#I think his hands had been the steadiest they'd ever been

[maphel-n-doodles]

Henlo! For the ask prompts may I suggest HashiIzu with Hashirama healing Izuna (it's your choice whether it's a silly or serious injury) or Hashirama sticking flowers in Izuna's clothes and hair. Thanks for considering it! 🌻💕

Ivy: Immortality, undying affection Marigold: Grief, Despair Fern: Sincerity, Sorrow

Mokuton is a sensitive creature.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Two Sides of The Same Coin - Prologue: "Begin Again"

"For the first time, what's past is past..."

Pairing: Sunshine!Reader x Grumpy!Bucky Barnes

It’s been days.

Or at least you think it’s been days, they don’t come check on you regularly anymore.

But you sit and wait, thankful that it’s been days. 

Except for, that a short time ago, you heard the loud noises right outside of your door. You’ve never heard those noises before.

You restrict the air movement in the room, waiting with bated breath, hoping that no one can hear you. Hoping that they’ll forget about you. But it’s been years and they haven’t.

A large noise booms on the other side of the door. You flinch, curling yourself up even tighter into your corner. They'd kept you tightly chained since your incident with that knife.  

The noise repeats. 

Once.

Twice.

Then the door you've known your entire life, the steadiest, most enduring fixture you've ever known, crashes to the ground.

An unfamiliar man and woman stand in the doorway of the fallen door. You gasp, shaking uncontrollably as you wait for the worst. But it doesn’t come. 

Not when they tell you you’re safe.

Not when they take off the large metal shackle on your wrist. 

Not when they drag you out of your room, nor when you see the sunlight for the first time and it practically blinds you.

“Can you tell me your name?” the man in front of you asks.

The corridor is completely empty, desolate. All the people you used to hear outside, all gone. Your frantic, flickering eyes don't know what to focus on. The man. The woman. The hallway you knew was outside of that door, but had never once seen expect for brief, stolen glimpses when they offered you the bare, most basic necessities for survival. 

“Your name?” he asks again, his tone commands your wavering attention.

“I don't think she understands you, Nick,” the woman tells him. 

You shake your head scared that if you don't tell them, they'll put you back, but also scared that they're going to take you away. Still with a shaky hand you gesture to yourself, quietly giving them your name. 

It's a blur after that, or rather your mind blurs it all together because it can't possibly process all the new information that's being thrown at it. The large jet you're hauled into, the medical team waiting when you land, the stretcher you're laid out on, the numerous tests and doctors talking at you. 

Not until you see the same man that rescued you. He stands at the doorway of the new room you occupy, closely watching you.

This room is different. They leave the door open mostly, allowing you to see the doctors and nurses scurry and run past your room.

There's a large window with busy streets and what feels like a million different lights glisten and gleam below and all around you.

Different people come in to check on you all the time. Sometimes they greet you with unfamiliar words and insincere smiles. They bring you small meals, carefully watching each bite you take until you make yourself sick. 

He approaches slowly, "How are you feeling?"

You don't respond as your mind runs rampant to try and process the last few hours in a world you never knew existed.

He sighs and takes another deep breath. "Do you know this woman?" he asks, holding up his phone and playing one of the recordings from the numerous, frantic calls to SHIELD she made. You suck in a breath, recognizing her voice almost instantly. "You do know her."

Once again, you're scared if you don't tell him what you know, they'll send you back. You'll be alone again. Even though they occasionally poked and prodded at you with needles and other scary instruments, you liked it here. It was better than there. Though your lip quivers, you whisper, "Dead."

"Do you know anything? Anything about what happened to her?"

You clench your fists tightly, shutting your eyes as you raise your hand formed like a gun and point to your head. 

"I see," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

-

“Why is she restrained?” Nick demands, walking up to the first nurse he sees right in front of your room. He hadn't even walked into your room yet, but the restraints on each of your arms were glaring from the second he exited the elevator.

“The doctors have reason to believe that she may have…suicidal tendencies. Or at least previous attempts,” the nurse whispers, her eyes still carefully watching you.

“And?”

“It’s standard protocol, sir. At least until we can perform a psych eval.”

“A psychological evaluation on a person that can barely talk?” he counters.

