I will carry the scars I inflicted on myself to my grave, and most people see them daily and will never know how they came to be.
It took unspeakable cruelty for me to be able to understand that I could kill the parts of myself I couldn’t live with without having to kill myself entirely.
I earned whatever haggard and broken self-love I have signing the contract on my own blood, sweat and tears.
I’m the god I bow before. I’m the knife and the blood and the victim. I’m the promise and the treachery and the hopeless and the liar.
I walked to the precipice carried by anger and fear, and I climbed out of the pit through sheer stubborness and spite.
I’m built on ruins made by my own hand. I tore the temple apart and raced it. I set a new fire within it’s hearth.
If i’m all I have, I’ll be enough.
If I jump off another cliff I’ll fucking carve wings from my own bones.
V.C.Amandi — Write a letter to the person you were five years ago and throw it off the same fucking cliff you threw her off from.
‘CAUSE I FEEL LIKE IT. I’m thinking about creating a sideblog for my tmnt fic ... idk :’T I’m really inspired for it lately.
ANYWAY, here’s dah girrlllsss ... and yeah sorry, there’s a self-insert ╮ (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.) ╭ !! Doing that kind of stuff helps me a lot with my anxiety so, WOOP, bare with me.
Some things may change, I’m still editing a lot of things about the fic aarrgg.
IF YOU HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THEM, SEND ME AN ASK <3
ALSOOOOO !! Forgot to mention that this may be some sort of AU for the 2014/2016 verse ? The turtles would be in their mid-20′s
Véronique ''Vee'' Lavoie
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Hair: Light Brown (mostly in a bun)
Eyes: Green
Height: 5'5''
Known languages: French (native), English, is currently studying Spanish and German. Will soon get to Brazilian Portuguese and Japanese.
Tattoos/Piercings: 4 tattoos, a piercing on each ears + one at the top of right ear.
Usual look: Serious, classic type. She's dressed in a way which leaves her comfortable when working on her projects.
Occupation: Freelance artist (currently work as a cashier at a clothing store)
Paired with: Donatello
Vee came from Montréal, Canada, seeking new opportunities in the grand city of New York. She got to be April O'Neil's new roommate as the reporter had placed an announcement online.
She sees her moving as a fresh new start, a way to probably push aside her anxiety and depression, her curiosity making her crave for new adventures.
Her path led her to study in many artistic fields such as music, arts, animation and writing. Although she had always dreamed of a scientific life (she had hoped to become an astronomer/astrophysicist or an herpetologist), she always stay updated on recent discoveries, her knowledge extending to many subjects.
The first time she got to meet Donatello was actually through social medias. Shortly before she would move to the city, she had noted the sudden interest of a new follower on her various online accounts. At first she didn't mind, but soon both began to chat, the stranger revealing that he was living too in NYC and that he was a friend of April. That did pique Vee's interest as she tried to meet him in person many times, but he would always be shroudded in mystery, always bailing on their meetings or April being really vague about him. For months they would chat, both in writing and speaking form, and when Vee noted how good friends they actually became, she didn't hesitate to speak her mind:
(donino) : How was your day?
(veelicious) : Urg... I wish I could just land on a good job opportunity in my domain rather than hearing people complain about how they'll just go to another store only because we don't have an item that ran out of stock.
(veelicious) : Like, I'm not even complaining, go shop somewhere else, I really won't miss your needy ass, customer from hell.
(donino) : Aww gee, I'm sorry people can be such dickheads. … Have you tried looking for another place? I could help you search.
(veelicious) : You're sweet Don, but you don't need to go into all that trouble for me. Don't worry, I'm always on the lookout for something else :)
(donino) : Is there anything I can do to help and make you feel better though?
(veelicious) : Yeah, what about a coffee date?
…
(donino) : Vee, idk...
(veelicious) : For fuck's sake, Donnie, what could go wrong? I just want to get to know a new friendly face around here...
(veelicious) : I really enjoy talking to you... April's been giving me the cold shoulder for some time now for some unknown reason. And now you just always come up with excuses.
