Ethan and Kitri Prompt (74)
Another Ethan and Kitri (the teen superheroes, though in this one they're no longer teen--barely) theme prompt! This one is number 74, Tattoo.
Superheroes are still awesome.
74. Tattoo
Ethan had never actually liked his tattoo. Not even when he first got it when he was ten years old. He’d straightened up and swallowed the blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his lip against how much it had hurt and looked down at it, a dark twining shape stark against his skin and still burning with residual pain, and hated how it looked there. Taken a deep breath and braced himself for the jostling congratulations of the others. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been proud that he’d been able to stand it, he had, but it had felt like a brand burned into his skin, tying him to the rest of them, both comforting and shameful, obscurely frightening because wouldn’t it always be there, and didn’t that mean he’d never be free again despite the safety that could mean?
In the end those bonds hadn’t been enough to keep him safe.
Cipher had never commented on it, but she’d seen it several times, and every time Ethan was in a position for her to catch sight of it he’d felt himself flushing dark with humiliation, because she was seeing what he’d been, what he’d become, the desperation and weakness of his life before her inked onto him for her to see in permanent, vivid color.
Kes had once told him it was sexy, he remembered that like it was a film clip in his brain (because he was pathetic). Ethan had been cut up, there’d been a long gash down his thigh pouring what felt like buckets of blood down his leg and making his boot squelch all too loudly, and Kes had shoved him down and slid enough of his uniform off that he could get at the wound before Ethan could think to protest-it had been one of the more tensely, awkwardly, embarrassing moments of Ethan’s entire life, and maybe because he could tell and maybe because he was just like that, Kes had talked to him about the tattoo the whole time, and in comparison the mark on his skin hadn’t seemed quite so humiliating. “Man, kid,” he’d said, “you know girls dig that kind of thing. Makes you look tough, all that.” He’d grinned down at Ethan and tousled his hair and said, “’s sexy,” and Ethan had looked up into that blinding, lopsided smile and wanted to die because his own heart was stuttering and tripping all over itself like a love-struck girl’s and Jon’s hands were on his thighs and so not in the way he wanted at all.
Mostly, though, he just wore pants that covered the tattoo, at least mostly, and didn’t think about it too much. It was a long-ago vestige of a time when he’d been young and dumb and mean and worthless, a reminder of who he’d used to be (bad, someone who Cipher’d had to stop, a stupid gangbanger street kid), and how he had to keep trying, trying to be different, to be better than that stupid kid had been.
He drifted back toward wakefulness, out of a dream of darkness where he’d been immobilized and cold, and realized three things in the same moment-he was lying curled on his side, not at all how he usually slept, there was warm sun against his neck and the backs of his shoulders which meant it was a lot later than he usually got up, and that there was the gentle brushing of someone’s fingers, soft and careful and barely there, over his tattoo, along the lower edge of his bottom rib and down the curving bones of his hip, the scales and wings of the dragon. He lay there for a moment, still groggy-sleep had had a tighter hold on him lately, since he’d been . . . back-but already relaxing from the feeling of her bright sunshine and warmth easing into him wherever her fingers touched. Tender currents of her emotions, little sparks of curiosity, even fascination-he said he got it done when he was ten? He must have been so little-he was strong even then, huh?-an image of himself, imagined, all thick dark hair and big blue-dark eyes, biting his lip in pain but with a stoic kind of determination in his eyes-he didn’t think he’d actually been that small back then, but the imaginary vision of him was a shock, because his hair had been like that and how had she known, enough of a shock to chase the last muzzy shadows of sleep from his mind.
He was still catching fragments of her thoughts-oh no, did I wake him up? I hope he’s not too embarrassed, he’ll probably be mad-I hope he doesn’t-doesn’t regret everything-
He blinked his eyes open, suddenly intensely, vibrantly conscious of how he lay flush against Kitri’s body, his legs still partly entwined with hers and the hot immediate closeness of the connection and feeling of them where they were still pressed skin to skin. Close. Connected. Safe. He remembered everything that had happened last night, what they’d done together, and he couldn’t help the grin, probably totally cheesy and dorky, that spread over his face. He knew he probably looked like a doofus, but he didn’t care. “Morning,” he said. His voice was raspy from sleep.
Kitri looked up at him, blushing, from beneath sleep-tousled locks of hair, and he could feel her shy uncertainty, her worry-
“Just glad it’s not a buffalo or something,” he said, and she smiled, still blushing, but glanced away.
“You don’t mind?” she asked.
“It’s part of me,” he said. “’s yours, if you want it.”
She shot another glance up at him, then leaned forward suddenly and pressed a kiss to the faded colors and curved lines of the tattoo, and Ethan felt a flush of warmth flow up him, into his face so that he was blushing too, warmth and love and . . . happiness.
He kind of liked the tattoo, in a way, he decided. If Kitri liked it. He leaned down to tilt her head up with one hand (his palm flat against the angle of her jaw, skin against skin), and thought, distractedly before all thought fled away into the feeling of her lips against his, her thoughts and feelings shimmering and quick under his mind, that he really was glad it was something cool.
