#it's been a shit year and I just want a damn marshmallow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

boosoonhao · 1 year ago

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flesh and bone | 2

jeonghan x reader 7k words zombie au major character death, swearing, gore

part one . part two . part three

When you were a child, you loved going on camping trips. Your father used to take you and your tightly knit group of friends into the woods and you would sit around a roaring fire, roasting marshmallows and scaring the shit out of each other with dramatic whispers of ghost stories.

Back then, you always brought your favorite teddy bear, which managed to at least somewhat alleviate the fear that reluctantly pulled at your nerves at Soonyoung’s enthusiastic retelling of the Blair Witch Project. The crackling of fire and light snores from your father was like a song lulling you to sleep despite the echoing thoughts of witches and ghosts.

There are no ghost stories this time around, no hot fires or cocoa scalding your tongue. There’s darkness, a constant fear of lurking bodies that might hide under the cover of the night, and the low sobs of a man who just watched his best friend die.

You’re lying in your tent, and you find it hard to close your eyes. Whenever you do, the images of Soonyoung getting ripped apart right in front of you replay in your head, his screams echoing; bouncing between the walls of your brain and making you choke on air. Not much was said when the three of you had at last found a spot that seemed at least somewhat safe, nor when you had put up your tents. Chan had told you to sleep first, that he and Jeonghan would take the first watch. You had expected Jeonghan to object to that, distant memories of a man who loves to sleep caressing the forefront of your mind.

Jeonghan had not said a thing. For some reason, that’s what chilled you the most.

---

Tensions are high the following days. There’s a constant fear of death luring at the top of your brains, all of you seemingly too scared and too fragile to even say much of anything to each other. Chan tries, bless him, to be a comforting figure; tries to hold your hand when it trembles and murmur reassurances into your hair. You want nothing more than to repay the favor, or to push him away, or to disappear completely.

Instead, you only nod. Jeonghan stays silent.

---

When Jeonghan finally does speak, it’s been three days. Three days of awkward silences and the sound of Chan quietly weeping over the death of a boy he’s seen as a brother figure his entire life. Three days of minimal food and even less of an appetite, of a grief that threatens to overcome you every time you allow yourself to soak in the feeling.

So, Jeonghan finally opens his mouth, while you’re struggling with making a fire, fingers trembling with the cold and your breaths coming out as visible puffs of air into the morning. He opens his mouth, and you wish he’d rather keep it shut.

“Can you fucking get on with it?” He snaps, and his voice is laced with a distaste that makes you shiver in a completely different way than with the cold that bites at your skin. You turn to look at him, taking in the annoyed downwards turn of his lips and the furrow of his eyes. You reel in the anger that bubbles in the pit of your stomach, try to focus on Chan sleeping in the tent instead.

“I haven’t done this in years,” you mutter instead, without as much as a trace of apology on your tongue. You don’t tell him that if you’re doing such a bad job, he’s free to get up from his seated position and do the damn thing himself. You don’t tell him that the way he looks at you makes his skin crawl.

“I can tell,” he says, almost mockingly. You turn back to the pile of wood with a roll of your eyes, jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. “Soonyoung would’ve-

He stops. Silence seeps in with the morning fog, your fingers unmoving and not even the sound of breathing reaching your ears. He knows whatever he was about to say was the wrong thing to say. Without even turning, you know that the look on his face would tell you he wants to take it back, not only the beginning of the sentence, but the thought itself. The branch in your hand snaps.

“He would’ve what?” You hiss, swirling around to look back at him. His body is stiff, eyes wide as he takes in your appearance. Your heart is beating too loud, too hard against your ribcage, rage simmering in your veins. “He would’ve been faster? Stronger? Smarter?” You throw the remainders of wood to the ground, get up from your seat by the impromptu fireplace. Jeonghan looks as if he wants to melt into the ground. “I know!” You tell him, and you can’t quite help the uneven tones of your voice, the pitch high and nasal to your own ears.

“It’s unfair,” you continue, your voice sounding so much like a whiny child that it might have embarrassed you had you not been so angry. You take a heavy step towards the long haired man, vision darkened by anger and head clouded. “He shouldn’t have died, I should’ve-”

Your voice breaks, and you stop. Suddenly, the only distinct emotion you can feel is a heavy, crushing sort of pain. Jeonghan shifts uncomfortably, his voice low and apologetic as he murmurs your name, moves to get up. The logical part of your brain tells you to let it drop, to slink back to the wood and get back to working on the fire. That Jeonghan is as burdened by grief as you are, that his words were empty. You shut that part off, let your feet carry you past the boy and towards the dark woods instead.

“Fuck you, Jeonghan,” you yell after him.

---

To your credit, you realize quite quickly that running off in a display of childish petulance isn’t really– dignified. Barely even an okay thing to do at all once you hit your late teens, an absolutely shit decision once zombies start traversing the earth. Even as you’re stomping over wet mud and grass, you think that you should turn back, return the way you came from before it’s too late.

You don’t. You can’t; can’t stand Chan’s weeping or Jeonghan’s harsh words, can’t stand the building ball of grief that lies at the pit of your stomach, and when you finally realize that your speed has quickened, that your feet are running, nothing looks familiar anymore.

You stop, then, hands gripping onto your own kneecaps as you bend over and exhale; the sound loud and the breaths raspy as they exit your mouth. It’s not quite hyperventilation, not entirely panic, but it’s close; playing with the edges of the emotion that’s been lingering in the forefront of your brain for days. You want to cry, to scream or throw a tantrum, but somehow it’s all stuck in your throat.

You don’t pick up on the footsteps, don’t hear the low rumbling of deteriorating vocal chords, until it’s far too late.

They must be getting smarter, you think as the crowd of dead bodies stumble out from behind bushes and trees. There’s a sort of chaotic order in their movements, a bizarre sense of cooperation in the way they surround you. You can’t bring yourself to look at their faces, too afraid that you’ll catch the features of someone you used to know.

It’s strangely cathartic, really. Something tugs at your nerves; not quite fear, rather an unnameable, undefinable emotion that calms your errant breaths and makes your limbs stop aching. You watch with a detached sort of interest as the horde of zombies close in on you, only distantly aware of the fact that you’re about to die. Maybe it’s just as well, you think; Jeonghan’s restrained insult is still echoing in your head. Chan would’ve told you not to waste Soonyoung’s sacrifice, would’ve yelled and furrowed his brow and thrown careless words in your face.

But Chan’s not here, is arguably not even present inside his own shell of a body, and the only comfort you can find is the possibility of rest; of peace.

It doesn’t come. You wait for the sting of a bite, of the pain of your limbs being ripped from your body in the frenzy of the once-living, brainless people crowding you, but before you’re even made aware of your own eyes closing, they shoot back open with the eardrum-shattering sound of weapons being fired. It feels as if your heart has stopped, as if you’ve just been brought back to life; the organ hammering violently against your ribcage and making electricity coursing through your body.

A zombie lies at your feet, guts and dirty-red blood at your feet. For a moment you almost think its head has exploded by its own volition, your brain lagging and your senses dulled with the pang of nausea that pushes at your throat. Time seems to have slowed down, and it takes a few steadying breaths to make you twist your head in the direction of the loud sound that the zombies have started pacing.

Two boys stand at the top of the hill you must have tumbled down in your fit of rage; when you squint in their direction you notice, with a fair amount of dread creeping down your spine, that the boy aiming a slightly pathetic-looking pistol in the direction of the horde of zombies creeping in their direction is missing an arm. The other one, larger in frame and with dark curls the only visible feature you can spot, is brandishing a distinctly larger weapon that you recognize as a rifle, body jerking slightly every time he fires his gun.

”Do you have a fucking death wish?” the pistol wielding boy yells, voice almost undetectable under the groans of zombies and the echoes of gunshots. “Get over here!”

Time speeds back up; a violent ache in your head coming with the sudden jolt of time happening all around you. You inhale, as if you’ve been holding your breath, as if you’ve been submerged forcefully under water, and before you can even consider the fact that these strangers are both dubious-looking and wielding weapons, you run.

Death, it seems, will just have to wait.

---

The sun is all but gone when you finally return to camp; the boy with the missing arm and the pretty shooter in tow. The first boy, you’ve learned, is named Minghao. He speaks with an accent that suggests having moved fairly recently; stumbles over sentences and confuses tenses in a tone too melodious to consider the stumbling a frustration. You don’t ask about his arm. He doesn’t provide an answer.

The second boy – Jun – is quieter, his voice lower but somehow softer. He’s strange to look at, somehow; too clean and pristine to fit in with the mud on his face and the tangles in his caramel hair. His accent isn’t quite as strong, but the camaraderie between the two, coupled with the hushed conversations in a tongue you do not understand, speaks of a bond that can only come with two outsiders finding their way together.

You remember when you were ten. You think about a notebook tucked secretly beneath your pillow, filled with nonsense letters and garbled words; a language you had created with Soonyoung in order to keep your secrets away from prying eyes. Something seems to crack in your ribcage.

Chan’s head snaps up from staring intently into the bonfire crackling in the middle of the campsite. He’s on his feet so quickly it makes your head spin just to look at, sprints towards you in long, stomping steps. A string of curses fall out of his mouth; so wholly uncharacteristic of the boy who likes to play up his innocence that it would’ve been funny in any other situation, and his hands are rough as his fingernails dig into the flesh of your arms. You don’t miss the slight tremors of his palms.

“Where the fuck did you go?” His voice borders on hysteria, the lines of his face deep with worry, and your heart clenches with guilt at the complete lack of regard you’d shown in leaving the camp in the first place. You don’t look at Jeonghan, completely ignoring the way he rises to his feet to watch the scene carefully. Chan inhales through his nose, brows furrowing so tightly it looks like it must hurt his temple. You make a snap decision never to let him know about your dark, self-destructive thoughts, instead clearing your throat in an attempt to keep your voice even as you open your mouth.

“Needed to clear my head,” you tell him; a weak excuse. The way the edges of Chan’s lips dip makes it clear he thinks so as well, but you gesture towards the boys at your side before he can open his mouth to inquire further. The younger boy jumps slightly, as if he just noticed the two newcomers. “This is Minghao and Jun. They, uh–” you falter for a moment, struggle to find a neutral way to word yourself. “Found me, I guess.”

There’s defensiveness in Chan’s stance, and protectiveness in Jeonghan’s as he comes up behind the shorter male. They both size up the two strangers, both stopping to stare unabashedly at Minghao’s missing limb. The tension is thick over the quiet campsite, ten different – but equally heavy – things left unsaid at once. The fire crackles and pops, creates an almost eerie echo through the thickness of the woods.

It’s Jun who breaks the silence, at last, pushes past Minghao’s broad stance to come up right next to you, a disarming smile painting his pretty features.

“We come bearing alcohol,” he proclaims, and that, it seems, is a language all four boys can understand.

---

Heat blooms and blossoms at your cheekbones, your blood hot and sizzling against reddened skin as you sip as conservatively as you manage from the bottle of rum being handed to you. You wonder, distractedly, when you last felt the woozy, tingly itch of alcohol in your system, how much time has passed since that last moment of peace at Soonyoung’s ‘end of the world’ party.

Chan laughs, an unrestrained and beautiful sound; no matter how put together they boy has always been, his laughs were always the realest sound to exit his mouth. He laughs as if the sound forces itself out of his mouth, muted only by a hand against his lips, seemingly impossibly enthused by whatever it is Minghao had just said.

You can’t help the way your stomach knots, can’t stop yourself from letting your arms wind around your knees as you push your thighs tightly against your chest in an attempt to comfort yourself. A beautiful sound, Chan’s laugh might be, but you find that the sound has never been more tragic and painful bouncing against the walls of your skull.

You learn a lot of things with the rush of alcohol coursing through veins and bodies; questions growing bolder and answers uninhibited. The new pair of boys were foreign exchange students, they tell you; Jun fresh out of school and Minghao in the middle of his studies to become a photographer. You wonder if Minghao is one of those artistic types, if he sees photo opportunities even in the face of death and cruelty.

You learn that it’s possible to stop the virus – whatever it is making people into thoughtless killing machines – from spreading; the evidence of it clear and blatant in your new, gangly companion. You don’t know if it’s the dread at the mental image of a desperate and panicked Jun sawing off his best friend’s arm that’s worse, or if it’s the guilt of the what-if’s and the echo of Soonyoung’s scream that really breaks you.

It’s only when Jeonghan’s gaze drifts over to yours, contemplation visible in the shadowy lines of his face as he gets up on unsteady feet and walks over to wordlessly sit down next to you that you notice you’re crying. You haven’t spoken a word to each other yet, haven’t acknowledged any of the stiffness or the awkwardness that hangs between you, but the long haired man pulls at your shoulder, sneaks his arm around your back, and the quiet comfort, the significance of it makes you crumble.

There’s a big chance one of, if not all of you, will be dead in the not so distant future. What point is there, really, in clinging to old feelings or grudges? You let yourself be embraced, let your head fall against Jeonghan’s shoulder, and you cry. With a hand pressed tightly against your lips, careful not to alert Chan – the younger boy finally smiling as if the world was not ending, laughing as if he doesn’t have a worry in the world – and you cry. You’re not sure what you’re crying over, what you’re not crying over; it all blurs together until the only distinct feeling is Jeonghan’s hand pressed against your shoulder, the only sound you can make out are his even, steady breaths.

He doesn’t offer any words of comfort, no calming sounds or reassurances. For that, you’re thankful. He remains wordless and solid against your side, fingers occasionally pressing into your skin as if to ease out knots and soothe stress. His free hand lies fisted in his lap and his sight is intently staring ahead, observing the three other boys partake in a bizarre, made up drinking game.

You exhale; the sound sharp and the huff of air making the strands of Jeonghan’s hair tickle against your face. Suddenly you feel absolutely empty; you wonder if it’s possible to literally cry out emotion.

“You should cut your hair,” you murmur into the air, your mouth feeling like it’s full of something sticky and gooey that makes it difficult to produce coherent sentences. You feel Jeonghan’s head move in your direction, feel his chin against your forehead. It’s a strange sort of deja-vu that might have felt electrifying had you not been so emotionally tired. “It’s too easy to grab.”

As if to accentuate your point, you tug at the ends of his hair. Jeonghan’s fingers dig into the rounded edge of your shoulder, and your whole upper body moves with his deep inhale. You feel his heartbeat vibrate through your body.

“Okay,” he replies in a rush of an exhale. Somehow you feel like you haven’t heard his voice in years. His voice sounds like something new, something foreign. “Okay,” he repeats, rubs absentmindedly at your arm. “You cut it then.”

There’s still a lot of unsaid things between you, things you want to talk about and things you’d rather forget entirely. You haven’t talked about why you left in the first place, long before any of this horror even started, or the hurtful words he’d flung at you just earlier that day. Everything feels fragile; like you’re holding a dangerously thin thread between you, trying not to make it snap. It’s enough, for now, the attempt. You close your eyes, body heavy and head spinning.

“Okay.”

---

You think that will be it, that your semi-conversation will just be yet another one in the long line of not-quite-sober conversations that the two of you silently agree to forget. Keeping things cordial and pleasant with Jeonghan has always been a sort of dance; with practice and not a few almost-failures you’ve become quite good at following his steps and avoiding stepping on his toes.

Jun tells you he’ll take first watch, looks at you in a way that makes you want to swipe at your cheeks; his edges softened maybe by sympathy or maybe by the amount of alcohol he’s been drinking. Even with only three arms between the two of them and the grime and guts dried into the fabric of their clothing, it’s blatantly apparent that Jun and Minghao have not yet experienced death in such an up-close and personal way as you. Minghao lies on his side right by his companion, his face barely illuminated by the dying fire. Chan fell into his tent two hours ago. You can hear his soft snores as you pass.

For a moment you consider staying up, consider sitting in silence with Jun by the fire and listen to the others sleep. Somehow the thought of lying in the darkness of a tent that used to belong to your father makes your stomach churn, makes you want to throw up.

But Jun looks like the kind of guy who cares too much, and that’s the thing that urges you to bid the two remaining awake boys goodnight and retreat into your tent.

You’ve almost fallen asleep when the entrance to the tent unzips again and someone enters. You jolt up, skin itching and sizzling with the ever-present fear that tugs at your nerves. Jeonghan stares back at you, caught, the fabric of the tent clutched tightly in his balled fist.

“Chan snores,” he offers stiffly as an explanation, but does not move to fully enter the tent. For a sleep-addled moment, you just stare, squinting against the darkness to make out his features. Jeonghan has always been a beautiful boy; full lips and defined features making him the envy of boys and girls alike. Somehow it looks like he’s become duller, his face bleaker and less refined, hair a tangled mess in a tight bun at the back of his head.

Jeonghan waits, standing awkwardly at the entrance of the tent. You see his gaze divert to the side, in the direction of the still crackling campfire. Your mind sets back into gear and you scoot over, press yourself as far into the side of the tent as you can, wordlessly signaling for Jeonghan to come inside.

He puts as much space as he can between you, tension thick and heavy over the two of you as you try to ignore the stinging feeling of familiarity. You try to remember the last time you slept in the same space, the last time it was just the two of you together. You find that everything before the outbreak seems blurred, far away.

“Good night,” Jeonghan murmurs, and when you finally allow your body to relax enough for your mind to drift out of consciousness, sleep remains a black, dark and silent thing. No nightmares.

---

Even with the tangles and knots that have taken residence in Jeonghan’s long, bleach blonde hair, the strands are soft and silky between your fingers. It feels like an oddly intimate thing, pulling at his hair and staring intently at the back of his neck. Jeonghan tries not to complain when you yank too hard at a particularly difficult knot, but you can see the tense arch of his broad shoulders, hear the grunts that seem to echo into the silence of the morning.

