Good morning!” you heard Mei’s chipper voice say from the kitchen.

“How are you so okay right now?" You asked Mei on your way to the coffee pot.

"Years of practice my dear." Mei laughed.

"You're a better woman than me."

"No, I'm a better drunk. Big difference."

You sat down and enjoyed your coffee for a few minutes before getting up and helping Mei with breakfast.

"So, is it usually so rambunctious around here?" Mei asked you.

"Usually worse." You laughed.

"Honestly though, only when we have parties. A lot of nights are just me and Minghao, maybe one or two of the other guys. We're all pretty close so we see each other a lot."

"That's nice. I'm so happy to see Minghao made so many friends. It's good for him. He didn't thrive socially back home."

That news surprised you.

"Well he's doing exceptionally well in the social department now." You told her confidently.

"I noticed. I also noticed the way you two interact is quite hilarious. I've seen you bicker, but last night was another level." Mei laughed as you came to stand next to her at the stove.

"Oh, that was nothing! You should have seen the night I just about broke his legs.”

“Oh...do tell!” Mei said, handing you the spatula for the pancakes she had been working on.

“Our friend Jooheon, cutie with deep dimples, asked me to make dessert one night. I don’t do a whole lot of baking but I can make a mean cheesecake. Everything went fine until it came time to pull it out of the oven. It was perfect Mei, perfect! And then Minghao thought it’d be hilarious to pinch me on the side. I’m extremely ticklish. I wasn’t able to keep a good grip on the pan and the whole cheesecake fell to the ground. Before Minghao could turn around and run away, I kicked him hard in the kneecap. I think we both cried that night.” you laughed.

“I cannot believe he did that! Who ruins a perfectly good cheesecake?!” Mei asked.

“Your son apparently.” you laughed as you flipped over a pancake. “He asked me to make him another one a few months later and I very politely told him no.”

“Um, that’s a lie. You told me to fuck off.” Minghao said, coming to stand between you and his mother.

“Minghao! I didn’t want to repeat that in front of your mother! It’s so crass.”

“So you mean to tell me that you’re going to censor yourself forever? You have the mouth of a sailor, my friend. No point in hiding it from Mom forever.” Minghao told you as he reached for a piece of bacon from the pan his mom was tending to.

His mom slapped his hand before he could grab a piece.

“Ma, what the hell?” Minghao asked, rubbing the back of his hand.

“You can be patient you brat. Also, you’re going to burn yourself.”

You took a step back, leaning against the counter to observe the interaction between the two. You knew Minghao had a soft side to him, one you’d seen a few times, but watching him interact with his mom was different. His face was always bright and a smile adorned his face. You couldn’t help but smile at the absolute adoration Minghao seemed to have for his mother.

I’m definitely going to like having her here you thought to yourself as you watched smile up at her son.

“Planning on burning all my pancakes?” Mei asked you suddenly.

“Oh shit!” you said, hurrying to flip them over.

“And you’ve already sworn in front of mom. Good going.” Minghao laughed, patting you on the shoulder as he walked by.

Finding an outfit to wear on a date was officially your least favorite thing to do in life. You owned a lot of clothes, but none of them seemed right.

You threw on the long sleeved peach colored dress you’d been mulling over and left to seek out Minghao.

“Does this make me look easy?” you asked, barging into his bedroom.

“What?” he asked, popping his head out of his ensuite bathroom.

“Do I look easy?” you reiterated to him.

“No, it looks amazing on you. But don’t wear it.” Minghao said.

“What? Why not?” you asked, looking down at yourself. You tried not to show that Minghao telling you your clothes looked amazing made your heart speed up a bit.

“Because it’s January, which means it’s freezing outside. Also, that’s the dress you were wearing when Jihoon tripped and spilled wine down the side of it. I can still see the stain.” Minghao said, point to your right arm.

“Ugh!” you threw your head back in frustration before leaving the room again.

“Struggling?” Mei asked you before you could close your bedroom door again.

“Mei!” you said suddenly, running to grab her hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Can you help me get ready? Shownu and I agreed to meet here at the house tonight before going out and I don’t know what I’m doing or what to wear. I don’t even know where my keys are right now.”

“Y/n, sweetie, calm down. Let’s go to the shop a few blocks down and see if we can’t find something for you. Sometimes something new is better when going on a date.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you. Let me change out of this dress and I’ll be right out.”

Minghao came out of his room just as you’d retreated to your own.

“Does she get frazzled like this often?” Mei asked him.

“Depends on the situation. I’ve not experienced this kind of frazzled cause she’s not dated since moving here. But yeah, she gets jumpy like that semi-frequently.” he laughed.

“Well, she’s followed through on it, what about you?”

“What about me?” Minghao asked.

“Planning on dating?”

“Nope. I’m good. Tried that a while ago and it crashed and burned. I think I’m good for a while.”

Mei looked at her son surprised.

“I didn’t know you’d been seeing someone.”

“I was waiting to tell you guys until I thought it was going to work. Her name is Lyn and we hung out a few times and went on a few dates, but I ended up kicking her out of the house one night and I’ve not heard from her since.” Minghao told his mom honestly.

“You kicked her out? What happened?”

“Well, she didn’t like that Y/n lived here with me even though she never said it. And then she talked down about Y/n one night when some of the guys were here. Called her tacky and said some other shit we didn’t like. I told her it wasn’t going to work and asked her to leave.”

Mei stared at Minghao for a long minute, trying to read between the lines of what he was saying and he wasn’t saying.

“What?” Minghao asked.

“Nothing. Just...figuring some stuff out is all.”

“Okay. I’m ready!” you said as you came out of your bedroom.

“Alright well you beautiful ladies have a good time together. No secret sharing about me!” Minghao said, seeing you and his mom out the door.

“No promises.” you laughed, looping your arm through Mei’s.

“Don’t forget your keys Y/n. They’re in the coffee mug next to the sink.” Minghao said as he walked back towards his bedroom.

Mei just smiled softly, watching you skip happily to the sink.

“I swear to god I would be lost without that man.” you said as you went to get your keys.

(32)

#minghao #xu minghao #seventeen #svt #last house 31 #lhotl #fic #series #imagine #scenario #jos corner of the world

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pietrotheavenger · 5 years

Text

learn to love

chapter 4 - perfect start

summary: steve and y/n don’t get along. now, they have to.

pairings: au!steve rogers x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of death

a/n: i just need a sugar daddy... so badly... princess polly if you’re reading this, please sponsor me

series masterlist

steve’s family had money. there was no other way to put it. in new york, he was a decently successful artist and lived comfortably, but in boston, he was disgustingly rich. y/n gaped at the beautiful and gigantic house that sat at the end of a long driveway. neatly trimmed hedges lined the sides and she could even see a proper garden in the distance. in front of the house was a fountain acting as a roundabout with several expensive cars parked nearby.

“you have a whole ass fountain in front of your house,” she deadpanned.

“yes,” he nodded his head.

“okay. glad we’re on the same page.”

when he got close to the other cars, he simply put the jeep in park, and turned it off. “alright, let’s grab our bags and head in?” he was looking straight into her soul with his insanely blue and intense eyes. his head was tilted to the side, like a puppy, with his lips slightly pouted.

she swallowed, hard. she was starting to feel nervous. “let’s do this.”

he grabbed her hand from her lap and gave it a squeeze. “remember, it all starts here, my lovely girlfriend.” he gave her a genuine smile and it made her heart flutter.

“laying it on thick, now, my beautiful boyfriend?” she pulled her hand away and averted her gaze to take her seatbelt off. she propped the door open as she awaited a response. she looked back at him.

“hey,” he said softly as he grabbed her hand again. he pressed a kiss to her knuckle, “anything to convince my parents,” he grinned cheekily.

“you are a tool, steven grant rogers,” she rolled her eyes, stepping out of the car.

he insisted on carrying her bag into the house, despite her protests.

“i am able bodied enough to carry my own bag in!”

“sweetheart, we used to go to the gym together. you can’t bench for shit.”

“what am i benching, steve? what am i benching? give me the goddamn bag.”

“let me be chivalrous. my family knows that i treat a dame like a queen.”

“dame? god, the air in massachusetts be hitting differently.”

“shut up.”

and with that they had arrived at the front door of the house. he simply swung it open and walked in. the foyer of the house was beautiful. the first thing her eyes settled on was the massive grand staircase. the cherry wood banister curved upwards to the second story. the floor was all marble and expensive looking paintings adorned the walls, as well as a family portrait above the entry table to the right. steve had the goofiest smile, and was dressed in a royal blue sweater. she grinned to herself as she examined the portrait for a moment before turning her attention back to the rest of the house. looking straight into the back of the house, she could see a glass door that led to a patio.

”hello?” he called out. his voice echoed around the house. jazz music floated from somewhere inside the house. she tightened her grip on her purse as they ventured further in. he dropped the bags at the base of the stairs before grabbing her hand. he laced their fingers together as they continued forward. the jazz music grew louder as they ventured deeper into the house. she sidestepped closer to him. she felt more secure when she was closer to him. his house was intimidating. he noticed, and his chest bloomed as he inconspicuously pulled her closer to him.

the house opened up into a large space. there was a living room to their right and a beautiful kitchen to the left. humming along to the music was a blonde woman in the kitchen. she was cutting vegetables. she wore a red apron with small white polka dots. her hair was clipped away from her face with a brown baratte. on one of the couches in the living room, were two lumps under blankets. she could just see the headphones that one of them was wearing while the other ate from a bowl of chips and watched the tv at a low volume. y/n shivered. the ac made the house very cold. she was used to her broken ac sputtering cold air out once every ten minutes as she suffered in the heat. “you good, baby?” steve raised an eyebrow in question. she nodded.

just then, the woman in the kitchen looked up. her face split into one that mirrored his. “stevie!” she exclaimed. she maneuvered around the island and gave him a hug. he dropped y/n’s hand to hug her back.

