Buck runs into Tommy at the coffee shop and notices that Tommy is still ordering his (Buck's) favorite type of pastry.
It was Harry’s job to grab coffee as the probie, and yet here Buck is standing off to the side of their closest cafe waiting for his mobile order to be called. He grumbled when he’d drawn the short straw this morning, but when he saw the fire engine roll by the shop, lights on siren wailing, he couldn’t help but think it served them right.
His karma is instant.
The bell above the door rings and in walks a familiar face. Buck’s heart drops to his stomach, and he freezes, caught like a deer in a headlight.
Tommy doesn’t look up from his phone, doesn’t see Buck and his cold panic. He doesn’t know he’s being watched as he approaches the counter with a friendly smile. He orders his coffee just as Buck remembers: a large, hot, black coffee with three splendas.
But that’s not all, Tommy also orders his usual breakfast sandwich, but it’s the pastry that catches Buck’s attention.
“And a warmed up cinnamon roll please.” Tommy taps his card to pay.
“Buck?” The woman behind the counter called, two carriers of coffee in hand.
Buck winces, making eye contact with Tommy for the briefest moment. His cheeks heat up, his heart rate doubles.
“Buck?” The woman called again, pulling him out of the moment.
He clears his throat and takes the coffee with a thank you.
“Hey…” Buck says as Tommy steps over to the pick up counter to wait for his order.
“You doin’ okay?” Tommy asked, eyebrow raised.
“Never better,” Buck nodded. “Uh…really good to see you. Enjoy your cinnamon roll…” Buck could punch himself, why the hell would he say that?
“Not as much as I enjoy yours, but thanks,” Tommy replies, smooth as ever.
Buck can feel the butterflies that he thought were long dead kick up again in his stomach.
“Can I call you?”
Tommy pauses, considering for a moment, before nodding. “I would love that.”
Buck nods quickly. “Then I--I’ll do that. Uh, later. After my…my shift.” He gestured to the door. “Later.”
Psycoanalysing jealous soap because I am anything but a kind writer to my comfort characters <3333
I think that a lot of the insecurity that comes from soap comes from a simple question of like: will he be remembered when he dies? What would happen to him? Would people cry, celebrate the life he lived, not even care at all?
It’s not just the jealousy that bothers him, it’s the sadness, anger, betrayal and misery that accompanies with the feeling.
It’s frustrating, constantly annoying and it crumbles him down to a green-eyed, bleeding creature. It scratches at his chest and the weight of an invisible being pressed up against him, hot and uncomfortable, just short of being too much. It causes him to be snappy, more twitchy and reveals too much.
Most people don’t notice though, brushes if off as banter that teeters the line of being too close for comfort. Since it’s soap, of course he’s just kidding. No mind the trembling violent gestures or the way his words seem to shoot out of his mouth as if it never filters through his brain at all, just spitting it out. It drives Soap insane.
Do they not see? Do they not care? Is he invisible? Why hasn’t anyone noticed? It whispers like it’s right against his eardrum, reverberating through his mind and chokes though his veins. Why hasn’t anyone cared? Why does no one care?
There’s a theory that says you don’t exist unless someone calls and you respond.
Soap feels like he’s never existed a day in his life.
meeting sampo for the first time, and falling for his tricks completely — being unaware in this world, you decide to blindly trust him. after all, he's just so friendly, and his smiles are warm and welcoming, why wouldn't you trust him?
and even after every scam of his, and his ditching, you still agree to work "with" him. his apologies are so sincere, and he always knows the best excuses to get you back on his side when march and dan heng are yelling at him. you believe him, right? won't you take his side, and give him some help here? he swears he'll repay the favor, though even you're aware he most likely won't be planning to do such.
it irritates your comrades so much that you keep diving deeper and deeper into trouble with him. 7th is constantly telling you how nasty he is — sampo is nothing but a filthy traitor! if he could sell you for anything, you'd be off in some other planet for dirt cheap! and though dan heng doesn't lecture you in the same ways march does, you can tell by his cold glare that he isn't happy when you retun even slightly beat up — when will you learn your lesson? gods.. you seriously stress him.
but when you finally take their advice and confront sampo, you can't help but to feel soft and guilty when he gives you those teary, puppy eyes and his voice has the slightest crack to it — he knows that they're your friends, but he's your partner! hasn't he already proved that you two are great together? you've already made such a profit, and he wants to treat you with it!