Minghao watches with bemused interest from his seat by the now-dead fire, an almost cat-like, barely there grin toying with his lips. The knife feels heavy in your hand, and the thought of what you’re about to do makes you queasy. It’s strange, how it can feel like such a big and monumental thing, in the midst of all the fucked up shit that’s going on. How cutting someone’s hair can feel like the most important thing, even with Minghao struggling to pack his back with his one arm, clearly in view right in front of you.

“It’ll probably look a bit,” you cock your head to the side, let your fingers tangle into his light locks and look for a word that doesn’t sound as alarming as the ones that run through your mind. Awful, weird, strange. “Uneven,” you settle on, ignoring the way Minghao scoffs.

“Please,” Jeonghan mutters, with a tone of voice that almost makes you tingle with how Jeonghan it sounds. “I remember how Soonyoung–” he stops, as if he catches himself almost revealing his deepest secret. Your first reaction is to close your fingers tightly around his hair, heart thudding at the mention of your friend. You think about a boy with blue tips and hair so dry it looked about ready to fall off due to excessive bleaching. The memory of his mother’s absolutely horrified expression upon seeing your sloppily done haircut on her son had been, for many years, something retold in between laughs and large gulps of alcohol stolen from liquor cabinets. “I’m sure the zombies won’t mind an uneven haircut,” Jeonghan finishes tightly. Minghao seems to be suddenly intensely interested in the laces of his shoes.

You exhale, bite down on your bottom lip. The shittiest thing of it all is that you can’t grieve, can’t keep clamming up with the mere mention of Soonyoung or of Vernon or any of the other friends you’ve more than likely lost to this horrible outbreak. The feeling threatens to overcome you, but you know that you have to push it back. Chan already grieves enough for all of you combined, and someone needs to remain collected. It’s a tempting thought to leave that responsibility to Jeonghan. Distantly, you hope it’s a burden you can learn to carry together.

“Right,” you murmur, bring the knife to his hair. Better to just be done with it.

---

“I don’t know,” Jeonghan murmurs three days later, drags absentminded fingers through his choppy, short hair as he watches Jun fiddle with the tent plugs. He looks, at best, suspicious. You can’t really blame him, your nails digging into the flesh of your crossed arms. It sounds too good to be true; this tale the two boys have told you about a fort, a safe haven to the east. A place with tall walls and canned food, whispers and murmurs of safety being what had spurred Minghao and Jun in that direction when they chanced upon you a mere few days ago. Evidently, Jeonghan agrees. “It sounds a bit risky.”

Minghao awkwardly adjusts the strap of his bag, cocks his head to the side. You hear the muscles in his neck crack. “So what? You’re just gonna stay here forever? Without guns or food to last for more than a few weeks?” He’s right, of course. The nights are getting longer, colder, and for all intents and purposes it’s a miracle that the zombies haven’t already found you, haven’t heard Chan’s loud laughs or smelled the fire that roars all through the night.

“They’re right,” Chan says, echoing the tiny voice inside your head. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the boy has gotten so attached to the two foreigners already, but it still stings how quick he is to take their side. He kicks at the ground. “We can’t stay here. We need to find other people. There might already be a cure for all we know.” You frown. It’s obvious that the three boys have already been talking about this. You glance over at Jeonghan, try to read his expression.

The boy in question exhales, a sound of resignation. He tries to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, seemingly not quite used to his new, shorter hairdo. The blond curl bounces back against his cheekbone and Jeonghan bites at his bottom lip. He makes eye contact, and something inside you seems to dislodge; there’s something familiar in his gaze, something soft and uncertain that reminds you of something simpler, something that had seemed so complicated at the time. You chew at the inside of your cheek, shrug helplessly.

The three boys are right, because of course they are. You have become stagnant in your little camp, isolated from the rest of the world and resigned to some sort of fake sense of peace and quiet that is bound to shatter sooner rather than later. Jeonghan frowns.

“Fine,” he mutters, bends over to tug expertly at the tent plug Jun was struggling with. “Let’s get going, I guess.”

---

Days bleed into each other; daylight spent walking and walking until your feet drag and your muscles ache, nights spent hurriedly putting up tents and sleeping in shifts. There’s a fear that tugs and pulls at the back of your mind; the lack of knowledge about what you’re seeking, where you’re going, how long you’ll have to keep going. You haven’t dared to ask, but you can’t even be sure that you’re going in the right direction, don’t know which way is which.

Chan massages the back of your neck as you sit in front of a small, unassuming fire made of thin sticks of wood and dry moss. Jun sleeps with his head leaning against Minghao’s shoulder, Jeonghan stares up at the stars twinkling in the pitch black sky. No one really has the energy to speak.

Jeonghan becomes a sort of permanent companion during your few hours of rest. You’re not sure when it started; if it has been that way ever since your first shared night back at your first camp or if it happened after you started traveling again, but you do know that slowly the distance is closing.

He keeps his back to yours the first night, tucked into the soft wall of the tent as if he couldn’t stomach the chance of being touched. The second night, he’s a bit closer, his body a bit less tense and his breath evens out into light snores quicker. The fourth or the fifth time, you feel his back against yours; only barely, only slightly and seemingly not on purpose. The simple contact makes your head spin, makes it feel like all air has been sucked out of the small tent.

You’ve lost count of the days when at last he doesn’t turn away from your body when he lies down, instead choosing to lie facing your back. The back of your neck tingles, shivers running down your spine every time one of his unhurried, careful breaths his your skin. Suddenly, the tent seems like nothing but a tiny box, too tight and too close around you. There’s something at the tips of your fingers that tells you to turn around to look at him; behind your closed lids you imagine what his face must look like, but you feel paralyzed. You wonder if he’s looking, if he’s waiting for you to react.

You don’t. You stay locked in your position with your back turned towards him, and you can’t find the rest to fall asleep before you hear the telltale sound of his soft, even breaths.

You wake up with an arm slung around your body, with a nose pressed to the back of your neck and you toy with the idea of letting your fingers tangle with his own where they lie splayed over the fabric of your blanket, gently pressed against your stomach. Your heart is hammering violently against your ribcage. You let yourself lie there for a while, listen to the low murmurs of the boys outside the tent talking in quiet tones and low murmurs. For a single, wonderful moment, nothing really matters. Not the zombies, not the ever present possibility of death, not the distant hope of a safe destination. All that matters is the warmth that nestles against your bones, the comfortable lull of Jeonghan’s nose caressing the skin at the back of your neck.

You feel as if something’s changing. The next night you find yourself tucked next to Jeonghan inside the tent – you wonder, idly, if the boys have discussed this agreement at all, and the possibility of it makes the nerves beneath your skin buzz – he barely even hesitates with bringing his arm over your middle, tugs slightly at your body to bring you closer. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make any sort of mention towards this new boldness, his fingers merely tightening against your skin when you slip your fingers between the spaces of his own.

Jeonghan has never struck you as a particularly timid boy. The first time you tumbled into bed with him – years, ages, lifetimes ago – it had been without any sort of hesitation or shyness on his part. This; the careful touches and the uneven breaths, the almost reluctant way he leans his head against your shoulder and inhales as if he’s been holding his breath, feels almost like an entirely different person. But then, you suppose, no one really is the person they used to be anymore.

It’s an all too familiar sort of fear that tugs at your stomach and keeps your eyes open far longer than you intend to; closing only when they sting against the prolonged exposure to the cold air in the tent. Because you know, you recognize the warmth in your chest that seems to flare and flicker with the barest of touches from the beautiful man pressed against your back. You know all too well what it means.

What you don’t know, of course, is what it means to him.

---

You’re not surprised when you wake up one morning to an empty campsite. The fire must have died out hours ago, not even a hint of heat left in the pile of ashes and burnt wood. From inside the tent next to yours, you hear Chan snoring, and at least that alleviates the panic that pricks at your skin.

Truth be told, you’d been waiting for the pair of foreigners to take their leave. You’ve heard them murmur among themselves in low tones and unfamiliar words, have seen the glances and unspoken conversations the two of them seem to fall into at times. Honestly, you had expected them to flee days ago.

You stare at the small pile of weapons and rations they seem to have left behind; the rifle Jun had used to shoot the zombies that almost killed you the first time you met, a knife you’ve seen Minghao carry on his belt. A decent amount of ammo and some cans of food. It’s not– it’s not them, it’s not what you wanted, but it is a reminder that getting attached to people in the middle of what might be the end of the world isn’t a good practice.

Chan tries not to look disappointed when you tell him Minghao and Jun has left. He doesn’t quite manage.

---

You stumble – almost literally – over Lee Seokmin another four days into your tireless travels towards a place that might not even exist. It feels a bit more hopeless now, without Minghao and Jun to hype the place up. Chan mopes, sighs and frowns, but he seems to have found something – somewhere – to believe in, and he refuses to let himself get dragged into the cynicism you share with Jeonghan.

In that sense, Seokmin might be exactly what your little trio needs.

He’s a wonder, really; a tall, inhumanly beautiful boy with a smile that could truly rival the sun. And he smiles– boy, does he smile. He smiles in such a way that you almost forget your surroundings when you look at him, and he sighs in relief when he sees the three of you. He speaks in casual, high tones and rubs the back of his neck as he sits up from his position flat on his back on the ground.

He doesn’t have a single thing on him, nothing but the clothes his wearing and his bright smile, and maybe you didn’t learn a single thing from Minghao and Jun’s disappearance at all, because the offer to travel together falls out of your mouth before you can even stop to consider.

Seokmin’s smile widens, and that’s that, you suppose.

---

“I don’t know how he does it,” Jeonghan mutters into the silence of the tent, puffs of breaths making the hair on the back of your neck stand. You twist your body around to face him, squint in an attempt to make out the lines and contours of his face. He looks, from what you can decipher, strangely unraveled; brows tightly knit together and mouth pulled in a deep frown. “Seokmin, I mean,” he clarifies.

You hum, unable to really open your mind. You know what he means; Seokmin’s good humor about the situation and relentless optimism is so staunch it borders on exhausting. Somehow you get the feeling that Jeonghan isn’t really looking for you to agree. He exhales, a tired and heartbreaking sound, and when he hooks his fingers around your ear, it feels as if he’s trying, desperately, to cling to you without making it an obvious thing.

”I’m sorry,” he whispers, seemingly out of nowhere. You wonder if he’s talking about your fight right after Soonyoung died, or if he’s talking about how shitty he treated you before you left, years ago. You wonder if he means all of it, or if he’s talking about something else entirely, but you find that it doesn’t matter. That he could be talking about something as inconsequential as that one time, years ago, when he singled you out during never have I ever and you still would have felt the same sort of relief at his apology.

When you reach out to touch his face, you can’t quite miss how wet his cheeks are. Have you ever seen Jeonghan cry before, you wonder, swipe your thumbs gently over his cheekbones.

”Jeonghan,” you murmur, surprised to find your voice thick, uneven. He inhales, chokes on air, and the sound makes you want to cry yourself. “Please don’t cry,” you beg him, nonsense words spilling out of your mouth just for the sake of saying anything at all. You lean your forehead against his, clutch at his skin. “If you cry, I’m gonna cry, too.”

He kisses you, then; hungrily and suddenly and with a fervency that surprises you. Not because you haven’t kissed Jeonghan before, not because you weren’t aware that he hides something fiery and explosive underneath his cold and collected exterior, but because it feels, somehow, like an admission. He presses the palms of his hands against your cheeks, presses against you and pulls you close as if he can’t really help it.

Between open-mouthed kisses, he spills confessions against your lips; whispers about how scared he is, nonsense apologies about things so far into your past you can’t even remember them anymore.

”I missed you,” he tells you, so honestly it makes you ache. “When you left. I hated you for it.”

And that, more than anything else, is an admission. You almost tell him you left because of him, because you thought he wouldn’t care. But then his hand comes to rest flat against your stomach, bunches up your shirt to caress your skin, and you forget how to form coherent sentences. He clutches at you as if he’s trying to consume you, and you find that you would let him.

The last time you found yourself in this position, you had found yourself fantasizing about three words. Not too big or significant on their own, but so important, so huge put together. It’s scary how easily they drift to the forefront of your mind as Jeonghan bites at your lip, swipes his tongue against your mouth.

Jeonghan starts holding your hand after that, starts hovering close and kissing your cheeks unapologetically in front of both Chan and Seokmin. Neither look surprised. You try not to think too hard about what that means.

---

You’ll be the first to admit that you might have become a bit complacent. Too used to quiet nights and too caught up in this new – but not really – budding thing between you and Jeonghan. Maybe that’s why you expect it, when you’re awakened by the sound of a scream that makes you shoot up into a sitting position so fast it makes your head spin.

Chan, your mind screams, heart thudding so harshly, so loudly against your ribs that it threatens to make you throw up. But no– Chan’s screams are not quite that high in octaves, and you’ll probably never truly forgive yourself for the relief that knowledge brings you. Jeonghan’s grip borders on painful as his nails dig into the flesh of your arm, a low, rumbling curse falling out of his mouth.

(it’s a mess of cries and flesh and pounding heartbeats against ribs. chan tries to run towards seokmin where he lies on the ground surrounded by brain-dead monsters, and in an ironic change of roles, you’re the one who has to shake him back to reality. chan screams, seokmin screams even louder. jeonghan tugs at your arm, and you run: leaving everything but jun’s rifle behind.)

You must have been half-walking, half-running for at least an hour when Chan finally slows down, murmurs your name in a slow, tired tone of voice. With Jeonghan’s hand clasped tightly, clammy against yours, you come to a halt, look at the younger boy behind you.

Your heart seems to stop.

“Oh my god,” you exhale, voice cracking in a way that seems to vibrate through your entire body. Because right there; red and blatantly visible against Chan’s pale and pallid skin on his long and thick neck, is a bite. He breathes, short and hurried as if he knows that he doesn’t have a lot of time left. Jeonghan stiffens beside you, takes a step as if to guard you against the younger boy. Chan drops Minghao’s knife, raises his hands above his head.

“Jeonghan,” he says, voice low, dragging and serious. He sounds as if he’s not unprepared for the conversation, as if this is a scenario they’ve prepared for. Jeonghan stiffens, his grip on Jun’s rifle tightening. “You have to kill me,” Chan says. You choke, legs not able to keep your weight up anymore.

“We can fix this,” you try, your voice shivering and shaking at every syllable. It’s nothing but empty words, of course, and the way Chan looks at you makes it blatantly obvious that he know it, too. You try to think about Minghao, about his missing arm and pleasant disposition, but even as you do it, you know it’s something entirely different than the bite burning at the base of Chan’s neck.

Jeonghan takes aim, and your breath seems to shorten, quicken.

“Look away,” Chan orders, voice barely even detectable over the sound of your own, hurried breaths. You shake your head, pretend that you’re not about to lose your fucking mind. You owe him that, at least.

“I love you,” you tell him, so sincerely and wholeheartedly that it makes your own heart shatter. He tells you, again, to look away. But you can’t. “I love you,” you repeat, cling to Jeonghan as if he’s the only thing left anchoring you to the world. You can’t keep your body from jerking in tune with the sound of the gunshot. Jeonghan drops the rifle, inhales so harshly that it makes you tremble.

And then there’s only the two of you left.

#svt fanfic #seventeen fanfic #svt imagines #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #svt scenarios

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whumpsday · 2 years ago

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Pin and Needle

Whump writing masterlist | G/t writing tag

g/t sideblog here! @smallsday

content: g/t, whump, tiny whump, borrowers, animal attack, caretaking, needles/stitches, hurt/comfort, fear, past child neglect, probable medical inaccuracies, found family

Whumpmas in July Day 3: Stitches & Bandages GT July Day 3: Impulsive Two Weeks of Whump Day 2: Needles

of my 10 Whumpmas in July entries, 3 of them will be combos with GT July! here's the first of those! i will never get tired of writing borrower whump. i should write a borrower whump series someday. for any non-g/t people unfamiliar, borrowers are a species of tiny people who secretly live in humans' houses, like fairies without wings. if you've ever seen anything labeled "tiny whump", this is that.

Pin had been a dad for five years now, and he liked to think he was getting pretty good at it.

The kid was already seven and self-sufficient enough to not die on her own for who knows how long when he found her, so he didn't have to deal with any of that baby crap. Now she was twelve, and she was better at some stuff than he was.

Pin decided to go borrowing while the kid slept in today, with the human off at school. It was perfect, because then he could take his time looking for a surprise. Today was the five-year anniversary, and he wanted to make it special. There was a lot he'd missed in Chime's life, and from what the kid had said about her old parents, they weren't exactly in the habit of celebrating her.

He had to make it special.

Pin had already gathered all the food and supplies he needed to grab, so all that was left was the present. He'd been looking around every time he went out, but he couldn't see anything. The human lived by himself- mostly, aside from that damn cat he'd brought home last month- and was a starkly healthy eater. Not a lot of little bits and bobs he could use to make toys for her, either.

It had been easier to get treats for the kid with the family who used to live in the apartment, who always kept sweets around, but food was food. It was better for the kid this way in the long run, anyway. But he really wished he could get her a treat, just this once.

He didn't really go into the human's room. He was of the opinion that a man needed his privacy, and food was supposed to be kept in the kitchen, so why would he need to? Most of all, the cat liked to hang out in there, and that was a risk he didn't need to take. Apparently the human was just watching it for a friend, which was the only reason he hadn't taken the kid and moved. But maybe the guy was hiding some snacks in there. From all the studying he seemed to do in there, it was likely, right?

Just this once.

Pin approached the bedroom. He could probably have squeezed himself through the gap under the door if he needed to, but the door was open a crack. He peeked in.

The cat snoozed happily on the chair left messily pulled out from the desk. Perfect, it was asleep. All he had to do was not make noise and-

It didn't take long for Pin to find his prize. There, right on the desk, a bag of marshmallows. Bingo. The bag even proclaimed them "mini", like they were made for borrowers. He could probably fit two or three in his rucksack to surprise the kid with when she wakes up.

Even with the chair pulled away, it was a little too close to the cat for comfort. He really should turn around and just try and make the kid another toy.

Ah, fuck it.

