#running is a sport in itself it is NOT a slow warm up

[handern]

running is a fucking scam I was in national championships I could lift more than my own weight I trained 2 hours a day 5/7 and running was still the fucking worst they made us run laps and I would trail behind and lie down on the road halfway through bc my evolutionary instinct is to punch predators in the face not run from them fuck that

[ravcnism]

HEY uhm.. i've been having this idea.. like imagine kenji sato x m!reader athlete as well? help, i just thought the dynamic would be cute. it could be a rival team on the baseball league or another sports. I just thought it would be cool!

STRIKEOUT. — KEN SATO x Male!Athlete READER

Summary: The Hiroshima Toyo Carp may have a new player in town, but his name is nowhere near unheard of. The prized star pitcher of The States takes the country by storm when he spontaneously shows up against the Yomiuri Giants. Ken Sato’s career is given a run for its money.

# # TAGS: Longform, Enemies to Lovers but like Still Enemies as Lovers, A LOT of Tension, Sports Anime-Level of Ridiculous, Star-Athlete!Male Reader, Author Doesn't Actually Know Anything About Baseball, Sort of a Slow Burn? No Beta We Die Like Onda

# # WARNINGS: Mild Violence, Mature Language, Eventual Smut if I’m Brave Enough, English is not My First Language, Around 2000 Words, Part One of ??

Night fell promptly upon the Sato residence. The sun had tucked itself into the sea and left a trail of gold in its warm, glistening wake. From afar, the ever-lively city of New Tokyo lit up street by street.

Beneath the water, in the basement, a newly-bathed Emi waddled towards her corner of the house; smelling of fresh sakura petals, and cuddling a half-crushed Nissan Skyline GT-R. Full from dinner, and satisfied by her shower, she felt the gentle arms of sleep coaxing her to a nap. With a squeaky yawn, and a stretch of her arm, she succumbed to its calls and laid on her spot on the ground. A very amused Hayao Sato came walking after her. “Silly girl. The bath and snack combo never fails to knock you out, huh?”

Kenji Sato, well-dressed for a night out, entered after. He was preoccupied by his sleeves, fingers fumbling to button them shut. “Remember, Dad. No videos after 10 pm. We can’t ruin her sleep schedule again.”

“Of course, Kenji.” His father waved him off with his cane. “You act as if I don’t know her routine like the back of my hand.”

“I’m just making sure.” He was fixing his hair, then, gelling it into place. His eyes narrowed at his own reflection, trying to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. “And of course you’ve got Mina to help.”

“Definitely, Ken.” As if on cue, the round hovering bot came floating in. “We have everything under control. You needn’t worry about us here.”

Professor Sato chuckled at his son, leaning on his good foot. “You seem to have a lot of nervous energy in you, Kenji.”

The batter sighed, tugging on his collar one last time. “I’m always nervous when I’m not playing.” Deciding he looked alright, Ken left his reflection alone. “No idea why. Might have something to do with my dislike towards things that I can’t control, but I’m not gonna get into that right now–” He shuffled about, searching frantically for his jacket. “Mina, where did I put my–?” An extended robot arm appeared from the floor and handed it to him. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Try to enjoy yourself anyway, Kenji.” Professor Sato had walked over to Emi, who was fast asleep, snoring slightly. He lifted a hand and rubbed her head. “I think it’s good that you go to these games even when you’re not scheduled. I can tell it lifts your team’s spirits.”

“Yeah, well, honestly I’m still trying to get used to it. The whole sportsmanship thing.” Ken sprayed his cologne on. He made a quick jog towards Emi and kissed her cheek. “Sleep tight, Sweetie.” He looked at his dad. With his motorcycle keys now in hand, he walked backwards to their glass elevator. “If anything happens, call me. You know the drill.”

“Yes, Ken,” replied Mina. “We do. Rest assured, there will not be a repeat of last time.”

“Right, right. Last time.” Kenji forced out a laugh. “Look, if she wakes up and I’m not home yet, try to get her to tire herself out. Load up a park. Throw some balls. But no flying outside, please? You know she gets carried away.”

“Understood.”

With a final glance, and a reluctant sigh, he stepped into the lift. “I’ll be back soon.” Leaving her 20-foot Kaiju-of-a-daughter never got any easier — no matter how many times he had gone and done it. He waved his family a quick goodbye, before disappearing from their line of sight.

His dad was right. It was good that he was going. The Giants had a game to win.

"Good evening sports fans! Ladies and gentlefolk, we welcome you to the highly anticipated matchup between the Hiroshima Toyo Carp and your Yomiuri Giants.”

The stadium was bright and buzzing with excitement. Ken was used to the energy, but he never grew tired of it. There was something almost magical about having this many people in a stadium together. Something electrifying about hearing their collective voices. Whether or not he was set to play, the crowd was what grounded him into focus. He adored their cheers, regardless of who it was directed to.

“We’ve got an intense start to the game so far, the home crowd doesn’t look too happy with Tateoka’s second strikeout.”

“How's it looking?” Ken appeared beside his teammate, Yuki, who was watching the game by the barriers.

“Bad. We're dying out there, Sato. Tateoka's our second batter. We're down one strikeout.”

Ken's brows knitted together, intrigued. He had gotten here a little late and missed a good chunk of the first inning. He had missed most of the commentary, too, so he was pretty much left in the dark. All he knew was that the home crowd didn't look too cheerful. And neither did Coach Shimura. ( Though technically, he couldn't remember a time when Shimura looked anything less than disappointed. ) Ken settled into his spot, nursing a canned soda.

The pitcher’s back was against him, his jersey name too far for him to read. He couldn't see who it was. Ken took notice of their form. Their figure. “Wait, who's throwing again?”

His teammate dropped a name so familiar it sent Ken choking on his drink.

“Fucking, who?” He dropped the name of a famous star-athlete. A name he saw on billboards, news reports, articles. A name so expensive it put his vintage cars to shame. A name with a strikeout rate so disgustingly high it had the best teams falling to their knees. A staggering 1.75 ERA. Almost zero walks. Your name, sent a shiver down Ken Sato’s spine. You, the Mets’ notorious Bullet, now a surprise player of the Toyo Carp.

He watched as you turned around. Your face came into view. You were frighteningly calm. The Giants’ batter was one strike away from an out. Kenji swallowed thickly. “When the hell did he get here?”

“Yeah. Apparently they traded him to Carp a week ago. Didn't get much buzz for some reason.” Yuki scoffed. “Think they covered it up? Element of surprise? It was a pretty big move.”

The fact that Kenji had never been put up against you before was sheer dumb luck. That's what he thought, anyway. Despite the fact that the both of you had been celebrities in The States, the seasons just never aligned well enough to get the both of you to play at the same park. But he hadn't dreamed of it. Who in their right mind would? Like a bullet from a gun, your pitches were unstoppable. You had a mutant-like control over the ball. There were studies on the physics of your technique. Even the best batters would miss your throws. And at that moment, as he watched his teammate strike himself out, Kenji wondered if he'd miss, too.

He wouldn't have to keep wondering. Understanding the weight of your presence, the Yomiuri Giants opted to bring in the calvary.

“Sato.” Ken flinched at Shimura’s voice. He looked over his shoulder, facing him. “Locker room. Get dressed — I'm calling you up.”

He laughed, nervously. “You sure that's legal, coach?” He wasn't scheduled to play today, and spontaneously entering a non-player into the field was only allowed upon certain circumstances. Like an injury, for example.

“Of course it is.” Shimura grumbled. “Tokuda just broke his arm.”

The mentioned Tokuda stood behind him, sipping on some soda, with his obviously not-broken arm. “You heard the man, Ken. I just broke my arm.”

Ken grimaced, heading for the door. “The press is going to love this…” Japan's finest batter, versus The States’ fastest pitcher. Oh, this would make the headlines for sure.

Kenji did as he was told. He walked into the locker room, then walked out in full-attire. The speakers crackled to life. There was a steady rise in the crowd’s demeanor. People were slowly piecing the situation together. The announcers were losing their minds. “And It looks like — oh my goodness, folks. I don't believe this. Ken Sato has been called up into the field!”

The stadium went alight. Ken walked into the park and wondered if the lights were a little brighter than usual. He was doing his stretches, rolling his shoulders. His bat was handed to him and he flipped it in his hand. He allowed the cheers to boost his energy, and perhaps a bit of his ego.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we might be witnessing baseball history tonight! Two of the opposing team’s star players have come face to face for the first time ever. And it's happening right here, right now.”

You met his eyes. Ken’s breath hitched. You were so… intense. He couldn't properly describe it. You watched him move into position like a lion stalking its prey.

“Will Sato stop the Toyo Carp’s brand new Bullet? Or will he walk out of this game bleeding?”

The trick was to look them in the eye. A pitcher was no different from a batter when it came to a game. They shared the same weight of responsibility. The only time a stadium is silent is when they're standing face to face. Like a duel. One of Ken’s techniques was staring them down and reminding them that he was a force to be reckoned with. He was Ken Sato, for crying out loud.

Unfortunately for him, you were unshaken. Which he would’ve been offended by, if he were younger and more immature. No matter, he had other things to look for. Like the cues. Each pitcher had their own cue; a sort of tell that told Ken what kind of throw they’d be going for. He didn’t hit those pitches out of pure luck. Contrary to popular belief, he was actually thinking these games through. There were a plethora of things to look at. A pitcher’s stance, their position, which hand they were using. In an easier game, Ken would be able to read these pitchers like an open book.

But if you were a book, then you would've been written in a different language. He could find no such cues. He didn’t really have anything to calculate. You were as unpredictable as you were quick. None of his usual techniques seemed to be working on you.

The last resort: keep your eye on the damn ball, and freakin’ swing.

You held your hand outward, fingers pointed at him. There was a kind of hunger in your eyes, an expression that made Ken’s heart skip a beat. Your focused glare made him feel as if a red dot had appeared on his forehead. Like you had marked him for prey. It felt… personal. Like it wasn’t a part of the game, and you were only pointing at him. A threat. A dare.

You pulled your pitching arm back. He swore he heard a gun cock. The stadium went quiet. The crowd held its breath. So did Ken. He tightened his grip on his bat. He waited, eagerly, for you to make your move. He was counting the milliseconds, watching you, anticipating your throw, waiting for you to shoot.

And you did.

Ken blinked, and the ball was gone from your hands. He released the breath he was holding through a disbelieved scoff. He turned, and the catcher had stumbled slightly, holding your ball. The crowd grew into disarray, a rising cacophony of cheers and boos. They just couldn’t believe it. Ken Sato not only missed your pitch, but wasn’t able to move at all. He couldn’t even swing. You were too fast. Too abrupt.The ball was a white blur, there a moment, then gone the next. It wasn’t an issue of the curve, nor the direction. It was just too fucking fast.

His teammates couldn’t believe their eyes. And neither did his coach. Ken craned his head to look at you. You stared back at him, stone-faced.

He took a breath to regain his composure, resuming his earlier stance. He would never admit it, but he was rattled. He was trying to understand how that throw was humanly possible. How he had somehow forgotten to move. He could do nothing more but stand haunted as he heard the resounding “strike one!” from the umpire. This wasn’t the first time he’d missed, but it was the first time he froze. It was a spectacle to all, and a moment of horror for his fans. Did the Unstoppable Ken Sato finally meet his match? Even if he did, he was determined not to lose a second time.

“Okay,” he whispered. He took a deep, focused breath, slightly shifting his stance. He kept his feet firm on the ground, bat at the ready. “Okay, Hotshot. Bring it on.”