(veelicious) : I may be a stupid introvert, but damn sometimes I just hate being alone. I just want to talk.
(donino) : we can voice chat if you want
(veelicious) : no donnie … I want to see you. I want to see your face, be able to put a picture over your name. I want to see you when you laugh. I want to see you smile.
...
(donino) : Tomorrow night. Come alone. Go on top of the building that's on the corner of 4th ave. and 12th st.
(donino) : … I know this sounds weird as hell, but trust me, it's the only way.
(donino) : oh and yeah, bring coffees :)
On that fateful meeting, Vee didn't scream nor run. She was curious, amazed and glad she could finally meet face to face with someone that she felt so at ease with.
As soon as April let her into the gang, Vee would often meet up with the tall turtle, aiding him on various projects, soon their relationship blossoming to something far more grand.
Mikasa Kanegawa
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Hair: Black (long)
Eyes: Brown/Golden
Height: 5'9''
Known languages: Japanese (native), English
Tattoos/Piercings: None
Usual look: Classy yet decontracted. Dressed in a way that she's always ready for action.
Occupation: Martial Arts teacher
Paired with: Leonardo
Mikasa is a Japanese immigrant that came to New York city with her family when she was a teenager. She's the eldest of three kids family, having a brother and a sister. From an early age she's been learning karate, now teaching it at a school in the city. The first time she met Leonardo was when she wanted to take a shortcut through an alley, but was shortly met with a street gang who wanted to rob her. She didn't know she was already being observed by the turtle and before he could jump in to help, she managed to kick the living shit out of some guys. The turtle finally got involved when two men were able to maintain her, a third guy directing a gun towards her. As soon as Mikasa felt the hands around her get loose, she instantly went into battle mode, easily disarming the gun-holding thug and battling side to side with the shadow that was helping her. It was finally after the remaining gang member run away with the unconscious ones that Mikasa turned around to her helper, only seeing a large mutant now before her, breathing hard, katanas out. Her sole reaction was to be wide-eyed, frozen, mumbling a ''kappa''. She did not scream, she did not run. She simply bowed down, still in shock, knowing it was the only right thing to do before a mythical monster... Leo was confused at first, but he already liked the woman, especially after seeing her fighting.
They did see eachothers again at times, mostly because Leo wanted to check up on her, giving up the excuse that the gang members could still be around. They would talk about combat techniques, and soon get to exchange personal information, getting to know eachothers better.
At some point, Mikasa would be actually curious about where Leonardo was living at. She knows about his brothers and father, and she wonders how things would be arranged for a life down in the sewers... She has a hard time admitting for herself that she does have some interest for Leo, other than respect and friendship. She is really starting to love the mutant, seeing past his apparence and noticing the true leader under his shell.
Patricia ''Trish'' Walker
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Hair: Dark brown afro type of hair
Eyes: Brown
Height: 5'7''
Known languages: English (native)
Tattoos/Piercings: Nose ring, navel ring, Mandala tattoo on her back
Usual look: Sporty/tomboy look, hip-hop trend.
Occupation: Waitress
Paired with: Michelangelo
Born and raised in New York city, Trish lost her mother at a young age due to a car accident, since then living with her father and her older brother. She is street-wise, never having any troubles going around the city through the subway or executing some parkour. Her dream is to one day open her own restaurant, cooking being one of her main passions.
In general Trish is a very active woman, never missing an opportunity to go party somewhere or meet new people. And it's by going to one party on a rooftop that she got to meet Michelangelo.
She had moved apart a bit only so she could smoke her cigarette in peace, until she heard some new voices coming from another rooftop not so far from her position. Peeking out, she discovered the turtles, her instant gasp capting their attentions. She saw one of them walk up to her, greeting her, but she backed up, getting to the rooftop's edge, loosing balance. Her wrist was quickly grabbed, next being pulled back up, her body crashing against the mutant. She first noticed his blue eyes and the orange mask, all fear going away as some unseen sparks seemed to bloom between them.
Ever since, Trish was quick to get used to the gang, testing new recipes on them and being the newest goofy ball of energy addition, alongside Mikey.