“hi, ma,” he sighed, squeezing her.

a chorus of “steve!” was heard from the couch as two more bounded over. y/n guessed that girl was sophia and the boy was sawyer. steve was right about sawyer looking eerily like him, aside from his curly hair. when he pulled away from his mom, he was attacked by his siblings. y/n took that moment to introduce herself to his mom.

“hi, mrs. rogers, i’m y/n. it’s so nice to finally meet you,” she smiled politely. inside her head, she was panicking. were they supposed to hug? shake hands?

his mom pulled her in for a brief but warm hug. “oh, you’re steve’s girlfriend!”

“yes, i am,” she laughed.

by then, sophia and sawyer had finished their siege on steve. the older boy had his arm around the younger one and the girl stood with a hand on her hip as she slapped steve’s bicep with a quite a bit of strength. he laughed it off.

“y/n, this is sophia and sawyer, and that’s my mom,” he pointed to his mother.

“hey sophia, hi sawyer. it’s great to meet you guys! steve’s told me a lot about his family,” y/n put on her best ‘girl-next-door,’ ‘perfect-daughter,’ and ‘nice-customer-service-rep,’ voice as she spoke.

“we can’t say the same! steve’s hardly said a peep about his girlfriend,” mrs. rogers crossed her arms over her chest and looked at steve pointedly.

“c’mon ma, i didn’t wanna jinx things,” he replied. he pushed sawyer. “where’s your girlfriend?”

the younger brother rolled his eyes and scoffed, “fuck off!”

“language,” steve and his mom chimed at the same time.

“that’s so funny,” y/n began. he reached for her hand and pulled her closer to him. he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and placed her hand on his chest and held it there. “you have such a sailors mouth and here you are, bossing your little brother around,” she continued teasing him as he pulled her into his arms.

“exactly!” sawyer gasped exasperatedly. “mom never believes me when i say you swear.”

“because i don’t!” steve responded, in the same tone. he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

steve is really laying it on thick, y/n thought.

“you do!” sawyer yelled back.

“alright, buddy-” steve began but was cut off.

“god, can you guys shut up! steve’s been home for two minutes and you’re back on your bullshit!” sophia groaned. she flicked her ponytail over her shoulder.

“language!” steve, sawyer, and mrs. rogers called at the same time.

“there’s no winning with this family,” sophia looked y/n in the eye as she spoke. steve, sophia, and sawyer all had the same blue sparkling eyes. they didn’t get it from their mother. she had stormy grey eyes. but they did get their beautiful blond hair color from her.

“steve, your dad and simon are out in the back. why don’t you take y/n out to meet them?” mrs. rogers offered.

“you down, babe?” he looked down at her.

“always down for anything,” she responded, patting his chest and pulling away. his arm dropped from her shoulders. he picked her hand up and tucked it into his pocket. “you’re so weird,” she laughed.

“it’s so nice to see stevie all loved up,” his mom looked warmly at her eldest son. “now, go. i’m already sick of your fighting,” she ruffled sawyer’s curls.

“let’s go, darling,” steve sang as he pulled her towards the sliding glass door.

they walked out onto the patio and y/n sucked in a breath at the sight of his backyard. there was a basketball hoop just to the left of the patio on an approximately 35 by 35 square of concrete. further off, there was a swimming pool with a lounge area to the right. beyond that, was just grass. she thought she saw a soccer goal but she wasn’t sure. out by the pool, steve’s dad and simon chased the dog around. the dog gleefully barked.

“remember, babe, the dog is rosie, not sophia,” steve said to her, quietly.

“noted,” she whispered back.

with their hands still woven together, they got off the patio and approached the pool. steve swung their hands back in forth. she suppressed a school-girl-like giggle.

“hi, dad!” steve waved. simon and their dad turned at the same time.

“steve!” simon yelled as he hurtled himself toward steve. the dog began barking louder and mr. rogers walked over more calmly than his son just had.

simon threw himself onto his older brother. he was less muscular than steve, but still had a lean figure. his eyes were a kaleidoscope of colors, a mix of blues and greens and browns. his hair was dark brown and just as curly as sawyer’s. “WE’RE BACK IN BUSINESS, MOTHERFUCKERS!” simon yelled to the sky.

“language!” mr. rogers chided.

“hi, mr. rogers, i’m y/n. it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she extended her hand to him.

he shook her hand and smiled as he said, “call me joe!” his blue eyes glittered in the sunlight. that’s where they got it from. his hair was dark brown and curly, speckled with grey hairs. “it’s great meeting you, too.”

“dad!” steve exclaimed, pulling him into the hug.

she laughed to herself, letting the scene unfold in front of her.

steve then introduced his brother and father to y/n before his mother called them all in. “why don’t you two get settled in? freshen up and then come down for lunch.”

so that's what they did. steve grabbed the bags from where he has dropped them and led her up the stairs to his room. his room itself was pretty simple. a whole wall was covered with shelves. the shelves were overflowing with various books, plants, and knickknacks. his bed was shoved up in a corner, made with grey bedding. a huge window took up another wall. in the corner of the room, y/n spotted a guitar. a bureau, a bedside table, and a desk completed his room.

“i didn’t know you could read,” she mused, picking up a book. she ran her fingers over the cover.

he rolled his eyes. “you’re a piece of shit.”

“and you’re an asshole,” she countered. right when she thought he was being sweet, he goes and says that. she should’ve known better. a leopard can’t change its spots. she was naive for thinking that he could ever be affectionate towards her.

she kicked her shoes off before pulling her pants off and getting into bed. she pulled the covers up. “wake me up when you’re done in the bathroom,” she grumbled, closing her eyes.

“why are you acting like that?” he sighed, spreading his arms out. he could feel the irritation rolling off of her in waves.

her eyes flew open. “acting like what?”

“a whiny little bitch!”

she sat up, rather abruptly. steve flinched, but she didn’t notice. “bitch, i’ll kill you. leave me alone for twenty fucking minutes or i’ll lose my shit. you’re getting on my nerves,” she growled before turning over in bed and snuggling into the covers.

he scratched the back of his head. they were off to a perfect start.

infinity tags:

@ssweet-empowerment ; @stardustandbucky ; @abuckyrogersworld ; @freightcarcap ; @c-a-v-a-l-r-y ; @coffeebooksandfandom ; @somethingmoreclever ; @2dreamcatcher8 ; @illegalportkey ; @fuckthatfeeling ; @xxashy999xx ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @tuliptx ; @wwhitewwolff ; @thisismysecrethappyplace ; @appreciating-chase-brody ; @renanyx ; @maladaptive-ninja-returns ; @marvelrose ; @sophiealiice ; @dreamsfollowed99 ; @galacticstxrdust ; @fitzsimmons-is-forever ; @dumblani ;

learn to love tags:

@youunravelme ; @thebutterflyxx ; @cailin-lefantasy ; @thatoneslytherinbeater ; @i-padfootblack-things ; @clockworkherondale ; @cap-owns-my-ass ; @clean-and-claire ; @tits-out-for-cevans ;

#steve rogers #chris evans #captain america #steve rogers x reader #chris evans x reader #captain america x reader #fanfiction #fake dating #enemies to lovers #slowburn #the avengers #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe

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nikxation · 5 years

Text

This Is the End of Us I Swear

Summary: It’s been a month since the science fair accident, and for both Stan and Ford, moving on has proved harder than either of them would have thought. Decisions are made, words are said, and in the end, both of them just do what they think will make everything right again.

Based on Glendale by Clans and this art by @julientel.

Tags: 10k, Canon Compliant, Hurt No Comfort, Based on a song, based on fanart, Pre-college, post-science fair, Stangst, might write a second fix-it chapter one day, seriously this is just pain, (more warnings listed in notes before fic on AO3)

Link to AO3

~ ~ ~

The sun is just setting behind the horizon, the sky’s final rays of colored light fading into the black. Small pinpricks of light peak between the clouds, the last of the neon lights on the boardwalk finally flickering out. The streetlights themselves are only a few minutes from waking up and chasing the growing darkness back into the alleyways. The occasional car chugs down the street, the asphalt crunching under its tires. It’s quiet, even in the Pines residence where Ford, having spent the majority of his day packing, just barely manages to shove his favorite advanced calculus book into the last moving box and tape it shut.

Ten boxes are all he was allowed. Sure, he did the math, and he knew they could fit fifteen in the car if they were very careful about how everything was stacked and how full the boxes themselves were. Eighteen if Ma just stayed home instead of insisting on coming to see him off to his new home for, God forbid, the next four years. Eighteen boxes would be plenty space to fit everything he would need plus maybe some non-essentials like changes of clothing. Hell, he could fit a significant number of textbooks in fifteen boxes if he was very careful about maximizing every micrometer of space.

Pa limited him to ten, no arguments. Ma insisted on packing six of them herself, leaving him with only four boxes for his essentials.

A tragedy, to be sure.

The entire day was spent weighing the pros and cons of each combination of textbooks until he reached what he knew was the best option given his limiting circumstance.

It’s still heartbreaking looking at all the texts still lining his shelves and knowing they probably won’t last for long in Pa’s house, probably to be sold or trashed within the week.