You kept your eyes on him and him alone. You stared at him as if you were the only two people in the stadium. The crowd went silent once again. The Giants fans were desperate to give Sato the focus he so-terribly needed, but the Carp fans were just curious to see how the second pitch would go. The air was thick and heavy with tension.

Like before, you threw your hand out, fingers pointed at Ken. You drew your pitching arm back, like an archer, and there was that sound in his mind again. The cock of a gun. Ken waited. He counted you down. He was a hunter dressed in camo, waiting for a deer to move.

Then, for the first time since he’d seen you, your expression changed. You grinned at him.

Then you winked.

Shit.

You threw the ball. Ken swung.

But he missed.

The crowd erupted into chaos. There was an indistinguishable pandemonium of disdain and celebration. People screamed and jumped and waved their banners as high as they possibly could. A number of them had already entered a state of acceptance — the Giants would lose to a perfect game. No batter would ever get through the wall that was you. But a lot of them kept their faith in the ever-notorious Sato. He could hit the last shot. He could pull this off. He might have been struggling to match your speed, but he would figure it out. They believed in him like he was a god.

And at that moment, as Kenji heard the echoing “strike two!” he certainly felt the anger of one.

Did you just fucking wink? Did you seriously have the audacity to wink at him? Kenji took it personally. Who did you think you were? Though his lips spoke nothing of the foul words he wished so eagerly to shout, it was clear on his face that he wanted you gone. It was one thing to embarrass him with a fastball, but another to rub it in. He wouldn’t let that slide. He wouldn’t allow you to strike him out.

Yoshimura was gripping the barrier so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.“Eyes up, Sato!”

Kenji breathed. Through his nose, this time. He drew a long breath into his entire body and blew it out through his lips. He wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t miss. While he might have already taught himself the humility that came with losing, he hadn’t taught himself jackshit about losing to you.

“If looks could kill,” whispered Ami Wakita, the reporter who watched the game from the press booth. Typing into her laptop, she wrote: “There seems to be obvious tension on the field. Nothing new for Ken Sato, yet, significantly different. Japan’s star player has finally met his match. This game has been a long time coming.”

This was his last chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it. Kenji raised his bat, and narrowed his eyes. You weren’t blind to his added efforts, and smirked at him again. Oh, how it made his blood boil.

Point.

Pull.

Throw.

Swing.

This time, the ball made contact.

The crowd blew up once more, exhausting their lungs as they watched the ball fly across the field. Kenji had hit it. Kenji had managed to catch your bullet-of-a-pitch. He dropped his bat to the ground and ran for his life. Base to base, corner to corner. Kenji leapt across the field and jumped for home.

“Safe!”

The crowd went wild. He had heard stadiums cheer for him before, but he didn't think he had ever heard anything this loud. With a relieved laugh, Kenji got up from the ground, and finally caught his breath. His teammates ran to greet him, though they had only passed the first inning. With a round as intense as that one, they felt it was only right to celebrate a little early.

And then he looked at you. Your eyes met. You were smiling at him again. He didn't like the lack of concern on your face. He didn't like that you didn't seem challenged. And he especially didn't like the fact that he was out there playing for his life, while you seemed to have played for a weekend game at the park.

Kenji was glaring at you, as if he was burning holes into your head. You lifted a hand and threw him a casual salute, flicking two fingers towards his direction. Dammit, he thought. That wink really threw him off. Which it shouldn't have.

Unfortunately for him, the game was nowhere near the last time you'd interact.

And there'd be the after-party to boot.

[tac-the-unseen]

Lost Boys x Injured Reader

CW: Gang violence, guns, blood, description of unlicensed surgery, minor gore

You and David were by a small brick wall with all of the boys parked bikes. While Marko, Paul, and Dwayne ran around and had fun with each other, you and David stayed behind. David stayed because he was scouting victims, and you stayed behind because you were incredibly tired. You had to work earlier than normal which threw off your whole sleep schedule, and the headache you were sporting wasn't helping either.

Dwayne had already told you how unnecessary it is for you to work. Not only do the guys have a huge amount of money and other values stashed away, you’ll only end up burning yourself out. You however were firm with working, it gave you something to do. While sitting back to never work again sounds like an absolute dream, the sinking pit in your stomach told you otherwise. You felt too lazy. Mix that with anxiety and you swiftly found yourself a job at the local mall.

You laid on top of Dwayne’s bike, the (arguably) most comfortable bike, while humming to keep your mind busy. You cross your arms over the handlebars and use it to cushion your head. Your legs are just short enough to miss the ground, so you swing them back and forth. Your eyes slowly start to close as your mind slips away into a light nap, but that's when your body jolts itself upright. Your body reacts before your brain fully understands what was happening.

Gunshots, several of them.

The fast pops whip through the air, then are quickly followed by more. It's not rare that Santa Carla has a few idiots with guns, but what is rare is a full on shoot out. You see several people running away from the middle of the boardwalk. You watch as they push past each other and you even catch sight of the poors souls that get knocked to the floor. You know those people will be trampled to death by the terrified crowd, but you can't help but briefly think about how horrible that cause of death is. Head trauma, crushed ribs, pierced lungs, snapped neck, all happening to you in a matter of seconds. It's truly a brutal way to go.

David grabs you by the arm and pulls you off Dwayne’s bike and into his chest. David turns himself around to cover you and put you onto his own bike. That's when a sharp, burning pain hits your shoulder. By the time you know what's wrong David has already started his motorcycle and is speeding off. You hissed in pain as the warm California air hits your red, hot, open wound. While David drives you slide off your jacket and press it into the hole in your shoulder. You lean into David's shoulder and bite down onto his leather coat. The stinging pain mixed with the bounce of the trail makes you nauseous, but before you know it, your home.

David wastes no time parking his bike and grabbing you, pulling you into the cave. He runs past the common room, kicking shit out of the way, and sets you into the nest. David is fast, his movements show panic, But oddly enough not his face. He's stone cold, you'd be almost offended if you didn't see the way his pupils are blown wide open. He is panicking, he's just not showing it.

In his haste he grabs some old clothes of his from what you can assume was the 1800’s. Lucky that old thing is clean, you know because you're the one that washed it. He presses the white cotton button up into your shoulders, your body reacts by trying to pull away, but David doesn't let you get far. “Hold still love.” He pleads gently.

You hiss at the touch, Your shoulder burns and stings with a dull throbbing pain. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears while David does his best to stop the bleeding. You're lurched back into reality as someone pulled you into their chest by the waist. You look back to find Paul pulling you in and hastily kissing the back of your head. You look around to see Marko and Dwayne finding more cloth to stuff the wound.

By the four shirt the bleeding slows and your vision is swirling. Dwayne holds your hand and presses kisses into your knuckles while Marko and David are setting up supplies to dig out the bullet and sew you shut. You see them using a lighter to disinfect a pair of tweezers and two needles. Your tears blur you vision so much there's no point in keeping them open.

“I know baby, I know.” Dwayne tries to reassure you, but they all know that's not going to work. You hear footsteps and open your eyes to look up. David is crouching down with the sterile tweezers and you catch the look in his eyes. He's clearly anticipating your reaction, they all know it's not going to be fun.

Paul grabs your other hand and interlaces his fingers with yours, Dwayne is quick to do the same. Another wave of panic shoots through you, while this is an act of love, they're also holding you down.

“Ready?” David says in the most delicate voice you've ever heard from him. You sob out and brace yourself, David knows you're never going to be ready, but has to do this either way.

When he begins digging you're met with what is now the worst pain you've ever been in. Being shit was one thing, this was 10 times more intense. You feel every jab and poke, the pain is nearly indescribable. You seriously would have rather been stabbed.

While you violently sob and scream, Paul and Dwayne hold you down tightly. You legs twist and almost kick David, but Marko was quick to swoop in and pin them down too. With all this chaos David is apologizing with every movement he makes. He shushes you while digging into your bleeding wound until he hits metal.

He slowly drags up the bullet. When the Damned thing is dislodged from your shoulder David quickly packs the wound again. “I'm sorry love, you did such a good job.” He praises while getting up.

They wait until your crying slows and you're no longer trying to kick the air...or Marko. Marko lets go of your legs slowly and stands you. He hurries over to the cabinet and grabs an already threaded needle. “It's not over yet, love.” Paul whispers in an apologetic way. Marko sprays the wound with a disinfectant before he begins his work. David is now the one hugging your legs as Marko gets in close to sew you together. “1…2…3!” Marko says before the needle pierces the lower part of the wound.

Your voice is hoarse from David's previous excursion, but you still manage to hiss and cry. Marko’s work is quick but not sloppy. He too is spewing apologies like a prayer. By the time he's done you've lost all your fight and lay limp and sobbing against Paul's chest.

Marko sprays some disinfectant on your wound and patches you up with cotton pads and a cloth wrapping. As soon as he's down you're pulled into a laying down position by Paul and all four boys start cooing at you.

You're surrounded by purrs and buzzing, praises and kisses, all around you. But that all combines into mindless ringing as you stare up at the ceiling. You still feel the stinging, pinching, and throbbing burn. The thumping of your heart hasn't stopped either, you're still in pain.

Finally your body gives in and your vision fades.

The first sight you're met with is the ceiling. As you blink away the sleep you catch a glimpse of fluffy blonde hair. You turn your head to see Marko asleep and more of Paul's hair. As you come too you realize you're still on Paul's chest. You look to your other side and see both Dwayne and David also asleep.

You gather that it's probably morning and that you probably missed your early work shift. While that thought flies through your head the second one to follow is ‘I’m fucking quitting.’

You slowly wiggle yourself out of your mates arms and the nest, and quietly leave the room. You're still in pain, and the wiggling around you just did wasn't helping, but it was manageable. What really bugs you right now is how thirsty you are. Your body is screaming for water like never before. You guess it made some sense, you did lose quite a lot of blood.

You shuffle over to the living area, in the corner are stacks of water bottles. You remember when you first began staying in the cave how you complained that the cave didn't have any running water. You half jokingly said you'd start bring jugs of water when you stayed over. The next day when you complained of thirst Marko busted open a large crate and pulled out a plastic water bottle with absolute glee. Bastards had waited for you to complain all day so they could show off the water they stole for you.

While making your way to the water supply you hear a similar shuffling behind you. “What are you doing up this early?” you hear Paul's groggy voice behind you. You lean over a grab a bottle, you don't even attempt to talk, you know your voice is gone by the way your throat is still raw. You just hum at him and chug your first bottle.

By the time you reach for your next his arms are around you and gently rocking side to side. You untwist the cap and chug your second bottle. “You're gonna need vitamins and shit.” he grumbles into your good shoulder.

“They’re gonna need more than that.” Another voice murmurs from the dark. You don't have to turn your head to identify David’s voice. “We'll get you plenty tonight, but for now we all need sleep.” He promises in a sleepy tone. You finish your second bottle but your thirst is still unmatched

With Paul holding onto your middle you make grabbie hands at the water stash. David grunts in response but get you your third water. “Finish that and we'll go to bed.” Paul says and kisses the side of your neck.

When you're done you're hauled off to the nest and tucked into place. Dwayne and Marko are just slightly awake and mumbles out incomprehensible words. You're put in-between them with Paul and David quickly to snuggle into your lower half.

Its uncharacteristically gentle of the, but you definitely don't hate it. Even more kisses are pressed into your hips and forehead, as they all settle back into sleep. You too fall under sleeps spell while you plan out what food you're gonna eat when night falls.

The last thing you hear are soft purrs.