Michael freezes mid-step because he is caught so incredibly off guard. He turns slowly to face Jeremy who fell a few steps behind—Jeremy who just made a command so unlike him that Michael is sure he couldn’t have heard right.
But when he turns, Jeremy is strangely serious, staring directly at him, sweater bunched in his fists, cheeks red, one foot tapping ever so subtly against the ground. He’s five feet away, standing against a backdrop of street lamps while he collects snow in his hair and attracts the attention of any passerby within their vicinity. It’s like a scene straight out of a bad Hallmark movie, and Michael knows that Jeremy must be itching from the attention because this isn’t like him at all.
Jeremy is always quiet touches and soft cuddles at midnight, legs tangled beneath an old Pokemon throw blanket. He is light, teasing brushes under the lunch table until Michael is the one to finally interlock their fingers.
Jeremy is quick glances to make sure no one is around when he gives Michael a peck on the cheek before parting ways for class. And Jeremy is that look of simultaneous surprise and embarrassment when Michael pulls him back for a real kiss, smiling against his lips because the hallways are empty anyway—so who really cares?
“Jeremy, wait—“ Michael stumbles back a step as Jeremy moves forward, resolute and completely unwavering. They’re inches apart. He gently takes Michael’s gloved hands in his own.
Michael’s heart beats faster. He feels oddly panicked on behalf of Jeremy because there are so many eyes on them, and Jeremy has never been bold declarations or public affection or kissing in front of an audience. Not even in front of their friends, who are all present and who all must be staring in some mix of puzzlement and anticipation.
“Michael?” Jeremy moves one hand to Michael’s cheeks, fingers cold against his skin, but his touch is just as soft as his voice. He feels Jeremy shivering, either from the cold or nerves—probably both. A breath catches in his throat; he scans Jeremy’s face for any hint of regret or discomfort, but his blue eyes are clear of any doubt.
“Kiss me.” He repeats, sounding so sure of himself this time that Michael can’t resist nodding slightly and pressing his lips to Jeremy’s. And just like that, the world around them seems to melt away.
They pull away briefly, foreheads pressed together. Michael lets out a short, breathy laugh, warmth bubbling in his chest. “Everyone’s looking you know.”
Jeremy, who had only opened his half-lidded eyes to gaze fondly at Michael, closes them once again, and into their next kiss, he murmurs, “Let them.”
Taking a tour of the Mediterranean, cheating millionaires at backgammon and drinking champagne instead of going home to grieve like a normal person is probably on the Top Three of Pansy’s silliest ideas.
However, she’s pretty sure running away from home at sixteen to marry a Hollywood movie star still sits way above it on a scale of How Dumb Can Such a Smart Girl Be, and that turned out alright! Dead husband and all.
There’s only hoping taking over the criminal net her father has apparently been building in Oxford since The Great War will -besides firmly taking first position as the stupidest thing she’s done in her life- go about as well.
I’m generally a nice person. Earnest to help when in a good mood. Calm enough when angry. But you Inspector, are working very hard to scare me. And I can promise you: now, and not when in a fit of hysteria I decide I can’t sleep again unless I know you’re dead and can’t hurt me, is the moment to backtrack.
Here’s Pansy, the main character for my entrance for NaNoWriMo this 2019! Widow of a Hollywood star, roaring twenties debutante, family woman, owner of a cabaret and a turquish bath (and an ilegal abortion clinic) and -as a sidenote, really- Oxford gangster, specialist in traffic of influence.
5+ headcanons for an “Sasuke grabs Itachi and returns to Konoha after the Uchiha plot is revealed” AU
I saw Naruto so long ago that probably nothing here makes lore or cronological sense but we’re taking this ride anywhere so jump off the boat while you still can. Sources disagree wildly on the Uchiha’s return and final settlement on Konoha. Some say they came down upon the village hidden in a murder of crows under the deep night’s darkness, blades blazing and eyes a fire. Others insist the deed was done under the plain midday sun. All unfittingly boring diplomatic scrolls and heartfelt reunions. Our researchers have been unable to clarify exactly how Konoha’s most fruitful peace was signed, but I can vouch for these five things to be true:
Itachi had made his peace with living a hateful and dreaded life and dying in the same way. He had prepared for his cherished little brother to grow up bitter and resentful, to hunt him down as some sort of mythified boogie man guilty of all the wrongs in his life. He had prepared for Sasuke to hate him with such violence that when they finally fought each other he’d see red -pun fully intended- and kill him, finally freeing him from existing merely as the shadow of a the man he could have been had a grudge older than his bones not have been placed on his shoulders.