Pin could take a little risk. The cat was asleep. He readied his sticky hand- a human children's toy, a little less reliable than a grappling hook but much quieter- and climbed his way up the desk.

No issues. He was in the clear. He ripped a small hole in the bag and stuffed three marshmallows in his pack.

When he turned around, the cat was not asleep.

It stared straight at him with huge, yellow eyes, pupils constricted and tail flickering back and forth.

"Oh, shit. Hey, kitty," Pin whispered, backing away slowly.

The cat hunkered down, its hindquarters wiggling slightly, like-

Heart pounding, Pin dropped the pack and ran. But he was too slow, of course he was too slow, he was five inches tall. Borrowers weren't made to be fast, they were made to be sneaky, and he'd done the one thing a borrower was never supposed to do: he'd been found.

The cat was on the desk in an instant and its paws pinned him to its surface in another, their fuzzy exteriors giving way to claws stabbing through his clothes, through his skin. He screamed, trying to squirm away, but that only made the agony intensify, the claws dragging through flesh as blood stained his ruined clothes.

"No! Stop!" he cried uselessly, gasping with pain, but the cat didn't listen. Its head drew closer, mouth opening to reveal a maw full of sharp teeth that could easily crush bones.

Pin wailed in despair. He was going to die a violent, bloody death before he even hit forty. It wasn't supposed to end like this!

He kicked wildly, and by some stroke of luck, he managed to land a hit on the cat's snout, causing it to rear back a little.

That was all he needed. Pin tore away from the paws, letting out another shriek as they popped through his skin, and ran toward the front of the desk as fast as he could, dropping blood behind him.

The cat spun, tail flickering and ears forward with excitement.

"Fuck off!" Pin shouted. He shoved the desk drawer open just enough to slide in, landing on the bottom with a grunt.

The cat's paw dove in after, reaching for him. He scrambled to the back of the drawer, trembling in terror.

"Calm- calm down," he told himself, trying to get his quick breathing under control. The drawer was too small: even if the cat got it open, it wouldn't be able to fit all the way in the back. He wrapped his arms around himself, quickly becoming soaked in blood as his midsection throbbed with pain.

It was so dark, the only light coming from the sliver where the cat's paw batted around, searching for him. Pin grabbed at the piece of paper he found himself sitting on, tearing off a piece with shaking hands and wrapping it over himself like a bandage. He pressed it there tightly, even as it became soaked with blood, too.

Pin always tried to be strong for the kid. But Chime wasn't here right now, so he let himself cry. It was the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life, and he might still die. What would happen to him? How was he going to get back home? What if he didn't stop bleeding and he died here in the dark?

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when the front door clicked open, making him startle in his frazzled state. The human wasn't supposed to be home yet, was he? Or had he just been sitting here that long?

"This is why I need to check my emails, Yarny!" the human called. Right, the beast that might have caused his slow, painful death was named Yarny.

The cat's paw retreated and it hopped off the desk, exiting the room with a loud, insistent meow.

"Yarny!" the human gasped. "Is that blood!? What happened? Are you hurt?"

Oh no. The human was going to find him if he didn't move. Pin stood up: now that the cat was gone, he needed to get out of here.

He took one step, stumbled, and sat right back down as his vision spun.

"Oh, thank god," the human said distantly. "What, then, did you catch a mouse? Please tell me it's not still running around my apartment."

The human was going to kill him.

He would die without even getting to say goodbye to Chime. She was going to be abandoned again, this time by him. No kid should have to go through that. He was supposed to be getting her a present. How had this all gone so wrong? He didn't want to die.

But the footsteps drew closer, and he didn't have a choice. He scooted back into the corner of the drawer, clutching the paper around himself like he would even have the time to bleed out. He sobbed, hoping it would at least be quick.

The door creaked as the human swung it open, pattering over to the desk. Pin's whole world rumbled around him as the human slid the drawer open, revealing him trembling in the corner.

"H-hi," Pin said weakly.

The human stared, eyes wide with disbelief. Pin had never been so close to a human before. He was even bigger up close. He looked like he might have been, well, a scrawny nerd, maybe a little more than half Pin's age if he had to guess, but things like that didn't matter at his size. A human baby could crush him, let alone a young man.

"What are you?" the human asked, incredulous.

The last thing Pin was going to do was put his species at risk. He shrugged. "Dying," he squeaked, unable to keep casual.

"Oh, oh no." The human seemed to snap out of his incredulous stupor, enormous hands reaching toward him. Pin cringed back, but the human scooped him up anyway.

Pin squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, trying not to whimper, but no death came for him. The human's hands were gentle, carrying him out of the drawer.

"Yarny, no," the human chastised, closing the bedroom door behind him as he walked out to the kitchen. He turned his attention to Pin. "I'm so sorry, I don't even know what you are. Yarny hurt you?"

"Yeah." He slowly opened his eyes, staring up at the giant. His trembling started up again. "Are you gonna kill me?"

"What? No!" The human seemed to realize he was making Pin uncomfortable and set him down carefully on the counter. "I won't hurt you, I promise. I'm- well, I'm not a doctor yet, I'm just a med student- are you still bleeding?"

Pin let out a shaky sigh of relief. His heart still raced with terror, but if the human was able to help him- well, he'd already been found.

He pulled the paper away from his injuries, getting a good look for the first time. Several bloody marks raked down his left side where the cat had sunk its claws into him. Blood oozed from them, warm and red.

"Look, uh," Pin didn't know the human's name. He almost never had company over, and no one just says their own name to themself. "Human guy. I know you don't know me but, you gotta help me, okay? I have a kid waiting up for me." It was risky revealing Chime's existence, but he never said he lived here, and since the human knew nothing about him, he'd have no way of knowing. His voice shook a little as he pled his case. "Single dad. She's got no one else. I can't die here, alright? C'mon. It- it hurts."

"Of course I'll help you!" the human exclaimed. He wrung his hands nervously. "It's just- I'm really not qualified, yet, is the thing. I could drive you to the emergency room? Or maybe, um, given your size, a small animal vet?"

"I'm not an animal!" Pin insisted, offended. "No, no, kid, listen. You can do this, alright? I've seen those books you keep in the living room. You got all the diagrams and shit. I can't be going to an emergency room and showing myself off to everybody. Just fix me and I'll be out of your hair."

"I haven't even done residency yet!" the human protested. "I've done a suture practice kit, but that's for normal-sized wounds, and it's just for practice, and I can't even determine that you need stitches because I'm not a doctor!" After a moment, he added, "And my name's Kendry."

"Pin," he introduced himself. "Practice kit's better than nothing. Just do that." He couldn't have this human take him out to get prodded at by a bunch of other humans, it sounded like his worst nightmare. "And I'm rushing you, 'cause I'm getting dizzy here."

Kendry looked alarmed at that. "Oh- okay!" he agreed, obviously still anxious. "Can you take off your shirt so I can examine you?"

"You got it." Pin removed the tatters that were once his shirt, wincing as the movement ignited more pain in his side.

Kendry peered closer. "I- yeah, I'm going to give you stitches. I would really like to take longer, but you can't have that much blood in you... I'm not a vet..." he trailed off.

"Good, 'cause I'm not a mouse," Pin grumbled, but the repeated broaching of the topic made him nervous. If Kendry saw him as a fellow person, he would probably be okay. But if the human saw him as an animal... who knows what he would do to him? The fact that his life laid entirely in this giant stranger's hands was terrifying.

"I'll be right back." Kendry dashed out of the kitchen, returning with a black fabric case. He unzipped it to reveal a cut-up silicone pad with all the cuts neatly sewn closed, curved needles of various sizes, thread, a bunch of different tweezers, and a few sets of scissors as tall as Pin.

Oh, he didn't like that last part at all.

But Kendry reached for the smallest curved needle, which still looked pretty damn big. "This is the practice kit. I did pretty well with the suture pad, but you're so small..." he fretted. He threaded the needle, pulled a packet from a drawer, ripped it open, and wiped the needle, thread, and one tweezer down with the tissue inside. He opened another one and held it hesitantly in front of Pin.

"I need to sanitize you first. Cats' claws can carry germs, I don't want you to get infected. It's going to sting," he warned. "I'm sorry, I can't give you anything for the pain, I'm worried you might even overdose on ibuprofen at your size..."

Pin maneuvered himself onto his other side, letting his injury face up toward Kendry, way too vulnerable. "It already stings, and I don't know what ibuprofen is. Just do it."

"Okay. Here goes." Kendry swiped the wipe over Pin's side, and he had to bite his cheek to keep from shrieking. It hurt, the fluid inside seeping into his open wounds.

"Are you okay?" Kendry asked.

"I will be once this thing stops bleeding," Pin said, voice strained.

"Alright, I just need you to hold still. Is it okay if I...?" Kendry brought his other hand to hover around him.

Pin hated the idea of being held in place, unable to move, but he nodded anyway. Whatever the doc-in-training had to do. "Go for it."

Kendry rested a finger on his back and a thumb on his chest, holding him gently but firmly in place despite Pin's continued trembling. "Just try and stay still. I'm sorry if it hurts. I'll do my best," he promised.

The needle entered his skin, dipping in and out as Pin fought the urge to squirm away. He couldn't hold back this time, sobbing harder every time the needle re-entered him. There were no more check-ups from Kendry: Pin could see, through tear-blurred eyes, all his focus was on the wound.

After way too long, Kendry released his hold, allowing Pin freedom of movement again. He didn't take advantage of it, exhausted by blood loss and his ordeal.

"Don't move," Kendry told him anyway. He grabbed one of the scissors.

Pin put his hands up, adrenaline flooding him. "I won't! What are you doing with that!?"

"Easy." Kendry wiped that down with the stinging wipe, too. "You still have the thread attached. I won't hurt you." He glanced down at the scissors, then back at Pin. "I know it must seem frightening to someone your size, but I'm just going to cut the thread. Honest."

"Right. Right, yeah." Pin forced himself to relax, lowering his hands back down as Kendry snipped the thread, leaving several wounds in his side stitched up relatively neatly.

Kendry grabbed a band-aid, one of the few medical tools Pin liked to take to keep around under the floorboards, and peeled the plastic away. He dropped some clear-ish gel from a tube onto the center. "I'm going to add some Neosporin on it just to be safe. An infection would wreak havoc on you."

"Sounds good to me," Pin agreed, sitting up. Kendry wrapped the band-aid around his body, the stitches hidden underneath. Good. He didn't want the kid to freak out about it.

"There. That went... pretty well, I think," Kendry said, almost stunned. "Where can I... discharge you to?"

"Thanks. The floor," Pin instructed. He could just get back home when Kendry wasn't looking. He'd have to find a new place after that, now that the human knew. Even if he was friendly enough to help, there was no way he'd want them to stay. "I'll be out soon as I can move around right."

Kendry tilted his head, the situation finally clicking. "Were you... living here?"

"Uh, yeah," Pin admitted. "Since before you moved in, actually."

"Oh! Well, um, I'm not going to kick you out after you just got attacked. You're... my patient. That wouldn't do," Kendry decided. "Does your daughter live here, too?"

The jig was pretty much up at this point. If Kendry wanted to hurt him, he already would have. "Yeah. Which is why I'm not telling you exactly where. I'm thankful and all, but... you get it."

"Oh, of course," Kendry agreed quickly. "You're just being a good dad."

Pin smiled at that, despite the pain. He wiped the tears from his face. "Thanks. I try, you know? She's not even my kid by blood, she actually lived here before either of us. I was scouting for a new place when I found her here all on her own. Seven years old, could you believe that?"

"What!? That's crazy!" Kendry pulled up a chair and sat, transfixed. "Seven years old, four inches tall?"

"Three tall. She was little. Apparently her parents had too many kids, so they just started kicking 'em out as soon as they were old enough. I don't think seven's old enough, but hey, what do I know?" Pin shook his head. "Today's the five-year anniversary of when we met. Usually stay out of your room, you gotta have your privacy, but I wanted to get the kid something special. Could I still get a few of those marshmallows?"

"Oh! Yeah, of course!" Kendry ran off toward the room, returning with a handful of mini-marshmallows as well as Pin's rucksack and sticky hand. "I figure these are yours?"

"Yeah. Thanks for being cool about everything." This was going so much better than he'd expected. "We'll move out soon. Probably should have the day you brought the cat."

"Um, you could stay if you want." Kendry offered, hope flashing in his eyes. "You were here first, after all."

This guy was obviously ridiculously lonely. But he mentioned having a friend? "I mean, yeah, that'd be great, if it's really alright. You okay?"

"Yeah! It's just- I lost my parents a few years ago," Kendry admitted. "You seem like... a really good dad. I don't want to make things harder for you. I don't mind having roommates."

Ah, so that was it. Pin reached out and patted Kendry's hand. He wouldn't mind having another pseudo-kid. "Me neither."

here's some more borrower whump i wrote if you like this! and be on the lookout for a Tiny Kane AU on thursday :)

feel free to ask to be on any of my taglists, btw!

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@whumpshaped

one-shots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@whuarri

@whumpycries

g/t whump taglist:

@whumpinthepot

@cupcakes-and-pain

just this one

@a-crumb-of-whump

event: @whumpmasinjuly @gianttol @promptsforyourwhumpfic

#gtjuly #gtjuly2023 #twow #twoweeksofwhump #g/t #whump #whumpmasinjuly2023 #wij23day3 #my writing #borrowers #tiny whump #caretaking #needles #hurt/comfort #medical whump #stitches and bandages #impulsive #whump writing

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babygirl-diaz · 1 year ago

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Christmas, Fluff/Humor Prompts

Inspired by @steadfastsaturnsrings and this post to make some of my own prompts. Feel free to send these or any other prompt you can think of and I'll write them! (Also feel free to use these prompts for any fandom!)

“Are you two in a relationship?!” “For the holidays we are”

“I need the damn duck more than you do!” “You don’t know that!”

“Let’s make a snow angel!”

“So… do you like (insert ridiculous gift idea here)?”

“So you don’t want the cookies?” “I never said that!”

“For the last time, I am not wearing that ugly sweater. It’s uglier than all the ugly sweaters combined!!”

“I just wanted to make cookies!” “Well, we made something”

“Why do we need a real tree? The artificial one is perfectly fine!” “Okay, sociopath.”

“Don’t look at me like that! It wasn’t my fault!” “You ruined Christmas!”

“Hey there, the handsomest handsome boy.” “Oh no, you’re drunk.”

“Will you stop drooling on my Christmas sweater?” “I think my drool made it prettier.”

“The tree needs white Christmas lights!” “No, they need the colored ones!”

“Hot chocolate?” “With the Christmas tree marshmallows, please.”

“We’re not doing Secret Santa this year”

“You’ve never been to Christmas in the Park? We gotta change that!” "I'm not driving all the way to San Jose for a Christmas market!"

“Do you wanna come over to mine for a Singles Christmas Party?” “Why do you think I’m single?”

“Stop singing Christmas songs. It’s not even December yet.”

🎵Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away.🎵 “I thought it was returnable.”

“This has been the worst Christmas ever” "We're telling our grandchildren about this!"

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” “It’s a Christmas paperwork nightmare”

“Let’s cuddle by the fireplace.”

“Wait… Did you spike the eggnog?”

“Mistletoe!” “You did not have that a second ago”

“Do you want a picture with Santa Claus?

“Shit, that’s so sexy, but you must be so cold.”

SEND ANY PROMPT YOU CAN THINK OF!

FEEL FREE TO USE THESE PROMPTS FOR YOURSELF! 😊

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #sambucky #samsteve #sam wilson #bucky barnes #steve rogers #911 abc #911 fox #tfatws #captain america #writing prompts #ask #prompts

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keyh0use · 2 years ago

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Kinktober Day 7: Dacryphilia

Everything is consensual. Hitting, spitting, little bit of blood, being tied up, degradation, daddy kink, name calling

When Barry had proposed the idea of camping before the weather truly got too cold for two Carolina boys to be out all night in, Rafe was surprisingly on board. So Barry made all the plans and executed them, packing up coolers of food and drinks, stacking a couple pots together and loaded everything into the truck, which was parked beneath a big shady tree by a secluded beach. The boat was small and easily manageable, Barry guiding them through the strait while his boy sat on his lap. Until they were alone. Suddenly everything was annoying Rafe, from the copious bugs flying around to the lack of phone service, permanent pout etched into his pretty face. And Barry was used to this type of bratty behaviour, in fact he loves how high maintenance his baby is but this is pushing it, even for Rafe. Once the tent was pitched and the food was properly stored, Barry led them to an old, dilapidated dock that was covered in barnacles and moss. They already had food, they didn't need to sit out here for hours and fishing is boring, complained Rafe on a loop. Only his actions betrayed the true intentions behind saying such things, nimble fingers playing with the hem of Barry's long T-shirt. Barry knew they'd fuck, he didn't think Rafe would be this much of a brat about it. And Rafe was right; Barry didn't need to fish for any other purpose than he wanted to, and he was damn well going to get the time in. Scooting back on the wet wood until just his knees were bent over the edge, Barry balanced the rod in one hand and fought to get his dick out with the other.

"Go on," encourages Barry with a nod to his soft cock.

Rafe sputters, "What?"

"Maybe I oughta stop smacking you around so much, since you can't follow simple fuckin' orders," Barry grumbles, reaching up to grab a fistful of blonde hair and yank the boys face down to his crotch, Rafe scrambling against the damp dock to get comfortable with a pained cry. "Put your whiny mouth around my prick and shut up, country club."

And Rafe did, he sucked Barry's cock hard and smiled victoriously with the taste of come on his tongue, and that had been that.

Until they were sitting around the roaring campfire finishing up dinner.

Barry genuinely thought once would satiate his boy until they were cuddled up in bed, warm and full and ready to go again—fuck, was he wrong.

The complaining started slow, about how he burned a marshmallow and now his mouth tasted of ash, or how the weather was fucked this time of year and Rafe couldn't decide whether he was too hot or too cold for a sweater.