Thanks for reading <3

I know it's not the greatest but I have like 5 finals to do. I'm in my last couple of days before I graduate.

[timmyrx2000]

Pacifica's Moment of Truth

Pacifica makes a bold move and faces off against one of her coaches, Mabel! Art by @stephreynaart

Part of my Gravity Falls Baseball AU continuity

Pacifica's come a long way in her baseball training, from reluctantly joining Dipper and Mabel in a few pitches and hits, to actually realizing she loves playing the sport which has brought her closer to her new (and real) friends! But despite this, Pacifica still feels like she's lacking something. She enjoys baseball, not just with her friends, but playing the sport itself, but she can't shake off the feeling that she's not living up to their standard. Despite her love for the game, she still feels she's falling behind and that she struggles to keep up with the gang. Pacifica's all too familiar with the feeling of failure and disappointment, its what her mom and dad used to force her to be #1 at mini-golf. To her, if she's not #1, she's a failure and a disappointment to everyone around her who've supported her.

Pacifica knows that Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy are far from being the jerks that her parents were to her but she feels she's failing herself. Despite her love for the game, she can't help feel like she's a failure despite how much progress she's made. She thinks Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy are just being kind to her. She feels that they've given her all the support they have but she isn't living up to their expectations and she thinks she's a disappointment to them, which couldn't be farther from the truth.

Pacifica struggles with these thoughts until one day she couldn't take it anymore. She wasn't going to live in fear of her parents before, now she wasn't going to let herself live in fear of herself. On a warm sunny afternoon on the baseball field, as they took a breather from their practice, Pacifica decides to take the risk and ask Mabel, her assistant coach, to give her a challenge: to bat against Mabel without her holding back. Mabel already suspected that Pacifica had thoughts like this running through her head but she knows Pacifica's already got it in her to face off the best Mabel can dish out. But desperate to make sure Mabel doesn't compromise, she even makes her promise, no hands behind her back. Mabel pulls off her mitt and pinky promises on one hand while keeping the other one in Pacifica's view. Poor Dipper, however, gets dragged by the girls to play catcher despite being completely new to learning how to play as catcher. So secretly, Dipper really is hoping Pacifica knocks this challenge right out of the park...literally.

Dipper, reluctantly, gears up in his catcher's gear while Pacifica slips on her batting helmet and gloves. Dipper reassures her she's got this... and if she can please make sure she's got it so he doesn't have to worry about actually playing catcher. Its a light hearted moment that gets a laugh from Pacifica and the 2 head out to get in positions.

Mabel eyes Pacifica from the mound and Pacifica psyches herself out. Mabel sticks out her pinky before she pitches reminding Pacifica she wont go back on her pinky promise. With that, Mabel winds up, takes her stride and pitches. A nervous Dipper readies his mitt. Pacifica's eyes narrow, she swings with everything she's got and fixates on the ball as it comes in. Time slows down then... CRACK. Pacifica hits a beautiful line drive out to center field stunning herself at the plate while Mabel is ecstatically cheering on the mound. Pacifica did it! She's proven herself that she does belong with her friends on the diamond and nothing's gonna stop her.

With a sly grin on her face, Mabel turns back to the plate and asks Pacifica "Another one?". Pacifica returns the sly smirk fixing her helmet, tightening her batting gloves, and putting up her bat and just says "...Batter up!".

...Poor Dipper really hoped this was going to be a 1 pitch gig XD

[bechloesupercorp]

How presumptuous of her.

The crowds were thinning, chaos waning, with the rhythmic plunk thwap of weapons and fists. Her trusty bo staff rested in her hand, gliding smoothly through the air in search of its next victim. 

Taking stock of her sisters, her gaze shifted to Ava, my love, adoration gracing her lips. Hands on knees, Ava's eyes lit up as she noticed her admirer. The beginning of a wide grin stretching over her-

Her face dropped. "BEA-"

It happened so fast. A sharp pain searing her side as a Tarask appeared, watching its claw swipe, sending Ava flying with a single sweep. Cruciform sword dangling in the air as it slipped from Ava's grasp.

Beatrice saw red. Piping hot furor running through her veins, charging towards the Tarask. Ducking under a claw as it swiped at her, she scooped up the sword, a sharp thrust straight through its heart, a feral scream ripping itself from her lips. 

She didn’t even wait to see it fall, sliding to her knees at Ava’s side. Her eyes were shut, a trail of deep crimson dripping from Ava’s lips.

“No, no, no, my love,” she begged, watching blood mix into the dirt. “Stay with me Ava,” she breathed, ignoring the pull at her ribs as she cradled her lover. “In this life, Ava. In this life.”

— — — 

She felt numb. The lights were too bright, floors squeaked with each step. Blood clinging to her skin, some not even dry yet. Beatrice had been a patient person for as long as she can remember. Just a child, back straight, alone, outside the cold doors of government offices. She’d learned fast.

But now, under the glare of hospital lights, this isn’t patience. It’s torment. Tension running a line down her back, bloodstained hands wringing in the stilted silence. Her side ached, sometimes stabbing. (“I just pulled something,” she’d protested, four hours ago, when Lilith tried to haul her into a consulting room.) Twenty hours. Twenty hours, since Ava was rushed away, weak, gasping breaths and the Halo in her back, devoid of light. So she waited, missing the slow saturation of her tactical habit, red droplets beading along the hem.

— — —

Fuck. It got me good. Ava groaned, eyes fluttering open. Her entire body ached. But that didn’t matter, as a hot hand rested in her own, tight but gentle. Strange, she thought to herself. Bea always ran cold.

"Bea," she croaked, cotton filling her mouth.

Glazed brown eyes shot up, wobbly landing on her face. "Ava," the sister warrior sobbed, tear tracks clearing lines through the dust coating her face. 

She blinked drearily, squeezing the hand clutching hers to comfort, sheer exhaustion threatening to shut her eyelids. "I love you."

"I love you too." A warm trembling hand lingered on her cheek, and Ava leaned into the soft caress. She could hear the shaky breaths, like Bea was trying to restrain herself, holding in all the emotions that threatened to overwhelm.

"I'm okay Bea," she promised, a beat passed, relief diffusing into the air. "In this life." 

"In this life," Bea echoed, a dazed look in her eyes. Her head bobbled slightly with each breath, swaying softly with each sluggish blink. 

Ava furrowed her brows, not missing the subdued, almost slurred, intonation of her best friend's voice. Nor the pallid skin tone she was sporting.

"Bea," she mumbled, carefully grasping her wrist, stilling her lover's burning hand. 

"I'm fine," Bea insisted, stubborn as ever. But the lethargy persisted.

Fatigue weighed heavy on Ava's face, and Bea could tell. "Go to sleep, darling," she murmured, almost keeling over to press a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be here when you wake." The heat radiating off her lips set off faint alarms in the back of Ava's head, but her eyes slipped closed on their own accord.

— — —

And she was. The second time Ava woke, just a slight twinge in her muscles, Bea was asleep, slumped partially over her lap, hands still entwined. A fond smile sprouted on her lips at the sight. She must have been exhausted.

Tenderly, reaching out to brush a stray hair from the girl’s pale forehead, her fingers grazing the skin instead. Scorching currents ran under her touch. Alarms blaring in her head as she sat up, jostling the girl as she did. Bea stayed still.

“Bea?” she called, panic clenching her chest. 

Silence.

“Beatrice!” she ordered, shaking the limp form. Please wake up, please wake up. Bea’s head just lolled, pale lips parted by strained gasps for air.

“Bea!” she screamed, Halo pulsing as she turned her over.

A giant bloodstain bloomed over the blankets, a deafening trickle dripping to the floor.

— — —

Muted beeping echoed in her ears. A deep ache reverberated through her body, drained. Hushed voices slowly came into focus, with soothing familiarity. Good, her friends are okay.

She pried her eyes open, blinking blearily, She shifted her head, needing visual proof that her family was safe and healthy. 

“Guys, she’s awake.”

Familiar faces entered her vision, filled with worry and relief. 

Lilith, naturally, was the first to go, scoffing, “You’re such an idiot, why didn’t you tell us you had a gaping wound.” But the soft kiss to her forehead betrayed the truth. I could have lost you.

“I’m fine,” she breathed, trying to ignore the throb in her side.

“Like hell you are,” Mary retorted, leaning over to pull her into a hug.

“Language,” she chided weakly, grabbing the hand resting by her side.

Tears sprung to her eyes when she met Ava’s bloodshot ones, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand. “In this life, darling.”

Ava sniffled with a watery smile, and Bea pretended to ignore Lilith’s fake gag and the way Camila vibrated at the promise.  

Mother Superion lingered protectively in the doorway. Her sisters settled around her, and she knew. She was safe, surrounded by family.

She could rest.

[batsplat]

i've noticed you refer to casey's 'mystery illness' and i was wondering, is that not his chronic fatigue? i wasn't following motogp back then but he's mentioned being previously misdiagnosed, so i assumed that the 'mystery illness' he suffered from in 2009 was the chronic fatigue he's since been diagnosed with.

ah, so there's a couple of reasons I use 'mystery illness' to denote it. the first is that it's not quite as straightforward as just labelling it 'chronic fatigue'. the second is that this was how the illness was referred to at the time, which I think is key for understanding how that year played out and how the entire episode was perceived. this is a sport that was horrendously ill-prepared to deal with an 'invisible' ailment that wasn't easy to diagnose, and the ambiguity and confusion are kinda central to the whole story. you've got ducati taking it upon themselves to spread inaccurate information about casey's health against his wishes, the muddled and irregular communication from his own camp, frenzied speculation in the press and from various pundits... if casey could have just clearly pointed to something, it would've made things a lot easier. but he couldn't - that's why it's a mystery illness

just to provide a basic timeline of how this went... casey started struggling around the time of mugello, but it became obvious to everyone else during catalunya. he was exhausted after the warm-up, slept for a couple of hours - and ended up fading badly in the race itself, struggling in the brutal heat that day and barely hanging onto third place. you can see it when you watch the race back (as we should all do regularly imo)... he's almost collapsing in parc fermé, gets a chair and medical attention before even making it to the podium, and he's barely upright during the podium celebrations. he just about makes it to the presser. he thought afterwards he'd recovered, maybe it was just a regular illness... but then he was struggling again during assen, depleted by the end of the race. in laguna, same story

it is at this point that ducati decide to issue a press release 'diagnosing' the problem:

except, you know. that wasn't actually casey's illness. and casey wasn't exactly thrilled with ducati's press release

so he's going through a lot of tests at this point, week after week, consulting a bunch of different experts, and they're coming up with all kinds of explanations - like, for instance, the idea that he'd been trying too hard to recover from a viral infection. but of course, this wasn't just an innocent mistake from ducati. it was part of a pattern of behaviour in them suggesting he just wasn't fit enough

now, obviously, even if this were true, it would still be blatantly unethical to spread around medical information about your rider a) without their consent, and b) that is also inaccurate

another thing to note about the donington race - this was a mixed conditions race where the ducati team were the only ones to take a gamble on wet tyres, basically... hoping it would rain enough to make it worth it. unsurprisingly, this did not go well and they were horrendously slow, they were heavily criticised for this choice, but casey explained it like this:

wishful thinking or calculated risk, this kind of thing helped make it obvious that this situation was unsustainable. in the run up to brno, reports started circulating that casey wasn't going to race. let's just check out the language that was used to describe this:

now, this may shock you to hear, but the sport of motogp in the year 2009 was not exactly at the height of sensitivity when discussing mental health issues. so a lot of the stuff you read from the time period, you kinda go 'well first of all, that wasn't actually the issue, but even if it had been the issue this would be a fucked up thing to say or even speculate about'. once this theory really started gaining traction, around the time when casey just kinda... up and disappeared from the world of motogp (without much in the way of open communication to the public)... well, that's when the discourse got increasingly ugly

there's a lot of stuff you could rattle through here, but let's just stick to a few key flashpoints. first off, this is what the beloved kevin schwantz, 1993 motogp champ and one of casey's favourite riders growing up, had to say:

as well as this:

obviously, he's entitled to his personal experiences in struggling with motivation when rainey retired - except he's using it to speculate about casey's situation, which is considerably less justifiable. and the other bits give you a feel for the common tone of the discourse at the time. the uncertainty over what casey's illness actually was, how little information anyone had to work with, the feeling that casey should just be competing - and the speculation that his problems were primarily or even solely 'in his head'. bringing up how casey wasn't fulfilling his contract, how it was a disappointment, how this might just be about resentment towards ducati...