you don't notice how his eyes have a dark glaze to them, how he seethes through gritted teeth — what do they know? sure, sampo is aware he's more than dirty when it comes to business, but if it works, then it works! he's kept his promise to keep you safe, even if there's a scratch or two on your face. he'd never let you actually get hurt — you do know that, right?
and sampo just can't relax after that. he can tell that their judgment if starting to affect your relationship, and the last thing he needs to do is lose you. you just fit so good with him, you know?
he loves how comfortable you get in his home, how despite all the shady things he's done, you still trust him in the end. and sampo loves when you start drifting off after having that special meal he'd been working on all evening for you. sampo knows how to treat you right, how to make you happy — and he'll prove it.
cw: cheating or hinting at it or some kind of fuck up. not really specified. mikey is ill. not properly written. just idk. mikey suicidal ideation a little bit bro it’s just brain stuff
manjiro thinks there’s something inside of him. he thinks he’s sick— like an illness, like a bug crawling along his stomach lining and making its way up to his brain. and he spent a long, long time trying to figure out what it is. but now, across from you, he thinks he knows.
“mikey,” your voice is thick with the tone it normally has. you are no different. nothing about you has changed. you are loving, and a little shrill, and you’re you— the way you always have been. so he can’t figure out why your voice sounds like nails. “is it true?”
you’re naive, and his hands ache to reach for your arms, bring them around himself, and find a comfort inside your embrace. he wants you to fix him. instead, he says nothing. he watches you deflate, crumble into the couch he bought and sift away like nothing because of him.
“i don’t understand,” he knows now, watching tears prick in your eyes, that it’s just him. he’s always had this pounding in the back of his head, this symbol in his mind that he was the token for his issues, but he searched and he searched and he searched for something to blame. “you wouldn’t do that to me.”
and he wants to agree. because before he did it, he was sure he never would, too. he finds himself just as confused as you are— he wants to cry the way you’ve started to, but manjiro sano doesn’t deserve that. manjiro sano does not deserve to feel bad for himself.
“i did.” you sob. he feels sick. mikey has always known he’s destroyed things, but he never knew it was like this. he could stomach it— little broken promises, or snapping one of emma’s heels, or the fear he watched people hold for him. and the bigger stuff, the stuff that made him want to tear himself apart inside out, he shut out just as fast. manjiro can’t change himself, or stop this, or figure out why he’s doing it, but he’s gotten okay at forgetting he cares.
but while you sob, he feels sick. and he knows how bad he is, he knows how horrible he is, he wants to tell you he knows there’s this rottenness festering in his blood and clotting it, but he doesn’t deserve that. he doesn’t deserve to sway your self reliance.
“do what you have to.” mikey can’t figure out why he keeps ruining things. he stopped believing in fate when his brother died— not like he really believed in it much beforehand—, but sometimes he questions if he was designed to be a piece of shit, or if he’s just a piece of shit.
he hopes you’ll hit him. he hopes, in the far part of his mind, maybe you’ll kill him. mikey destroys everything, but for some reason he can’t destroy himself. he waits like an awestruck lover for someone else to do it. you never do, though. you sit on the couch, body defeated and useless, and you let yourself cry. he doesn’t say sorry.
it’s awhile before you talk again. your cheeks are fuller, rounder and swollen and tear stained. mikey tries to memorize them. he doesn’t think he deserves that.
“okay.” he’s had a lot of last moments with people. they’re not always predictable, but this one is. “i know, mikey,” his eyes close. he wants you to stop talking. “i know you’ve got— a lot. i empathize with that, and i’ve always tried to support you.” he needs you to stop talking.
he wants you to yell. he wants you to tell him you hate him.
“i expected the same.” he’s going to be sick. when he opens his eyes, you’re standing. he needs to get whatever is inside of him out.
“i know,” he surprises himself with that, and he sounds so weak. and he is. you give him a watery smile. he wonders why you love him.