He hoists the last box up, grunting at the weight because of course textbooks are heavy, but he never really considers how much fifty pounds is until he’s staggering across the room awkwardly with it in his arms. Fifty pounds isn’t a lot, is it? It always seemed effortless when Stan would bench twice that—

The box thwumps on the carpeted floor at the bedroom door, stacked with the other nine, all ready to be packed into the car come tomorrow morning.

It was strange how vacant the room had felt after the first box had been packed. Not so long ago, every square inch was covered with knick-knacks and pictures and life. But the more he took and packed, the more barren it felt. With every random item he uncovered from days long gone by, the more it felt like setting aside some small part of him to either be forgotten again or left behind. A subtle nostalgia, a longing tinged with an inseparable bitterness he only wishes he could forget or move past.

And now that the packing is finally done… Well…

There’s something to be said for a half empty room.

Well, half of a half, if the empty bottom bunk is anything to go by.

A three-quarters empty room, so to speak.

He stares at the bare mattress on the bottom bunk for a moment, stains and tears on full display since its sheets were ripped away and stored in some remote closet of the house just under a month ago. It’s almost as jarring as the empty room, has been since the day Ma came in empty-handed and left with a bundle of cloth and a wobble to her voice. He usually tries to avoid looking at it for long. It makes something uncomfortable twist in his gut, something that he tells himself is betrayal because he’s afraid if he thinks about it for too long, he’ll realize it’s something else, something he doesn’t think he can handle.

He gives the box of textbooks a soft kick to line it up with the others before turning back and climbing up onto his bunk.

He really ought to stop thinking about the room as only half his.

There are a few graphs and diagrams pinned up on the wall next to his bunk that he thinks he could fit inside his bookbag to take along with him, so he starts the methodical task of unpinning it all. The wall is thoroughly covered in layers, some pins holding up multiple pages, some tables hiding in the back that he’d forgotten about. It’s a stroll through memory lane in the same way that the rest of this day has been.

He pulls out a pin holding up a resistor band diagram, but something behind it slips out behind the bedrail and slides straight to the floor. He huffs, considering leaving it but then immediately deciding that’s a bad idea, since he’s not entirely sure what it is and it might be something important. So he clambers back down from his bunk, fully prepared the shimmy himself under the bed to find whatever it is that fell.

It didn’t go straight to the floor like he thought it did. Instead, it landed on Sta—the bottom bunk. Facedown, probably the size of a four-by-six photograph, a bit worn around the corners.

It’s probably not as important as he initially thought.

The moment he flips the paper is a rude awakening, digging up deeply entrenched memories of hot days on the beach and splinter-covered hands and sun-burnt shoulders and tales of treasure and adventure. It’s a small spark of warmth in his chest, a sun beating down an a pair of boys climbing around the shambles of an old boat, the hot sand between their toes, the reflection of the sun off the crashing waves blinding them, the raucous screams of the seagulls drowned out by their laughter.

He forgot he still had this picture.

It’s strange, the exact memories it brings back. Like him bartering with an old sailor for a rusty anchor while Stan snuck around and grabbed a throw ring. Or Stan crawling inside the hollow boat and coming out with at least three different kinds of bugs caught in his hair. Or Ma finding out about their newest project and insisting on taking a picture of them with it. Stan taking his hand and hoisting him up onto the deck before clambering up to the highest point on the boat and posing like it’s where he belonged. A breeze grabbing the makeshift sail not even seconds after the picture was taken, shaking the boat enough for Stan to lose his balance and fall back into the sand, sputtering with laughter while a worried Ford hopped off the boat and helped him back up.

He smiles at the softness of it all, at the comfort and freedom of happier times. Simpler times. Times before colleges and science fair projects and grandiose expectations and disappointments. Back when their biggest concerns were having enough sunscreen and being home in time for dinner. Before it all fell apart.

He glances from the dilapidated boat in the picture out to the rebuilt one just barely visible in the darkness outside the window, docked down at the pier. It’s only a day’s worth of work away from being ready to sail. Just need to seal off a few small leaks in the hull and patch the tear in the sail. Leaps and bounds further along than the remains of the boat in the picture. A decade of afterschool work culminating in an empty, almost-finished boat bobbing on the waves.

He hasn’t set foot on the pier since the incident.

It’s all so different now.

He hates that he almost misses him.

He tells himself it’s just the adjustment period. Eighteen years of falling asleep to someone else’s snoring only to be replaced with sudden, deafening silence. Eighteen years of four people sitting at the dinner table now becoming three, the other side of the table empty and left unset. Eighteen years of someone at your side leaving a gaping hole in their place when they’re gone.

It has to be an adjustment period.

Because how could he miss the person that betrayed him?

That stabbed him in the back and ruined his future, all in the name of treasure-hunting?

He couldn’t.

He can’t.

Pa keeps telling him that he’s going places, that he’s got a bright future ahead of him, that his brother was just dragging him down. He tells him that he wishes he’d kicked him out sooner, then all of this would have been avoided.

Couldn’t just screw up his own life. Had to go and screw up yours too.

Pa tells him to forget and move on. To go back to his room and keep studying.

And he tries. He really does, because that has to be the right thing to do. That has to be the best way forward.

He should hate him.

And part of him does.

Part of him recoils at the mention of his name, some seed of anger burning red-hot when the fond memories give way to thoughts of broken science fairs projects and shattered trust. It coils and churns in his stomach, fueled by the acceptance letter to Backupsmore and his father’s disappointed scowl when that’s the only acceptance letter that arrives and the random items still hiding around the room that don’t belong to him and the name mix-up at graduation and the folder of maps and guides still on the bookshelf of that damn boat…

Part of him is angry. Rightfully so.

And yet…

The photo creases slightly in his hand.

His insides burn, and he tells himself it’s anger because the other thing, the thing that he pretends doesn’t exist, remembers how desperate and alone Stan looked that night out on the sidewalk with a bag on his shoulder and his hand raised up towards the window. It remembers and it remembers and it remembers. And it burns.

It has to be anger, because at least that makes sense, and at least that doesn’t keep him up at night staring at the ceiling and hating how quiet the room is.

It’s what he tells himself.

But even then, he still hates that hot coal of resentment in his chest, a heavy weight still dragging him further and further down. He hates feeling this way. He hates how, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to forget and move on. Hates it with every fiber of his being.

It’s in the past so why won’t it just stay there?

The pier lights finally kick on, bathing the dock and the Stan O War in flickering fluorescent white. It’s a shadow looming on the waves, still docked peacefully as if nothing ever happened, as if the whole world wasn’t just flipped on its axis. As if everything was still alright.

Simpler times.

Distantly, he wonders if that boat was ever really his dream, or if he was just happy to be living it with Stan. He knows there was one point when he did want it, can remember it the same way he remembers the sand between his fingers and the taste of the sea air. But then they told him he was smart and that he had a future and that he could go to college and that he could change the world.

Somewhere along the line, his priorities changed. And Stan refused to see it, to accept it.

It’s been almost a month, and that boat is still just sitting there, a reminder of everything that went wrong, of how empty everything suddenly feels, of the remnants of a future left for him, and he hates it, hates Stan. He has to, right?

He has to.

The weight sinks lower in his chest and burns and burns and burns.

He’s angry. He has to be.

And it’s Stan’s fault.

Him and that stupid b—

Something… clicks in his head. Like a moment of clarity, suddenly telling him exactly what he needs to do, that it’ll make everything better. Make everything even.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

He just shoves the picture in his pocket and leaves the room, making a quick stop by the kitchen on his way out the front door.

~ ~ ~

The treasure-hunting business has been… lackluster, to say the least. Apparently, gold is some kind of “rare metal”, which really throws a wrench into his whole get-rich-quick scheme.

Stan’s been driving since sunset, the window rolled down so he can taste that familiar salty ocean breeze as he makes his way down the coast, the wind pulling at his hair and roaring in his ear as he sails down the highway. The north end of the state had been a complete bust. With the help of his totally-legally-acquired, not-at-all-stolen metal detector, he’d only managed to scrounge up a couple dollars’ worth of coins, a few cheap wedding rings that he pawned, and a surprising number of fake teeth. All in all, he barely had enough money to feed himself and keep gas in the Stanleymobile, and even that was pushing it at times. So now he’s heading south to try out the bottom half of the state.

Not that he’s hesitant to leave New Jersey altogether or anything.

As if staying in the state will make his circumstances seem a little less real, a little less permanent.

The sign welcoming him to Glass Shard Beach whizzes by, momentarily caught in his headlights before disappearing into the encroaching darkness behind him.

It’s been a month, and he still has a hard time believing everything that happened actually… happened. There’s this part of it that still feels unreal, like it happened years ago or just to someone else altogether. It feels like he’s driving home instead of through what used to be his home. Like he should be pulling up to the pawn shop and heading upstairs, giving the cat a pet while Ma shoots him a devilish smirk as she works the person on the phoneline, Pa silently reading the newspaper in his chair, the floorboards creaking in a familiar pattern as he heads up to their bedroom, Ford reading some textbook on his bunk, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Stan has to share from boxing practice before they head down to the beach to work away the last of the sunlight fixing up the Stan O War.

When he finds himself on an all-too-familiar road by the boardwalk, it’s almost second nature to slow down as the Pines Pawn sign rolls into view. He knows he should just drive past without a second glance, because screw them all. But at the same time, he’s almost… curious? And maybe that home-sick part of him is saying just one peek wouldn’t hurt anything, and then he’d be on his way again, off to make his fortune, make them rue the day or whatever.

He ignores the hunger pains in his gut as he slows the car to a crawl on his way past, peering out the passenger window cautiously, ready to nail the gas and book it out of there if he’s spotted.