when casey returned from the illness, he brought up schwantz pretty much unprompted in an interview:

in his autobiography, he adds the following:

Those comments really upset me and I lost a lot of respect for Kevin because of them. For him to say something like that was another example showing me that experience counts for nothing. The media often turn to former riders for an opinion, which would be a good thing if they stuck to what they know. Sadly, often their opinions are outdated and they don't know the half of it but talk endlessly as if they do. In this case, Kevin Schwantz knew nothing about my medical condition and shouldn't have commented on something he knew nothing about. For somebody who had been through a lot of tough times himself with injuries and such, you would think he might understand. It was disappointing but he wasn't the only one who had something to say. Everybody had their own opinions. A rider doesn't go from being ultra-competitive for two years and then just drop off the face of the earth because it's 'in his head'. It is absurd for anybody to even think that. If it was depression, lack of motivation or fear I would have said. People like Chaz and Leon believed in me because they'd known me for so many years and knew I wouldn't just switch off like that. But not many people stood by me through the uncertainty. Adri, Mum and Dad, Filippo, Livio, Chris Hillard, I could practically count them all on two hands. Even within my Ducati racing team, which only a year before had felt like family, there were doubters. I think a few of the guys believed me when I said something was physically wrong but others didn't. Some of the friendships I had grew stronger through all this, and some of the friendships disappeared. In a way that was a good thing. It gave me a better perspective of what racing meant to me and what people really thought of me, who I could trust.

(of course, casey did also separately have an undiagnosed anxiety disorder that even at time of writing his autobiography he didn't really understand, so some of this should be read with that context in mind. the key bit is the frustration he experienced as a result of knowing there was something physically amiss but having no answers at hand) (very much a topic for another time, but a lot of the discourse also ended up suggesting it had been valentino who had 'broken' casey and was responsible for this alleged psychological malaise. valentino didn't personally contribute to this narrative and stuck to wishing casey a swift recovery, but you also can't really leave this out when discussing either the illness or the rivalry as it was a big talking point at the time)

speaking of ducati... well, the main thing they were doing in casey's absence was attempting to hire jorge. which isn't an issue in and of itself, except they were willing to pay him a lot more than they were to casey and allegedly offering him number one status:

(the article also reports that dani was being touted as a possibility by ducati if they couldn't get jorge, or to have a direct switch between yamaha's jorge and ducati's nicky hayden, a plan which amusingly was said to have valentino's full support)

in casey's absence, the ducati/jorge thing progressed far enough that at one point it was being reported as basically a done deal. obviously, in the end it wasn't a done deal, and jorge ended up signing a one year extension with yamaha for 2010 (still hedging his bets, depending on how the situation with valentino played out) - but the damage was already done. here's how casey talks about it in his autobiography:

They'd told me when we signed a contract for 2009 and 2010 that they didn't have any more money for me, didn't have money for development but now suddenly they could afford to shell out like that for another rider? Considering what we had achieved together, I couldn't believe it. I felt I had been stabbed in the back by the people I trusted and who were supposed to trust me. I was blown away, and not in a good way.

also this charming comment from marlboro:

this all prompted retirement rumours, yamaha rumours, all kinds of rumours, and obviously in the end casey moved to honda a year later anyway. you have to say one side ended up rather better than the other from that divorce. when casey returned, he was immediately competitive, with a podium in estoril following two home races at phillip island and sepang. while the ducati's decline continued apace in 2010 and rumours continued to circulate that casey just wasn't the rider he once was, he was able to dispel them definitively with the aforementioned move to honda

one more thing though: what was the mystery illness? the problem if you just say it was misdiagnosed but was actually 'chronic fatigue' all along is in how it erases some important context. this was seen as a possibility at the time, and he had been diagnosed with chronic fatigue before, but was actually dismissed as the primary explanation for whatever reason. from casey's autobiography (published in 2013):

I had seen doctors about some tiredness back in Australia in 2006. They said I had chronic fatigue syndrome, which they put down to a combination of my diet and my busy schedule. But this time it was far more serious and it seemed that no matter what I tried to do to make myself better I only got worse. I started having more recovery drinks made up of milk and whey powder and my condition continued to deteriorate even more rapidly. I didn't suspect that what I was doing to help was causing even more problems.

and from an article from the time:

you know that last bit of the autobiography excerpt? where he mentions the recovery drinks were part of the problem? so, at the time casey believed the main problem was lactose intolerance

the thing is, a lot of more recent articles have said he was 'misdiagnosed' with lactose intolerance and I'm sure I may have used the phrase myself as a way of denoting 'there was clearly something else going on too'. but... I'm not sure that's entirely accurate? read this from his autobiography, and decide how you're convinced that it was a misdiagnosis:

Before going back to Australia for the next race at Phillip Island we decided to try lactose again, just to confirm that it definitely was the source of the problem. Within the next day or two I started losing my usual energy. In a way, this made us happy because I could finally confirm what the problem was. After that it was like a whole new world. For ten years it had seemed to me that a lot of food tasted the same and I could go a whole day without eating and not be hungry. Once I knew what the problem was and knew what to do everything started to smell and taste good. Even the amount I ate doubled! Adriana could see a huge difference almost straight away. And not just physically: 'I love cooking but any time I'd ever put anything on the table for Casey in the past, even though he was always polite, I could tell he wasn't enthusiastic about it. I was like, "I just cooked that for you!" Now he actually started to enjoy my cooking and that was one of the happiest days of my life.' For a while I didn't go near lactose at all but then we discovered Lacteeze tablets and with them I can pretty much eat anything I want. Adri makes tacos, creamy pasta sauce with vegies and traditional Slovakian dishes like svieckova, which is beef in a carrot sauce, and knedle bread. I could finally eat my favourite dessert - sticky date pudding with custard - without getting sick afterwards. I was always pretty skinny and even though I trained my backside off I never put any weight on. But now my body suddenly started filling out and I started to actually put weight on and gain some body fat, which I'd never had before.

I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's not how the placebo effect works

and then in 2019 it's framed like this:

and also:

plus when he's talking about it in that four hour long podcast interview thing, he kinda frames it as saying he'd continuously struggled with these physical issues but they didn't cause his actual retirement. to my reading, it seems that he's had some form of chronic fatigue for a long time, plus some of his issues may have been triggered by epstein-barr virus which he got during his career - but the specific severe problems he's describing in-depth in more recent interviews concern what he's been going through after his retirement

this is obviously quite a complicated medical history, and I wouldn't say it's 100% clear what exactly he was struggling with at what point of time. how do you accurately describe that? I'm not sure just calling it 'chronic fatigue' would be accurate, right? personally, I think 'mystery illness' works as a descriptor because a) this exact phrase was widely used in reporting at the time, and generally I'm trying to accurately describe events from the pov of that time, and b) because it gives you the key bit of information - that nobody knew what it was, including casey. it's just useful shorthand, really, not much more to it

[r0ttenb0gb0dy]

jack ‘canary’ skalbek — full backstory

this is incredibly self indulgent, but i wanted to get it out of my chest, i guess. it's raw and silly at times but i love it all the same and i hope you do too. ive never posted my writing on tumblr so i really hope it does ok out here heh.

18+ for swearing, canon COD violence, no explicit sex but alluding to further acts, just generally not for minors ! adult topics and characters individual trauma discussed within .

There’s something to be said about the haze of being a teenager in California in the early aughts. The warm, all-over feeling of the sun beating down on tanned, freckled skin. Bruised knees, busted knuckles. Spending every day in a lake or a river, god forbid the chlorine riddled soup of a swimming pool, making the most out of what time is had.

Jack Skalbek was, by all accounts, an average teenager, who did average teenage things. Smoking pot behind the bleachers when he should be in class, watching his marginally more athletic friends throw themselves at gym class like it actually mattered. Football, soccer — whatever it was, he could usually find Keegan and Alex there.

Keegan, a year his senior, and Alex a year older, the closest things he could call his friends. They’d spent much of their childhood daydreams running around town together, iPod plugged into a speaker on the back of one of their bikes, blasting some obnoxiously emo music that all of them indulged in. 2004 lends itself to that aspect, dyed hair and painted nails, one too many chains hanging off of Jack’s wallet.

Alex would never speak of it, but he could see it in little glimpses. Catch the fleeting hand-holds and hushed laughter, that look.

There was no way they weren't feeling something.

They just didn't know what to call it.

Sitting on the roof of Jack’s parent’s house, having climbed up through an access point that certainly wasn't meant to be used by 16 year olds, Keegan and Jack lingered. Long past Alex’s curfew, his need to return home leaves them in each other's presence.

“You decide anything about college yet?” Keegan asked, watching Jack fumble with his lighter in an attempt to light the cigarette between his lips. They tasted awful, and he didn't even like the nicotine buzz, but the ‘deep breathing' exercise was relaxing.

“No — I mean, I still have a year.” Jack huffed, sighing with satisfaction as he got it to light. The burn in his throat was comforting, but his attention was more focused on Keegan. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” Keegan murmured, his voice low and quiet. “I, uh, I was talkin’ to a recruiter downtown the other day.”

“Oh? Is that why you blew off our mall date?”

“It wasn't a date, but yes.” Keegan chuckled, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands. Worn from use, he slipped his thumbs through holes in the cuffs, the heather gray fabric fraying at the edges. He felt like he was doing the same thing, some days.

“So, like, what sport? Did you get picked up for football?”

“No, I mean, like — a Marine recruiter.”

“Oh! Yeah, I got that letter too — you actually went and talked to those guys?” Jack snickered, but Keegan was infinitely more serious about it. He had really gone and discussed a future in the military? What future was there in something like that? Brutish violence and bloodshed, all for some rich man’s greed — proxy wars.

“I mean, yeah. Alex came with me. They said I’d be a prime candidate. I’m taking the test soon to see where I place, but they said my grades were high enough that —”

“Slow down.” Jack turned to face the other boy entirely, the warm glow of the setting sun painting him somewhere between coral pink and tangerine. His eyes, though, were still an icy blue. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You joined?”

“Enlisted.” The dark haired boy shrugged, fixing his gaze on Jack’s. “It’s no big deal, Jackie.”

“It’s a really big deal.”

“It’s not — it's the same as if you told me you were gonna go to art school in New York City.”

“Art school doesn't get me killed.” Jack said softly, almost embarrassed that his qualm with the entire thing was the idea of his person Keegan dying. His cheeks were flushed red, all heated up and uncomfortable. He averted his gaze, but Keegan's hand on his cheek returned him to reality.

“Is that what bothers you about it?”