Then Rafe tossed his hands up and said the same damn shit he did on the dock: this is boring.

It wasn't. They were spending quality time together all alone, no distractions and Barry knew Rafe loved it as much as he did. God, what a fucking brat.

So the dealer yanked Rafe out of the camping chair and over his knee, sweatpants pulled down as the boy squirmed in anticipation, and then Barry beat his ass until he was positive it would turn black and blue.

His hand fucking stung and Rafe was a weeping mess, having came against Barry's thigh from the continuous impact.

And Barry...Barry's cock was throbbing between his legs, but he pushed his own desire aside in order to comfort his baby.

The night went on. A blanket was spread out for them to stargaze and it was disgustingly romantic, hands clasped between them while Barry pointed out constellations.

Then Rafe suggested a moonlit walk along the shoreline and how sweet Barry thought that idea was all but forgotten when five minutes in, the boy was shooting his mouth off again.

Rafe had the audacity to act confused when Barry started tearing at his clothes, soft sweater and thick sweatpants discarded on the sandy floor, leaving him to stand naked.

And he whined, and begged and promised to behave but Barry had caught on--he knew this was all Rafe had wanted since the prospect of camping came up.

Barry freed his dick and bent the boy over a fallen tree, stuffed him up and rutted ruthlessly, big hands keeping Rafe's wriggling body in place.

"It hurts," Rafe had said.

Whether the kook was referring to the cock relentlessly fucking against his prostate or bark scraping along his belly, Barry wasn't sure—and didn't care.

But then Rafe sobbed.

It's not unusual. Rafe cries over everything and runs to his man for comfort, which always results in bouncing on Barry's stiff prick.

Barry loves that shit. Loves when Rafe begs to stop while wrapping long legs around his waist and loves when Rafe squirms under his weight and he especially loves when Rafe gets worked up enough to cry.

Fuck, he needed to see.

The intention behind pulling out was to sit Rafe's pretty ass on the dead tree and watch the tears roll down his face while Barry fucked into his used body.

But Rafe straightened up and turned, and before the older man could position him—he ran.

The forest was unfamiliar and vast, shadows being cast from the moon hung high overhead and mossy roots winding across the forest floor like twisted fingers reaching out.

Barry's feet pounded against the soil, chasing down Rafe. They've never done this, but they've talked about it and now that it was happening, the thrill of hunting his baby down admittedly had his balls aching for release.

It was a game, and while Rafe was a sore loser, he would lose. It was inevitable.

The boy went plummeting into the ground face-first, grunting loudly before scurrying to turn over, looking up at the man who shoved him.

Before Rafe could get a word in, Barry swooped down and grabbed a thin ankle in each hand, dragging the kook across the clearing to where they had set up camp, depositing him on the blanket laid out earlier.

"Shit," exclaims Rafe loudly, nails caked in dirt from gripping at the loose earth. "That—I'm—fuck, Barry—" The older man is dropping to his knees in annoyance, which Rafe clearly picks up on. "Sorry, daddy, I meant—"

"Shut up," snaps Barry. Grabbing at the hem of his T-shirt, a strip is torn off quickly and then he's turning Rafe over.

Rafe catches on and says, "Wait! Hey, I don't think—"

"That's right, you don't think. You do as you're fuckin' told."

Only Rafe doesn't. His lean body struggles against Barry's hold, the dealer grunting while forcing Rafe's wrists together at the small of his back, wrapping the fabric around them tightly.

"Daddy! Please!" shouts Rafe in protest, kicking out his legs to no avail.

"No one can hear you, you understand me? Scream all you want," says Barry menacingly. "I'll fuckin' scream with you if you'd like. No one's coming to save you."

Rafe is laid down on his side against the rumpled blanket, much less comfortable in this position than it was an hour ago while looking at the dark sky.

"What are you doing?" Rafe whispers, turning his head to try and spot his man.

"What I was trying to do before you decided to be a dumb little brat," Barry answers, spooning the kook and slipping his leaky tip against the relaxed hole. "Ain't gonna get away this time, huh?"

Rafe whines loudly when a strong arm slips between his head and the blanket, bending to bar across his throat and Barry's calloused fingers curl around his cock.

The fat cockhead breaches the ring of muscle only for Rafe to tense up suddenly, forcing Barry to grit his teeth and stop.

"Don't do that," Barry warns with a threatening squeeze to the boy's dick. Fingers brush against his tummy where Rafe's bound hands try to get free, making him let out a genuine laugh that has the boy whimpering. "Put up a fight all you fuckin' want, ain't a thing you can do to stop me from coming inside my holes, little boy." When there's no give after a second of impatient waiting, Barry's hand leaves Rafe's dick to slap his thigh hard. "Keep that up if you want the shit beat outta you, bitch."

Rafe let's out a heavy exhale and forces himself to relax, big cock fucking all the way into him in one push, making him squeeze his watery eyes shut. "Aw, you gonna cry?" Barry mocks while using the boys body, fingers digging bruises into Rafe's hip and shoulder.

Blue eyes flash open and cut to the side. "Daddy," Rafe breathes out, bottom lip quivering.

"Fuck, you feel how hard that makes my cock, baby?" asks Barry, thrusting shallowly.

The already erratic pace picks up until Barry can only grunt, the feeling of Rafe squeezing around him enough to have him teetering on the edge when Rafe starts to tremble, mindlessly fucking back onto the dealer's dick.

The sob Rafe let's out has Barry's hand hastily fisting his cock just as ropes of come shoot out across the blanket, the boy a mess of tears and moans.

"Holy shit." Barrys jerking hand doesn't let up any more than his hips do, torturing the kook from both sides and relishing in the way Rafe squirms to get away—but can't. "None of this was for your pleasure, Rafe. You just came from me using you like a set of holes, you get that? Only a desperate little whore would get off on this shit."

Rafe can't reply, can't do much of anything except snivel against the blanket, sore wrists chafing. With a final tug to milk the last of the boy's come, Barry releases his hold and pulls out.

There's an annoyed sound of protest when Rafe is left gaping suddenly, the tug on his rim making him wince. Then he stretches and writhes, sore from being used all over the island with no end in sight.

Barry knees his way over the boys abused body until he's situated in front of pleading blue eyes, and grabs Rafe by the hair.

The first slap is delivered with a simple order, "Open your mouth."

When he's denied, Rafe's brows drawn together in silent protest, the second blow is much, much harder.

Rafe's neck is craned at an uncomfortable angle, whole body limp and he still takes the smacks without giving in, three more just as brutal.

"You gonna listen now?" heaves Barry, teeth bared at the show of defiance.

Ignoring the tight hold on his crown, Rafe lurches forward and noisily spits on Barry's cock, hanging heavy between his legs. Even in the blue moonlight, the saliva is noticeably pink from blood.

Rafe's gaze trails up the length of the older man's body before meeting hungry eyes, lips parting in invitation.

There's not an ounce of tenderness left in Barry's body, worked up from getting hard and not coming three fucking times and it shows when he feeds Rafe his cock, forcing the boy to swallow around the intrusion painfully because he's not stopping.

Not for anything.

The hand that was gripping Rafe's hair makes a grab for the back of his head, the other curling around his nape and Barry's hunched over, skull fucking him without remorse. Short nails bite into the flesh of Rafe's palms behind his back, trying fruitlessly to free himself of the constraints.

a combination of spit, blood and tears drench the man's public hair and drips down his balls, which knock against Rafe's messy chin.

"Look at you slobbering all over my prick, you must really want it, huh?" Barry mocks, rejoicing in the obscene slurping noises coming from between them. Barry loves Rafe—loves him and wants to see him fall apart. So with a final nudge against the back of the boys throat, Barry's pulling out and sitting back on his ankles, wrapping a hand around himself to slap the tip against Rafe's cheek, smearing precome. Barry says, "So fuckin' pretty like this, baby," and then leans down to press a kiss to Rafe's drooling mouth with a wet smack. With a skilful hand, the older man manages to untie the makeshift cuffs, freeing Rafe's sore wrists and making him moan in thanks against the tongue sloppily licking over his own. They separate panting, eyes locking and Rafe goes eerily still before turning in an attempt to skitter across the blanket, only to claw at the wet ground when rough hands grab him by the hips and yank him back aggressively. Rafe is all but picked up a couple inches off the ground and thrown onto his back, Barry shoving his way between the boys kicking legs. "Stay still and take it like a good boy, Rafe," the older man grits out, pinning the squirming body down with his own weight. "Just let me come and it'll be over." Rafe cries brokenly, "Can't. Too much." Barry's prick sinks to the hilt, eased by the coating of his boys bodily fluids and Rafe is arching up, so pretty and so full. "Yeah?" he goads, staring down into bawling blue eyes. "For someone who doesn't want it, you takin' it pretty fuckin' well."

The boy shoves weakly at Barry's shoulders and chest but it's pointless, the dealer is stronger and heavier than him, rendering him defenseless once the barbaric onslaught against his prostate starts.

Hoarse whines and cries and moans fall from the kooks pretty lips, dirty nails carving out scars on bulging biceps, Barry above him letting out animalistic grunts.

Barry fucks into him—fast and deep, not letting up no matter how much Rafe begs.

Blue eyes open impossibly wide and Barry taunts, "Use your words. You gonna come again, pretty baby?"

"No," gasps out Rafe, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, blonde hair a sweaty mess.

"Yeah you are," Barry says with a sick grin. "Gonna come on my cock, boy?"

Rafe truly tries to hold out and not give in to the pleasure ripping through him, scratching down Barry's back and arms before latching on with a bruising grip. He's fucking himself on the throbbing dick stretching him out mindlessly, so lost in the high.

And when it peaks, Rafe's cock twitches violently and bobs, but only spurts a little come—dry orgasm making him throw his head back and let out a silent scream, the last two catching up to him.

"Oh, that's it, baby," Barry praises, stomach tensing and caving in the harder he thrusts. "That was fuckin' beautiful."

"Please," begs Rafe, face wet from drool and the endless flow of tears.

Barry says sternly, "We're done when I say we're done."

Instead of arguing, the boy starts pushing again, this time wiggling his hips to try and get away, Barry grunting in frustration above him.

"Stop that!" demands Barry gruffly, one hand closing around the boy's throat and the other delivering a sharp slap to his ruddy cheek. "Lay there and take it!"

The rush of Rafe struggling and whining like a bitch and sobbing has Barry fucking hard, hips snapping erratically against the boys bruised ass, balls slapping noisily against the purpling flesh.

Barry spits, "Pathetic little bitch, you want it to stop? Beg for it."

"Oh, fuck," whines the kook, fingers cramped up from the overstimulation. "Please, daddy, please—"

"Please what?" asks Barry, jaw muscles jumping as his cock starts to swell and pulse.

Rafe babbles dumbly, "Come in me! Please, please fill me up, I need it! I need it so bad, daddy—"

Bowing forward from the sudden surge of pleasure, Barry muffles his own primal shout by sinking his teeth into the boys throat, surely breaking the skin given the high-pitched cry from beneath him.

It's so good Barry feels intoxicated, head swimming as he floods Rafe's tight passage with warm come.

Barry stays there, buried deep with his balls smushed against the boys ass to make sure every last fucking drop has been milked out into the kook.

And when he does eventually pull out, slowly so the head will tug against Rafe's abused rim, Barry watches come dribble out of the fucked open hole, gaping wide and so hot it has the man's heart thundering.

Sitting back, Barry sets a sobbing, delirious Rafe in his lap and pets tawny hair from in front of leaking blue eyes. "You learn your lesson, sweetheart?" asks Barry sweetly. When he gets no response, the man trails gentle kisses over the bridge of the kooks nose and down his face. "My broken little baby, can't think for yourself anymore, huh?"

Rafe shifts to rest his head against his man's broad chest and cries out in pain.

Its too soon for Barry to get hard again, but that doesn't stop his prick from reacting to the sound, giving a weak twitch where it rests against the boy's hip.

"Daddy," he whimpers.

"Answer the question, Rafe. You learn your lesson, baby, gonna stop actin' out?" Barry repeats, petting down Rafe's trembling body.

Rafe makes a motion Barry can't catch, just a twitch of his head.

"Use your words, little boy. You gonna stop being a brat? Huh? You learn better yet?"

Licking over his split lip, Rafe glances up to meet his man's eyes from beneath wet lashes and swallows harshly.

"No."

#rafebarry #rafe x barry #rarry obx #kinktober #obx #barry obx #barry (obx)#rafe cameron

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pastrydragon · 2 years ago

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Fixing Yona from TOTK

We can redeem her in the DLC she just needs some tweaking

And by tweaking I mean I'm totally retconning her personality but in a way that makes sense so bare with me here:

I want to make Yona protagonistically and enjoyably Evil

What does that mean? you ask. It means I want her to be a ruthless, conniving bitch of the first degree but completely on Sidon and Link's side!

I want all that "I'm just here to help" "My Darling Sidon!" bullshit to have been an act. Not that she doesn't care about Sidon, she does, but more like "This is my pet Himbo, isn't he adorable?" than "Love of my life" kinda thing. How she acted in game was just, so saccharine and fake. Like this is a crafted person, not a real one. AND I CAN SPIN THAT INTO AN ADVANTAGE WITH THIS DLC.

Because the Zora are so used to their utterly benevolent and optimistic royal family that Yona slipping in even a little of her own personality could threaten her crown. The Zora are used to their prince and princess being helpful and likable so Yona needs to pretend to be those things too in order to earn enough approval to become queen.

And she's a good fucking choice for queen for them! I love Sidon, I do, he's best boy. The guy is honorable and kind and brave. That's the problem. He's too soft to what other people want and doesn't want to see the bad in people. He was obviously uncomfortable with the idea of marrying Yona but went along with it because it's what others wanted from him, and he was immediately trusting of link in BOTW and let the guy fire shock arrows from his back. shock arrows that could kill him almost immediately if he gets hit. Sidon isn't stupid, but he is undeniably a little naive to be king to a kingdom that will suddenly be reintroduced to international diplomacy and proper trade after 100ish years.

And while I think he's perfect for face to face diplomacy, the actual minutia of international dealings will probably be a bit too much for him. Yona, as his Evil Royal Advisor™ would be sitting there smiling sweetly while going over written trade proposals with a red pen. And I do think Evil Royal Advisor™ is the right dynamic here. They do NOT have chemistry, but she absolutely wants Sidon to succeed at any cost. And you need someone like that in your corner when you're made of marshmallow and want everyone else to succeed first.

Of course Sidon carries Yona through this just as much. Yona being in Queen mode is probably exhausting and Sidon would be able to spirit her away from any conversation or event with the excuse of needing her advice or attention and then stand in the hallway with her for ten minutes while she vents before she has to glide back in and put her game face back on. He tells her how well she's doing, how much she's improving things and how much he values her. Evil Royal Advisor™ unit requires regular feeding of ego to function properly.

And her being evil EXPLAINS WHY SIDON NEVER MENTIONED HER IN BOTW! Because she probably didn't pretend around him back then and he remembers her as a horrible little demon, fuck she probably bullied his ass a little(Out of affection) when they were babies. And Sidon wouldn't want to talk about her because he'd have to skip over too much stuff to still be honest. Or talk about the time Yona put frogs in his sleeping pond during the night and he was so surprised when he woke up to them that he shrieked like a banshee and everyone came running to find him freaking out over a damn frog. That shit is embarrassing.

Note: I'm writing this DLC quest to be like something I think Nintendo would seriously write, so dialogue might seem a little over the top or silly at times.

Stage 1:

For the DLC reveal I'd have the quest line "Bride In Black" start with her asking you during the day cycle to get her 15 thunderwing butterflies. She's stockpiling shock resistant potions for emergencies you see. Afterward she'll give you 100 rupees and tell you to go visit Sidon since "He's been stressed lately and would love to see his best friend!" how thoughtful!

Stage 2:

Speak to Sidon who will be searching for something by the big waterfall. He'll explain after some prodding that Yona has been disappearing at night and he's only been able to follow her as far as here before she seems to disappear. He's tried talking to her about it but she always manages to change the subject or be needed elsewhere when he brings it up. He's concerned for her safety and wellbeing as monsters still roam around the domain's borders. At the end of the dialogue he decides to let it go and trust she knows what she's doing. Link gets his quest updated anyway.

Stage 3:

If Link goes to the bottom of the big waterfall at the beginning of the night cycle and crouches in the bushes then Yona will appear mumbling to herself. Equip the stealth set and follow her as quietly as possible, making sure you don't get too loud or too close or she'll realize she's being followed and disappear, the player will then have to wait for the next night cycle to try again. this stage is very similar to the side quest where you follow Mila around in Zelda Windwaker. Except near the end of the following Yona is briefly attacked by a lazalfos, she calmly kills it by throwing a purple bottle at it that causes it to die in a puff of acrid smoke. Yona casually continues on with a "Fufufufu~" speech bubble above her head. Soon she approaches an odd tree which she pours a potion on, the tree shrivels away and a hidden cave is revealed! she enters.

Stage 4:

Link enters after her "Yona's Lair" appears on the screen announcing it as the area's name. inside the cave the player can hear Yona's new theme(Which is her old theme backwards and played on what sounds like a pipe organ and a synthesizer). there's a short hallway before the cave opens up into a big circular room with a cauldron in the middle, filled with suspicious purple ooze. the walls are decorated with what appear to be tacked up potion recipes and detailed drawings of dissected monster parts. Some recipes have the classic skull and crossbones on them for aesthetic. Link approaches Yona (who is writing at an oddly stained desk with another "Fufufufu~" speech bubble above her head.) Press A while close to start a cutscene.