Ma is sitting in the upstairs window like always, phone up to her ear while she twirls the cord and the sucker on the other end of the line around her little finger. Pa is downstairs cashing out the pawn shop, counting down the money in the drawer for probably the third time of the night. Everything looks… normal. Peaceful. Not a thing out of place or out of the ordinary.

His chest aches when he realizes almost nothing seems to have changed since he left.

He isn’t entirely sure he expected anything different, but seeing it in-person still hurts more than it has any right to.

Their His The bedroom light is on, but the room is empty. From this angle he can barely make out the mostly bare walls and bunks, leaving him wondering if Ford already left for college.

Or wherever he ends up going, since Stan really screwed that one up for him, didn’t he?

There’s a chance he’s still in town.

His stomach churns at the thought of seeing his twin again. As hurt as he is by everything, as much as the memory of Ford closing those curtains stings, he still misses him. He misses that feeling of always having someone at his side, through thick and thin. He misses feeling wanted.

Though, if Pa’s words are anything to go by, then maybe he was wrong about that feeling from the start.

He takes it all in for one last second, telling himself that this is it, he’s not coming back, this is the last time. He keeps telling himself that for another second. And then another. And another.

It’s not until Pa pauses from counting the money that he finally startles back into gear and pulls off before the old man looks out the window, barreling down the street way over the speed limit because, suddenly, it’s the very last place he wants to be.

How bad would it look if Pa saw him sitting out here?

He’d look stupid. He’d look like even more of a failure, as if he was too scared to leave, as if he just came crawling back like a dog with its tail between its legs in defeat. He’d be admitting they’re right about him. He’d be giving up.

Would they even let him come back?

He shakes the thought off.

It’s been a month, and he’s not done yet. He’s on his way to success yet, he can feel it. Pretty soon, he’ll be rolling in all the cash Pa could ever hope for, and then he can rub it in their faces, make them regret ever kicking him out and abandoning him.

He’ll show them.

His stomach growls again, dragging him back to reality for the moment. He only has a dollar and some spare change in his wallet, which won’t buy him very much food-wise. And the owners of the local convenience store have known him for as long as he can remember and know to watch out for his “tendencies”.

He’s going to need supplies.

It’s almost completely dark now, the moon barely a sliver in the sky, the saltwater spray from the ocean coming off the boardwalk as he coasts alongside it. Out on the water, a barge stands barely lit, far out on the waves, a pinprick of light on an otherwise dark and desolate sea.

It gives him an idea.

~ ~ ~

Ford still remembers the day they first pulled the Stan O War out of that cave, the memory a spotlight in the fog of distant and long-forgotten days.

They’d spent a good hour trying to scrounge up enough rope to haul it out, one of them always stationed right outside the cave to make sure no one went in and claimed their find. And when they finally got the rope, it took them another hour to figure out the best way to tie it up and pull, breaking off a few more chunks of the decrepit boat than either of them would care to admit. But once they got it moving, it was, well, smooth sailing from there. There was a bucket of paint, he doesn’t remember where they got it, but he remembers the debate they had before finally settling on the name and painting it on the side. He remembers the terrible sun burns they both had that night, and how Ma had to cover them in almost half a bottle of aloe. It didn’t even come close to stopping them from going out again the next night. And the night after that.

The first year or so, it had been their own personal playground. They’d play pirates or adventurers, taking turns coming up with monsters to fight or treasures to find (or, in Stan’s case, hot mermaids to win over). The little half-boat had been their home away from home, a safe haven for them and only them.

Then they actually started rebuilding it.

Suddenly, what had been a call to adventure was now becoming a reality. The dream to go out and explore the unexplored and find the unfindable was finally looking like it was coming true. All with his twin at his side.

Building that boat gave him some of his favorite memories.

And then things changed.

Dreams changed.

And now he’s sitting on the deck alone, the soft splashing of waves and the gentle knocking of the hull against the dock the only sounds outside his own thoughts swirling in his head.

He was resolute when he first left the house, sure of what he had to do. But the walk here gave the doubt time to settle in, made the weight in his pocket seem impossibly heavier.

It doesn’t make any sense.

It should be easy, but…

He remembers when they sanded the deck, how they had to choose between the electric sander or the water-proofing epoxy because Stan’s part-time job at the gym couldn’t cover both. The subsequent weeks were spent sanding the entire boat by hand with the little hand radio buzzing in the background. He gently runs his hand across the glossy wood, remembering the splinters and cuts they both got every day. They’d always been so sure it would be worth it.

Was it?

Ford had considered building something to make the process easier, their own homemade electric sanders. But Stan had talked him out of it. Said it would come out so much nicer if they did it themselves, that it can’t take that much longer to do it by hand, right?

Stan always liked doing things the hard way.

Well, that’s not true. He found shortcuts wherever he could, cut every corner possible to get to where he needed to go. That’s why he always managed to almost make it through school with straight Cs.

But things that he cared about, things that meant something to him, he always took his time on, took the extra minute to be careful with.

Too bad he didn’t care too much about your future, then.

His nails scrape against the deck, his shoulders drawing together around him.

He still can’t for the life of him figure out why Stan did it, what drove him to sabotage his entire future. It couldn’t have been an accident. Stan would have warned him. He would have come clean before the science fair. It had to be on purpose.

Right?

It had to be on purpose.

Because Stan has to care about his treasure-hunting and his own dreams more than he cares about his brother’s.

Because if he’s wrong, then…

Then Stan…

That stone in his chest sinks a little deeper, burns a little hotter.

He shoves himself to his feet, steadying himself against the railing as the boat sways slightly underfoot.

He has to be right.

Because he’s not sure if he can live with being wrong.

And no matter how much his chest hurts, he guesses the result was the same no matter if he meant it or not. Because either way, he’s going to some worthless school where he’s going to have to work ten times harder just to get anywhere in the world.

And Stan…

Stan was going to leave home anyways. Stan had no plans on staying anywhere near Glass Shard Beach and is probably already hundreds of miles away doing absolutely fine. This was just a hiccup for him. Ruining Ford’s life was nothing more than a speedbump. He got kicked out, but he was probably a month away from leaving anyways.

Ford had his dream stolen from him.

And Stan—

Carefully, he climbs up onto the railing of the boat and steps back onto the dock, digging his hand down into his pocket.

This boat is Stan’s dream. Not his.

He pulls out the matchbook he grabbed from the kitchen, fingers fumbling at he pulls out a single match.

An eye for an eye, right?

He strikes it, the matchstick catching with a hot spark. The single flame is warm in his fingers, dancing side to side in the light ocean breeze, the cheap wood already burning down, blackening and curling in on itself in the heat.

He ruined you.

He deserves this.

Before he can second-guess himself again, he tosses the match onto the deck.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s thinking about those food rations they stored in the hull of the boat, trying to map out how many days he can make them last if he’s careful.

He smells the smoke moments before he pulls into the parking lot at the top of the boardwalk.

Barely gets the car turned off before he sees the flames and starts running.

The boat is already halfway gone, the fire spreading across the entire deck and making its way up the mast, panic settling into his bones as he books it towards the pier.

There’s a shadow of a person standing in front of it, and all he can manage is to scream something, he can’t even remember what, and the person startles and then runs. By the time Stan makes it down to the pier, the person is already halfway down the beach, and there’s no chance at catching them, so he turns his attention to the boat.

I can save it.

I can fix this.

There are sirens in the distance. He can barely hear them over the crackle and roar of the flames. There’s a bucket on the deck of the only other boat docked, so he grabs it. Gets to work.

There’s so much of that span of time that’s a blur, a sequence of repeated motions all a backdrop to his frantic thoughts.

Lay on the dock to reach the water.

I can do this. I can do this.

Scoop as much as you can into the bucket.

How could this happen? Did that person standing here have anything to do with it?

Stand up.

What if I can’t save it?

Pour it on the flames.

He’ll never forgive me.

Repeat.

Never.

Everything’s a rush. The fire spreads across the entire deck, no matter his efforts. No matter how much water he heaves onto it, it just keeps growing, spreading, the smoke burning his lungs the way cigarettes never could, stinging his eyes, heat radiating through the air around him.

He keeps working.

I have to save it.

I need to save it.

If I save it, maybe he’ll forgive me.

The wood creaks and snaps over the sound of the flames, charred and crumbling. But he keeps working.

If I can’t, he’ll never forgive me.

Useless. Worthless. Mistake.

It’ll be the end of us.

Bucketful after bucketful, flames creeping to the top of the mast, the sails turning to ash, everything crumbling and burning right before his eyes and there’s nothing he can do to stop it but keep working.

He’s getting another scoop of water, and the bucket slips from his fingers, getting pulled down beneath the surface faster than he can react. It disappears into the black waters, pulling a curse from him.

I can still do this.

He’ll start scooping with his hands, if that’s what it takes.

But then someone grabs him, and it’s the first time he realizes how close the sirens are. They pull him away from the flames. Instinct kicks in. He’s kicking and screaming to let him go, he needs to do this, he can’t let it burn down, he can’t let it disappear, it’s all he has left, let him go—

A group of people run by in the flickering darkness as the other person keeps dragging him back, and something in his brain finally connects the sirens to the people around him, some of the panic settling into relief when he sees the long water hose the ones running down the pier are carrying.

Because there’s this inkling of hope that it’s not all lost. That it’ll be salvageable.

And then they’re blasting water at it, and his blood runs cold.

It’s almost an instant reaction, the twist in his gut at the sound of cracking wood as the mast bends to the side under the force of the water, then snaps completely and splashes into the waves.