“It's dangerous, Keegan. Y-You could get shot, or lose a leg, or —”

“I can live without a leg.”

“You're not funny.” Jack groaned, pushing Keegan's hand away only to feel it in his hair this time, fingers laced in-between his long grey-blonde hair. It grounded him, making his thoughts clear up and focus down to just one, very clear idea. “I don't want you to go. I-I thought you had to be 18 to enlist.”

“If I pass all the tests, they’ll make an exception. It’s still a couple months out, I’ll be 18 by the time I get out on deployment.” Keegan said whilst gently brushing through Jack’s hair, a bit tangled from being wet earlier that day, knotted with pool water. “This is somewhere I can make a difference.”

“But why does it have to be you?” Jack replied, having long forgotten his cigarette by now. It was mostly ash, all balanced perfectly at the end. One little twitch of his hand and it all fell off, leaving half an inch of smokable length behind. It didn't matter anymore, though.

“Because if I don't, and I just assume someone else will, nothing’ll ever change.”

“How poetic.” Jack mumbled, closing his eyes as Keegan’s hand drew forward, back to his jaw. Soft, gentle, well intentioned. Better than anyone that Jack could ever pray to fill the gap Keegan would surely leave behind with. It made his heart ache knowing that these nights were fleeting, slipping through his fingers already and Keegan hadn't even passed his exams yet. “Promise that you’ll come back from wherever they send you?”

Keegan bit back the words that came to mind first, acknowledging that he couldn't promise to come back. Men and women die all of the time overseas, and he could likely become one of the many that don’t come home outside of a casket. He looked down at Jack, those soft brown eyes enamored with him, and knew he had to make that impossible promise.

“I’ll come back to you.”

It happened quickly. His exams came up fast and he passed them with flying colors, eviscerating the physical testing all the same. Even with the sword of Damocles above their heads, they continued to share hurried kisses and late nights, begging for a few minutes more from the universe. Fighting the timer with every movement. Pressured by the impending doom, Jack started applying to colleges — it was a year too soon, but if Keegan could weasel his way into the Marine Corps at 17 then he could finesse his way into some pretentious art school.

Flashes in his memory now, images of his acceptance letter and Keegan’s coming just days apart, his call to action a far greater anomaly. He and Alex would be leaving for the opposite side of the country in a matter of weeks, ensuring Jack felt helpless. His best friends, whisked away to die in the middle of the desert.

The night before Keegan needed to be at the airport, to be sworn in and shipped off, he didn't spend a second longer at home than he needed to. He was at Jack’s house the second he finished packing, duffel bags discarded at the front door. Mrs. Skalbek would surely move them and re-fold the messy clothes, probably even press his uniform nicely for the next day — she knew it, too, the way that her boy was enraptured by the Russ kid.

She didn't mind, even if Keegan’s parents did. He was leaving, now, she could at least provide them with a safe home for one more evening.

Keegan half expected Jack to break down in tears, begging for him to change his mind or something, but he didn't. He opened the window of his room instead, letting the salt air in, a gentle breeze cooling the room down. Christmas lights strung from the ceiling the only real illumination save for the fading sunset, casting a pinkish glow over everything. On his desk, a closed sketchbook with about a million drawings of Keegan and Alex, though there was a distinct pattern of a particular set of blue eyes repeating every few pages. Then there was Jack laying on his bed, swallowed whole by the comforter, his sad and tired eyes fixed on Keegan in the doorway.

They skipped the “awkward” part fairly quickly.

No hello or how are you, just straight and to the point. Wrapped up in each other’s arms above the sheets, bodies warm and hazy at the edges, blurring the lines between a tangle of limbs. Jack didn't say a word as he closed his eyes and breathed in the achingly familiar scent of the gold standard of a boy he’d grown to love.

“Don’t get hung up on me, alright?” Keegan asked, sleep laced between his words.

“What’d’you mean?”

“Like…go and do whatever you’re gonna do in LA. Don’t worry about me. I can handle my own.”

“Respectfully, shut the fuck up. I’ll be worried about you until you’re home.”

“M’not gonna change your mind, am I?”

“No.” Jack replied, pulling Keegan in closer. It was much too hot for proximity like this, but neither seemed to care.

“At least make some good memories so we have somethin’ to talk about when I come back.”

Jack hummed in reply and drifted off to sleep against his will, waking up without another body in his bed. In a panic he sat up, making his head spin, but he realized Keegan was just getting dressed. He hadn't left yet. The uniform he wore looked foreign on his frame, a little too big on him, but he looked happy enough in it. Keegan looked up when Jack startled awake, a slight frown on his face.

“Wanted to slip out without wakin' you.”

“You didn't say goodbye.”

“That was the point, Jackie.” Keegan chuckled as he sat on the edge of the bed, lacing his boots up with unpracticed hands. “I didn't wanna make you have to go through a goodbye.”

He was right. Goodbye sounded awful. It took Jack a moment of contemplation before he settled on an alternative, his half asleep brain convincing him it was a great idea.

“I love you.” Jack spoke softly, though confident in those three words. They'd remained an unspoken law thus far, only now being brought into the fabric of reality. They made Keegan stop in his tracks for a split second.

“I love you, too, Jackie.” He replied, his voice a solemn tone. After he finished tying his boots he turned and placed a kiss on Jack’s forehead, rustling his hair up one more time for good measure. “I’ll text you when I get to base. Be safe.”

‘made it 2 base. no phone 4 a few months. alex says hi. xx keegs.’

Jack loved and hated those text updates every single time he received one. They were few and far in-between, but they meant the world. It was all he really had left of Keegan. The following summer, after nearly a year of no real contact, Jack finally got a phone call. He was moving into his dorm at UCLA when his phone started blaring Keegan’s ringtone, setting his mind on high alert. Jack fumbled his phone open, pressing the green answer button as soon as his fingers stopped shaking enough to do so.

“Keegan?”

“Jackie.”

He’s alive.

“Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. Holy shit.” Jack laughed, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes from the sheer emotional weight. He could hear idle chatter in the background, Alex’s voice included, carrying on about something he didn't quite understand. “How has it been?”

“Listen, I don't have a lot of time. We’re gonna be leaving for Tel Aviv, soon.” Keegan sounded all too serious, some of that warmth and wonder gone from his voice. It’d dropped an octave, too. “S’been good, Jackie. I just wanted to call and talk to you before we hit dirt.”

“Tel Aviv?” Jackie mumbled. “You’re in the middle of the war?”

“Fuckin’ neck deep in it.” Keegan replied quietly. “You made it to LA, right?”

“Didn't know you still got my texts.”

“Of course I do. I just — I don't have time to reply, some days. I don't have a good excuse, either. Just want to make sure you know I meant it, back then. Miss you like hell.”

“S’that your girl?” Someone’s voice called from a distance, earning a huff out of Keegan. “Is she hot?”

“Shut your fuckin’ trap!” He barked back. “Sorry, Jackie. Listen, I — I gotta bounce, I don't know how long we’ll be out here. Be safe for me, okay?”

“I — yeah, of course, K.” Jack stuttered, running a hand back through his hair in a self-soothing manner. Though Keegan hadn't said the words, Jack wanted to make sure that the point got across that he understood. “I love you, too.”

Click.

Radio silence did not begin to describe what followed that phone call. Jack pushed down his anxiety for a long, long while, ignoring all of the news outlets claiming that a civilian hospital in Tel-Aviv had been assaulted and defended by U.S. Marines. That there had been countless casualties, that those men would be honored posthumously with medals and awards. He didn't read a single article out of fear that he would see Keegan Russ or Alex Johnson in the list of names.

College flew by. The war raged on. He didn't hear from Keegan, his family, no one. Even when his mother called, he blew her off, fearing that she was calling to break the news of his untimely death in the Middle East. Birthday after birthday, year after year, and he had not even begun to fill the space in his chest with something real. Uppers and downers, party culture — it was his way of smothering the pain temporarily, far better than anything his psychologist offered him in way of coping.

Deep breathing exercises and journaling didn't bring Keegan back.

Nothing did.

Not drinking, not partying, not kissing strangers in bars — nothing.

The world continued to strife while Jack continued to linger in 2004, the better part of him remaining on the rooftop of his mom’s house. He especially noticed his inability to change with the rest of the world as ‘The Federation of the Americas’ rose to power. News of their rampage spread like wildfire until they, themselves had spread closer and closer to the U.S. Even when their leader was assinated, it didn't stop them.

Tensions were high, tides ebbing and flowing with every passing day, until 2017.

Jack Skalbek had settled into his life in Los Angeles. He had a house that he rented with a few roommates, a cat, a rather nice car — nothing was too awful those days. He could go outside on his porch and rip a bong like his life depended on it, seeing stars in broad daylight, and —

Wait.

Those aren't stars. It’s broad daylight.

Jack blinked a couple of times as he raised his hand over his eyes, shielding out the harsh glow of the sun. There were small pieces of something hurtling towards the earth, like shooting stars, and as they drew closer he knew they weren't small. They were large, flaming chunks of a spacecraft or something — that was the only logical explanation.

People were running. Something was rumbling.

Impact.

The earth split in two, directly through Los Angeles, and all Jack could do was run. He ran like he never had before, stumbling through the literally broken streets with little regard for anything else. His cat, Molly, leapt out into the street (he never quite stopped thanking God for that) and he scooped her up, hauling ass as fast as he could.

He never really stopped running.

Molly learned to stay at his side, mewling as they traversed what remained of Los Angeles for a while, eventually forced up North by the Federation’s invasion. Before he knew it, Jack had found company with a military squad, having been on base whenever ODIN hit. They stuck together in the aftermath, and when they found Jack essentially camping in the wilderness, they picked him up. At least then, he was “camping” with a group of heavily armed, skilled soldiers.

It didn't last long, the ideation that he could just tag along. Before he knew it, Lieutenant Ames had shoved a rifle into his hands.

“You're too tall to be a sniper and too lanky to be close quarters, so you’re gonna scout. Think you can manage that, Skalbek?” Ames asked, watching Jack inspect the rifle. He’d never used a gun before, or held one, but he supposed that now was as good a time as any to learn how. It would likely be the only difference between him living and dying, so it felt important.

A distant memory these days, although a sweet one, Keegan would have been proud of him. He had passable marksmanship, steady artist hands coming in handy for such a task. His lungs were a weakness, but it wasn't exactly commonplace to come upon large quantities of smokable substances in their travels. Stretching a pack of cigarettes became a habit, until he was barely smoking them at all. Once he could hold his breath long enough to get a few shots off, he was good enough.

That was all that mattered. He could protect himself in the wild.

Jack spent years with the same crew of men, calling them brothers. He never grew too close, never squinted to see Keegan’s face in theirs — he didn't think of those blue eyes often those days. It was hard to dream of good things in such a bad place, like a war-torn America, in desperate need of saving.

Jack just prayed that Keegan was alright, wherever he may be, whatever he may be doing. He had to have survived the initial attack in Tel Aviv.

The soldiers would gossip about a team of men that came from Santa Monica, made up of the survivors from Tel Aviv — fifteen men out of sixty that came out on top when up against five hundred Federation attackers. Ghosts, they were called, a supernatural force that somehow overcame the odds.

He believed that men had survived, but he didn't believe that they were so mythical. Though, after so many years of dissidence, some will cling to those little miracles out of desperation.

Hope was a very dangerous thing for anyone to have, let alone some random man from Northern California that barely survived Los Angeles' implosion, but he had it. Even if he would never admit such a thing aloud for fear of it being taken away. Jack spent most of his time from 2017 until 2022 doing the best he could to hold himself together, and eventually in the winter of that year, it came crashing down.