Superheroes are still awesome.
74. Tattoo
Ethan had never actually liked his tattoo. Not even when he first got it when he was ten years old. He’d straightened up and swallowed the blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his lip against how much it had hurt and looked down at it, a dark twining shape stark against his skin and still burning with residual pain, and hated how it looked there. Taken a deep breath and braced himself for the jostling congratulations of the others. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been proud that he’d been able to stand it, he had, but it had felt like a brand burned into his skin, tying him to the rest of them, both comforting and shameful, obscurely frightening because wouldn’t it always be there, and didn’t that mean he’d never be free again despite the safety that could mean?
In the end those bonds hadn’t been enough to keep him safe.
Cipher had never commented on it, but she’d seen it several times, and every time Ethan was in a position for her to catch sight of it he’d felt himself flushing dark with humiliation, because she was seeing what he’d been, what he’d become, the desperation and weakness of his life before her inked onto him for her to see in permanent, vivid color.
Kes had once told him it was sexy, he remembered that like it was a film clip in his brain (because he was pathetic). Ethan had been cut up, there’d been a long gash down his thigh pouring what felt like buckets of blood down his leg and making his boot squelch all too loudly, and Kes had shoved him down and slid enough of his uniform off that he could get at the wound before Ethan could think to protest-it had been one of the more tensely, awkwardly, embarrassing moments of Ethan’s entire life, and maybe because he could tell and maybe because he was just like that, Kes had talked to him about the tattoo the whole time, and in comparison the mark on his skin hadn’t seemed quite so humiliating. “Man, kid,” he’d said, “you know girls dig that kind of thing. Makes you look tough, all that.” He’d grinned down at Ethan and tousled his hair and said, “’s sexy,” and Ethan had looked up into that blinding, lopsided smile and wanted to die because his own heart was stuttering and tripping all over itself like a love-struck girl’s and Jon’s hands were on his thighs and so not in the way he wanted at all.
Mostly, though, he just wore pants that covered the tattoo, at least mostly, and didn’t think about it too much. It was a long-ago vestige of a time when he’d been young and dumb and mean and worthless, a reminder of who he’d used to be (bad, someone who Cipher’d had to stop, a stupid gangbanger street kid), and how he had to keep trying, trying to be different, to be better than that stupid kid had been.
He drifted back toward wakefulness, out of a dream of darkness where he’d been immobilized and cold, and realized three things in the same moment-he was lying curled on his side, not at all how he usually slept, there was warm sun against his neck and the backs of his shoulders which meant it was a lot later than he usually got up, and that there was the gentle brushing of someone’s fingers, soft and careful and barely there, over his tattoo, along the lower edge of his bottom rib and down the curving bones of his hip, the scales and wings of the dragon. He lay there for a moment, still groggy-sleep had had a tighter hold on him lately, since he’d been . . . back-but already relaxing from the feeling of her bright sunshine and warmth easing into him wherever her fingers touched. Tender currents of her emotions, little sparks of curiosity, even fascination-he said he got it done when he was ten? He must have been so little-he was strong even then, huh?-an image of himself, imagined, all thick dark hair and big blue-dark eyes, biting his lip in pain but with a stoic kind of determination in his eyes-he didn’t think he’d actually been that small back then, but the imaginary vision of him was a shock, because his hair had been like that and how had she known, enough of a shock to chase the last muzzy shadows of sleep from his mind.
He was still catching fragments of her thoughts-oh no, did I wake him up? I hope he’s not too embarrassed, he’ll probably be mad-I hope he doesn’t-doesn’t regret everything-
He blinked his eyes open, suddenly intensely, vibrantly conscious of how he lay flush against Kitri’s body, his legs still partly entwined with hers and the hot immediate closeness of the connection and feeling of them where they were still pressed skin to skin. Close. Connected. Safe. He remembered everything that had happened last night, what they’d done together, and he couldn’t help the grin, probably totally cheesy and dorky, that spread over his face. He knew he probably looked like a doofus, but he didn’t care. “Morning,” he said. His voice was raspy from sleep.
Kitri looked up at him, blushing, from beneath sleep-tousled locks of hair, and he could feel her shy uncertainty, her worry-
“Just glad it’s not a buffalo or something,” he said, and she smiled, still blushing, but glanced away.
“You don’t mind?” she asked.
“It’s part of me,” he said. “’s yours, if you want it.”
She shot another glance up at him, then leaned forward suddenly and pressed a kiss to the faded colors and curved lines of the tattoo, and Ethan felt a flush of warmth flow up him, into his face so that he was blushing too, warmth and love and . . . happiness.
He kind of liked the tattoo, in a way, he decided. If Kitri liked it. He leaned down to tilt her head up with one hand (his palm flat against the angle of her jaw, skin against skin), and thought, distractedly before all thought fled away into the feeling of her lips against his, her thoughts and feelings shimmering and quick under his mind, that he really was glad it was something cool.