“i know you’re sorry.” and this is so much worse than you thinking he’s as bad as he knows he is. he feels like a broken record, spindle stuck on the same thread of vinyl, but his mind has been repeating the same thing his whole life. “i just can’t see it ever being okay.” he can’t, either.
when you walk away, his skin shatters. his eyes meld to nothing, he turns into the mess he’s always been, he swallows as hard as he can to try to dissipate the lump in his throat. he thinks when he figures out why he’s like this— why he does what he does, why he ruins everything he loves, what he needs to take out of him to be okay— maybe he’ll give you a proper apology. but for now, he looks at the door and he crumbles the same way he made you.
The celebrations are up in the air all across the globe, not as high key as pride but still covered with tributes from the news channels and documentaries and articles. Ashton started off with the excitement of a ten year old boy for the 50th anniversary of Apollo 11 with the memories of the wonder and excitement and pride but it lost steam pretty quickly with the memories of lost and pain and watching it on TV when he should've been there helping out. Moon landing day had slowly gone and pass, Morri and Astor both joining him in the celebrations, watching the lunar eclipse earlier that night. But now as dawn was breaking, Ashton sat by the porch, soaking up whatever daybreak of sunlight he could handle before it shoved them back under shelter again. He thumbed the current newspaper, eyes sticking on the one article paying tribute to all the other NASA staff that contributed to the mission, their faces, names and titles filling up the page, Ashton's fitting right along the wall of faces he could still recognise.
Arms slink around him from the back feeling the warmth literally engulf and wrap him up as he rested his head on them returning the affection. "You look hot in black and white," Ashton could hear him from behind and he scoffed, "and at 26. I forgot what I looked like back then." Looking at the picture he took working for NASA, his hair was actually longer, clean shaved, a big beaming smile, a bit more sparkle in his eyes, he hasn't aged physically per say, but the last 50 years had broken him down and rebuilt him up in a completely different way. It's hard to even remember what was he like as a person. He pat the empty space on the step beside him to be able to see Astor, knowing that they bother enjoyed just sitting on these steps to see the sunrise.
He put his focus back on the newspaper article, laying he head on Astor's shoulders, "It's kinda crazy, I knew and remember most of these people. I was supposed to be Mike Collins’ second, you know?" What were they doing now? Were they alive? Maybe they're reading the papers the same way as him, seeing the world celebrate the success once crazy to even fathom. Ashton was honoured to at least have a taste of it. "And I bet they all remember you as well," Astor knew what he was thinking, he always did. "Yeah, as the poor Apollo 11 kid with the tragic accident in Paris." Ashton passed the comment but didn't want to dwell on it too long, knowing how it could swallow him whole if he wasn't careful. "You were around then, what were you doing on moon day?" Astor shrugged, "Huh, I don't know, killing someone, smoking, probably?" He let out that beautiful laugh when Ashton made him a face and elbowed him, "that's just insulting, my life achievement and you're just smoking away." Not that he could say anything better about himself, stripped and broken, beaten to submission, begging to at least watch it on tv.
"Hey, I'm here now," Astor gestured to the present time, leaning back arms outstretched before wrapping one around Ashton's waist. "You better be." Ash warned his love, half teasing half pretty serious about it.
"And I'm proud of you."
The words hit hard but like the way a hot shower hits hard on bruised skin, it hurts and it soothes with the initial stings that dull into a comfort. Ashton didn't utter back a word but wrapped his own arm around him, putting down the newspaper, not really wanting to see his own face beaming back at him with such blind stupid joy. It wasn't fair that he got the same credit despite dropping dead. It wasn't fair that he got celebrated along with these much more talented and hard working people who saw the mission through, it wasn't fair he didn't get to celebrate with all of them when it finally happened, it wasn’t fair that he was even feeling this way when he has love and family and happiness, it wasn't fair that he couldn't feel as proud as that man beside him did of himself. It wasn't fair.
"I really miss it," the words Astor muttered drew Ashton back to the now, seeing the night seep away with the sunlight slowly spilling into the sky, pink and orange bleed into blue. “Me too.” Ashton whispered as they sat in silence watching the light that kills creep closer in towards them, sooner or later chasing them back behind covers. They’ll sit until the very last second, if they could’ve helped it, they would’ve sat there forever. Ashton could literally see the sunlight paint the grass right in front of them, the comfortingly deadly rays at that moment seemed almost inviting. It wasn’t fair.