He woke up to gunshots. Loud, quick, violent. Close. Jack startled awake and reached for his rifle, but before he could even aim he felt a firm thunk on the side of his head. Everything hurts, his head ringing until he falls unconscious, and everything goes painfully black.

Jack had never been knocked unconscious before, but he learned quickly that the wake-up was infinitely worse than the go-down. Nothing was worse than realizing he was chained up, though. His hands were cuffed above his head, the distinct taste of copper rich on his tongue as his eyes fluttered.

“Fuck…” Jack breathed, the sound of his lungs almost wet. He’d surely aspirated his own blood, but he couldn't be certain he wasn't waterboarded by the way his lungs felt liquidy. “Hello?”

Mistake.

A Federation soldier joined him in that cell within seconds, and he learned to keep his mouth shut from then on. It went on for a week straight, the torture, getting beat senseless day in and out by Feds just for fun. They’d laugh, dump alcohol on his gaping wounds, break bones like it was a game. One of them took a bat to his knee on the last day of that first week, and he was sure that he would die in that cell.

Cold. Alone. Bloody.

Months went by. Long, arduous. Sometimes he wouldn't see another human being for several days, and then he would be forced to take a beating alongside another of the soldiers from his company. He wasn't sure when he started referring to himself as one of them, as a soldier, but the Feds saw him that way too.

Corporal Skalbek. The punching bag.

Six. Long. Months.

He was happy that he was still alive on occasion, but most days were spent half-conscious and starving for breath. He couldn't even scream anymore. His throat was so terribly dry he was certain that it was only wet from his blood, coating every gulp with the distinct taste of it. If he coughed, it’d sputter out and paint his pale flesh with an array of sanguine specks, blending with the other stains from the physical abuse. Bruises littered his body, alongside gashes and lacerations, marks from where ligatures had dug into his skin.

The handcuffs were always the worst, a little too rusty and worn, sure to give him tetanus if he survived this ordeal. But, in some sort of optimistic turn, he wasn't sure he would survive it.

If Jack closed his eyes, he could almost hear Marines charging the camp, barking orders over gunfire. That, however, was a fantasy, just like the idea of going home was. Well, at least back to the U.S.. LA wasn't home anymore, and he didn't rightly have a place to live since the soldiers he ran with were always moving, but he would be happy to live in an abandoned motel for the rest of his days at this rate.

Fantasies of a better life left him feeling warm and fuzzy inside despite the exhaustion gripping his every emotion. He was sure, now, that he was starting to see things that weren't really there. Disturbed cognitive functioning is a symptom of mental deterioration, and with the way his mind was creating custom imagery of Marines coming to save him he had to be close to death at this rate. The deafening sound of gunfire traveled closer down the hallway, echoing off the walls alongside the repetitive drum-beat of bootfalls.

“Clear every room — I want every last one of these boys to survive.” A voice shouted, followed by a few affirmative replies of some kind. Jack perked up, straining the cuffs holding his hands up, aggravating the painful friction wounds. A fresh stream of blood ran down his forearms, warm and wet.

It took a few minutes for him to actually believe that someone was here to rescue him from this hell, but once he did he started fighting his restraints. Trying desperately to make the chains jingle but failing at that as well. The pain in his wrists was too much to simply push through it, and he truthfully couldn't feel the lower half of his body anymore. He tried to push himself up on his knees but they were in pure agony.

It wasn't fair.

They’d never hear him.

When they came to the door of his cell, a pair of eyes appeared in the barred enclosure, glancing the room over. He opened his mouth to speak, to beg for mercy, but once more nothing came out. Jack fought his restraints once again and the eyes lit up. Next thing he knew, the door was wide open and he was sure that this was all some vivid hallucination before his death.

The man looked to be a grim reaper, or a twisted angel of mercy. His eyes were nearly white, they were so blue and he knew right then and there that it was him.

He couldn’t mistake those eyes.

“Hey — look’a’me. You’re gonna be jus’ fine.” The man’s voice was low and gravelly, husky in every sense of the word. He went to whimper his excitement but, well…it came out as a coughing fit, blood coating his dry lips once again. Did he not recognize Jack? Has so much changed? Did he not look like himself anymore? “Don't push yourself.”

Jack huffed and sat patiently as the man, who’s last name was too blurry to read and he knew it anyway, broke the cuffs off his wrists with bolt cutters. It hurt, but it reminded him that this was actually happening and that he was alive still. Air still filled his lungs at a quickened pace, he could still feel the warmth of another person’s flesh on his. The man had gloves on, but there was life in his touch — gripping Jack’s fragile and broken body.

“Can you walk?” He asks. Jack shakes his head rapidly and the man doesn't reply, picking the semi-emaciated other up without hesitation. When they enter the hallway, Jack can see the blurry outlines of other men populating the space, both his soldier friends and Marines. “Merrick! Got the last one — he’s not doing too hot.”

“Exfil’s outside — he’s still breathing?’ ‘Merrick’ called back, a fuzzy figure in the distance.

“Barely. Pulse is thready.” The man holding him barked back to Merrick, leaving Jack wondering if he would die anyways, regardless of being saved. It was getting hard to stay awake now that he knew he wasn't going to be stuck in captivity any longer, his eyelids fighting sleep. He knew he was safe. “Hey — stay awake. Eyes on me.”

Jack suddenly felt his eyes open wide again, fixing on the man holding him. He felt like a teenager all over again, looking up through tired eyes on that last day before he lost his best friends to a war he was now fighting, too.

“There we go…eyes on me. Just a few more minutes.” Focusing on that voice wasn't hard. It had gotten deeper, but it was as familiar as breathing.

It was just a few more, in truth. Jack found himself seated in the back of a Humvee, bleeding all over the fabric interior. His body begged for sleep but his blue-eyed angel kept nudging him awake, occasionally pinching his arm to make sure he felt something enough to keep him awake.

“Stop it. You fall asleep, you die.” He huffed in frustration as Jack dozed off again.

“Don't be such a prick, Keegan. He’s a prisoner of war.” Merrick called from the front passenger seat, gazing back at Jack and his mangled body. A mess of limbs and blood, but with the widest smile he could possibly muster. It was him. In the flesh, breathing right in front of him, holding his hand. “You’re gonna be alright, kid.”

Oh, he would be just fine.

Upon arriving in Fort Santa Monica, he was allowed to rest. Anesthetic sleep was never truly restful, as it was artificial, but it was enough for him to walk in a more lucid state. His vision wasn't blurry, his head was no longer pounding, and he didn't taste blood.

A much better day in Jack’s book by a hundred miles.

He rolled onto his side and overlooked the small med-bay, the typical hustle and bustle of a hospital environment carrying on beyond the curtain. It smelled sterile there, but it was welcome in comparison to the scent of rust and rot. The flat white surface of the curtain was disrupted by a hand, followed by the presence of Keegan fucking Russ.

“Didn't think you'd be awake so soon.” He sort of darts his gaze away from Jack, embarrassed that he’d come to sit with a man that he’d presumed to be unconscious. The trouble, though, really came when Jack went to reply. No noise came out. His throat was sore, but it likely only felt that way because morphine was smothering any real pain he would normally be feeling. He touched at his throat anxiously, fingertips dancing across bandages wrapped around the entirety of his neck. “I can do most of the talking, s’alright. I’d like to know who I’m talking to, though. You know sign language or something?”

Jack rolled his eyes. It definitely made sense for him, a person with functional vocal chords and ears six months ago, to have learned sign language. Keegan chuckled at the display of attitude, not a clue in his mind still that he was who he was.

“Stop me when I say the right letter. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J—”

Jack tapped Keegan’s hand. A flash of recognition crossed his face before he continued.

“Okay, J. A—”

Another tap.

“J-A…A, B, C—”

Tap.

“Jack?” Keegan spoke softly. “You — sorry, you kinda look like someone I know. His name was Jack, too. When LA went, he went, too.”

Huh? How had he even heard something like that? How was he so certain that Jack was dead?

“Nevermind. I’m, uh, Sergeant, First Class. Keegan Russ. You in pain or anything, Jack? I’m sure I could get them to sneak you a little extra morphine or something. Maybe a cigarette? Not that you should smoke with your throat torn open, I guess…”

Jack stared up at him. If there was any uncertainty, it was resolved immediately.

“What’s that fuckin’ look for?”

Jack went to speak and he literally squeaked in place of words. God damnit.

“Exactly. Go on, get some sleep. I’ll be around with a better way for you to talk, later.” Keegan said as he left, pulling the curtain shut once again. Instead of throwing a fit because Keegan didn't recognize him, Jack opted for sleep, coiling up on his side as the morphine lulled him into a sense of security, the warmth putting him out like a light.

A man of his word as he always had been, Keegan returned after Jack got some much-needed sleep, food, and water. He looked somewhat disappointed though, taking a seat across from Jack’s bed.

“Does a pen and paper work? I really thought I’d have a more innovative solution to the, uh, no-talking thing but…” Keegan said sheepishly as he snatched the medical clipboard from the side table of Jack’s bed, flipping to a blank sheet of paper before handing it to Jack alongside a pen.

‘It’s fine.’ Jack wrote, turning it to face Keegan. ‘My wrists hurt, though.’

“I figured — Doc said you got some pretty deep lacs. I’ll keep it brief. Your last name?”

‘Skalbek.’

“No it isn't.” Keegan’s expression dropped. “Don't fuck around. Who the fuck told you that?”

Jack furrowed his brow and turned the clipboard around, scribbling out a response as fast as he could before Keegan reasonably flipped out. ‘Do I not look the same?’

“You're not Jackie.”

‘How can I prove it?’

“You can't. Fucking…that's a sick prank, you know that? Whoever the hell told you his name is gettin' gutted.” Keegan stood up and turned to leave, only serving to frustrate Jack more. How did he not recognize him? It would seem that while he was excited to see Keegan again, Keegan was…upset? He licked his lips, dry and cracked as they were, and did the only thing he figured would work.

He whistled.

He whistled the tune to Drowning Lessons by My Chemical Romance. It was cheesy and fucking stupid, but he knew for a fact that Keegan knew it because they’d bought the CD together. They didn’t rip it off of Limewire or Napster, no, they bought the actual disc.

They would listen to that song on repeat, Jack never quite shutting up about the bridge and the melodies of Gerard Way’s gang vocals, and Keegan always said it was easily the best song on the record. He knew that they were never really together, and they never had a song, but if they did it would be that. He whistled until Keegan’s expression softened up, and he pulled his mask up over his head.

Same oceanic blue eyes, same slightly crooked nose, a few more scars. Still Keegan.

“I searched the wreckage at that address he — you sent me.”

Now, it was Jack’s turn for rightful emotional revelations. Keegan still got his texts in 2017? He only texted out of habit, out of a desire to vent every once in a while to nobody, even knowing that Keegan was dead. Being convinced that he was, at least.

“I found a body, I…”

‘Housemate. I had three.’ Jack wrote, urgent this time.

“He was so-so burnt that I…I thought the worst, I guess, I —” Keegan stuttered, his eyes never quite leaving Jack. The gap between them was much too far all of a sudden. “I need a minute.”

‘Take your time.’ Jack wrote back, but Keegan was gone before he could even turn the paper around. He sighed and leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes once again. He would never know, but Keegan practically bolted outside because he didn't want to crack in front of anyone, let alone Jack. The dark haired man locked himself in a broom closet and covered his mouth with his gloved hand, chest heaving with pure emotion as he panicked. His entire world view was shattered by that one living, breathing man out there.