He doesn’t wait for the nurse to respond before walking into your room. You’re in the same position that he was when he left you almost twelve hours ago. You look up to acknowledge his presence, offering a small kind smile.

“You don’t do much, do you?” he quips, taking a seat next to your hospital bed. You look at him apologetically, like you’re sorry for not understanding what he’s saying. “Not that you can do much tied up like that.”

He looks at you and he feels awful. You sit there on the bed, sitting completely up, legs criss-crossed. Staring out the large window in awe. You'd yet to speak more than a few words to him and he could see a new weight on your shoulders. He knows it's because of the new restraints.

He's not sure what you're thinking or how much you do or don't know, but he knows it must sting: getting your freedom just to have it stripped away. 

He sighs, standing up from his seat. Careful to keep his hand in your sight, he removes the restraints from your wrists. You look at him with a confused expression, as if you know he’s not supposed to be doing that. Like you think you're actually supposed to be restrained. He shakes his head, “I think you’ve been tied up long enough. It's not like that out here. ”

You don’t respond, instead staring at your newly freed hands.

“Can you understand me? Even a little bit?” he asks in resignation.

You nod with a newfound enthusiasm. It's not overt but a subtle glimmer of hopefulness. It's enough for him. “A little.”

“So you can speak?"

“Yes. A little,” you chuckle, relishing in the feeling of being physically unrestrained.

“And a jokester,” he comments, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Day in and out, he came back to see you in that hospital room, a SHIELD agent always posted at the door to keep an eye on you. Every day, you were equally enthusiastic about seeing the man that rescued you. Showing him all the new words you'd learned from one day to the next, it shocked him how excited you were about it all. And that not once did that energy waver. 

And finally after almost an entire month, the doctors approached him with the news that you were free to leave. "So you're clearing her?"

"She has some long-term health issues that'll need to be looked after and monitored, but otherwise she's a perfectly healthy adult."

"A perfectly healthy adult," he repeats. 

He's conflicted, an emotion he's not used to in the slightest. One the one hand, you do look much better than in those first days when the malnourishment and fear were as clear as day. He's toyed with a few ideas of what to do with you, where you would go after this. He couldn't take this on. The Avengers Compound would be overwhelming at best. SHIELD had already staked a heavy claim on you, but he didn't trust SHIELD agents to not turn you into their ultimate weapon, a soldier that only listened to directives and orders. 

He needed a middle ground, a person with patience that would give you the freedom to grow, and someone that could keep you safe.

And he had the person in mind, all he needed to do was convince him. And if you had him, the infamously stoic and calculating Nick Fury, convinced, he was sure that Sam Wilson wouldn't be any more difficult.

He nods at the doctor, then walks into your room. You greet him from your bed like you had all the days prior, "Hi, Nick!"

"Hi," he smiles. "You made these?" he asks, pointing to the flowers on your bed.

You nod proudly, excited that for once, you weren't being punished by the things you could do. "Well, I came with good news today. Your doctor thinks you're ready to leave this place."

"Leave?" you ask trying to keep a brave, enthused face, though Nick can tell you're scared that you'll be going back.

"Don't worry," he says, sticking his hand out. "I've got someone I think can really help. He's a good guy- a part of what I hope will be your future team."

"Team," you repeat. "What team?"

"The Avengers," he replies simply.

"Two Sides Of The Same Coin" Chapter List AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

[divinesouldariax]

Consider also, 75 from physical I Love Yous with Laudna and Imogen

75. Painting their fingernails because their hands are too shaky.

I know you said Laudna and Imogen, but Ashton just kinda snuck his way in here and I couldn't get them to leave lmao <3 Unsteady hands crowd, make some noise! Also whoops this was sent in literal months ago ~Martin

P.S. Apologies if tumblr nuked the formatting on this, I couldn't figure out how to fix it in the 10 minutes before I leave for work.

Word count: 1,770

Content warnings: mild internalized ableism

Send me these? (different prompt list but still)

*

Laudna had just about the steadiest hands that Imogen had ever seen. Maybe it was something about her heart rate being so low, or so many years of experience with detail work crafting and mending things, or maybe it was just a trait she had always possessed, but she could tend to the smallest tasks with exact precision.

Right now, that task was painting Imogen’s nails. Laudna had been so excited by the shimmery black nail polish they'd found in a shop they wandered into that morning, and Imogen had suggested that Laudna paint hers as well. Laudna had beamed. But Imogen didn't really want the same black paint, so she had bought a few other colors as well.