Without thinking, Ashton stuck his hand palm up out of the shade and under the harsh sun. It hit hard like the way a hot shower hits hard on bruised skin, it hurts and it soothes, with the initial stings that numb into a comfort. It didn’t last more than a second as his hand gets yanked back into safety, or prison, depends how you look at it. “What the fuck are you doing?” Astor hissed, cradling Ashton’s hand as Ashton finally glanced down to the damage done, the UV quickly burning his palm but getting his fingertips the worst. But yet nothing his body can’t seem to fix on its own anyways, right? “Sorry, I don’t- it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt at all.” He tried to prove his point flexing and clenching his hand but he couldn’t control the shaking, he just wasn’t sure what it was for - the pain or finally getting a taste of the deprivation of the sun. He didn’t know what happened but maybe it was just idiocy of hope that just somehow.. maybe this time if he did it, it wouldn’t hurt. “I.. really miss it too.” Now it just seemed as if daylight was mocking them, mocking him and his foolishness. He quietened down for a moment and then two, before finally letting out the toxic blubber poisoning his thoughts, “it’s not fair.”
Astor didn’t reply with anything, him knowing this just as well as Ashton. He knew everything, every insecurity, every toxic thought, there was nothing to hide nor a need to. He of course, proceeded to stick his own hand out into the sun. “Hey- stop.” They mirrored their actions as Ashton grabbed that arm back in tightly, quicker than he could process it. He simply scowled at his love before looking at his hand, you could almost hear a sizzle if you listen closely. “Now it’s kinda fair,” Astor just stated as a matter of factly, pretty much enjoying the pain, “though you lied about it not hurting.” Ashton shook his head and chuckled at the idiot beside him, lightly blowing at the fresh burn on Astor’s palm, “well, I’ve had worse.” What meant to be a joke perhaps stung more uncomfortably than it should seeing Astor’s face fall. And so he shut up, very much regretting his comeback.
The hand Ashton held pulled back and reached for his own burnt one, already slowly repairing itself. He watched as their tender fingers loosely intertwine, thumbs lighting running over and soothing each other. “No, it’s not fair,” any lightheartedness left Astor’s words, leaving only sincerity, “but no matter how unfair it gets, it’ll always, always be you and me, against this fucked up world.” Ashton shouldn’t have let this get to him, it usually never does nowadays, but today was just.. an exceptionally hard day. He let out a shaky exhale before nodding his head, bringing their knuckles to his lips to press them to it. He wasn’t sure what he did to deserve this man, but he’ll never question it.
“Or-” Astor started up again, a cheeky smile growing, “you could just let me buy you a spaceship.”
Ashton hear his own laughter once more, “it’s not that easy.” Of course, they’ve have this stupid conversation before. “But it could be!” Astor whined, getting as far as he usually does before getting shut down.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“Love you too.”
They had maybe 2 more minutes, before they actually had to run back in and so they sat in complete comfort and silence, pulling closer to each other as they watched the sunrise. His thoughts got the better of him today and it’s hard to truly feel the joy and celebrations with the rest of the world when the dust settles, but it’s comforting to know he don’t really need to force himself to. “Thank you.” for being proud of him when he couldn’t be proud of himself.
rarepairs, you say? can we get more kirumi/rantaro, please? maybe rantaro wants to stay in fighting trim so he asks kirumi to spar with him? (because she’s superwoman and absolutely knows how to fight)
“Are you certain of this?” Kirumi asked as she readied herstance.
Rantaronodded, bracing himself for the oncoming spar.
“Absolutely.”
“ThenI will not hesitate to hold back,” the maid stated blankly.
Ina flash, the first round had begun. Kirumi was a bit impressed with his skills,not expecting the ultimate adventurer to have much knowledge of basic sparring.She found herself having to work harder than expected to fend off his attacks.She watched him carefully as they danced around each other, and found herself lostin his sultry gaze…
…which led to her failure.
Whenshe least expected it, one of his hands poked at the side of her waist. Notenough to cause pain, but in a way that made her shriek nonetheless.
“-EEK!”
Theboy paused, a bit surprised at her reaction.
“Wasthat…?”
Shetried to brush it off by focusing on the task at hand.
“Weare still in a duel, Amami. Don’t lose fo-CAAAH!”
Shesquealed again when he pinched both of her ribs just under the bone. She would’vedoubled over if she had been less graceful.