Keegan Russ was not a man that broke down often. He fought back the urge to feel anything about this for two decades, to let his emotions get the best of him, but there was little he could do to stop it now. Jack was alive, a miracle in it of itself, but he was right there in front of Keegan. Busted and bruised, shattered bones and a scruffy face, but it was Jack.

He always regretted not getting a hold of him once they survived Tel Aviv, but there was little he could do about his mistakes now. They had already been done. Truthfully at the time it didn't seem like such a terrible thing, Keegan always had the hope that he would make it to UCLA to see Jack when the war ended, but it never did. Then, he looked forward to seeing him again when he moved to the outskirts of the city, but when ODIN struck LA…

In his mind, Jack had died. He had already mourned him and their brief respite of time together. The grief was simply something he grew around, letting it become a piece of his past that he could lovingly look back upon. Smile, knowing he gave Jack the best version of himself, untainted by war and violence.

Now what was he?

A killer, hardened by years of killing Federation soldiers indiscriminately, unable to look himself in the mirror on the bad days. The last thing that they never see coming. A ghost.

Jack didn't deserve that.

After all of that time, of burying his first and only semblance of love in the backyard outside next to who he used to be, he was sitting right there. If he opened up the door right in front of himself, he was right out there.

He moved his hand from his mouth once he was sure his breathing had regulated down to normal, taking a couple of shaky and unsure breaths before feeling satisfied. The last thing he needed was for their medic to appear out of nowhere and start prodding Jack again, only to see Keegan visibly shaken by seemingly nothing.

It wasn't Jack's fault that everything panned out the way it did, and if it was anyone’s fault it would be Keegan’s. He left, not the other way around. In fact, his squad was responsible for Tel Aviv, which sparked the following energy crisis, inevitably landing them where they are today. Here. In Santa Monica, perhaps the last safe place close to No Man’s Land.

There were two options.

He could, reasonably, walk away and let the medical staff deal with Jack. This could end right here and now, send him on his way with the survivors of the squad he was found with. Keegan would never have to see him again, never have to let him see this mangled version of himself that he had become.

Alternatively, he could walk back out there and sit back down, and start from the top. A do-over. Pretend that the last twenty or so years weren't so long, own up to his fuckups, and make a new starting point here and now. It would be infinitely more difficult, but Keegan also knew that it was indubitably the right thing to do.

With a few more seconds of silence to think about what he was about to choose, he stood up from the pile of boxes he’d been sitting on in the closet, and then went right back to Jack’s side.

“Sorry.” Keegan said quietly as he re-opened and shut the curtain again, sort of standing at the end of the bed rather than sitting in the chair he had previously been in. He was too full of anxious energy to sit down, having to actively think about not tapping his boot on the tile floor. “I just — you have to understand why this is weird for me.”

‘I thought the same when you unchained me.’ Jack wrote, earning a little sad-puppy look from Keegan. It was much harder to see Jack all beaten up and bruised knowing that it was, in fact, Jack.

“You don't look the same, for the record. I don't know who this badass, battle-worn version of Jackie is.”

‘Me neither.’ Jack shrugged.

“He seems like an alright guy.” Keegan said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll have to tell me about him whenever you can talk again, huh?”

‘How about you tell me about this Sergeant Russ guy?’

“Very funny. You need some sleep, y’look like shit, Jack.”

‘Come on. You’d have, like, pretty good bedtime stories.’

Keegan couldn't help it, he laughed at that one, a wide smile on his face. Still the same little spark of attitude that he always had, just with a few more years of bite to them.

“Fine — what’d’you wanna know?”

‘Tel Aviv.’

“Not right now. How about…basic training?”

‘Fine.’

It became a ritual, almost. Every single night without fail, Keegan would return to his side with something he stole from the mess hall and a new story, carrying the conversation enough for the two of them. Beforehand, he had been the quiet one, but Jack had involuntarily taken that role. He told him tales of Task Force: STALKER and the Ghosts. Their adventures through the entirety of the war, how many lives they saved — shit, he even got to hang out with Alex, too, on occasion. Well, Ajax, now.

It also became ritualistic that every single night, without fail, he'd wake up in a cold sweat.

He could only manage to gasp for breath, clutching at his throat as he set the attached heart monitors off time and time again. The ringing noise it made was most insensitive to someone having a panic attack, but it at least actually alerted the medic to his state. Grim, his name was, as in reaper.

It was no comfort to have a medic named after death itself at first, but he learned rather early on that Grim was a saint. He’d show up, mute the monitors and administer anti-anxiety medication, which was in short supply, but useful all the same.

Jack wasn’t terribly embarrassed about it either, he’d survived something traumatic and deserved to feel any way about it that he wanted to, until Keegan witnessed one of those late-night panic attacks. He'd fallen asleep in the chair beside Jack’s bed after a late night of one-sided conversation, barely awakened by the quickened breathing of the man in the bed beside him. Jack had never had panic attacks as a teenager, but the heavy breathing and scared eyes were a dead giveaway. Grim had learned to leave the monitor’s sound off, so it wasn't blaring, but Jack was still gasping for breath. His hands were clasped over his chest, eyes screwed shut as he tried to get his heart to slow down.

He looked over when he saw Keegan jolt awake, his eyes flicking anxiously up and down the other man as his cheeks flushed red. Fully embarrassed of the way the trauma affected him so deeply. It meant he was damaged goods. Discardable for something more favorable, less troubled.

“Y’alright? Should I get Grim?” Keegan asks, genuine concern laced into his words. He was so soft spoken it was almost scary, gruff texture never leaving even at a low volume.

“No.” Jack squeaked out, wincing at the pain. It sounded painful, too, a fragile pitch that wavered for the brief second it was spoken. His hand rubbed at the front of his throat, hoping to smother the pain out.

“Easy, Jackie.” Keegan replied, his brow knit in worry.

“M’fine.” Jack hacked, that wet feeling in his lungs returning in a phantasmal way.

“You're not. Take a deep breath. You’re safe. I’m here.” It was so very grounding, hearing those words spoken aloud. He was safe. He was alive. He was no longer cuffed to a wall in some dank basement.

He was with Keegan again.

Jack heaved a few more anxious breaths out, hand grasping at his chest for purchase until Keegan grabbed it, stopping him from scratching at the bandages constricting his breathing, a bit of a frown hidden beneath his mask. At first, Jack struggled, but he gave in after a few short moments of Keegan’s firm, gloved grasp on his twitching fingers.

“Thanks—” His voice comes out timid in both tone and volume.

“Stop trying to talk. You’re just gonna make it hurt worse.”

“Fuck —” Cough. “— off.”

“Just tryin’ t’help.” Keegan murmured, giving Jack’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You've been having night terrors like that a lot?”

Jack went to reply but bit his tongue, squeezing his hand instead.

“Yes?” squeeze. “Okay — hey, I can work with that. Do you want me to stay?”

Jack didn't reply. He just held Keegan's hand tighter, not letting go for a long, long time.

It was unconventional, this method of communication, but it got the point across. One for yes, two for no became the gold standard, especially when he was able to leave the med-bay and explore a bit. Fort Santa Monica was in no state of beauty, sure, but from what he could see it was a haven. There were refugee camps surrounding the military installments, packed tight with families and off-duty soldiers alike, lining the sandbag ridden streets. It was engineered to be impossible to take, the perfect place to shack up just outside of No Man’s Land.

Jack stood outside once he was cleared to walk again, leaning on a railing that overlooked the dismantled city. He was in a great deal of pain most days, but he’d rather grit his teeth and bare it over scarfing down painkillers. A brace and a dream, he could get just about anything accomplished these days.

“Elias said he wants to talk to you.” Keegan’s voice came as a shock, giving Jack the slightest bit of a scare. He turned on his heels to look up at the other man, brow knit in confusion. “Don't know why, don't ask. C’mon.”

What the hell could STALKER’s Lieutenant even want with him? The Ghosts weren’t exactly arms wide open to anyone in particular. They were brothers forged in blood and dirt, and he certainly was not present during Operation Sand Viper. So, short of kicking him out of the encampment, he had no idea what thee Elias Walker could possibly want.

Nothing bad, surprisingly.

“You must be Jackie Skalbek — pleasure. Elias Walker.” A firm handshake from the older man, setting Jack back a few notches. He felt awkward and terribly small next to such a force of power. Keegan had told him so many stories by now that he was certain Elias was inhuman purely based on skill and drive to do more, do better. Jack nodded a reply and Keegan stood quietly by, waiting for his presence to be necessitated.

“So…you’re the infamous Jack.” Elias smiled. “Keegan didn't shut up about you in…what was it, ‘06?”

“Embarrassing.” Keegan huffed, averting his gaze.

“I gotta say, son, your squad sung some high praises of you. Keegan, too. You’ve got a lotta reputation preceding you.” His squad? The soldiers he’d been shacked up with. They were saying he’d done well? His marksmanship was nothing to scoff at, sure, he had steady hands — but make him a soldier it did not. “I know you’re still taking it easy for now, but…we need warm bodies. Desperately. I’m sure Sergeant Russ filled you in on our work, the things that STALKER is responsible for?”

“Only the good parts, I promise.” Keegan said jokingly, earning a bit of a glare from Elias.

“Point is, if you’re up to the challenge, I could use the hands around here. You’re no Marine, but I betcha I can make one out of you yet.” Elias had a sort of warm smile, a confidence that exuded from every word he spoke, that almost made Jack feel like he could do it. How could he fit into the very rigid spot here, though? The lifestyle was hard and rigorous, made for men with years of experience in the field, not…him. “What's that look for?”

“I —” Jack squeaked. Squeaked! In front of Elias Fucking Walker. Frustrated with his own inability to produce a sound that wasn't equivalent to a hamster, he turned to Keegan. Now, they hadn't tried lip reading, but there wasn't exactly a better way to deal with this.

“He’s — slow the fuck down, Jackie, Jesus — he doesn't think he’s cut out for it.” Keegan roughly translated the quick talking, focused on the irregular way Jack formed certain words, the way he most definitely still had a slight lisp based on the way his tongue caught his front teeth sometimes. His fully grown voice was probably lovely if he could choke out more than two words at a time.

“I have it on pretty good authority that before the Federation got their paws on you, you were the best sniper among that squad of army veterans.”

“That was before the Federation.” Keegan translated once again, a slight sadness to the way he spoke the words. It didn't feel good knowing that he’d taken such a confidence blow from being held hostage — it made sense, though. Nobody comes out of that sort of ordeal without a few loose marbles. “He doesn't want to get someone killed because of his inexperience.”

“I understand that, but you've got a certain…quality. It’s that resilience, Jack. That’s what being a Ghost is.”

It resonated deep in his chest, the way that he spoke of what comprised a Ghost. Surviving against all odds. Coming back from ungodly nightmares and asking the world if that was all it had. Having the guts and courage to do what just be done. When Alex and Keegan enlisted, he knew they had more willpower than he ever would, and he wondered how Elias could possibly see that quality in him.

Scrawny, terrified, shaking, Jack Skalbek.

That was no Ghost. He was no soldier.

“I’m not who you think I am.” Keegan spoke his words once more, shaking his head just a little. “I did what I had to do to survive out there, but that's it.”.

“You can live, not just survive. I just need you to have a little faith in yourself, huh? Those boys you ran with sure have it. There’s a lotta folks out there that can't fight for themselves, that’s why we’re here — you can make that difference for folks. It’s up to you, though, I won't force it. I just know a Ghost when I see one, and I have a real good feeling that you’d be at home with us.”