Cutscene:

Yona turns around, shocked to see Link and begins to scream at him "HOW DID YOU FIND ME YOU DIRTY GOBLIN!?" she tries switching back to Queen mode for a few seconds "I-I mean how ever did you find me Link?" she sighs resignedly after a few moments and says "Oh, no point now. You've seen my hobby, there's no fooling you anymore." Yona's character animations change so she's standing with a hand on her hip and her mouth in a toothy grin as opposed to her old demure idle animation. Her green and purple aesthetic looks more at home among the dark and potion bottles, and her devil/parasite horns look much more natural with her head held high and teeth on display. "I almost wish I were dumb enough to try and fight you, but I know I'd lose once I ran out of ammo. And I can't bribe someone like you to stay quiet, so, I suppose this might be it for my little stint as queen. Just do me a favor? Give Sidon the yellow potions on the table for me? I do care about the dumb lummox, and I just know he's going to throw himself in front of some lightning shooting monster one of these days and get himself killed."

"I KNEW IT!" Sidon has appears seemingly angry at the entrance to the lair to shock animations from Link and Yona "I knew you were faking! I thought I was going crazy misremembering our friendship, but you've just gotten better at that act of yours." Sidon laughs "You have no idea how relieved I am, I felt like I was talking to a stranger all these months, it's wonderful you haven't actually changed. I think... Well I'm happy to have my old friend back, even if you do start throwing bugs at me again."

Yona returns to her new idle animation from her shocked one. "You CANNOT be serious Crydon, I knew you were sappy but letting someone like me stick around is just silly! You really are going to go and get yourself killed with all that blind optimism."

Sidon laughs again "I knew I remembered that nickname too! And why wouldn't I let you stick around? Sure, you're a bit... Abrasive at times, and we certainly don't always agree on how to do things, but you're my friend and I care for you! Just because you act in odd ways, or show your affection differently doesn't mean I'm going to get rid of you. You may have teased me when we were little, but you were always there for me when I needed someone to help me or tell me the truth. I remember you called me stupid for losing my favorite toy then you spent all night looking for it while I cried myself to sleep. And I remember you telling me Mipha needed to heal soldiers and couldn't spend time with me instead of telling me she'd be coming back any minute. Then you'd be the one to heal me when I got hurt and you tried to do all the other things I did with Mipha to cheer me up, even though you hated most of those games." Sidon now looks much sadder. "But I don't want you to be Mipha, I want my old friend back. The one that knew when to tell me I was being reckless and when I wasn't believing in myself enough. The one that would steal my sweets then give me her salty snacks later because she knew I liked those better anyway. The one that solved problems, and did the jobs no one else wanted to do but needed to be done. I miss that friend, and I would very much like her back."

Yona is silent for a moment before the player hears a "Fufufufu~" sound effect. "Fufufufu~ my new husband sure knows how to make a girl feel special." Sidon has a brief embarrassed animation before Yona starts speaking again "I'm just teasing you Crydon, I'll stay to keep you from from selling the kingdom for magic beans or whatever nonsense you'd have gotten up to without me." Yona turns to face Link "Assuming this silent menace can keep my hobby, and my charming personality, to himself?"

At this point the player gets the dialogue options of

"Of course!"

"Fine, but I'm watching you!"

Depending on the players choice Yona will either comment on Link's similarity to Sidon, or commend him for being sensible about the situation.

"In any case, you need to buzz off for a while so I can finish my potion and so Crydon and I have a chance to catch up for real. But come back tomorrow night and I'll have something to help you on your little adventure."

At this the cutscene ends and the screen goes dark before Link is transported to the front of the cave at the beginning of the day cycle. Yona's Lair cannot be accessed during the day.

Stage 5:

Talking to Sidon during the day cycle after the cutscene will trigger some thankful flavor dialogue and Sidon will reveal he was following Link the entire time last night after seeing him follow Yona past the waterfall. Link wasn't focused on not being spotted from behind after all.

Talking to Yona during the day cycle will not get new dialogue and she will have changed back to her original animations during the day.

Going back to Yona's Lair at night will result in a short dialogue where Yona thanks Link for "Being a nosy little creep I guess." The player will then have access to Yona's potion shop. The shop sells some randomized normal potions that vary in duration every night. It will also have Poison Bottles. Poison bottles can be thrown at enemies or attached to arrows and will do damage over time to any enemy it hits for 60 seconds. low level monsters will be killed instantly and mid level will likely die on their own in the 60 seconds. But the potions best use is against high HP enemies that don't give the player a lot of opportunity to get a hit in. The poison bottle require both money and monster parts to make so they really should be saved for when Link is in a pinch.

#breath of the wild #botw #tears of the kingdom #totk #prince sidon #yona #evil yona #but in a fun way #pastry writes #I guess #A girl's gotta fix everything around here #link #legend of zelda

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harperenchantrix · 1 year ago

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with the winter cold and flu season upon us, I wanted to share for my fellow human beings (and especially those of us who make a living with our voices!) my recommendation for dealing with sore throats and laryngitis.

I don't really like name dropping products, but when you're sick sometimes convenience trumps DIYing your way into sustainable practices. thus, the tea blend that I have been drinking like it's water this last week: Traditional Medicinals Throat Coat.

seriously, this stuff is amazing.

I've looked into enough herbal medicine over the years to know that this tea actually does have good shit for throats. licorice root, slippery elm bark, marshmallow root, wild cherry bark, fennel fruit, cinnamon bark, and orange peel (those last for flavor but also for awesome anti-bacterial and antioxidant effects!)

for herbal teas (technically, a tissane if you wanna be fancy with it) you'll want to boil water, pour over the tea bags just off the boil, and let it steep for at least ten minutes. I tend to leave the tea bag in the mug while I'm drinking it. or in the teapot when I make a full pot of it.

see all those roots and barks? to get the good stuff out of it, you need to really steep it for a long while. this isn't a white tea where you're sitting with a stopwatch and pulling the tea after 30 seconds. go long or, I guess, have weak tea?

next step for perfect throat soothing awesomeness: Asian style citron/ginger/honey tea.

you can make your own, or hit the market and buy a big jar. it's basically very thinly sliced lemons, grated ginger, and honey. pack a jar with alternating layers of lemon and ginger, cover with honey, refrigerate, and make it into a tea. put a teaspoon or so in a mug with boiling water, drink it up yum. eat the chunky bits, too.

or, do what I do: add it to your throat coat tea.

seriously, this tea, with the lemon/ginger/honey added? hot damn.

bonus round for extreme voice loss or sore throat: add one teaspoon, or up to one ounce, of whiskey. hot toddy that bitch. not too much of the booze, you're not aiming at tipsy, your goal is to numb the throat, warm the tissues (increased blood flow for healing), and get your throat to stop stabbing you with glass knives when you swallow. just a tiny touch, and I prefer the honey whiskey to the oak blah blah lick a peat bog whiskey. but you do you.

enjoy tasty tea that makes your voice sound better and your throat hurt less.

#herbal tea #recommendation #voice loss #strep throat #sore throat #voice acting #tips from professionals

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gr8otaco · 2 years ago

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Ok. Time for another creepypasta au headcannon

Today’s headcannon is going to be about everybody’s favorite rip-off it

Laughing jack!!!!

now on with the headcannon

. First things first, lj was living in the UnderRealm with will before coming to the slender mansion. But after not paying their rent on time, so many times Hookman kicked both of them out permanently. So him and will decided to live with Circe at the slender mansion. Like seriously they just walked in without even asking. Rude.

. He comes off rather strong when trying to make friends, but it’s only because he’s not very good with social norms. He tends to speak loudly and invade the personal spaces of other people, although it’s unintentional.

. LJ hates being alone so he always tries to be the center of attention. Laughing Jack likes to entertain the other horrors either by cracking jokes, telling stories of all the evil shit he’s done over the decades or putting on macabre performances with the organs and body parts of his victims.

. After being locked in his box and going through his transition he’s become much cruder with his humor, although he still just means to make people laugh.

“ is this bae or what” - lj points at the slender mansion which is currently on fire

He is totally that guy who laughs at his own jokes constantly.

. He has a very loud laugh, slender has scolded him many times for the noise.

. He is somewhat claustrophobic

Being locked up for 13 years gave him a trauma to closed places.

. The reason why he hates kids so much is because they remind him of Isaac. Whenever he sees a kid he flashes back to the 13 years of loneliness Isaac put him through. His subsequent torture and murder of the kid is his way of reliving his torture/murder of Isaac.

. His claws are extremely sharp and threatening, he can dismember someone very easily.

. He can extend and contort his arms as much as he wants, laws of physics be damned.

. He’s pretty tall, being maybe 8 feet. If jack had a nickel for every time he hit his head on a doorframe he’d have approximately $5.75. ( that’s 115 times)

. Despite his all consuming hatred for children he’s pretty childish himself. Like he’s 100+ years old and he still thinks babies come from the stork.

.he likes to refer himself as a imaginary friend but really he’s just a basically a big doll. He even has a pull string ( does not have genitalia. I repeat does have genitalia!.)

. Has and can cause “freak” accidents

. Laughing Jack likes to eat his own poisoned candy. They don’t hurt him since he’s an imaginary friend. If anything they get him kinda high

. A connoisseur of teas. His British accent isn’t the only English trait that’s remained in him. He has his own special teacup collection and a large variety of different types of teas.

. He’s also good at making various candies and desserts. He even has his own candy pulling hook in his room, although the other residents tend to worry if that’s the only thing he uses it for.( pshh. he likes hook his pull string on it so he can sleep like a possum… you didn’t hear that from me.)

. Eats all the marshmallows out of Lucky Charms cereal and doesn’t tell anyone, you’ll know when he stuck by the screams of rage echoing through the house in the early morning.

. Likes to perch on top of things, like a cat. He also refuses to sit normally on chairs and usually sits on the arm or back of the couch instead of the seats.

. He’s a big fan of nonsense poetry, like Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky, and he has an astounding amount of limericks memorized. He can make up a limerick about anything on the fly and if he wasn’t so bizarre with his poetry he would actually be really good at it.

. He can use his claws to climb up vertical walls and even pull himself onto the ceiling. He’s been banned from doing that at night because on god there is nothing more terrifying than accidentally making eye contact with a killer clown whose looking down at you from the corner of the ceiling while muttering nonsense poetry under his breath menacingly.

. LJ has two very distinct laughs: one strikes mortal terror and pure dread into your heart and the other is the funniest, most infectious laugh you’ve ever heard. It’s always a toss up which laugh you’ll get depending on his mood, which changes frequently.

. Lj can play Poker (and Chess) very well. His pokerface is, of course, unparalleled, since his blank slate is always the same ominous smile. He is one of few to be able to challenge Circe and win.

. he likes poking fun at people, but not in a way that would hurt someone. If he was talking to someone who was very short, he would call them shortie and short stack, before doing his obnoxious laugh.

. Asexual as hell

. usually panics on the inside when it comes to sexual stuff. At first he use to panic where Circe made her sex jokes and he still kinda does but he is use to them.

. Whenever he feels actually bad about something he just laughs it all off.

. Lj is the most uncoordinated person you will ever meet in your entire life. He can’t even stand without falling half the time.

. Lj hates Ronald McDonald, seriously he wants to kill the guy

. Lj has ocd against smoking and drinking because he was made as a kid- friendly toy. Anytime he sees Tim smoking he’ll smack the cancer stick out of his hands.

“Man, what the hell!?- Tim/Masky

“Sorry”- lj🥺

. When lj gets extremely excited hues of his color actually come back very briefly.

. Says the weirdest shit, like you’ll slap your hand on the table to drive your point home and without even looking up he’ll say:

‘Slapping your tail like an angry beaver, huh? We outta your favourite wood or something?’- lj

And everyone will be like:

‘wft? When did you get here? What does that mean? You weren’t even involved in this conversation?’- random pasta

. He has definitely created a flea circus before, no doubt about it.

. Likes to make balloon animals out of people’s intestines

. Loves chocolate, thinks it's the best invention in the world.

. Because he’s older most would assume he wouldn’t understand modern slang, right? Well, as he’s been playing with children of the modern generations he’s been picking up various pieces off slang and trying to fit it into his speech to fit in with others.

Circe,a gen z kid, in a casual conversation: “Yeah, I saw Liu beat the shit out of Jeff. What a mood. We stan a king. My wig has been snatched. He just yeeted him”

Masky/Tim , a frustrated millennial who is coping with the fact that his sense of nihilism has been matched: “What in the hell does that mean?”

L.J., trying to connect with the youth: “It means that Liu has Big Dick Energy”

. He owns way too many feather boas for one monster/entity.

. He is the only one who can stomach black licorice, and eats loads of it.

. He loves to watch his victims collapse.

. He gets in a very bad mood at Christmas (we all know why).

. He has a certain allergy to nuts, he discovered this after throwing up on Will a few times.

. He can turn himself into a stuffed toy if necessary. Here it is

. He genuinely cares for will and Circe. He values them as his friends. He'd cause ARMAGEDDON if something happened to them.

Overall lj is just a sad old man looking for friends. Be his friend please.

Well that’s it for this headcannon. I hoped you enjoyed. Bye. 👋🏻

P.s. not everything is canon. So don’t take seriously if you don’t want to, if you do,Take it somewhere else. Thank you.

P.s.s. Go check out Circe’s origin story on archive of our own. It’s called rabbits are not what they seen.

#creepypasta world building #creepypasta headcanon #laughing jack #creepypasta #lj creepypasta #creepypasta au

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peace-for-levi · 3 years ago

Text

Just You [Levi x GN!Reader]

this is just snapshots or a countdown of sorts of Levi and reader celebrating the festive season. Tagging @anlian-aishang for this to go in her December Prompts List! I know it is a bit early but here is a christmassy oneshot for those who celebrate it! also tagging @maries-gallery bc... idk you wanted to be.

content warnings: none. purely sfw apart from Levi grieving and having self-depricating thoughts, but i chose not to expand too much on it.

w/c: 3,891

“Levi!” you pestered. Levi didn't even have the time to let out a groan for he was tugged away to the end of the aisle. "Look at these ones, aren't they beautiful?"

You were pointing towards a large set of fairy lights that would run along the outside of one's house. They shone a very light shade of yellow. They were the "shitty kind of lights that makes anything look like Christmas has shat on your doorstep" type of lights, according to Levi.

“[F/n], Christmas is four weeks away,” he reminded, suppressing a groan. He picked up the lights and stared at the price before gaping at you. “And I'm not spending that much money on some stupid lights.”

“Yes, but we're the only people on our avenue who haven't put up a Christmas tree.” She complained. She stuck out her bottom lip like a child.

“Stop acting like a six year old, please.”

You huffed a sigh and walked back to your shopping cart. You wrapped your way-too-thick scarf around your neck and brought the cart up to him before stepping beside him.

He noticed you looked pretty down over his lack of enthusiasm and the way he just shot you down. Shit, he said to himself, it's just hard for me to get that excited so--

He lost his train of thought upon feeling an impact in the side. Nothing too hard or that would cause severe pain, but he couldn't ignore it either. He had to admit, you had a good punch (or good aim with a shopping cart.)

He grimaced a small bit before rubbing it. “Care to explain why you did that, you idiot.”

“If you’re going to be a grinch, you’re going to get hit.” You declared with a cocky smirk.

The fire sparked a few embers in the background while Levi sat with his elbows hitched to his knees, flicking through the channels on your television. He was also trying to read the newspaper, but the blaring television didn't help. Once he heard a familiar film being advertised, he knew he had to call you to come in.

"[F/n], one of your favourite Christmas movies is on."

A few seconds later, he heard the familiar pair of footsteps scuffle against the living room's carpet. Your hair had been pulled from the clips it was in and now fell down haphazardly. You also had a bathrobe on, adorable, pink bunny slippers and some hot chocolate that was topped with mini marshmallows (that you unknowingly had spilled on the floor.) You had also come in with a cup of spicy mulled wine for Levi who wasn’t fond of something as sugary as hot chocolate.

“Don't tell me you came prepared.”

“Well, luckily, I had seen this on the television guide last week so I knew it was going to be on. I had to be prepared!” you chimed. “I am very flattered that you remembered, too, Levi.”

“What a kid," Levi smirked, but there was a genuine smile glossing over his pale lips. “Only because you say it every damn year.”

Levi sat down on the couch and patted the empty space beside him. Your face lit up like the Christmas tree (the tree that had yet to be put up) and you shuffled up to him and sat down. You felt his arm snake around your neck and immediately felt much more cozy and protected.

Of course, a very famous quote from the movie soon repeated itself: “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.” It always made you smile giddily to yourself.

“Do not start singing,” Levi whispered. “Please.”

You pouted. “But it's almost here, it really is this time.”

“I know, darling, but we're only eight days into December,” he said. He smirked again. “Try to contain yourself.”

After a little while, all chatter ceased between you two and Levi felt your muscles slacken a bit. He leaned over and noticed that you had fallen asleep against his chest. Has the excitement worn you out already?

He quirked a brow before noticing the half-empty mug in her hands. Careful to not wake you up - or spill hot chocolate on you either - he leaned over and placed the mug on the table.

I guess I'm going to be stuck here for a while, he said to himself, resting himself into the fluffed cushion beneath his neck. He eventually found himself succumbing to a deep slumber, arms still wrapped around you.

“Levi, don't move the ladder.” You warned as you leaned over the tree. You just had to put the finishing touch on the Christmas tree: the golden star. As you descended the ladder, the two of you stepped back and marvelled at the tree.

The main room’s lights were off as the fairy lights illuminated the room entirely with their pale gold. Every ornament was where it was supposed to be and the red and gold complemented each other perfectly.

“It's... lovely.”

Naturally, you were very pleased with that breathy response from your boyfriend. Christmas was a hard time of year for the short man, for it brought back some upsetting memories when he was small. It took ages for him to tell her exactly why.

"I've never heard those two words escape your mouth, ever," you remarked. He shrugged in response. "Come on, I want this year to be great! And I still have Christmas shopping to do... oops."

No need to make a fuss over me, it’s fine every year.

The bell for the school rang, letting everyone know that school was over. You were busy zipping up the coats of a few of your students.

All of the children - around six years old - were buzzing with excitement, talking away to their friends about what they hoped to get. Not only that, Christmas break was approaching.