And then he’s screaming at them, begging them to stop because can’t they see they’re making it worse? They’re destroying it. They need to stop. He needs to make them stop.

He’s flailing against the arms holding him back, throwing blind punches even though nothing’s connecting, and his insides feel more and more hollow the more steam they fill the air with and the more the boat creaks and groans.

Something finally connects, and the arms let him go, and then he’s running again, every pound of his feet on the dock lost in the hiss of the water battling the flames, battering the boat.

He hasn’t made it far when a resounding crack splinters through the air, freezing his feet in place.

Through the swirling mist, he sees the entire boat list forward, quickly taking on water. His feet are rooted in place as, within a span of seconds, the entire front half of the boat is submerged. And the back snaps in half. Falls into the waves behind it.

He doesn’t feel his knees hit the wood dock.

What’s left of the Stan O War sinks beneath the waves, a few broken boards the only things marring the surface of the otherwise now undisturbed sea.

And just like that, it’s gone.

It’s just… it’s just gone.

And he doesn’t even have the barest hope that there’s any way to bring it back.

Hands grab him again and pull him back up, but it’s all numb, the voices around him hollow and muffled, a million miles gone. He can’t look away, gaze locked on splintered wood and ash, eyes burning from the smoke and the saltwater that might be seawater, might not.

It doesn’t feel real.

It can’t be real.

Because if it is…

His throat catches, seawater rolling off his cheeks in rivulets, leaving trails in the ash and soot covering his face.

Because if it is, then I really did ruin his life, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.

Something inside him breaks at that, crumbles, the hands on his shoulders finally turning him away from the wreckage.

His insides collapse into themselves, and it’s all he can do to stop the rest of himself from following suit, to keep himself walking away from the very last semblance of hope he had to fix everything.

This is the end of us.

~ ~ ~

Ford’s running as fast as he can, his lungs heaving with every step, sand and glass shards kicking out behind him, the roar of the flames dying out the further and further he gets. It isn’t until they fade into the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore that his legs finally give out and send him to his hands and knees under the weight of what he just did.

He’d stood there watching as the fire caught, watching as the epoxy coat on the deck bubbled and charred until the wood underneath finally started to burn. He watched, waiting for that feeling of relief as the fire spread, the air getting warmer and warmer, the smoke slowly getting thicker and thicker. He thought he’d feel better about it, thought it’d cut the final string tying him and his brother together and finally let him be free of him. But instead, the fire inside him just fizzled out as the flames crept higher and higher. And he kept waiting and waiting, hoping for something new and better and good to take its place inside him, to feel the vindication he’d sorely been hoping for when he finally tossed the match on-board.

Nothing came.

There was only a distant voice, yelling at him to put the goddamn fire out what are you doing? And that had sent him running, because common sense reminded him that arson is a crime, and something about the voice clawed at his insides so deeply that he was afraid to realize why. So, he ran. And he ran and ran and ran, hoping in vain that at some point the weight pushing him further and further into the ground would lift, would let him breathe. That maybe some of the fire would come back, or something, anything but this emptiness, this detachment.

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transferred.

He wonders if that’s why that fire inside him died the higher the flames got on the boat, leaving nothing but ashes behind. Or, he wonders, if this is one thing that science can’t solve.

He doesn’t have an answer for any of it.

He’s on his hands and knees, the fire flickering in the distance, all his anger spent and gone and leaving him numb and cold and feeling something heavier than gravity pulling him towards the center of the earth.

His arms tremble under it, tears stinging his eyes.

How did Stan do it?

There are sirens in the distance, his chest shuddering with every breath of briny air.

He wants to feel satisfied with what he did, but instead it just feels like he scraped out his insides, tearing himself to ribbons and swearing he was doing it to someone else, like he’s ripping open the same poorly healed scars over and over again, hoping he’ll finally heal whole for once. Telling himself that it didn’t matter that it was also years of his own life spent working on that boat, that it still meant something to him. What mattered was that it meant something to Stan. He shouldn’t feel a damn thing.

But Stan’s not here to feel anything; it’s just him.

Just him.

Alone.

How was Stan able to do it so easily?

Every moment, the guilt tears at him more and more, and he swears it can’t get any worse, it just can’t. But then he remembers exactly why he lit that match, and it makes something vile turn over in his stomach because how could he do that to his own brother? How could he ever do that to someone he’s supposed to care about? And then every moment feels like a new low, some fundamental boundary shredded by a blinding moment of anger. An utter betrayal that cuts him to the core when he realizes its consequence, some combination of shame and remorse gripping his throat and squeezing when he remembers how he wanted Stan to feel.

The light behind him dies off, the last flames flickering in the distance, dancing off the glass shards scattered in the sand around him before disappearing into the darkness.

How was Stan able to completely ruin him and not feel a damn thing?

None of it makes sense. A voice that sounds eerily like Pa tells him it’s because Stan is useless, a con, some punk that only cares about himself and doesn’t give a shit about any of them. But that doesn’t settle right in him, doesn’t feel like the boy that yelled at the bullies that threw rocks at them and blew off a date to drive him to a science convention out of town and came into their room after an argument with their Pa with a swollen eye and pretended it was nothing. It doesn’t sound right, but neither does that same person ruining his one chance at a future and then playing it off as no big deal.

It doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make sense that Stan would do this to him. It doesn’t make sense that burning the boat down hurts so badly. That he suddenly feels more alone than he ever has, crouched on that beach and surrounded by a black sea and an empty boardwalk and knowing that has nothing to do with the hollow feeling inside his chest, aching like it’s lost some vital piece of itself.

It doesn’t feel fair.

This was supposed to help.

Instead, all he’s left with are tarnished memories and an amalgamation of confusing emotions that all just boils down to pain, pure and simple.

He shouldn’t have done it.

Hell, he regrets coming out here at all.

It feels like hours before the wailing sirens finally go quiet, and he shakily pushes himself to his feet, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he begins the long walk home, the pack of matches left behind lying in the sand.

~ ~ ~

There are little things that Stan never really thought to miss after he left. Little, every-day moments that aren’t necessarily significant, but still fall somewhere in the realm of normalcy and routine and fill some little gap in his life. Gaps that are small enough to not notice once they’re empty.

The flipping of book pages late at night. The small bit of light filtering in the window from the streetlights outside. The way the boxing mat moves and yields underfoot. The shift of his gloves when he throws a punch because they’ve always been slightly too big. The feel of sanded wood dust between his fingers. Hauling the toolbox out to the Stan O War every day to work. The smell of the shop the day after Pa gets the floors waxed. The tinkle of the bell on the door when someone walks in.

That last one ushers in the thought of the rest.

Hearing that bell when he cautiously walks into the pawn shop the next morning, it makes him wonder about all the other little things he’s forgotten to remember, forgotten to miss.

“What part of ‘you’re not welcome here’ did you not understand?”

Or just simply forgotten on purpose.

“Nice to see you too, Pops,” he says, aimlessly glancing around the shop, feigning interest in the various wares (most of which were here when he got kicked out left). Mostly, it’s just an attempt to avoid looking at the man standing behind the counter.

“If you think you can just come crawling back here after—”

“I’m not,” Stan says, his voice hard. “Just had to come and make sure Ford’s okay before I head back out of town.”

“Course he’s okay,” Filbrick says. Stan can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that Ford wasn’t somehow tangled up in the fire. That he’s alright. That he maybe doesn’t know about it yet. “No thanks to you.” Stan bristles.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Do they know he was there? Do they know he couldn’t stop it?

“It means he barely managed to get a scholarship to some run-down nothing school thanks to what you—"

“I’m not talking about the science fair! I’m talking about—”

The backdoor of the shop, the one that leads up to the apartment, opens. The tell-tale creak rings another bell in the back of his head, some other forgotten detail of his life that he’s not entirely sure what to do with. He turns at the sound and immediately locks eyes with a distorted reflection of himself.

“What do you want?” Ford’s knuckles white where they grip a backpack slung over his shoulder, but he seems almost confused, his brow ever so slightly furrowed. The door clicks closed behind him, seeming impossibly loud in the now-silent room.

“Hey, um.” The look throws him off, considering he was expecting hate or anger or even an immediate dismissal. Then again, maybe confusion makes sense too. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Why wouldn’t I be okay now that you’re gone?

He doesn’t think that’s what he meant, but it doesn’t make the comment sting any less.

“There was a fire,” he says slowly, “down at the pier.”

It’s almost imperceptible, the way Ford’s eyes widen ever so slightly at that. Stan knows he’s the only one that would ever notice it, even if it’s not entirely the response he would expect.

He’s not sure what he would expect at this point.

“Pa, there are still a few boxes upstairs,” Ford says, watching Stan for another second before turning to the man still behind the counter. “They’re a bit too heavy for me. Would you mind bringing them down? I’ll watch the shop.”

Pa doesn’t have to have his glasses off for Stan to know the exact looks he’s giving them: a judgmental squint, probably aimed more at him than Ford, a quite calculation running through his head before he grunts out that he’ll be back in five minutes. He gives Ford a semi-awkward pat on the shoulder before heading upstairs, the door clicking shut behind him.

Ford faces back towards him the moment the door closes, his arms crossed in front of his chest, hands tucked in his elbows. His eyes are glancing around, refusing to meet his own.

“You, uh, going somewhere?” Stan asks, not entirely sure how to break the silence that settled back over them.

“Why are you here, Stan?” Ford’s still not looking at him, his voice tighter than it was just a minute ago, yet somehow impossibly exhausted, detached.