“Kirumi,you didn’t tell me you were-”
“Wait,no-OHOHOHO!”
She fell victim to involuntary laughter as his hands wandered upand down her torso, poking in sensitive areas seldom touched by anyone. In notime, she was crumpled on the floor, a giggling twitchy mess of nerve endingsand belly laughs.
“Hahahaaha! Haha… haaa… Amami!” she managed to spit out in betweenhitched breaths. He relented after a few seconds, and she soon realized theirprecarious position.
Rantaro gawked down at her, straddling her hips and grinningvictoriously. The thought of him so close, and in such a dominant position,made her cheeks turn all sorts of colors.
“Looks like I won,” he teased.
Her face was red hot, but not wanting to show weakness, she didn’tbreak away from his eyes.
“Very well. I forfeit.”
He chuckled, and then, to her surprise, leaned down to meet herlips in a soft kiss.
This was basically me going “hey where’s Della?” and then me going “O H”
so enjoy
words-1,038
“Nao, tell me lad.” Scrooge said slyly, leaning over the one who dared challenge him to a bet. “What keeps ye up at night? What eats at ye from th’ inside? What, do tell, is yer greatest fear?”
Donald tried to remain strong. He tried to keep a stone face to counter the god’s cold smiling one. But those red eyes seemed to be burning into his soul, and something in him faltered, and for one split second, the duck’s eyes wavered to the floor.
“Got it!” And with a snap of his black fingers, Scrooge transported Donald to the coliseum in the center of the Land of the Remembered.
Donald spun in a circle, trying to take in the roaring crowd that surrounded him on all four sides. On one balcony stood is family, and on the other stood the three, all powerful gods. Scrooge looked unsettlingly happy.
“Donald Duck! Ye will have ta’ defeat EVERY bull the duck family has ever finished!” Scrooge declared, and as if on queue, the walls opened up to reveal bull after bull after bull. All skeletal, and all charging at him. “All of them. At. Once! If ye win, ye shall live. But fail, an’ ye’ll be forgotten forever. BEGIN!”
At first things were going smoothly. Donald was able to dodge and counter the several thousand bulls that charged towards him, give or take a few horns clipping his sides. It wasn’t long before another flash of yellow caught his eye, it was the same kind of light used to summon him, but he couldn’t see what was there over the sea of bulls. With him distracted, a bull caught him off guard and slammed into his back, sending poor Donald hurdling across the sandy floor.
“Behold! A new challenger approaches! Hahaha!!!” Scrooge’s towering voice echoed throughout the coliseum.
“Scrooge! That’s cheating!” Goldie growled, grabbing the other god by his whiskers. “This isn’t part of the deal!”
“Nonsense, my dearest.” Scrooge chuckled as if he had no remorse for what (or whom) he had just summoned. “Ah said th’ lad had to face his greatest fear. An’ that’s exactly what he’s goin’ ta’ do.”
Donald shook his head, dazed and looked at the shocked faces around him. One by one, the bulls surrounding him turned to dust. What was killing them? Donald hadn’t even picked up his sword yet. But from the sea of parting bulls he saw her.
He saw his sister. He saw Della. Two swords clutched within her hands and fury burning within her eyes. She was skeletal, yes, but parts of her were accented with green and black. Dust rose from her being, and she was marching right towards Donald.
“HAHAHAHA!!” Scrooge hollered. “It appears that someone isn’t too pleased at how she’s bein’ remembered! ‘Gone’ isn’t a good thing to tell her children, is it, Donald?”
With a growl, Della slammed her sword down at Donald, but he quickly rolled out of the way. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t fight his sister.
“After all those years of hiding the truth, she cannae’ be remembered like all the others.” Scrooge grinned at Della continued to make advances towards her brother. “She’s been fadin’ in and out of each land. Completely in torment. An’ it’s all. Yer. FAULT!”
It was then Donald realized his greatest fear wasn’t finishing a bull. It was coming to terms with the fact that he lost his sister.
“NO!” Donald grabbed his sword and quickly deflected one of Della’s blows. Now fully on his feet, the matador was face to face with the sister he lost. But this couldn’t be her, could it? Donald held the truth from his nephews, and pushed the truth down himself, but he still thought of her. Though, even if he thought of her in his own mind, there was no shrine to honor her on the Day of the Dead. “Della! Della it’s me! It’s Donald!”