Once you were finished with their coats, you got busy hanging up a few vibrant decorations that they made. Some were of snowmen, some were of presents and other things associated with the festive season. Kids poured out of the classroom once they saw their parents standing, waving at their child to get them to come over. You, in the meantime, had lots of cleaning up.

A few minutes passed by and you were lost in all the cleaning up you had to do.

“Looks like you're spreading your excitement to your students as well... I have to say, I feel sorry for them.” A familiar voice came.

You pivoted around and flashed him a smile, very happy to see him. “You're finished early today?" you asked, surprise lacing your tone.

Levi sauntered up to you, his footsteps echoing throughout the spacious classroom. He pressed his lips to your cheek for an ephemeral kiss. "More like my holidays start today and I said I'd drive down to you."

“You lucky bastard,” you replied. “I guess I'm happy to see that you came down to meet me. This never happens, what's the occasion?”

“Tch, can’t a man come drive his girlfriend home?” He cocked his head to the side. “I guess that your students are looking forward to Christmas as well?” He asked, gesturing towards the Christmas decorations you had hung up.

Levi turned around and noticed a bag by your desk. He didn't remember you carrying that out this morning. He was about to walk over to it, but she grabbed his arm and tugged him back.

“Nope, those are your Christmas presents that I got you today.”

Levi froze for a bit in shock. He truly was flattered, a part of him felt undeserving of these gifts given that he had been such a grump so far. He had his reasons and maybe it had drifted from your mind, but you had only the kindest of intentions in mind. He cleared his throat before speaking. "[F/n], you didn't have to get me anything."

You faked a gasp and chuckled. “But your gifts are always so wonderful, ugh, and I don't know... But, whatever you do, please don't carry that bag. I didn’t get to wrap them during my lunch break."

Levi shook his head. “Stop making a fuss about gifts, [F/n]. I honestly don’t need much.”

Your head fell forward as she traipsed back to Levi. Levi, puzzled, eyed you for a moment before you looped your hands around his neck. "I know that it sounds very bad, but you're so hard to shop for."

"What, why?" he replied, genuinely surprised by your comment. You gave a roll of your eyes and let out a groan. “I don't mind, dammit…” he added before letting out a sigh. “Come on, let's go home.”

“No, you're not meant to lick the batter.” He scolded.

Surprisingly, when he walked into the kitchen a few minutes ago, he was not greeted with flour that topped every surface, egg shells lying on the kitchen table or any carton of milk lying haphazardly or leaking out onto the floor. The kitchen was practically… spotless.

He did spot his girlfriend licking the spoon of the mixture used to bake a pie or cupcakes or something.

"...Are you telling me you've never licked the spoon?" you asked incredulously

“I never baked when I was younger. And I don't want to go into the hospital when you get salmonella.” He barked with annoyance.

"Firstly, chances of that are stupidly rare. Second of all… You never baked anything for Christm-". He sighed heavily and was about to walk out of the kitchen when you hailed for him again. "I need you to keep an eye on the oven, alright? I really need to pee."

Levi sighed and nodded while you dashed out of the kitchen and into the bathroom upstairs. Levi leaned against the oven, 'keeping an eye on it.' He opened up the window to allow the kitchen to air out. He stepped away once you walked back in.

Your enthusiasm was infectious. He loved you more than anything in the world - he was sure of it. He was also sure that your child-like self was never going to leave. Maybe your excitement annoyed him because Christmas wasn't a big deal to him when he was younger after what had happened. But he can momentarily forget that his words can be too harsh or there is too much of a bite in his tone.

He undoubtedly needs you more than you probably perceive. It was clear to everyone that he had a hard time showing it.

You walked up to the short man and gave him a pat on the back as a way of saying 'thank you.'

He smiled softly at the gesture.

You and Levi were bundled up with scarves, gloves and thick winter coats. Levi stood closely beside you as you gripped onto the railings as if your life depended on it.

Levi shook his head, a tiny smile curling at his lips. "You can trust me, I won't let anyone slice your fingers off,” he joked. “Though I have seen the way you hold a knife at times, I think you pose the biggest danger to yourself.”

The two of you decided - (okay, maybe it was more your decision) - were ice-skating in the rink that was set up for the festive month. It wasn't too packed considering how popular it usually is. But it just so happened you were having some trouble with... not letting go. Levi seemed to be a natural at this, having done a few laps and the odd spin here and there.

"Easy for you to say, you're good at everything!" you retorted. Levi held out his hand for her, growing more impatient.

"Come on, you dragged me out here and it's pissing raining outside as well. Just take my hand." He gestured, slowly advancing towards you. He grabbed your forearm and tugged you away from the wall. "Well done," he commented, sarcastically as he clapped slowly, "you're a staggering two feet away from the railing, how do you feel?"

He didn't give you a chance to answer as he pulled you along. If he wasn't, well, himself, he would have burst into laughter. That didn't mean he wasn't laughing on the inside. Your face had wrinkled up so much and you didn't contribute to the movement at all; you weren’t even skating, Levi was tugging you along.

“You're heavy when I have to pull you about as if you're some two year old.” He remarked.

“I could die and that's what you say to me?”

He shook his head, letting out a chuckle as you quieted down a bit. Slowly but surely, you relaxed to the point where Levi felt you were comfortable enough for him to let go. He continued to skate slowly behind you.

“You big baby, you're doing it now, aren't you?”

Your lips were clamped shut as you skated with extreme caution. Your eyes were wide as plates with fear. As he sensed you losing your balance and were about to topple over, he was quickly behind you again and had his arms around her shoulders.

“There, see? I have you.” He reassured you

He must have jinxed himself though as he felt himself losing his balance also before the two of you fell on top of each other, earning a loud thud against the ice. You had burst into laughter, finding this utterly hilarious and poked his pallid cheeks.

“You brat, that was your fault.”

The two of you were sitting at a table in the corner of a cozy café. It certainly provided great comfort since you both almost injured yourselves and then had no way of helping the other. You were very pleased with your hot chocolate that had far too many marshmallows and an ungodly amount of cream on top. It didn't matter to you of course - that was the last thing on your mind. Levi was sitting cross-legged, drinking a cup of black coffee and sighed once he felt the sensation return to his fingers.

You went through the pictures on your phone. A steward offered to take photos of you two but Levi wouldn't really cooperate. Although, you did manage to get a picture of Levi assisting you off the ground after falling over, and there was a tiny smile on your face. There was also a bit of a smile on Levi’s face as he was probably laughing at your clumsiness.

“Look at this one, that's a nice photo.” Levi leaned over and grabbed the phone and smiled a small bit as he flicked through all of the photos. “I almost twisted my ankle by the time she took that one!”

"Why are you so happy about that?" he asked, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “There would be nothing fun about going to A&E on Christmas Eve.”

“You're such a downer.”

He deadpanned before huffing a sigh. “So, you're saying that you would be alright if you had to wait - not me, by the way, just you - for six hours before a doctor sees you?”

That shut you up. He let out a light chuckle when he looked at you again. He picked up a napkin and began to clean her upper lip. "As much as you might love that frothy moustache, you just look a little bit ridiculous," he told her. She smiled sheepishly. “Come on, you said you still have shopping to do because you left it to 'til the last minute again. Plus, we need to get moving. I want to get there before midnight at least.”

Within half an hour, you parked the car at a cemetery while Levi walked in his lonesome to a tombstone before you followed him after a couple of minutes. You didn't talk to one another on the way here; neither of you felt it was uncomfortable.

You waited for him to say something once he left the lilies at his mother's grave. They were his, and coincidentally, her favourite flowers. According to Levi, after his mother developed some complications, she died shortly after he was born and the poor man blamed himself ever since. His father was never the same and Christmas was simply never a happy time for them, hardly ever celebrated.

He never wanted to celebrate it, but he met you and his opinions changed. But that never meant Christmas was easy for him either. You had long accepted that he was gonna be a grump or be sad about Christmas and his birthday.

But once, you wanted a year where he could be happy for everything around him in his life. And maybe… that's why you pulled out all the stops this year. Your childish and infectious enthusiasm was cranked up a notch this year for the purpose: to distract him. You knew it wouldn’t work, but if it meant he’d one day stop blaming himself, then perhaps it was worth it.

So you’d be childish again, and again, and again. You’d be stupidly enthusiastic again, and again, and again.

He may have hidden his emotions away from most people, or at least tried to. But when it comes to moments like these, one could see the flickering emotions in his eyes.

The right thing was to just let him stay there for a minute or two. You took a hold of his hand and offered him a reassuring squeeze. He looked at you for a second before frowning and shook her hand away.

“Levi…” you tried.

“Just... shut up for a second.” He whispered.

You took your scarf and wrapped it around his neck. Levi clasped the scarf for a moment but his hands dropped in almost a hopeless, exhausted manner. He seemed to look desolate and almost regretful. Regret was the last thing he should feel. If he did feel regret, whatever for? For not living up to her expectations? Simply for living and being born? It was something he should never feel nor was it his fault that she passed at such an untimely age.

If you were going to say something, it would need to be planned and constructed carefully. What phrase or few words would work or not cause any more heartbreak?

“Levi,” you beckoned. It took a while but he eventually acknowledged you with a hum and a glance in your general direction. “She'd be proud of you. You're quite the selfless man who can also be kind to... certain people... so just get rid of whatever bad thoughts you're thinking because deep down, you know it's not true.” She whispered.

As if he was going to crumble before her, you grabbed his hands once again.

“Let's go back, it's hardly good for you to sit out in the cold.” She whispered, softly. “And if you don’t believe what I said to you there, then I’ll just have to try harder to convince you.”

The two of you walked back to the car and sat inside. You looked over at him and noticed that he was trying to warm up by rubbing his hands together and so you turned on the heating.

Silence seemed to be the most appropriate thing right now. No speaking, no music. No driving. You sat by as you allowed him to work through whatever thoughts and feelings he was dealing with.

"[f/n], can we just go home?" he asked, sounding utterly exhausted.

“Of course, Levi.”

Once you arrived home, the two of you began to lay out the Christmas presents you had for each other and for other family members who may be visiting tomorrow. You two began to change into your sleepwear and that was when he had you cornered. He had you walking backwards until you collapsed onto your side of the bed, with him towering over you.

“Did you... go ice-skating, got me my damn coffee and paid for everything, just to cheer me up?” he asked. He knew the answer, he was just waiting for you to admit it.

"I might have... You're always so glum though and... I probably made you feel even crappier since we almost broke a leg or arm while ice-skating.”

“Correction: you almost broke a leg or an arm,” he pointed out. He glanced at the side of her face, noticing that she was trying to pay attention to him and the movie. “As much as I appreciate the effort, none of that crap really matters to me. You're here, just you and no one else, and that's all I care about.” He saw her quirk a brow. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, you’re never so… vocal about things like this.”

He snuffed at this and his fingers came under your chin and he bent his knees as his lips caressed yours. You snaked your hands around his back and leaned into his kiss more, fingers unwrapping to tug at his pajama top to pull him down on top of you.

“You’re right,” he chuckled, “I’m not vocal about these things and perhaps I should be… I should always attempt to show you how much I appreciate you.”

You cupped his cheek and swept your thumb under his gunmetal eyes, admiring their beauty.

His beauty.

He was beautifully kind in his own way. You didn’t need his words.

“Thank you.” He whispered, planting a final kiss on your lips for the night.

When Christmas morning finally rolled around, it took a great effort for you to coax Levi out of bed. You were ecstatic; he was moodier than normal. However, the gift-opening could not begin right away because Levi insisted on having coffee for he would not function without it.

Finally the short man was ready and he sauntered into the living room, rubbing his eye with his palm's heel. He walked over and plugged in the extension and the blinking, colourful lights brought a more gleeful glow to the room.

Levi sat down beside you when you gestured to him to come over. You had a shopping bag filled with wrapped goods. “Merry Christmas, my little grinch.” You murmured softly.

“You seem a lot more relaxed today, I guess the build up to Christmas has gone,” he noted. He leaned over and placed a soft kiss on your temple. “You'll be getting your present later, I didn't forget.”

"Oh, stop it," you chuckled.

Before he could begin to unwrap anything, he stiffened when he felt a pair of lips against his, a pair which he could only melt towards. She pulled away and whispered, “Happy birthday. I know you don’t like your birthday but it did give me you. So I love it so much, I’ll love it for you.”

Levi got down on one knee, presenting her a beautiful ring with a triad of diamonds on top.

“Wait, are you serious?! Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?!” she exclaimed as her eyes welled up. That might have been a yes?

Levi let out a groan and rolled his eyes. “I can't fucking believe you.”

Of course I'm serious,

Merry Christmas, and thanks for putting up with a grinch like me.

#cece; writing #husbando tag <3 #levi ackerman #levi #aot #snk #levi x reader #levi x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x reader smut #cece; levi #anlian-aishang #december prompts #aot x reader #snk x reader #aot x you

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writingthingsisdifficult · 4 years ago

Text

Good intentions

Bucky Barnes x reader

Had to divide the story into four parts, and I’m working as fast as I can to finish the rest.

Please don’t hesitate to tell me what you think :) Especially if you like it.

Everybody's alive.

When Natasha catches your reaction to seeing a soaking wet Bucky coming in from the rain, your life becomes unbearable. Nat considers herself a decent matchmaker, but what happens when both her subjects are resisting her attempts?

***

Part 1: Matchmaker

Word count: 4412

It had been raining for weeks. Racing streaks down the glass. Soft drumming against the umbrella. Big, fat drops of water splashing against the pavement, sending shivers through my body whenever they hit my skin. Two in rapid succession on my neck – don't know how, though, my coat collar was pulled up as high as it could go, and my umbrella was larger than average. Then one straight into my ear, which made me squeak in disgust. This had to be an omen.

I shook my umbrella before stepping through the door. No need to be a savage, though from the look of it, I was the only one who cared. A quick nod good morning to Nesta in the reception while making a mental note to call down the cleaning crew. The state of the floor was appalling. Mud and dirt and water – apparently not everyone remembered to wipe their feet before entering the building. And umbrellas all along the wall, dripping on the tiles, creating puddles so large a toddler would happily jump in them.

A long sigh escaped. Time for a stern talk with Nesta again. This was supposed to be a good first impression, not an impression of someone's mudroom. My stomach twisted, this was just the latest in a long string of minor complaints. If she didn't improve soon, I would have to make a note in her file and I hated being strict. Still, it was a part of my job, just like running errands before eight in the morning and longing for the coffee I left in my office. I didn't have to like it.

The elevator pinged. “Hey, Y/N.” Natasha walked out with a smile on her face. Her hair was red again, like flames cascading over her shoulders. Damn, that woman really could carry any hair colour. I nodded and smiled back. “Good morning, Agent Romanov. You're in early. What can I do for you? Love your hair, by the way."

"Thanks. I was wondering if you could help me with something."

I shook off my coat and adjusted the bag on my shoulder. "Of course. What do you need? Let me just –""

The door blew open, banging into the doorstopper before closing behind a sopping wet figure and an umbrella that definitely had seen better days. "Good morning, Y/N. Hey, Nat. Have you seen Clint?" Bucky shook himself, sending a glittering spray of water everywhere.

"No, but check the roof."

The air was knocked straight out of me. I couldn't stop the tiny squeak that tumbled over my lips. The way his hair stuck to his face did things to me, not to mention how the water glistened on his metal arm. I hadn't felt heat on my face like that since I was seventeen and spilled juice all over my shirt in front of my neighbour Todd.

Swallowing the rest of the rude noises hovering in my throat, I forced a smile and nodded to the elevator. "Saw him by the coffee machine on the third floor earlier, Sargent Barnes." My voice was breathier that usual, and I cursed the weather for calling me out like that, while simultaneously praying to any deities listening that nobody noticed.

"Thanks." He marched to the elevator with a pace that would divide a crowd of people without a word.

Natasha looked between Bucky and me, a devilish smile spreading on her face. Once he was out of earshot, she bumped me with her elbow. “So, Bucky, huh?”

The heat crept up my ears and settled in my temples. Surely I was no more than two seconds from combusting? “What? I don’t… no, I mean –" I drew a big breath and steeled my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, what was it you needed my help with?”

Her eyes locked on mine. "Never mind that… You're a terrible liar."

A good point. I let out a small wheeze and scrunched my eyes shut. "Fine! Yes, Sargent Barnes is a tall drink of water. Is that what you want me to say? Well, yeah, okay. Maybe I do have a thing for him." The defeat was inevitable. Already my intestines were squirming. Nothing good could come from this.

Natasha looked like it was Christmas and her birthday all at once. "I knew it!"

I shrugged, ignoring the rising chill in my chest. How to best deescalate this before it got out of hand? "Well, you are a superspy after all. But please, PLEASE, don't say anything to him. I like my job. Besides, he's a fucking superhero. I'm just… me."

"Just you?" She shook her head lightly and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I mean, come on! Look at me!" Holding my arms out, I swayed from side to side. I never liked to draw attention to my body, but apparently she needed the extra visual.

Natasha arched her eyebrow. "I am looking."

She was good, but I couldn't to give up that easily. "Yes, and then you clearly see that I'm ordinary. People like him don't fall for people like me. He's too perfect for that."

"Perf… perfect?" She snorted. "Y/N, Bucky's a mess. He's basically a cucumber with anxiety. Damn, you really have it bad if –"

"I know he has issues. You all do. I'm the one booking everybody's therapy sessions, remember? I'm not talking about his trauma. I'm talking about the fact that he's sweet as a marshmallow and his smile could power a small European country if Stark only found a way to harness its brilliance –"

"And the fact that he's got those broad shoulders and could probably lift and throw a bus if he wanted…"

"And that," I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck to stop that annoying heat from spreading even more. That was a delicious picture, alright. "But I'm nothing special."

"Y/N, sweetie, what are you talking about? You know everything, who's supposed to be where, what we're doing, when we come and go – that's practically a superpower right there. Don't downplay yourself."