“I just… I was driving through and happened to go by the pier last night. The Stan O War was on fire.” He watches for a reaction, waiting to see if Ford knew, if he cared. But there’s nothing. No waver in his expression, not even some acknowledgement of what he said. Just his eyes still looking anywhere else in the room. “Just wanted to see if you were nearby, make sure you weren’t hurt or—”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you know what hap—”

“No.”

“And you weren’t anywhere near—”

“I’m fine.”

The silence settles again, the air tense and uncomfortable between them. There’s an enormous elephant in the room. More like a couple, if he’s being completely honest. Neither of them seem willing to address them. It only makes the atmosphere seem that much heavier.

“It’s been a while, huh?” Stan says, not able to stand the quiet any longer. “Over a month by now, right?”

“Twenty-seven days.” He states it plainly, like one of those facts from a textbook. Cold and detached and simple.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. That sounds about right.”

Ford’s eyes seem to have settled, his gaze locked on something behind him, just to the side of his head. Enough to see him without having to look at him.

He won’t even look—

“Basically an eternity for us, huh?” Stan says, an awkward laugh forcing its way out. “Don’t think we ever went more than an hour without seeing each other before and now—”

“Was there something else you wanted to say to me, or was that it?”

“I…” It takes him aback, the iciness in Ford’s tone, the way his arms pull closer to his chest just the slightest bit. “What?”

“You came here to check on me?” Ford asks, his voice so flat it barely registers as a question. “That’s it?”

“I mean, yeah I guess?” Ford’s still not looking at him, and it just sinks something deep into his chest, leaving him floundering to say the right thing. “I was worried, you know?” It doesn’t feel like enough. Must hate me for not saving it. “But I tried to save the boat and everything. By the time I got there, there wasn’t much I could do.” He sees it, Ford’s arms tensing as he clenches his fists, his teeth grinding down. He’s saying the wrong things and he knows it, so he switches gears. “Look, I mean, I get if you’re mad at me for not stopping it. But the hull still seemed partly intact. I can, like, stay in town a while and help you fix her if you want. Not that you probably don’t hate me now, but I’ll stay out of your way and—"

“Get out.”

That ache in his chest drops like a weight, and suddenly he’s drowning.

“W-what?”

“I have nothing left to say to you, Stanley.” His fists fall to his sides, shoulders squaring back, his eyes still locked behind him. “So get out, and don’t make me say it again.”

It’s a slap in the face, one that stings all the way down to his core. He knows this is going badly. Doesn’t take a genius to see that.

Isn’t this what you expected when you walked in that door?

But he can’t let it end. Not like this. Shouldn’t it matter that it was an accident and he did everything he could? Shouldn’t it matter that he didn’t mean to hurt him?

“I came here to try to fix things,” Stan says, but Ford just blinks at the wall behind him, swallows.

“I don’t want you to.”

There are a million questions buzzing through his head, “when”s and “why”s and “how”s colliding and fracturing all while he sinks further and further down. He tries to grip back onto that anger from the first night, the night they threw him out onto the concrete with next to nothing and he swore the world would never see him coming. He tries to grab onto that righteous fury again, but it just slips through his fingers, lost in the backache from sleeping in his car and the suffocating silence and the stomach pains from so many days with barely enough money for food. Instead he just finds himself longing for everything that was, for the smell of Ma’s cooking and Pa’s annoyed grunts when they came in late at night and the jingle of the pawn shop bell and most of all—

“Please Ford,” Stan says. “I miss us. I can’t let everything get thrown away just over some stupid mistake! Just let me try to fix this.”

“A ‘stupid mistake’?” Ford scoffs, lowering his head with a shake. “Your ‘stupid mistake’ ruined everything. You ruined my life, Stan. There’s nothing left to fix.”

“But it was all an accident!” he says. “I didn’t mean to bump the table, and the boat was on fire when I got there. And I know, I know there’s nothing I can do about your college, so at least let me try to fix the Stan O War for you, and then maybe—”

“Would you shut up about the stupid boat already!” It’s practically a shout, the first time he’s raised his voice like that at him, his fists visibly shaking and his eyes locked on his shoes. Stan takes a small step back.

“W-what did I do wrong?”

“What did you do wr— are you kidding me?” And for the first time, Ford meets his eyes. Stan expects to see seething anger there, bubbling fury that shakes his entire frame as it threatens to boil over. He expects flames. But instead, he’s met with a detached coldness, solid ice that pierces down to the bone. “All you ever cared about was that stupid boat and your stupid treasure hunting! Did you ever stop to think about what I wanted? No, you didn’t.”

“I thought we wanted the same thi—”

“I let you drag me into your dumb, idiotic dreams that are never going anywhere. But not anymore. I’m done, Stan. I’m not letting you—you— hang on my coattails anymore. I’ve got a future ahead of me and I’m through with letting you keep me from it. There’s nothing left to fix because there is no more ‘us’. Get it? So just leave already.”

Every word stings, cutting deeper and deeper until Ford finally seems to take a breath, and Stan’s left feeling like the entire weight of the ocean is crushing into his chest.

Is that really how he felt?

He thought the boat, all of it, was their dream. He thought it was the future they both wanted the moment it was possible. That’s what Ford had said up until the science fair. Was he wrong? Did he really make Ford this miserable? Did he really hate him from the beginning? Were they really—

“I didn’t—”

“And you know what?” Ford says, voice shaking, bordering on hysterical. “I’m glad you couldn’t put out the fire, because I was the one who started it in the first place!” Stan swears he feels his heart stop in his chest, something in the back of his throat seizing. “So at least this once you didn’t screw up something for me.”

“Y-you burned—?”

“And it was the best decision I ever made,” he says. “Dumb adventures, treasure hunting, that boat, you. I’ve moved on. It’s all behind me now. I have a future ahead of me. So just leave me alone and, for once in your goddamn life, get out of my way.”

It’s all your fault. All your fault.

He’ll never forgive you.

Never.

This is the end—

“Stanford, I’m sor—”

“Get out.”

“Sixer please—”

“I said get out!”

The shout dies as fast as it escapes Ford’s lips, but it leaves Stan’s ears ringing. He’s stuck in place, the world revolving around him and Ford glaring holes through his skull and everything feeling all too real and not quite real enough as that ache in his chest claws at his insides, tears him apart.

It’s too quiet.

It’s too quiet, but his head is buzzing, and there’s no way this is real, but it is. It’s more real than the day he got kicked out.

It’s too quiet, and his insides are screaming that this is wrong, this is his nightmares come to life, that it can’t of all fallen apart that easily, that it can’t be over, that this can’t be the end.

But it is.

And it hits him with a sudden, startling clarity.

All the derision and hate from his father, he never saw it in Ford. But maybe it’s always been there, and he was just fooling himself by thinking otherwise. Telling himself that if no one else wants him, then his twin, the brother he’s quite literally spent his entire life with, would have to care about him. That he must be willing to go to the ends of the Earth at his side, together against the world, forever and ever.

He never realized “forever” only lasted until the end of high school. That maybe he was more alone than he ever thought.

The shock subsides, but it leaves something bitter in the back of his throat, the rock lodged in his chest twisting like a knife, the very last shred of hope he had of fixing things between them withering and dying.

He takes a step back and grits his teeth through it.

Because none of this changes the fact that he’s still going to make his millions. That he’s still going to rub it in their faces. That he’s going to make them regret ever kicking him out and doubting him and thinking he’s nothing but a waste of space, a walking mistake.

He tells himself for the hundredth time that he doesn’t need them.

That he’ll be fine on his own.

Because if that’s how he really feels, then—

“Fine,” Stan says, straightening his back and swallowing down the pain scraping its way up his throat. “If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you again.” And he turns on his heel, the bell jiggling as he yanks the door open, sunlight and ocean air barreling in. “Have a nice life, Stanford.”

And he walks.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s not sure how he made it to the car, let alone how he already made it this far down the highway. It’s all a blur, thoughts and memories lost to the tears already streaming down his face. He wipes at them with his arm, but more and more come to replace them, dripping down his cheeks, his chin, onto his shirt. He feels hollow, like someone scooped out his guts and left him to rot, but the tears just keep coming and coming, the knot in his throat slowly getting tighter and tighter.

All it takes is a sign whizzing by outside.

Leaving Glass Shard Beach.

Thanks for visiting!

It’s like a dam breaking, the agony and the hurt and the betrayal and the anger all coming up in a rush that he tries so hard to choke back down, to bury like he’s always done, like he was always taught to do. But it’s like holding back a hurricane inside his chest, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the sobs that force their way through and catch in his throat, tears falling heavier than raindrops and threatening to drown him.

It’s really over.

It’s really the end.

He bites down on his lip to try to keep it in, but more just keeps bubbling up.

He knows he shouldn’t be crying like this. Not here, not now. Hell, not ever. He’s the strong one.

One of what?

It’s not supposed to hurt this much, to feel like such an utter rejection, to be impossibly worse than the first time a month twenty-seven days so long ago. He’s supposed to be tougher than this. He’s supposed to take any punch, any pain the world throws at him, and grin back with bloody teeth and not a care in the world. This shouldn’t—

And then he’s angry, angry that Ford would do this to him, would treat him like garbage after everything they’ve gone through. He’s angry that his brother tossed him to the side the moment he got a better offer. He’s angry that one mistake cost him everything he ever knew, and Ford just closed the damn curtains. He’s angry that Ford decided to burn down the boat, their his dream, everything inside of it that he could have used or sold to keep himself alive. He’s so angry at Ford, at his dad, at that dumb school, at all of it.

Somehow, he’s the angriest at himself for going back and hoping things would be different.