Itachi, however, had very much not prepared for his brother to love him. After all, although he loved Sasuke very much, with every lasting fiber of his decaying heart, he did not find anything remotely lovely about himself. Thereof, the possibility that his brother saw him not as the nightmare that had stole everything from him but as one of the things that had been stolen never truly crossed his mind. Thankfully to all of us, it not only crossed Sasuke’s but stayed and nested there.
Sasuke assures, to this day, that tracing the leads back to Danzo Shimura had been easy. Now, those who know him know this is merely a brag and for years the last Uchiha wandered the streets of Konoha from library to library looking for something, anything, that meant he got to have his brother back. Most of you know that wishing very very much for something to happen is not a guarantee for results; but I hope you know too that when someone pays too close attention and asks too many questions about a shady government that is somehow hanging on the small thread of people blaming others for their wrongdoings, said shady government is bound to eventually pay attention to you.
Danzo’s mistake was not questioning his extreme good luck. Call it ego, being full of himself, having the absurd idea that anyone actually liked him or being a dumb ass; that artistic decision matters little to our story. It was so perfectly ironic and made so much narrative sense in the fantasy world where he was the hero, that he never questioned Sasuke joining root. He never questioned his hate, of course Sasuke would hate the person that murdered his family; or his motivations, why wouldn’t Sasuke want to kill Itachi who had sent his life spiraling down a void of rage and dread? So he took him in. Not officially, of course. Konoha’s people weren’t stupid enough that Danzo could just recruit a missing nin to his personal army without at least someone wondering what the actual fuck. But he took him in. Nothing better to kill an Uchiha than another Uchiha, after all. And thereof Sasuke kept living with Orochimaru, his student for all intended purposes, and he started spying for Danzo. And unknowingly to him, spying Danzo himself.
While Orochimaru cannot be credited for the love Itachi managed to inspire in his brother’s heart, or for Sasuke choosing to nurture that love instead of turning to the wrath and bitterness his clan was known for; he can very much be credited with staging the whole teatrical uprising that followed. He started small, a few root missions going just slightly awry in slightly public places that got the people talking. Then archives and scrolls started to be accidentally misplaced and unsealed and carelessly dropped in the houses of the most prominent clan heads. Of course, he dropped by Tsunade’s himself to catch her up to speed over tea. After all, when they were done there would be a lot for her to sort out. To top it all off, a series of absurdly stupid mistakes that served no real purpose besides riling Danzo up so he jumped after Sasuke guided by blind anger instead of his carefully constructed plans.
+. The end developed swiftly like the conclusion of any well written novel. Cohesive and foreshadowed and nearly set in stone. Itachi waited for his brother’s blade and fire as he waited for death and thereof didn’t escape when he sensed Sasuke close. Sasuke didn’t look back, quite simply because he was not going that way. Danzo, like any self-respecting villain, believed all his minions were clearly idiotic and he had to do everything himself. He didn’t prepare for poison, because the Uchiha don’t usually use it. He didn’t prepare for the Anbu to close his retreat, because he thought Tsunade Senju was but a puppet he could play with. He had prepared for fire, Sasuke’s. Not Itachi’s trying to protect his brother. Certainly not both at once. Sasuke was ready with a chidori in hand when his moment came. Steady, firm as the only thing he had ever been sure of in his life. He never questioned his hate, of course Sasuke would hate the person that murdered his family; or his motivations, why wouldn’t Sasuke want to kill Danzo who had sent his life spiraling down a void of rage and dread? Who arranged the murder of his whole family when they became inconvenient. Who ruined his brother’s life, hopes and reputation. Who left the closest thing Sasuke had to a friend, orphaned, hungry and hated. He striked true. A handful of thunderbolts straight to Danzo’s heart. Not a sharingan grand technique because that piece of shit didn’t deserve one.