One of Laudna's cool hands was supporting Imogen's, and her delicate fingers held the small brush that was coating Imogen's nails in sky blue polish. Laudna was humming happily. Smiling, Imogen leaned her head against the wall and let her mind relax.

The rest of the group were in the room as well, resting in the heat of the afternoon. Chetney was sanding something in the corner, his thoughts focused and bent on a stubborn gnarl in the wood. Fearne was taking a nap on one of the beds, dreaming about swimming by a waterfall, and Orym was sitting next to her and stretching, the rhythm of the Zephra'atam flowing through his mind. FCG was by the window, peeking out through the crack in the curtains, watching for birds a little nervously. Ashton, who was sitting in the chair near where Imogen and Laudna were on the floor, was drowsy as well, and not thinking about much, but Imogen did pick up something a little strange. Jealousy, maybe?

She looked over at him. They were staring down at the hole in their vest that he was trying to patch, having turned down Laudna's offer to fix it with magic. But as she watched, Ashton glanced over at her and Laudna. His eyes widened briefly, and a spark of embarrassment flooded through his mind as they saw Imogen looking back. Quickly, he turned back to his work.

Imogen fought a smile. Ashton, she said softly into his mind.

For a second, they ignored her. What? he replied eventually.

She wiggled the fingers of the hand Laudna had already finished so he could see them. I bet she'd do yours next if you asked.

I don't-- An incoherent jumble of thoughts followed as Ashton put the mending down and rubbed their forehead. Imogen waited patiently as he gathered themself. Oh, you're awful, you know that?

I know, Imogen said, amused. Don't be embarrassed. You want her to paint your nails?

Ashton shifted. They were looking down at their hands now with a weird expression. Imogen felt nostalgia that was closer to sadness from them, and she frowned. I used to like having them painted, he said. I'd do it myself. Hands are too fucking shaky to do that anymore, though. Paint would get fucking everywhere.

Imogen had noticed the shakiness in his hands before, of course. Hers often trembled as well. Is that why you make a point of fixing your clothes by hand, even though it takes a while? she asked.

Just to prove I still fucking can? Yeah, pretty much.

You know, Laudna's doing mine 'cause my hands shake, too, Imogen said gently. She saw a little tension leave their shoulders. It's that part that you're embarrassed about, not that you want them painted, huh?

Ashton shrugged tightly. I don't like needing help for something that simple, they admitted, and Imogen got the feeling that it wasn't something he would ever say out loud.

I'm not gonna make you, Imogen told him. But I do think it would make Laudna happy if you asked her to.

"There, we'll let that dry and then do another coat," Laudna announced. "How does it look?"

Imogen held her hands up to the light. Several nails were a little wet, but it still looked lovely. The blue stood out against the lines of purple electricity that crackled under the skin of her hands. "I love it," she said sincerely. "We got a little time to wait, then?"

"Mm-hmm, we'll give it five minutes or so," Laudna said.

She's got tiiiiime, Imogen said, teasing a little.

Ashton didn't answer her in her mind. A few seconds passed, and she was about to drop it, but then he cleared his throat and said, "Laudna, want to do mine too?"

Laudna, Orym, and Chetney all looked towards him. Imogen felt a radiating defensiveness from Ashton, but she knew nobody was going to prove that wariness right.

"I would love to!" Laudna said enthusiastically. "What color would you like? Imogen bought several!"

Ashton squinted at the collection of paint. "I mean, I've got a whole thing going on," he said, gesturing at themself. "So, same color as you, I think."

"The black? Alright! Come sit with us down here?” Laudna invited.

They nodded and got off the chair, tossing the mending onto the seat and sat down on the floor in the corner next to Imogen, who scooted over to give him space to face Laudna. “Sorry if I move too much,” they mumbled. “Hands kind of do their own thing sometimes.”

“If the brush slips, we can just wipe it off,” Laudna replied easily. “Bring your knee up and put your hand down on it, maybe? Would that help it be steadier?”

Imogen smiled at how gentle the suggestion was–Laudna had said the same thing to her the first time they’d done this. She sent a wave of pure affection in Laudna’s direction and saw the corner of her mouth turn up.