The laughter came out dry and humourless. She had to be kidding. Being organised and good at puzzles wasn't exactly rocket science. And besides, I didn't even have a good memory. Without my trusty calendar and phone I'd be running around like Hei-Hei.

"Appreciate your confidence in me, but I don't think so, Nat," I countered and repeated: "Please don't tell him."

She sighed. "I won't."

I tilted my head and put on my best mom-voice. "Promise me."

Her shoulders slumped forward, and she lifted her hand in the air. "I promise I will never tell James Buchanan Barnes about your crush." There was a small pause. "Partypooper!"

"Who's a partypooper?"

I yelped and spun around, looking into Tony's smiling face. "Oh my god, Tony, I mean, Mr Stark." Why did he have to be so stealthy? A big, flashy guy like him ought to be required to announce his arrival with trumpets and drums. Through my galloping heartbeats I noted the glasses were new though, and wondered what kind of new tech they really were. They suited him.

He smirked. “Not the first time a lady has said that to me. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Exhaling, I closed my eyes, just barely resisting the urge to pinch my nose – or maybe kick him in the shin as a diversion. This was going to hell with the express train. “No one. No one's a partypooper.”

“Really?” He turned to Natasha. “Nat?”

I shook my head vigorously, bringing forth all malice I had to my eyes, which I have been told is substantial.

"Y/N has a crush and –"

"Ooh, is it me?" He winked and wiggled his eyebrows.

That made me laugh. "What? Oh, god no." Then I immediately felt bad for my reaction.

"Okay, a little bit insulted, but whatever…"

"She won't let me tell Bucky that she's in love with him," Natasha continued as if she had never been interrupted.

Tony gasped, a look of absolute delight in his eyes.

It was as if the ground disappeared beneath me. A rush of adrenaline almost knocked me off my feet. "Natasha! You promised."

She shrugged and pointed at Tony. "I promised not to tell Bucky. Last I checked, that is not him."

This time I did pinch the bridge of my nose and exhaled deeply, then groaned silently. “Nat!” Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. “Sargent Barnes is a friend. Well, uh, a colleague. Of sorts. I do not -“

“So you didn’t just squeak and burst into flames when he came through that door, huh?” She pointed to the glass door with a grin on her face.

Yeah, this was definitely a torture-the-handler day. Though Natasha was right about my crush, of course, and I wasn't even sure it was just a crush anymore; it had lasted for far too long to be called a crush, I had to keep a professional relationship with all of them.

Truth be told I had had a crush on Bucky since the day we were introduced, but I remembered the exact moment I had fallen in love: it was a chilly spring evening about a year ago. The team had decided to go out to eat, Wanda had discovered a new restaurant downtown, and the food supposedly was to die for. I couldn’t remember what I ate, or if I even liked it, but I remembered the knitted cardigan Bucky wore, the one with the colourful pattern on it. It looked really soft, and I found myself longing to touch it. That wasn’t the moment, though. The exact moment that made me go “Oh shit!” was when I cracked some stupid dad joke, and Bucky unleashed his full laughter on me. Who knew that "Singing in the shower is fun until you get soap in your mouth. Then it's a soap opera," would be my doom? But the sound had stunned me, made me lose my voice for several minutes. If someone had opened my skull at that moment, the only thing they would have found was an empty space and a dial tone - my brain frantically trying to reconnect with my body. If I concentrated I could still hear the ringing in my ears.

I avoided him for a week afterwards - well, tried and failed; my work meant contact with the entire Avengers team at all times - but the mental distance hurt too much to keep up with it. Since then, I allowed the realisation to wash over me, causing me both joy and suffering. And I thought I hid it well. Not well enough, apparently, since Natasha sniffed it out. I resisted the urge to close my eyes and sigh again. However, I couldn’t stop my intestines from curling into a tight ball. She had brought Tony into this after all.

Tony’s eyes shone. It had been a long time since any drama unfurled in the compound. He was practically starved, and this… This was delicious.

Looking between them, I knew this wouldn't end well. "You know what? I'm gonna go set up the briefing. Room 705. Thirty minutes. Don't be late." Fishing the phone out of my pocket, I sent a group text to everyone with time and location. In afterthought the wording in the text might have been a tad too harsh, threatening bodily harm if they were late, but the start of the day warranted some sort of reaction leaking from my brain. I locked eyes with Natasha. "Not. A. Word!"

She nodded, but the grin never left her face.

Tony watched me frantically push the elevator button, and I caught him whispering, not knowing I could still hear him. Or maybe he didn't care. "So what's your plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a plan? You're the resident match-maker here, aren't you?"

Nastasha let out a small laugh. "Do you know why she refuses to do anything about it?"

Tony nodded. “Because she’s professional and a bit afraid for what the people at the top are going to say?”

“No. Well, probably that too, but she thinks Bucky is way out of her league. Something about him being a superhero.” She snorted.

“What?” Tony let out a barking laugh. “Why? Bucky’s like the most timid ex-assassin you can find. I mean, he’s basically a cup of soft serve covered in salt and liquorice."

“I know. We gotta get them together. So, uh, are you in?”

“Uh, yeah! What’s your plan?”

The room finally sealed itself around me and I heard nothing else than the back of my head banging against the mirror wall and F.R.I.D.A.Y. cheerfully announcing what floor I was going to.

Half an hour later I had to step out for a bit to fetch a new cable to the projector, and when I got back, almost everyone were seated. My chest hollowed when I spotted Tony and Natasha sitting together, looking very conspiring indeed.

The urge to either run from the room or break them up rose in my throat, but instead I pulled up a chair next to Sam and focused on my breathing. He was one of the most calming people on the team, and I shamelessly used him as a shield.

Other than the small scare in the beginning, the morning briefing went without hitch. Agent Hill presented the upcoming missions, and I marked my calendar accordingly. Apparently SHIELD had detected a new terrorist group forming in northern Europe, and needed eyes.

Natasha was a given, she could go undetected for longer periods of time, and could take care of herself if necessary. Of course, Clint would come with her. They were an amazing team together, and he would probably go anyway, even if he was assigned to another task. It was better just to let him.

Steve and Sam would step in if it came to that, but would have to keep under the radar until they were needed. Bucky would travel to Europe with the others, but I knew he would set off alone the minute they touched ground in Stockholm. He worked best alone, or so he claimed, and anyway it would be an advantage to spread out. Still, I made a note on my pad to make sure he had everything he needed, and then some. Who knew where his road might lead him.

Bruce and Tony would work together to develop a better algorithm for the surveillance. So far, the terrorist group had evaded SHIELD's best efforts to pin them down. I was actually surprised to learn they didn't even know their name, which made me suspect something big was coming.

The rest of the team was assigned to other, smaller missions, scattered across the States. That way they could easily be reassigned if the situation escalated in Europe.

During the meeting, I kept an extra eye on Natasha and Tony. They sat next to each other, and though I thought I saw them passing notes a couple of times, I didn't want to bring any attention to it. The rest of the group looked oblivious. A sigh of relief escaped me, and Natasha looked up. She nodded imperceptibly towards Bucky, who sat with a bored look on his face and a discarded towel by his feet.

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head, trying my best to stop my ears from buzzing. Suddenly aware of every molecule in the air and trying desperately to ignore the intense weight, I focused all my attention back on Agent Hill’s presentation. Still, Bucky’s presence lingered in the back of my head, and together with the imminent threat from Natasha and Tony, I felt like I was sitting on explosives.

When Maria finally closed her laptop and turned to Director Fury, everybody got up, chatting as if the meeting had been a regular parent-teacher meeting and not a brief on a possible terrorist organisation on the rise.

“Can you believe that people will do things like this?” an agent asked as we all filed out of the room.

“Well, faith is a strong persuader,” I replied with a shrug. “Some are willing to go far for what they believe in.”

“Yeah, but they’re wrong,” the agent continued.

“They’d probably say the same about us,” Sam said, and I nodded.

“There are always two sides to the coin. If not more.”

“But -“

“And then it’s up to us to figure out what to do. We have to look at the big picture. Not everyone is capable of that.” Sam tilted his head with a look of disappointment in his eyes.

The agent huffed and hurried off with a look on his face that either said that he was constipated, or that being schooled by a member of the Avengers was too much for a Wednesday morning.

“Not sure he saw the big picture, Sam.” I shook my head and smiled.

“Don’t think he could. Better hope he doesn’t get promoted soon.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. He’ll be on desk duty for years still. And I guess you have a little desk duty yourself right now?”

“Well, actually… I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

Uh-oh. That sounded ominous. “Of course. What can I do, what do you need?” My voice rose to mimic the retail job I had before I got lucky enough to join SHIELD's training and ultimately land my dream job.

Sam grimaced. "I gotta go to Louisiana. Just a short trip, couple of days maybe."

"Shit, don't think Director Fury would be too happy about that right now, not to mention the rest of upstairs. You're supposed to be on silent duty until you leave for Sweden."

"Yeah, I know that, it's just… Cass and AJ has been asking me to come visit. And Sarah's getting sick of their nagging. Also, I sorta promised on the phone yesterday. Didn't know there would be a world crisis today."

Smiling softly, I hid the urge to smack my face into the wall. This was going to take a lot of explaining and string-pulling. He was supposed to go no-contact for the duration of the mission, but I hated disappointing the boys. And Sarah was a good woman. She didn't deserve being let down, even though it technically wasn't Sam's fault this time.

"Sam, you're such a softie," I said after some consideration. "Go. I'll figure something out. Just be back before the weekend, okay? And –"

"Yeah yeah, and I'll come in at once if the situation escalates before we're scheduled to head out."

I gave him a crooked smile to disguise the trouble he had just handed me. "Sure. But I was gonna say bring back some of that pecan pie. I've been dreaming about that since last summer."

Sam let out a loud laugh and kissed the top of my head, melting my nervous soul to a gooey puddle. "You're the best. Thanks."

"Fly safe."

"I always do."

"Really now?"

"Oh so that's how it is, huh?"

"That's how it is. Say 'hi' to Sarah for me."

With a short wave, he took off down the corridor, leaving me quietly screaming and already doing the mental gymnastics to find a solution.

***

Departure time was in two days. Everyone was on edge, trying their best to prepare for any eventualities, both inconceivable and expected. After a short meeting with the departure crew to share the last pieces of intel, I felt empty and tired. Missions always affected me more than they should. These people were my friends; if anything were to happen to them, my world would collapse.

Apparently I wasn't the only one feeling a bit drained. No one was in a hurry to leave, and the conversation was hushed and weary.

"You know what we need?" Tony said loudly, slicing through the silence and winking to Natasha. He thought I wouldn't notice, but I did, and the suspicion grew in my chest. What now?

"Pizza!" they said in unison. "We should gather everyone, before we all go."

Tony nudged my arm. "My treat. What do you say?"

Narrowing my eyes, I tilted my head. "…sure."

"Oh, don't be like that. We all need good pizza. Especially today, what with all this rain. Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y., you know that pizza bakery up the street, the one with the chicken one. Order pizza for everyone. Remember the one with pear, brie, and white sauce. Have it delivered to the lounge."

That did it for me. If he ordered my favourite, I'd be damn sure to eat my part. "When?"

"Uh…" He looked at his watch. "Noon. I'll send out a ping. Don't worry about it."

"Thanks. I do have a ton of things to do to make sure you guys don't die on this trip." I tried to keep it light, but now that the thought had settled in my mind, I had to fight off the tears. It was a miracle I managed to keep the tremble from my voice.

An hour later I tripped over the doorstep to the lounge, surprised to see it was empty except for Tony and Natasha and a huge stack of pizzas. "Where is everybody?" The door clicked behind me, sealing the silence in.

Natasha shrugged. "Late?"

At that moment the door opened again and Bucky sauntered in with a mischievous smile on his face. "Gimme the pizza and nobody gets hurt."

"Jeez, Buck. Remember your manners. There are ladies present." Tony grinned, but opened the top box and helped himself to a slice.

Bucky snickered and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, Y/N," he said with an over-the-top flourish. "I hope you can forgive my insolence." He gestured towards the pizzas. "Ladies first."

My heart did a somersault, but I managed to keep it cool on the outside. "Insolence forgiven," I replied, swallowing a hiccough that lodged itself in my throat, before taking a plate and sifting through the boxes until I found the right one. Loading my plate, I sat down, sinking into the soft cushions. Only thing missing now was some candles and a drink, and I'd be set for the day.

Natasha gave Tony a pointed look. Two minutes later he picked up his phone and half jogged out the door. That was odd. Tony never jogged.

I looked between Natasha and the door, the pizza forgotten halfway between the plate and my mouth. She looked anywhere but at me, but was saved from a confrontation by her phone ringing. "Gotta take this," she muttered. "Can't prepare enough for the trip." She smiled apologetically and left the room. That was a lie, of course. She had full control; all intel was already read and destroyed. And if something new had come up, I would have been notified too.

Suddenly the plate felt heavy in my hand. Maybe it was naïve, but I had expected Natasha and Tony to respect my wishes; after all I had made it absolutely clear that they should leave it, hadn't I? Their amusement and entertainment wasn't worth being an inconvenience to Bucky.

"What's going on?" Bucky asked when the door clicked behind Natasha.

"I… I don't know," I lied haltingly.

Bucky shrugged. "Oh well. Might as well catch up on some paperwork before the flight too. See you later." With one slice between his teeth and another in his hand, he left the room with a friendly wave.

"Sure. See you." I spoke to his back; the glass door had already closed behind him. The lump in my throat grew. Even though Tony had ordered my favourite pizza, I no longer had any appetite. My mouth was dry, and it was a struggle to swallow. In a fit of frustration, I kicked the table, smacking my toe in the process. The pizza slice slid from the plate and landed on my thigh. "Fuck!"

"Ooh, pizza!"

I spun in my seat. Steve had just arrived, and that made me feel a little bit better at least. He was always a laugh.

"Where is everybody?" He looked around and spotted my moping figure, holding an equally sad slice of pizza. "You okay?"

"I guess," I replied, trying to smile and failing miserably. "Everybody else left. The mission, yeah?"

"Right. I thought everything was planned and okayed."

I couldn't bring myself to fill him in on the situation. If he didn't already know, it was nice to have someone neutral by my side. "Yeah, I don't know."

Their scheme was becoming clear; making Bucky spend time with me alone. But it was a failure. Even he thought it was awkward, and he obviously didn't want to be alone with me. Not that I blamed him. If I was him, I'd do the same.

I glanced at my watch. 12.30. Just then Sam, Bruce, Wanda, and Vision spilled into the room, heading towards the pizza like a herd of hungry goats. Slowly my appetite returned too, and half an hour later the blow to my heart was a painful memory pushed to the back of my mind by excellent pizza and wonderful friends.

Later that day I ran into Tony on the way to the garage. He tried to slip past me, but had to stop when I blocked the door, arms crossed over my chest and puffing myself up as much as I could. "Seriously, Tony! What did you expect to happen, huh? That I'd just throw myself in his arms because we were alone? Because newsflash: I've got both self-control and decency. Do you really think I've never been alone with him before?"

At least he had the decency to look thoroughly chastised, and he mumbled something inaudible I thought maybe sounded like an apology.

No way he was getting away with a tiny one. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

"It was Nat's idea," he said, trying a smirk that didn't work at all.

"I very much doubt that," I replied, dragging a hand over my eyes. "Do I have to call Pepper? I didn't think so," I added when he shook his head. "Do better! Now excuse me. I have a lot of work to do to ensure you actually don't die on this mission." With a final, exaggerated frown, I turned and marched out of the room, ignoring the samba in my chest.

Part 2: Eel infested waters

#bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfic #good intentions #bucky barnes #marvel #mcu

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marauderundercover · 4 years ago

Text

This Side of Normal Chapter Four

AO3

Technically, it was an accident. Well, more than technically. It was definitely a legitimate accident that Jason figured out their secret identities only a month after meeting them. Chat Noir’s should’ve been the easiest, given the fact that he saw the boy on nearly every billboard in Paris. However, it wasn’t the billboards that gave it away. It wasn’t even the ungodly number of times the kid’s perfume ad came on the tv. No, it was the shocked “Jason” that the boy spluttered out when he bumped into him in front of the school. Without a mask. Yeah. Not subtle at all. Ladybug’s just fell into place after that. What with the tiny dark-haired girl shooting him worried glances as she patted Chat’s back. Chat Noir. Adrien Agreste. Agreste. Gabriel Agreste. Hawkmoth- fuck. That’s why the kid seemed so down every time they worked on a plan to prove Gabriel was Hawkmoth. Shit. Well that settles it. Hawkmoth was going down, and he was going down soon. The kids could handle themselves, and with Jason willing to fight with them...Gabriel won’t know what hit him.

----

“Oh god. Oh god. I messed up. He’s not gonna help us anymore and I messed up and-” Adrien rambles, a panicked expression taking over his face.

“Adrien, it’s okay. Please breathe, it’s okay.” Marinette says lowly, gently rubbing his back.

“He knows who Hawkmoth is, Mari. He’s gonna think I’m a bad guy too.” Adrien whispers, his eyes filling with tears. Marinette’s heart breaks as she looks at her best friend and the crushed look on his face.

“Jason’s a good guy. He’s always making sure we eat enough and take care of our injuries, and he always asks if we’re getting enough sleep. He’s like….he’s like our big brother. He’s not going to abandon us just because he knows your dad is a major jerk.” Marinette says matter-of-factly. Adrien frowns, but nods.

“What do we do?” He asks. Marinette scrunches her eyebrows, not understanding the question. “I mean, what do we do about him knowing? Do we ask him to leave Paris? Or do we just act like we don’t know that he knows who we are?”

“I think we wait, see if he brings it up. I trust him, Adrien. I know that we haven’t known him for long, but he’s always had our best interest in mind. He cares about us, and as much as it hurts to say, I think he cares more than Master Fu did.”

“Why do I feel like everything’s gonna change?” Adrien asks, his voice small as he curls in on himself.