“I KNOW!” Della’s voice sounded unlike her own. It was distorted, as if she wasn’t fully there, like she was being split between two worlds. “You’ve forgotten me! You don’t even tell my boys about me!” Clang, clang, clang! went her sword against Donald’s. She was furious. Good gods she was going to kill him! And she didn’t even hear her mother’s protests from the balcony. “How could you Donald? We’re family!”
“I’m-I-I didn’t–!” Donald stumbled with his words, trying to find anyway to get through to his sister.
“Donald! Your father is here!” The Candlemaker with the messy cloud of hair shouted. Sure enough, when Donald looked up he saw his father, Quackmore, near his mother, warning him of some danger approaching the town of Duckburg.
Della took Donald’s distraction to her advantage. In one fell swoop, her sword knocked him clear across the ring. Donald’s swords clattered to the floor, and his guitar next to him.
This was hopeless. He was never going to win. He deserved this. He was never going to see his family, or Daisy, or even Gladstone again. As Della approached him, Donald looked over at his guitar. Della loved it when he played for her. She was the only one who really appreciated his music.
Wait.
In a second Donald grabbed his guitar and spun to face his sister. This had to work. This had to. With the first strum of his guitar, Della halted, her narrowed eyes going a surprised wide.
And Donald sang, and Donald apologized. He rested on one knee and he sang to his sister about how sorry he was he tried to forget her. And as he sang, the accents of black and green floated off Della and into the sky. She fell to her knees, clutching his forehead as Donald finished his small song.
“Donald?” Della’s voice was now like the one he remembered. “Oh my gosh. I’m-I’m so sorry!”
But Donald didn’t dwell on it, he rushed forward and hugged his sister tightly. He missed her so much.
“He did it.” Goldie smiled at the dark god beside her.
“Aye. Ah’ll give him that.”
“In accordance with the ancient rules!” Fethry, smiled, taking the hands of both gods. “We give you life!”
Can you write me a short little pastel!punk thing pleaseeee dad???
Ofc my son I can do this (thank you so much for this bc I’m in a car rn and honestly I needed a little distraction)
—
Daniel Howell was the boy that got teased relentlessly for his choice of clothing. He tended to gravitate towards light jeans and flower crowns and for some reason humanity collectively decided that those things were ‘for girls’. Seriously? They were freaking pants and a headband with fake plants on it, how does that have a gender? Same thing with makeup (which Dan usually didn’t wear, just because it was expensive and he was pretty much broke), like, it’s literally just shit you rub on your face to make yourself pretty. Anyway, Dan thought gender roles were stupid.
Due to Dan’s appearance, people made assumptions. They said he was gay and 'definitely a bottom’, while both were true (more or less), that didn’t make it okay. So what? Dan liked 'feminine’ things, sue him.
Even as a little kid, Dan just seemed to have a pull to things 'meant’ for little girls. If there was a flower toy next to a truck toy, Dan would probably pick up the flower. Luckily, his parents were always super supportive of him and anyone (family or not) that didn’t support Dan they completely shut out of their lives. They always told Dan, “If people don’t love you for who you are then they don’t love you at all,” and that really helped Dan.
Over time the constant support built up Dan’s confidence to the point where he could slap someone twice his size, straighten his flower crown so it sat better against his brown curls, smile, and walk away. Very quickly people learned this, and you needed to have real guts to tease Dan after seeing him bitch slap the shit out of anyone who dared to say a negative word to Dan regarding his appearance and/or sexuality. However, one person always got away with teasing Dan. In fact, Dan would often laugh along with said person. To most people, this was beyond strange. Why would Dan have such a soft spot for someone who seemed to tease him twice as much as people that now had a red handprint on their angry face? Well, the answer was obvious if you actually looked hard enough to see the love in their eyes.
Philip Lester was the boy that always got strange looks by mothers who were convinced he’d lay a hand on their children. He dyed his hair black (or blue that one time that we don’t talk about anymore), he wore dark clothing, and he had more tattoos and piercings than he was willing to count. However, he was sweetest person to ever exist. The boy wouldn’t hurt a fly even if it begged him to. He loved cute things like Pokémon, house plants, and his boyfriend.