Ashton pulled one knee up close to their chest, wincing, then rested their right hand down on top of it. When Laudna carefully slipped her fingers under his, lifting them up one at a time to apply the first coat of black paint, Imogen saw his forehead crease, and his hands twitched a few times, smearing the paint occasionally, but they were watching her work intently and didn’t pull away.

“There, done with that hand,” Laudna said.

Imogen reached her hand out. “I can clean up the edges,” she said, and when Ashton didn’t even hesitate to give her his hand, she felt a little twinge of pride. It had taken so long to get them to be okay with being touched, and it was a special kind of honor to be allowed to do so when she knew that it could cause a lot of pain. She prestidigitated the smudges around his cuticles while Laudna started painting the nails on their left hand.

That one seemed to be a lot worse in terms of the twitching and shaking. Which made sense, most of the injuries were on the left side of his body. Still, Imogen couldn’t help but wince when their wrist kind of jerked involuntarily away from Laudna.

“Are you alright?” Laudna said softly.

“Fine,” Ashton almost snapped.

Laudna paused, and Imogen tensed slightly, but then she just went back to painting. “You know, the black looks really good, but I bet purple would as well. Matching your hair.”

Ashton let out a little laugh even as their hand shuddered again, and Imogen relaxed. “Sure, maybe next time.”

Fearne had woken up from her nap, and was peering down at them from over the edge of the bed. “Oh, that looks like fun,” she sighed. “Laudna, will you do mine?”

“Of course!”

“Maybe you can do everyone’s!” Fearne added. “Fresh Cut Grass doesn’t have nails, but–”

“You could paint something on my hands anyway,” Letters remarked. “That could be pretty.”

“Orym, Chetney?” Fearne said hopefully.

“Nah, it’d chip off too fast on me. But I might borrow those paints and the tiny brushes,” Chetney said. “You got red?”

“Kind of a dark maroon?” Imogen said, looking at the little glass paint bottles. “Nothing bright.”

“Dark maroon works.”

Imogen sent the bottle floating over to the windowsill. Chetney gave her a nod as he snatched it out of the air.

Laudna had finished Ashton’s left hand as well, and as Imogen was cleaning it up, she grabbed the paints and climbed up onto the bed with Fearne. “I’ll come back for a second coat for both you and Imogen in a little while,” she told him.

Ashton nodded awkwardly, looking at his nails. “Thanks,” he said.

“Oryyym,” wheedled Fearne.

Imogen felt a spike of fond amusement from Orym. “What?” he said.

“Will you let Laudna paint your nails?” Fearne said.

There was a pause. “If you promise not to ever tell Opal, because if she finds out that I let somebody paint my nails and it wasn’t her, I think she’d probably murder me,” Orym said lightly.

Ashton was still examining their nails. Imogen couldn’t read his expression, so she reached out in his mind.

You alright? she checked.

Mm-hmm.

I think we’ve started a trend, Imogen said with a giggle. Just you wait, even Chet’s gonna give in eventually.

Ashton smiled slightly. Think the paint would stay on his claws as a wolf?

Imogen laughed out loud, covering her mouth. Oh, gods, that’s an image.

I bet that’s really why he doesn’t want to, Ashton continued. But I really want to know now. Think Laudna could paint them in his sleep?

Oh, Ashton, that’s mean if he doesn’t want it, Imogen giggled.

Just one, even! Fearne could do it, Chetney wouldn’t mind.

That’s probably true. Imogen got distracted by an increasingly heated conversation between Laudna and Fearne about whether Orym should go with the dark green or try to break out of his usual color scheme. Fearne was very insistent that he should try the purple, and Orym was just leaning back against the wall and wasn’t offering an opinion, but seemed to be enjoying the discussion.

Ashton looked like they were watching, too, but they spoke to her again in her mind a minute later. Thanks, he said.

What for?

Getting me out of my fucking head about it.

Imogen reached out for his hand. He let her take it. Careful of their nails, though they were probably dry by now, and she laced their fingers together. Both of their hands were a little shaky, and no less so for being together, but it was still nice. Side by side, the similarities of the gold scars and the electric purple veins were striking. I get it, she said simply.

Ashton squeezed her hand and said nothing. It was obvious anyway that he understood.

Send me these? (different prompt list)