“Because it is. But it’s not necessarily a bad change.” Marinette says, hoping her voice sounds cheerier than she feels. She’s also felt the shift coming for awhile, felt the way the air seemed to spark with energy. Adrien frowns again and Marinette wraps him in a hug, knowing that no matter how good the change would be for the majority of Paris, her best friend would be hurt. He would suffer, and there was nothing that she could do to take away all of the hurt that is sure to come. No matter how badly she wanted to.

----

Jason paced the length of the roof, trying to figure out a way to broach the subject of identities with the kids. He didn’t want them to stop trusting him, but he also didn’t want them to feel like they <i>had<i> to confirm it. He also really didn’t want them to ask him to leave. How was he supposed to be there for them if he wasn’t allowed to <i>be<i> there? Thinking back to earlier this afternoon, Jason huffs in annoyance when he remembers how young both of them looked. Three years. For three goddamned years these kids had fought something bigger than themselves, and they had done so alone. Alone, with no one but other kids to help until even that was taken away from them. Taking a few shaky breaths, Jason tries to calm himself. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna let himself be controlled by some asshole in a butterfly costume. No way he’ll let that asshole use him against those kids. Someone clearing their throat makes Jason’s eyes shoot open as he looks over where he heard the noise. He grins, hoping the kid isn’t overthinking too much.

“Chat may be a little late tonight. He got caught up with something in his civilian life.” Ladybug says, dressed in her usual training clothes and domino mask, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“You okay Pixie Pop?” Jason asks, frowning. She purses her lips and Jason can tell she’s weighing how much she should say. Taking a chance, Jason says “I saw you guys today.” The girl sucks in a deep breath and nods.

“Yeah, yeah I know.” She says, and Jason gives her a minute to collect herself and decide if she wants to say anything else about it. “How much do you know? I know you saw us, but…”

“I know his name. And I know what you look like behind a mask.” Jason says, and the girl nods before she starts pacing.

“I trust you, Jason. I really do. And I told Chat that it would be okay and that you care about us, but if there’s even a small chance of you being akumatized you’ve gotta go because even though I trust you, I can’t risk my identity and his identity and I’m sure you understand that. Especially with who we think Hawkmoth is because it’s already bad but if he found out it would be even more bad and now Chat is worried that you’ll hate him because of you know, everything, and that’s why he’s not here yet because he’s scared that you’ll look at him differently and-” Ladybug rants, stopping as Jason kneels down to be eye level with her.

“Hey Pix, I’m gonna need you to breathe okay. I told you that I would help you guys, and I’m not gonna leave just because Chat Noir got the short end of the stick. I don’t hate him, and I’m sure as hell not gonna let myself be akumatized. I’m here for you, both of you. And I’m not gonna let some jackass in a butterfly costume chase me off from helping you guys.” He says, talking in the voice he used when he was talking to street kids as Red Hood. The voice that was meant to be calming, but not patronizing. The voice that was laced with concern, and the reassurance that whoever he was talking to didn’t have to run away. That they were safe.

“You’re really not gonna leave?” She asks in a small voice. Jason shakes his head.

“No, I’m here. And I’m not just gonna ditch you guys. If anything, finding out who he is just made me wanna get this done quicker. Get him outta that house.” Jason says, and Ladybug nods.

“Did you- did you want to know my name?” She asks, and Jason instantly sees the worry in her posture. She’ll tell him, but he can tell that she doesn’t want to. At all. Not that he blames her. A lot sits on her shoulders. Jason shakes his head.

“You can tell me after, if you want. But you don’t have to say anything now, okay Pixie?” Jason smiles softly as Ladybug’s shoulders instantly relax. She grins and pulls out her phone, probably to tell Chat Noir that it’s safe for him to come. The two wait in a comfortable silence for a few minutes before a soft thud announces the kid’s arrival.

“Hi Jay.” The boy says quietly, curled in on himself as he obviously prepares to be yelled at.

“Hey kiddo. I’m not mad at you, you know that, right?” Jason asks, making sure to keep his body language relaxed despite how much he wants to go and beat the shit out of Gabriel Agreste.

“You don’t think I’m a monster?” Chat asks, and Jason shakes his head.

“I’ve met monsters, kid. And you’re sure as hell not one.” He says.

“But my father-”

“I don’t give a damn about that piece of shit. You’re not him. You’re the kid who thought he could fit twelve marshmallows in his mouth. You’re the kid who cheers on LB no matter what. You’re the kid who makes god awful jokes, seriously the only one with worse jokes is my brother. You’re the kid who stepped up and helped to protect Paris when no one else would. You’re a lot of things, but you’re not your father and you’re definitely not a monster.” Jason says. Chat- no, Adrien lets out a choked sob and rushes forward, wrapping his arms around him. Jason freezes for a minute, before wrapping his arms around the kid, watching for butterflies. It’d be just their luck for Gabriel to akumatize Adrien when he was finally letting himself cry. Jason glanced over at LB, noting that she was also watching the skies. After a few minutes, Adrien’s cries slow down to sniffles before he takes a step back, his cheeks bright red under his mask.

“Uh, I- um, sorry about that.” He apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“Don’t worry about it kid. What’re big brothers for?” Jason asks with a cheeky smirk. He snorts when he sees the kids’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Did Buginette tell you about that?” Adrien asks, and this time it’s Jason’s turn for his eyebrows to shoot up. He glanced over at Ladybug, surprised to see her entire face bright red.

“I er, um, no I didn’t.” She stammers out, looking everywhere but at Jason.

“Tell me what?” Jason asks, still confused why the two were acting so weird.

“Well, I, um, you see-” Adrien cuts off Ladybug.

“She says you're our big brother.” Adrien says with a grin. Jason’s confused face is instantly replaced with a wide grin.

“Well of course I am.” Jason says, unable to wipe the grin off his face. Jason snorted at the thought that Bruce was gonna have to get two more rooms ready at the manor (it was safer than Jason’s apartment and he was not about to put these two in any more danger than they’ve already been in for three years).

“So big bro,” Adrien starts, his wide grin still stretched across his face. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re gonna get Hawkmoth’s miraculous. Tonight.”

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @laurcad123

#maribat #maribat jason todd #maribat marinette dupain cheng #maribat adrien agreste #fanfic #ao3fic #platonic jasonette #platonic maribat adrienette #This Side of Normal

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 4 years ago

Text

Into The Unknown, Part 10

First

Grocery store trips were weird. Tim had never taken them before, and now here he was buying food for the three of them regularly. He’d thought it would be harder, for some reason. But, no, it was just boring.

Tim rolled his eyes as Damian pointed to the nearest brightly colored object -- a bag of Not Cheetos… holy shit they were called Fritos this wasn’t allowed he has never been so vehemently against anything in his life.

He sighed as the baby yelled at him for the bag. This was his fault. He shouldn’t have gone in the chip aisle.

He looked down at the kid in front of him with an apologetic smile.

“No, kiddo. See, I would love to get that for you but, unfortunately, Mari said I can’t buy you any more random sweets. Blame her, not me.”

Damian was, apparently, too smart for his tricks because he banged his fist on the front of the cart and babbled at him angrily.

Tim sighed and leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool metal of the cart, thinking.

And then he got back up and handed the kid the bag of chips. Damian didn't know that it was food, Tim was pretty sure, and he had nothing against… ‘Fritos’ (outside of their name, obviously). So, why not? He could eat them. It was better than dealing with a tantrum in the middle of a store, at least.

Damian lit up and hugged the bag to his chest as if it was a soft stuffed animal and not a plastic bag filled with air and maybe a few chips.

Tim smiled faintly and pressed a kiss to the top of his head and then continued on his way, scanning over the list idly.

Oh. Marinette had added something. He squinted down at her messy scrawl, bringing it close to his face as if he could will the words to make sense.

And it worked. Ha. Take that everyone who didn’t believe in him.

Okay. So, she needed ‘pads’.

Sure. No problem.

He walked over to the aisle.

Hm. Okay. There might be a tiny little problem.

Why were there so many different brands? And sizes?

He stared around at them all helplessly. Sure, he had glimpsed the box a few times but he certainly hadn’t paid it much mind -- it wasn’t for him, why would he?! But now he was standing in an entire aisle full of products and there were way too many of them. And why did they all look the same? Shit!

He looked at Damian, who was biting the edge of the chip bag and giggling about the crinkling noises it made. But, once Tim turned his gaze on him, he looked up at him with wide eyes, attentive.

“Any chance you know what type Mari uses?” Tim joked softly.

Damian popped off the chip bag so he could babble at him. It was very helpful.

He considered, very briefly, just standing there in the aisle with the same helpless expression until some kind-hearted person took pity on him and he could avoid the embarrassment of calling Marinette at work to ask what types of pads she used… but, no, the idea of asking some random person for help was way worse. He had to just suck it up and do it.

He pulled out his phone and called Marinette. He was pretty sure it was lunchtime for her, anyways.

She picked up within a few rings, voice slightly muffled as she answered with a simple: “Problem?”

Tim didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or amused that her first thought when he called her was that something was wrong.

But he quickly alleviated her fears: “No, everything’s fine.”

He could hear the phone shift slightly as she assumedly went back to eating. “Right, then what is it?”

“Nothing bad, really…” Tim started awkwardly. His face reddened without his permission. “Just wanted to know what brand you used for, um, hygiene products.”

“... hyg --? Oh.” He heard her laugh at him and his face only reddened further. “What, the world's greatest detective couldn’t figure it out?”

“That’s my dad!” He mumbled a little huffily.

She snickered a little longer before finally saying: “I think the brand is called ‘Forever’ here.”

“See! You don’t even know!” He said even as he pulled down a box with the word written across it in elegant script.

“That’s because the name changed when --...” She seemed to remember she was at work -- or, at least, that there were other people around -- because she cut herself off suddenly before she could admit to being a dimension hopper in a world that likely wouldn’t even believe in the multiverse. “When… I switched brands! Yeah. Heh.”

(Tim swore he heard her mumble ‘technically not even a lie’ but he wasn’t quite sure.)

He started to put it in the basket but then he paused.

“There’s a lot of sizes.”

“Um… I think a four?”

“Yeah, no, they have letters here.”

“Fuck, right, hate that, um… D, I guess.”

He switched out the Cs he had gotten and smiled as Damian reached for him. He clearly wanted out of the cart -- Tim wondered, vaguely, if it was uncomfortable -- but that wasn’t going to happen so he decided to distract him:

“Want to talk to Mari, kiddo?”

The kid blinked up at him a few times before lighting up. “Mar-ree!”

He pressed the phone to Damian’s ear with one hand until the kid took it himself and then motioned for him to go ahead. “Takalam maeaha.”

“... marhaba?” Damian said, giving Tim a look that seemed to scream ‘you’re weird for making me talk into a box’.

Marinette must have said something back, because the kid’s eyes went wide. Damian looked around wildly for a few moments, clearly trying to figure out where Marinette was, before he realized that her voice was coming from the box. He gasped a little and pressed the phone against his ear even harder and started to ‘talk’ to her. It was a weird mix of Arabic and a few English syllables thrown together haphazardly, Tim was just glad he was learning.

Tim started on his way through the store again, sure he wasn’t going to get his phone back anytime soon.

He’d gotten all the necessities and they had money left in the weekly budget...

He headed to the kid’s aisle, head tipping from side to side as he considered what to get. Maybe a new book? Damian had taken a liking to them, though Tim was pretty sure that was more because he thought the English language sounded kind of funny rather than any real passion for stories.

He picked up a book about letters and looked down at Damian. He sounded annoyed now.

He looked at Tim with an annoyed expression and shook Tim’s poor phones a few times. “Mar-ree!”

Ah. She must have hung up because her break was over.

How was he supposed to explain how phones worked to a baby? Especially since he knew phones so intimately thanks to his time working on the model he was using.

He gently pulled the phone from the kid’s hands. “Mari’s at work. You can see her later.”

“Bu…” Damian pouted.

Damn it. How dare the kid be cute? Tim was about five seconds away from walking to Marinette’s job so the kid would smile again.

He hesitated before reaching behind himself and grabbing the first soft thing his hands landed on. He pulled it out and squinted at the stuffed cat. It was cute, he supposed, but he didn’t know why it was rainbow-colored.

Whatever.

He offered the plush to Damian and the kid seemed to instantly forget about the phone.

(And the chips. But the kid had put it in his mouth so it looked like Tim was buying that anyway.)

He pressed a kid to the top of his head and then continued on his way.

… and that was when he heard it:

Haha, someone got called a DILF.

… wait a minute… he was the only person with a kid around here…

His head whipped around so fast he would have gotten whiplash if he was old -- which he wasn’t -- to see two girls in their mid teens. And they were definitely looking at him. They even tried to hide behind the next aisle in order to avoid his gaze once they realized he had heard them.

Tim didn’t know what to do about this. Someone had actually called him...

He was 19! He couldn’t be that yet! How?! No!

And, sure, the logical part of him knew they were technically right. He was attractive (he hoped) and, when it came to the ‘dad’ thing… if Damian never got his memories back, then Tim would pretty much be the only dad that he had ever known. He would be a dad.

But, again, he was 19-years-old, he didn’t want to think about this.

So, to ward off the impending crisis, he looked around the aisle he was in wildly for some kind of ‘kid’ thing.

He found some marshmallow guns and grabbed two. Then he got some marshmallows because those weren’t included for some reason. Whatever.

He looked down at the basket, aware that he was now over budget, and eventually decided to put back the book. Who needs to learn?

(Besides, if Damian really wanted to just hear people talk, Tim could totally do that. He had so many random facts in his head thanks to random rabbit holes he had gone down while sleep-deprived, he could just rant about those if the kid wanted.)

So, he checked out, loaded up with all the bags and the baby, and started walking home.

… he was totally going to learn to drive. Even if Gotham streets were safer -- especially when he had a baby on him -- it was a pain to carry all the groceries even the few blocks to their apartment. Literally. The bags dug into his skin. He swore he could taste blood.

But he had an end goal in sight, so he went faster than usual that day.

He set up the guns, leaving Marinette’s on the kitchen table and then took a seat on the couch with Damian. They spent the few remaining hours playing games (Tim was pretty sure, he had absolutely no clue what Damian was saying but the kid seemed to have fun and that was all that mattered) and watching TV.

Tim heard his door click and looked up.

He quickly reached for the marshmallow gun and turned to point it at the door.

Damian watched him in silence, perfectly still as if he understood that this was something that they needed to be quiet for.

Usually, this kind of worried Tim. They always gave Damian to Kaalki and Tikki when they sparred, but Damian had always been… shockingly well-behaved? Not in the good way, either, he was far too still and quiet. Tim was starting to suspect that, at the very least, the kid remembered the first year of his life in the League. He hoped that the trauma would fade away with time. Kids forget things that they experienced as babies when they grew older, Tim himself couldn’t remember anything from before he was three, so hopefully this would be the same.

… but he really wanted to get Marinette with a marshmallow gun. So, he swallowed down the slight bit of anxiety rising in his chest and looked through the scope as Marinette finally managed to open the finicky door.

Damian’s eyes widened and he made a quiet ‘ah!’ sound.

Tim jumped at the sudden sound and pulled the trigger. The marshmallow gun made a fmpf sound as it fired off the shot.

The marshmallow bounced off of Marinette’s forehead harmlessly. Because, y’know, it was a marshmallow.

She blinked a few times and then knelt down to pick up the fallen marshmallow. She scanned it over a few times, eyes narrowed.

Tim hardly paid attention to her, looking over at Damian. The kid looked very confused, eyes darting between the gun and Marinette and the marshmallow on the floor repeatedly as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

And then he flopped back on the sofa with a quiet whimpering sound.

Marinette and Tim frowned at each other. He could see confusion and concern knitting her eyebrows together, meanwhile all he had was dread coiling itself in his gut. Because… what if Damian did remember his first year with the League? Or, even worse, what if he would slowly regain all his memories? No kid deserved that...

Tim felt something hit the side of his head, snapping him out of his daze. Oh. Marinette had grabbed the other gun and promptly gotten her revenge.

Damian didn’t see this, at least, just staring at the ceiling with wide eyes.

Marinette sat on Damian’s other side, gently picking him up and nuzzling her nose against his cheek. Then, she sat him back down between them, sidling close so the kid could curl into her side. Tim, after a few seconds, scooted closer as well.

“Want some marshmallows? They’re yummy,” she tried hesitantly.

She shot one into her hand and, after tearing it in half just in case, handed it to Damian.

The kid took a hesitant bite, still looking a little put out, but then he gasped a little. He happily chewed away at the marshmallow, the event easily wiped from his mind in favor of the yummy thing in his hand.

Tim sighed in relief, reaching behind himself for the marshmallow bag so they wouldn’t have to shoot any more. Just in case.

“Quick thinking,” he said, which was kind of a compliment if you squinted.

She smiled and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. “It’s what I’m known for.”

There was a few seconds before she sighed just a little, gently combing her fingers through Damian’s hair. The kid reached out and gripped Tim’s shirt in his hand, surely getting it messed up thanks to the marshmallow on his hands but whatever, and tried to tug him closer. He obliged. Marinette rested her head on his shoulder absently.

“What would I do without you?” He mused.

“Probably starve on the streets,” she said bluntly.

He scoffed a little. “The minute this kid goes to sleep I’m going to shoot another marshmallow at you.”

“You can try. Only reason you even got me last time was ‘cause I didn’t know you were going to do it.”

“The element of surprise is a totally valid tactic!” He pretended to whine.

She grinned at him. “But it won’t work again.”

He wrapped an arm around her lazily. “We’ll see.”

~~~~~

@unoriginalmess @hammalammadamdam @astrynyx @laurcad123 @927roses-and-stuff

#pads..... of paper??#nearly made tim go #do with this information what you will #into the unknown #maribat #tim drake #ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #red robin #timari #timmari #timinette #shutterbug

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years ago

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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