He’s angry that he was dumb enough to think he still had a brother.

“Stupid,” he says between strangled sobs, his throat constricting around the word.

He’s angry that he’s still crying over something he can’t change.

He’s angry that, even after everything that happened, he still feels guilty for hitting that table.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Every word is punctuated with his hand smacking the steering wheel, each one harder than the last. As if it’ll get the anger out. As if it’ll make him feel more in-control again. As if it will make it all hurt just a little less if his hand stings a little more.

“Stupid Ford.” Smack. “With his stupid school.” Smack. “And his stupid project.”

His palm is tingling.

It’s nothing in comparison.

Did he ever care about any of it in the first place?

Was all of it a lie?

That angers boils, a tight pressure behind his ribcage that still feels suspiciously like devastation, like heartbreak, but he tells himself its anger because then at least hitting something should make it go away.

So he wails on the steering wheel, cursing every god under the sun and everything and everyone that ever wronged him. And it feels good at first, giving the hurt somewhere else to go for the time being. Venting the frustration and the pain and the wrongness of it all. So he curses and he screams and he punches that damn steering wheel until his hands feel raw, and he’s yelling at Ford for starting that damn fire and Ford for hating him all this time and Ford for pretending he wanted a brother and himself for believing it and himself for wanting it and himself for hoping and dreaming and thinking he was finally going to get to be happy when of course that’s horse-shit because why would anything ever turn out alright for him and Ford for still getting everything he ever wanted and himself for still feeling proud at that and Ford for thriving while he’s barely surviving and— and—

He’s better off without you.

His throat hurts, and he’s still choking back sobs through it all, tears soaking his cheeks. His hand connects with the steering wheel one more time, but it’s almost hesitant, tired. He can feel himself crumpling inwards, everything caving in, as if now that everything he ever had is gone, there’s nothing left holding the last pieces of him together, the last bit of anger draining out and leaving him nothing in its wake.

He’d be better off if you—

A car horn wails, but he knows it wasn’t him, and he blinks up through blurry eyes to see another car heading right towards him.

It must be some kind of instinct that has him yanking the wheel to the side. The car jerking back across the median. Off the side of the road. Everything jolting as he slams the brake on the shoulder. The tires squealing before everything finally stops.

There’s a long moment, as the blare of the other car’s horn fades into the distance, tears still streaming freely, when all he can do is sit there. He doesn’t know how his brain can simultaneously feel like it’s full of cotton and full of bees, his heart slamming in his chest.

His hands are trembling as he fumbles the car into park.

And then the moment breaks like shattered glass.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice wobbling, still wet with the tears dropping from his chin. His hands find the steering wheel, squeezing the fake leather until his knuckles turn white so that they’ll just stop shaking. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He tells himself he’s angry. He tells himself, because the other thing is more than he can handle right now. More than he think he’ll ever be able to handle.

Should have just driven by when you had the chance.

Maybe he’d hoped he could fix things. Maybe he’d hoped Ford would forgive him. Maybe he figured there was no way he could make things worse anyways.

Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe

Maybe he was wrong.

And just maybe when he’d thought he couldn’t get any lower than rock-bottom, he’d gone and dug himself a deeper hole.

He supposes that’s what he gets for hoping.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

But it did. And it went to hell, just like everything else you touch.

He knows he’s a screw-up in every meaning of the word, but he never thought he’d manage to mess up the one thing in this world that actually mattered.

He never thought he’d lose—

He can’t even finish the thought, because that makes it true, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle that, either.

Shouldn’t have gone back.

Shouldn’t have—

He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and just tries to breathe, one stuttering breath after another.

He tells himself the water still spilling down his cheeks is rain or ocean brine or something other than what it is.

He tells himself it’s just anger.

He tells himself he doesn’t need any of them.

He tells himself things will be better one day.

He tells himself a lot of things.

But just below the surface, he’s well aware that every single one of them is a lie.

So he just sits there on the side of the road, alone, and… tries to breathe.

He just tries to breathe.

~ ~ ~

He’s already turned around long before the bell on top of the pawn shop door rings to announce Stan’s exit, has already slammed the door to the apartment behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and he faintly swears there’s something wrong with his legs, some slight wobble, something wrong with more than that.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

When he comes into the living room, Ma is sitting on her window perch, watching him, and he tries not to register the hurt in her creased brow, the slight tug downwards in her lips. Pa is in his armchair, face hidden behind the newspaper. He doesn’t even look up when Ford comes in.

He makes a beeline to their the his bedroom, his eyes following the familiar treaded path in the carpet to the stairs. That way he can’t see Ma’s disappointment, Pa’s—

“Son,” Pa says, voice gruff. The word is a command, one that stops Ford in his tracks with his foot on the first worn stair, his spine going rigid. He hears Pa flip the page of his newspaper, the beat of silence stretching for far too long before— “I’m impressed. Glad you finally got up the nerve to kick that no good, low life—"

He doesn’t remember the rest, only the sound of the bedroom door clicking closed behind him as he breathes out a long, low sigh. The wood door is hard against his back as leans his whole weight into it, his mind buzzing numbly, the thoughts in his own head still blissfully absent, hopefully left behind in the pawn shop until they dissipate and stay forgotten.

He has too much to do now. Too much to worry about.

He can’t afford to think about certain things too hard.

His chest feels tight, so he takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes to feel the air filling his lungs. He never changed out of his clothes from last night, the smoke still embedded in the fabric of his shirt. He can still taste it in the back of his throat, bitter and raw.

He pushes himself off the door, aiming towards the center of the room, determined to do one last check to make sure he got everything of value. But something catches his attention when he moves, giving him pause. There’s something in his front pocket, bending and slightly pressing into his leg. Confused, he reaches in, fingers gripping and pulling out the piece of paper, smooth to the touch and thick enough that it—

…

Something twists harshly in his gut, something that registers as guilt.

He tells himself not to think about it too hard, but the thoughts still drift up from the shop below like smoke. Every word, every glare, every bit of cruelty replaying and overlapping and reverberating in his head like some discordant canon. The utterly destroyed look on Stan’s face seared into his memory. The taste of acid on his tongue as the words trapped inside his head finally spilled out.

He only ever cared about the boat. Not about you.

Not about you.

Only his treasure-hunting.

You were just convenient.

He tells himself not to think about it. To move on.

If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you—

He stuffs the picture back in his pocket, trying to forget the pair of twins smiling up at him, standing proudly on the remains of an old boat, carefree and naïve.

There’s just too much to do, too much to worry about right now.

He tells himself it’s all for the best anyways.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and moves to pick up the last packed box, purposely turning away from the empty bunk bed as he heads out of the room.

For the best.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

He doesn’t look back.

#pinesbrosfallswrites #stan pines #stanford pines #stangst #gravity falls fanfiction #fanficiton #my writing #don't let the beginning fool you #it's all downhill from here #(also i resent tumblr for taking away my linebreaks)

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ladynightmare12 · 5 years

Text

First Day

Summary: It's Virgil's first day of Kindergarten and he doesn't want to go. And he doesn't know what he's supossed to do there. Thankfully, neither do his new friends.

Hi! This is one of my gifts for @silverrhayn :D I hope you like it! Warnings: a few curses because I swear like a sailor Also, please keep in mind that english is not my mother language. So there's gonna be mistakes, but feel free to mention them Note: IDK anything about children or kindergarten. And the kids are five years old

@secretsanders

“I don’t want to go, Mom”

His mother sighed, a playful smile appearing in her lips as she lightly poked the lump below the covers that was her son. Her son that was going to be late to his first day of Kindergarten if he didn’t get ready in that precise moment.

“Why not, Virgil?”

“It’s scary”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah”

Chuckling, she sat down next to her child and kept poking him with both hands “Care to explain, you little ruffian?”

“I don’t know!” he squeaked, trying to wriggle his way out of his mother’s hands.

“You don’t know why you’re scared?”

“No! I mean that I don’t know!” frustrated by his mother’s questions and endless poking, he rolled out of bed and sat at the floor, pouting and glaring at his mom “I don’t know anyone, I don’t know what we’ll do, I know nothing!”

“That’s normal Virgil. It’s hard, yes, but it’ll happen a lot of times in your life” at her words, Virgil’s eyes widened and he quickly crawled to get under his bed “Virgil, no! You’ll get stuck!” she grabbed him by the waist and pulled him out, but he squirmed in her hold.

“I’ll live forever under the bed; it’ll be no problem!”

“Virgil, no! I-” she paused, an idea surging in her head “Virgil… what would Mulan do?”

Virgil stopped squirming “Save China?”

She laughed, shifting Virgil until they were face to face “Well, yes, because that was what she had to do. And yes, it was scary, but that didn’t stop her, did it?”

“No…” he mumbled, eyes looking down and hands playing with his sleeves. His mom took his hands into hers, and he relaxed almost instantly –mom’s hands were so warm- and turned to look at her.

“I know you are scared, Virgil, but I promise you’ll have a good time. You can even make it a mission! And it can have little missions within, like making friends or learning something new. How does it sound?”

Virgil put on his best thoughtful face “Mulan had a dragon…”

She deadpanned “You can take my familiar”

Gasping, Virgil nodded and rushed to get ready.

Half an hour later, they both kissed Ma goodbye and got into the car, the two of them carrying important items they would need through their day: in Susan Sanders’ case it was her bag, her briefcase, a tupper full of delicious food made by her loving wife, and a big thermos; while in Virgil Sanders’ case it was a Spiderman themed backpack, a lunch box with Ma’s food (and two more cookies than what they normally let him eat) and his Mom’s familiar (that was, in fact, a stuffed dragon Susan had since she was six but shhh).