So we could say there was some truth in all of those rumors, after all. Sasuke Uchiha did arrive to Konoha shrouded in darkness, as Danzo taught him for their meetings. And he left blade drawn and eyes illuminated by lightning, chased by the few root agents that hadn’t already been killed by either Danzo or Orochimaru or uncovered and incapacitated by Tsunade. Later that night, he came back, flying as if carried by a murder of crows so black they made the night sky around them seem light. On one hand he dragged Danzo’s quickly crumbling corpse. The other he held firmly to his brother’s arm, both holding him steady and making sure he didn’t leave again.
The next day, under the calm midday sun, Konoha listened to their hokage tell a tale of conspiracy, power hungry monsters and betrayal. The tale of a shinobi so loyal and true that he was willing to shoulder the scorn of the world to protect them as he had sworn to do. If the words she spoke about an unsung hero that brought them all a new era of peace and a chance to heal from the wounds of the past were written by certain acclaimed Contemporary Erotica author... well, they didn’t elect her hokage for her speeches. She provided the booze for the party and made sure no one else got killed.
When he walks in, it’s like the sun pours in after him.
Jeremy swallows a lump in his throat that melts into a seed, and plants itself into the pit of his stomach, finding a home amongst frozen soil and butterflies.
In some way, he’s the prettiest boy Jeremy has ever seen, wrapped in red and just absolutely glowing like a gold sunlit photo as he stands in the threshold of the quaint, ill-lit shop. Jeremy’s heart drums against his chest, hummingbird wings in his ribcage.
(He had felt this once before. Quick pulses and seeds that grew purple spring flowers that he fostered with care.)
The boy looks out of place standing next to paint chipped walls and stacks of old glass pottery; out of season in the same way that Jeremy is when surrounded by summery orchids and roses and violets.
But the boy isn’t blue winter like Jeremy, who embodies overcast skies and layers of morning frost. As he approaches the front counter, a bonfire warmth spreading with each step he takes, Jeremy thinks of autumn, crisp air and crunchy leaves underfoot. The boy tries to drown his earth tones in deep red, red knit, shoulders lifted, head down, hands in his pockets, but it doesn’t hide the way the sunlight follows him like a spotlight, filtering through the windows.
Jeremy forgets himself for a moment. Forgets to shut his laptop. Forgets to straighten his posture. Forgets that he is a worker who is paid to greet and help customers, not fall head over heels for them at a glance.
The boy shifts in place and glances up. Jeremy blinks and pricks his thumb on a thorn he had been trimming under the counter. They both speak at the same time.
“Hello—“
“Uh, hey—“
Then they both clamp their mouths shut. The boy looks back down and bites his lip. Jeremy looks down at his miniscule injury and feels his ears tinge pink with stupid, stupid embarrassment.
At least the boy has the good grace to make a sound of awkward laughter, while Jeremy struggles to gain what little bearings he had in the first place. He rehearses a line in his head, practiced protocol he uses on little old ladies who wander in on rainy days or browsing teenagers who stop by after school lets out. He snaps his head up abruptly, exhaling.
“What can I help you with—“
“Okay, this is might sound weird—“
Their voices overlap again. This time, Jeremy doesn’t get the chance to feel embarrassed because the boy cracks a helpless half-smile in his direction that causes Jeremy’s mind to go blank. And the seed that settled in the cold pit of his stomach does something (sprouts? takes root?) that sends a rush up his spine.
“We’re kind of in sync, aren’t we?” the boy chuckles softly, finally lowering his shoulders. He takes one hand out of his pocket to gesture to Jeremy. “You go first.”
“I, um,” Jeremy stammers. The boy is even prettier up close, cheeks slightly rosy from the chilly outdoor air, dark mocha eyes bright behind a pair of round, outdated glasses. There’s a radiance about him that not even the muted grey filter of the shop can cast a shadow across.
His mouth feels dryer the longer he stares; the boy is waiting for him to say something. Say something. Say anything.
“I’m Jeremy!”
His own reaction is instantaneous: covering his face with his hands and muffling a mortified groan. The boy, on the other hand, takes a second to process Jeremy’s colossal social fumble.
“Oh, yeah?” he drawls out, unsure, but recovers from his surprise quickly. “Oh—Well, uh, I’m Michael.”
And for the briefest of moments, Jeremy’s heart completely stops.
Michael.
Time moves in slow motion as Jeremy creates just enough space between his fingers to see an outstretched hand offered to him across the counter.
Michael.
The boy’s name echoes in his head, and everything in his body starts to move at once
The butterflies make his insides soar, his heart pounds a loud, steady rhythm, and that damn seed shoots up into his throat and blooms red red red with a hiccup of—
“Michael!”
Jeremy flinches at his volume at the same time the boy–Michael–does. Self-conscious, Jeremy moves a hand from his face to flatten his hair, eyes looking anywhere but at Michael.
“I-I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”
“No, yeah, I mean…that’s me,” Michael clears his throat, another nervous chuckle following. “Nice to meet you, Jeremy!”
Jeremy looks up just in time to see Michael taking the liberty to reach the rest of the way over the counter and grab his hand in a handshake. Michael’s grip is firm and enthusiastic; his large hand encompasses Jeremy’s thin, bony one. He notes the heat of Michael’s skin, warming his own clammy hand until the tips of his fingers don’t feel numb anymore.
When Jeremy dares to shift his gaze upward, meeting Michael’s eyes, his whole face starts to burn, cheeks filling with a red, red color. He manages to squeeze Michael’s hand back weakly, and Michael grins.
For just a moment, Jeremy doesn’t feel like winter or autumn or even spring. Michael makes him feel like something entirely new. A feeling that is much too fleeting the second their hands part.
Jeremy masks his disappointment by pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his knuckles. “Uh, how can I help you, Mi-Michael?”
Michael’s face lights up now that all the awkwardly placed introductions are aside. He’s nearly bouncing in place when he explains what he’s looking for. “Oh, man! When I was passing by, I saw this super rad flower in the window. The Fire Flower! You know, from Mario? I’m not a big flower person, but man, that just seemed like such a rare find! Do you—is it for sale?”
Jeremy is already stumbling out of his stool before Michael can even finish his question, maneuvering around the counter and hiding his face so Michael won’t catch the fond smile on his lips. It’s like Michael just keeps getting better and better.
“Yeah, yeah! Of course! Let me just—just get it for you! Hang on,” he motions for Michael to stay put while he weaves through the aisles to the front of the store. The flower in question isn’t actually one with a price. It’s more of as decorative piece that Jeremy had made a few days prior, a red daisy that he slapped some glue and foam on and then stuck it in a cheap vase before putting it in the very corner of the front window in his own feeble attempt to add some character to the otherwise dull shop.
He has to stand on his tip toes to grab the vase now, careful not to drop it or snap the flower’s stem. He examines it over once as he carries it back to the front, checking to make sure no petals are falling off or wilting. Thankfully, the daisy is in perfect condition, and he happily holds it out to Michael, who is even more thrilled to see the flower up close.
“Woah! This is amazing! Do you guys have any more of these? Or anything else like it?” He doesn’t look up from the flower, but Jeremy is still touched by Michael’s admiration for his amateur handiwork.
Fiddling with his sweater sleeves again, Jeremy shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry, it’s, um, one of a kind… Since I-I only made one. I didn’t think anyone would actually ask about it.”
The statement causes Michael’s head to snap up, his mouth parted in a comical ‘O’ shape. “Dude, one of a kind? And you made this,” Michael exclaims, shaking the vase none too gently. Jeremy almost reaches out to stop him, but catches himself at the last second. Oblivious, Michael continues, “I’m talking to a real flower artist here! How much? I think I have like fifteen bucks in my pockets…somewhere…”
Michael shifts the vase into one arm, shoving his other hand into his pocket to dig around for change. This time, Jeremy helpfully takes the vase for him, his heart jumping when Michael, tongue poked out in concentration, offers him a grateful glance.