All too soon, Mom was wishing him luck and kissing his forehead before leaving to get to work, her instruction of ‘getting inside the classroom with the green door when he was ready’ being told once more.

He stared at the green door, not knowing if he really was ready. Nor knowing what he was supposed to do besides get in.

“Hey, do you know why we’re here?” said a voice to his left. Flinching, he turned to look at them and found a boy his age with unruly caramel hair, eyes with two different colors and a Bugs Bunny themed backpack.

“Huh… I’m not sure” he admitted. Ma had said something like ‘early education’ and ‘preparing for school’ but he didn’t understand. Like, at all.

“You were told to get inside, too?” he asked, his hands tightening their hold on the backpack straps.

“Yeah”

“Hum”

A pause.

“Hey, I like your backpack”

“Thanks” the other kid smiled and, for some reason, showed him his middle finger.

“Why are you doing that?” he frowned with confusion. What did that mean? Ma had always told him that it was rude to use the middle finger to point at something, but she never told him why.

“I don’t know” he shrugged “My brother Remy does it all the time around his friends, so I guess it’s some kind of salute”

Virgil nodded. Yeah, it seemed like it.

“Kids, please get inside, the class will begin in a minute” a young man with a big smile approached them, and with a soft movement of his hand he signaled to the door.

The kids quickly obeyed, but not without the kid with mismatched eyes saying ‘you have a thicc butt’ at the man.

“That’s another thing my brother says” he told Virgil proudly “That way he will know I know grown up things”

Virgil thought it was really clever.

“Alright kids, all of you please sit in the floor of the classroom for a quick introduction and we’ll go to the tables later, okay?” the children followed his instruction (some of them a little reluctantly but hey, he couldn’t blame them) and sat in a formless mass at the floor.

Well, except one child.

The child that hadn’t stopped crying since their mom left.

“Hey kiddo, could you please come and join us?” the teacher (or at least Virgil thought he was a teacher) asked with a soft voice, walking towards the wailing boy.

“No!” he screamed, and Virgil and a few other kids covered their ears at the loudness of his voice “I want my mom! She is sick and she needs me!”

“Your mom allergies were flaring up, that was all”

“I’ll give you a dollar if you let me go!” he pleaded, waving the dollar like mad.

It took almost five minutes to calm down the boy, and two more to clean his face with wet wipes and comb his hair ‘back to the royal look’ (the kid’s words) it had. Thomas sighed and walked back to the front of the classroom, spending another three minutes in recovering everyone’s attention.

“Okay, kids, let’s begin” he put on his best smile and hoped the bags under his eyes didn’t ruin the cheerful image he wanted to give “I’m Thomas Sanders and I will be your teacher for the school year” he ignored the scream of a girl saying ‘a year?’ and kept going “The recess is at 10:00 am, and it lasts 30 minutes. You will use that time to eat, play and or go to the bathroom. Okay? You can ask me to go to the bathroom anytime, but please don’t do it if you don’t need to go. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. Now, please grab a seat at whatever table you want, and chat a little with your companions as I prepare an activity”

Watching everyone run and almost trip over each other trying to get a seat, Virgil stayed still in his place, fear in his eyes at the aggressiveness and energy of the other kids. He wanted nothing more than to leave the classroom, but he knew that wasn’t what Mulan would do.

Hugging his mother’s familiar, he gathered all the courage he had left and tried to decide where he would sit. There wasn’t any empty table, so sitting alone wouldn’t be an option. But all the children were already talking, and he didn’t want to intrude. That was rude. Though… there was a table where the kids weren’t talking yet. At the table were two boys that looked pretty similar (what did Mom called them? Twins?), they had the same carrot-like hair, same gray eyes, and even same glasses. The only difference he noticed were their clothes, while one wore gray overalls and a baby blue t-shirt, the other wore gray shorts and a Star Wars t-shirt.

But why weren’t they talking?

Well, it didn’t matter. They looked friendly.

“Uhh… hi” he said, waving his hand at them “Can I sit here?”

“Of course! Hi!” said the kid with the overalls while he bounced in his seat.

“Aha! You lost!” his brother said, pointing a finger at him with a triumphant smile “You didn’t even last three minutes”

“Oh, well. Add another tally mark, then” he shrugged, before turning to look at Virgil where he was seated two chairs away “Hi! I’m Patton!”

“Hi…” he said, looking at the other twin as he drew a tally mark on the left side of a notebook page, where the right side was totally empty as opposed to the left side “Uhh… what are you counting there?”

“Our ‘the first to speak loses’ games. These are the times I’ve won” he proudly pointed to the left side of the page “These are the zero times Patton has won” he pointed to the other side and smiled fondly at his brother “But you are doing good, Pat”

“Thank you, Lo!” laughed Patton as he practically threw himself at his twin “This is my brother, Logan!” he told Virgil “We’re the Picani brothers!”

Just as he was about to say something, another voice beat him to it.

“Nice to meet you”

While Patton screamed and Virgil shrieked, Logan just looked at the newcomer with confusion.

“When did you get here?”

“I don’t know. Who cares”

“Who are you?” asked Logan, even more confused. How could him not know? What a weird kid.

“Declan. Declan Classy Smith” he said, and now that Virgil had calmed down he recognized him as the kid with the Bugs Bunny backpack.

“Did your parents really name you Classy?” said Patton with curiosity. What a cool name!

“Yes. It is right there in my birth certificate”

“I don’t believe you” frowned Logan. It didn’t make sense to name a kid like that.

“Seriously, you can look it up for proof” he said, with the same tone his brother would say ‘I shit you not’.

A cough interrupted whatever argument they were going to have. “Can I sit here?” asked the boy that minutes ago was crying for their mom.

“I vote in favor” nodded Patton as he raised his hand. The others (except his twin) looked at him in confusion “Democracy” he said, as if that explained everything. Though, apparently for the kids it did, because they all raised their hand and nodded “All in favor?” they nodded again “Well, then, welcome to the table! I’m Patton, he’s Logan” he pointed with his thumb “he’s Declan and he’s… uh… I dunno”

“I’m Virgil” he said, looking at the new kid sit in front of him at the round table “And you are?”

“Roman García” the kid mumbled, his eyes downcast and his hands playing with the Ninja Turtles bracelet he was wearing. It reminded Virgil of himself that same morning, so of course he had the perfect solution for that.

“Roman” with the most serious voice he had, he extended his hand on the table as close to Roman as he could “Just ask yourself… what would Mulan do?”

Roman gasped. It was true.

With renewed spirits, Roman smiled and kept chatting with the boys, all of them making theories about what they were supposed to do there.

“Maybe we’ll learn to do taxes” suggested Logan.

“I hope not. Dad almost threw the computer through the window the last time he did them” frowned Roman, the thought of having to do something that put Dad like that made him want to run to Mom’s work and never come back.

“Our Dad cried” the twins said at the same time.

Before the kids even tried to formulate a plan the get the heckity heck out of there, the teacher walked back to the front of the classroom and gave them the instructions to begin the activity. Then, he went table after table proving them with paper and little bowls full of crayons for them to draw their family as he instructed.

“Remember kids, you have total freedom over your drawing, and you can talk with your companions about your family while you do it!”

“And what if we have the same family?” asked Logan “Should we do it together?”

“Well… no” Thomas tensed, worried about how the twins would react to his answer. Thankfully, they just nodded and began to work. Oh thank God. He didn’t know what he would have do if they cried or threw a tantrum.

He would’ve probably just let them do it together.

“My mom is the most beautiful woman in the world” said Roman as he drew (or attempted to) sparkles around the stick figure that was his mother.

“That’s not true” Virgil paused his drawing to look at him “Ma is. Mom said so and she never lies”

“All women are queens” hissed Declan, unaware of where that phrase came from and just wanting to stop the fight so he could reach for another crayon from the bowl. It worked, but they still looked at each other as if waiting for one comment to fight again.

“Hey Lo, what color looks more like Dad’s hair?” holding two crayons with different shades of pink to his twin, Patton sheepishly looked at him “I can’t decide”

“This one” Logan showed him the crayon he was using “Here, you can have it. I don’t need it anymore” he gave him the crayon and looked for another one in the bowl that looked like Papa’s hair.

“Your dad has pink hair?” Virgil gasped incredulously “No way!”

“Yep” smiled Patton, before turning to help Logan decide on a color.

“My brother Kai has blue hair” said Roman “Dad doesn’t like it though. I don’t understand”

“That’s dumb. It’s just hair” frowned Virgil. He didn’t understand either.

“Adults are weird” affirmed Declan, not looking up from his paper. He needed concentration to draw his brother’s glasses.

“That’s true” mumbled Logan. Finally spotting the perfect crayon, he grabbed it and began to color Papa´s hair, happy and proud to look how similar the drawing was to his family.

After a while of drawing, Declan put down his crayon and tapped twice with it to get everyone’s attention.

“Hey guys, how about we create a special salute for our group?”

Looking around the classroom, pleased to see everybody working and having a good time, Thomas sighed in relief. His first day as a Kindergarten teacher was going great!

Or at least it was, until he noticed a table with five boys flipping double-birds.

“kids NO!”

And that's it! Hope you like it! Honestly, I almost had to slap myself because I saw the opportunity to make it angsty but no! Not here. Yet, at least. A few parts of this were inspired by my own first day of kindergarten, like watching a boy cry and meeting a kid with a Bugs Bunny backpack. And of course, the not knowing why was I there. Happy Holidays, everyone!

#roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #sanders sides fic #platonic dlamp

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