“No, uh, don’t worry about it. You can just have it. For—for free, you know?”
Michael’s eyes widen. “Wait, what—“
“I’m serious,” Jeremy walks back to the other side of the counter, touching one of the black eyes that are hot glued on the flower. He’d constructed the simple design with the help of old yellow and black craft foam, and it’s hardly a job well done. “This was really easy to make. I just used some old stuff lying around my garage. It’s fine if you take it. Just make sure you change the water every few days or so.”
“Yeah, but,” Michael runs a hand through his hair, lips pursed, “I can’t just not pay for art.”
Jeremy snorts, partly because of Michael’s exaggerated statement, and partly because talking to Michael is so miraculously easy. He definitively slides the vase across the countertop. “I’m a florist, not an artist. I can make more if I want.”
“You should!” Michael blurts with a suddenness that shocks them both. “I would—I really want to see the other stuff you can make! Like, if you get any more ideas for cool video game bouquets I want to be the first to know.”
Jeremy swallows thickly again, and the sprout in his stomach, his chest, his throat tickles and prods him. He wants to be brave, to say what’s on his mind, to live with one less regret.
He sees red, daring, warm, comforting red. In Michael’s jacket. In the daisy. In his own cheeks. In the petals that bloom in his stomach. Red, so tempting that he knows he has to do something.
So, Jeremy takes a deep breath, feeling brave and red and entirely out of season.
“You can always call. I-I mean, if you have an idea or a special request of your own.”
That something (that red, red something) in his stomach rewards him with a breath of air in his lungs and a giddy tingle in his limbs. Michael rewards him with the widest smile he’s seen yet and a fumbling attempt to dig through his pockets once more for something.
Finally, Michael holds out his cell phone, new contact information pulled up on the screen.
Jeremy offers a business card, the contact number for Heere Family Flowers printed in bold.
They both speak at once.
“You can just put your number in—“
“This is our card, you can—“
And they both clamp their mouths shut.
Jeremy goes pink again. Michael follows in suit. He retreats his hand back into his pocket at light speed, and it’s like the phone was never there in the first place.
“Oh,” Michael tries to laugh off his mistake, but his voice cracks in the slightest, “You—you meant call the store…”
The awkward tension is palpable. Jeremy’s muscles clench, and he wants to cough up the metaphorical petals in his throat, but he forces the sensation back down. He can fix this.
“Yeah, but,” he scrambles to find a pen, ducking under the counter when there’s none to be found on the countertop. He spots a blue gel pen under his stool, bumps his head on the underside of the counter when he stands back up, and continues mission despite Michael’s noise of confusion and worry.
The business card is packed with text on the front, but the back is blank, and that’s where Jeremy scribbles his name, number, and a tiny doodle of Yoshi. It’s messier than he would like, but it’s legible. He’s just amazed that his shaky hand was even able to hold a pen correctly.
“Here.” He feels a bit breathless as he holds out the business card between obviously shaking fingers. Michael studies the small card, before slowly reaching out and taking it gently from Jeremy’s grasp. Jeremy breathes out a sigh of relief. “You can call me too.” he says, then quickly tacks on, “If-If you have any ideas!”
Michael, looking surprised himself, smiles down at the card. Then, as he pockets the note, grins at Jeremy as well. “I’ll definitely give you a call! Thanks for everything!”
He slips a folded five-dollar bill in the empty tip jar sitting on the edge of the counter before he starts to leave. Jeremy watches him go, heart still thumping. Still feeling red red red.
“I’ll see you around, Jeremy!” Michael calls as he steps out the door, waving. Jeremy mirrors the gesture. Then Michael is gone.
Yuuuuupp, that’s right ! I did it Y’B
go watch @tmnt-veelicious if you want to read my future TMNT fic.
I’m currently writing the first chapter and might be able to post it tonight. I’ll see :)