Home. Home wasn't a place anymore, was it? Not since his home got blasted off the face of the earth by ODIN, not since his family and housemates got —

Then, there was us. The Ghosts. His closest friends from growing up.

Men that he’d spent weeks hearing stories of, the legend of brothers in arms coated in blood and sand, walking corpses. He was not made to do that, let alone the minimal work he’d put in during his travels. Jack realized he was just looking at Elias with shock and awe still, shaking his head to get his thoughts right.

Jack knew that if he took this opportunity, he’d be roped into this war for good. Moreso than if he only stuck around for Keegan’s company. There wouldn't be a way out of it, not that there was now, but he would cement his future if he trained to take up work with STALKER. He swallowed his fear, the anxiety welling in his stomach, and extended a hand to Elias.

“Good.” Elias shook his hand, taking it as the ‘yes’ answer that it was. “Once you're cleared for duty, we'll see how well you do.”

“Y-Yessir.” Jack managed to speak, a slight terror in his eyes that paired well with the confidence that came from actually forcing words out.

This, of course, meant that he was now privileged enough to meet the rest of the Ghosts. He’d met them in passing, trailing around behind Keegan most days like a lost dog, but now they were becoming acquainted. They were few in number compared to normal squads and battalions, but they were a force to be reckoned with.

Ajax was more than thrilled to see Jack again, having a much more overwhelmingly positive reaction to his presence than Keegan had. Saying that ‘I knew you weren’t dead because you’re too stubborn to die.’ It almost felt like the before again, memories flickering back to life in the back of his mind. Synapses that hadn't fired in decades.

Kick was the friendliest by far. He sat down with Jack before any proper training and got him kitted out, thrusting a marksman rifle into his hands before he even had the chance to protest. Boasting American made quality, a magazine that would make Vogue blush, and a scope with dual magnification. The matter of his tactical gear would come later, but Kick was more than satisfied to ramble about the specs of his firearms whilst Jack listened intently. He promised him custom gear and maybe even a mask, one day, but he needed more time.

Torch, Grim — they were well acquainted enough from his time in the medical bay under Grim’s watch, Torch often spending his days down there as well for an extra set of hands. He worked in demolitions, but that didn't mean he didn't have surgically delicate hands to assist when Grim couldn't get to something himself. He was actually the one to remove Jack’s stitches — a painfully long process that was almost, but not quite, as bad as his bones getting shattered in the first place. Grim would occasionally cheer ‘you’re doing great!’ and Jack couldn't be sure if he meant him or Torch.

Merrick, though, he was the tough one to crack. Cold, harsh — but effective. He was a decorated officer, completing the SEAL training at 17 years old with flying colors. Sure, Keegan and Ajax had become Marines at the same age, but that wasn't the same as being a Navy SEAL. It was overachievement to the highest degree, except he wasn't showing off — he was just that good. Jack felt small and insignificant in the presence of a man like him, who could outsmart entire battalions of Feds without much forethought.

He was out of his league, and Merrick knew it from the moment they met.

Sitting in the arsenal, having been gifted his uniform by Kick, but too terrified to put it on, Jack just held it. It was dark gray in color, camouflage and flat black as well, though the vest and accompanying guards were all matte black. They’d given him the standard patches that matched everyone else’s, a STALKER insignia set, but his name was the most jarring one to observe.

Skalbek. Corporal Skalbek.

He wasn't even enlisted — how could he be classified as a Corporal? The soldiers called him one, sure, but it was mostly in a teasing way. Jack thumbed over the embroidery and took a deep breath, deciding it would be better to just get dressed and have an existential crisis later. He had to tape and brace his knee in order to walk for long periods, but he’d grown used to the limp in his gait by now that it didn't bother him much anymore. The return of his voice, though, did bother him.

Even as he strapped his gear into place and laced his boots, every little huff or grunt of exertion felt foreign in his mouth. He didn't know what he was supposed to say for himself, truthfully, so he wasn't comfortable with using his voice. It was impossible to even fathom an explanation for how he ended up here, for what he went through in that cell — so he just didn't.

Instinct always takes over, though.

“You all set, blondie?” Keegan asked, leaning in the doorway of the arsenal. He could see Jack all geared up, but it felt right to ask.

“Yeah. All set.” Jack spoke, unaware that he'd even done so at first. Keegan knew better than to overreact, though, it would likely scare him off. Take that pretty voice away. If he wanted to talk, he could, and Keegan wouldn't apply pressure in any way.

“Good, good…lemme see.” Keegan said as Jack turned to face him, sort of standing awkwardly with his arms down at his sides. He looked lost. Uncomfortable in all of th buckles and straps, like the gear was suffocating the life out of him. “You look suicidal.”

“I’m —” Jack stopped himself, a bit shocked in his expression.

“You were doing great.” Keegan huffed in response, mildly disappointed. “The uniform looks good, though, Jackie.”

Jack rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, watching Keegan draw in closer across the room. He picked up the other man’s marksman rifle, inspecting it for a moment before handing it back to Jack.

“Needs some dirt on it — lucky for you, we’re just doing recon. Nothing crazy, just gettin’ your boots wet out in the field.” Keegan watched Jack take the rifle back, clicking the carry strap around his neck into place, carefully snapping the scope cover on for travel. He looked nervous, like a kid on his first day of school, only with much more weighing on his chest. It made sense. He hadn’t been sure of himself the entire time Elias was giving him a golden opportunity, so it made sense that confidence wasn't leaking out of his every movement. “Stand up straight, act like you know what you're doing until you do. Merrick prefers his name or his title, not sir, if you decide to talk to him.”

Jack nodded, letting a shaky breath out. He held up a thumbs up, hand trembling ever so slightly, pathetically. Keegan reached out and steadied it.

“You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you.”

Jack turned his hand and held his pinky out, raising a brow. Without much hesitation, just the normal amount from a tough guy, Keegan did the same and interlocked them. He leaned in instinctively and pressed where his mouth would be under the mask to Jack’s knuckles. It was a thing from years ago, something they did to “seal” a promise. Jack was surprised that he remembered, but not upset by any means.

It wasn't a terribly long drive to the recon point. It felt that way because of the deathly silence in the SUV, save for Merrick giving the mission brief. Kick sat in the passenger seat beside their Captain, humming to himself as they flew down the dirt roads, jostling over every bump. Jack kept his eyes on the floor until they arrived at the infil, at which point he and Keegan exited the vehicle. It was fairly heavily wooded, the area well covered and higher than the place they were doing recon on, making it ideal for a sniper’s nest. Jack had a natural sense for that sort of thing, carefully and quietly slinking around the woods before coming to a tall, heavily branched tree. He looked it up and down, sizing it up, then looked at Keegan. He was all searching for a nest, a ways away into the brush.

“You take up high, I’ll go down low?” Keegan asked into the comms for confirmation as he found a comfortable place to get vantage from, half expecting a vocal response from Jack and half expecting a snap or something in reply.

Whistle.

“That works.” Keegan chuckled to himself as he pulled his rifle off his back and nestled into the dirt, mounting the tripod on a hard surface so that he could get a stable view. Meanwhile, Jack climbed up into the large redwood. He struggled at first because of his knee, but eventually he powered through and hoisted himself into straddling a large limb. “Are you in position?”

Whistle.

“Heard that. Merrick, we’re locked. Watchin’ exits.”

“Roger — the place should be empty, but you know how that goes. We’ll clean and clear, then raid for supplies.” Merrick replied, voice a low crackle over the comms, before silence fell over the area. Jack relaxed back against the trunk of the tree as he racked a round in his rifle, sliding the bolt into place as he looked down the scope. It was peaceful, almost, quiet. The idle rustle of birds in the trees and the quiet thrum of the earth breezing past, only occasionally interrupted by the crackle of activity over the radio.

Jack hummed quietly, the soft rumble of his voice in his throat only truly comfortable in a muffled manner, barely making any sound at all. He felt his finger gently sliding over the trigger, not quite squeezing just yet — there was next to no movement ahead, save for Merrick and Kick as they navigated the empty warehouse.

They spent a long while going through the place room by room, combing it through, picking up any usable supplies. Sterile equipment, alcohol, first aid kit materials — all sorts of things. It had been vacant for quite a while, clearly, despite old Federation flags flying above. They’d yet to reoccupy it after their removal, meaning everything inside was up to date and ripe for the taking.

Jack’s gaze traveled around outside, flickering from the warehouse to the dirt road leading up to it, watching a car start to close in. Federation flags. His eyes went wide and he stuttered to speak, nothing quite coming out. Damn anxiety reaching up from the depths of his stomach to choke him out internally, clawing his vocal chords into submission.

Three, rapid fire whistles. High pitched and quiet all at once, ringing out through the comms.

“Movement?” Keegan asked quickly.

One.

“Got it. Watch your backs, boys. How many?” Keegan called.

Five.

“Five tangoes, on their way to your position.”

“He didn't say anything, Keegan. Are you sure you're not hearin’ things?” Kick asked, almost a laugh to his voice when he spoke.

“I’m sure.” Keegan asserted, glancing over through the blur of leaves and trees blocking his view of Jack. He had to be right. A couple of seconds pass and he can see the vehicle for himself, five Federation soldiers climbing out slowly. Stalking their prey. Merrick and Kick. Jack wasn’t scared, though, knowing very well that he only had one shot before they were aware of him.

He let out all of the breath he had been holding in from his lungs, took a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling the unsteadiness slip out of reach.

Bang.

Two down. One shot.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Jack gave a long, drawn out whistle of satisfaction as he took a new breath in.

“All clear.” Keegan exhaled. “Nice fuckin’ shots, Jackie.”

Pride washed over him all at once. The warm, fuzzy feeling of success seeped into his bones and made him blush all over, a hot feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“We're on our way out now to confirm kills. Meet us down here?” Merrick asked.

“Rog.” Keegan replied, leaving Jack to watch the doors in anticipation. Before he knew it, Keegan had made his way over, looking up at Jack perched in the tree. He rocked back on his heels slightly, taken aback by the way Jack had curled himself up onto a tree limb, nearly wrapped around it as he aimed down sight. His cheek was pressed up against his rifle, keeping him nice and steady.. “Look like a bird up there, y'know that, Jackie?”

Jack sat up straight, a bit surprised. He hadn't been listening at all to his surroundings, sort of zoned out as he watched down his scope. A bird? He prayed that didn’t stick.

“The whistling works. Got my attention real fuckin’ quick.” Keegan extended a hand to Jack, helping him climb down from the tree unceremoniously. He replied with a playful whistle, a smile crossing his expression briefly. After collecting his first 5 confirmed kills as a Ghost, they returned to base in the same car they came in. Quiet, at first, but Merrick broke the silence midway back to HQ.

“Quiet type, huh, Skalbek?” Merrick asked, glancing back in the rear view mirror.

“Leave him be.” Keegan asserted. His voice always seemed to be quiet and soft spoken, but he had a bite to it that showed he meant business. If anything good happened to Keegan while he was gone, it was that voice.

“Didn't mean anything by it. You did great out there, Jack.” Merrick defended himself.

Silently, Jack thumbed over the pristine Federation tags before stuffing them into the pocket on his vest. He didn't like the idea of keeping trophies, but those tags were proof that he could actually do some good here.

It took a long time for him to truly feel that way.

Like, the first time he got to see his own dormitory. It wasn’t anything crazy, just a room with four walls and a bed right down the hallway from the showers, but it was his room with four walls and a bed. Dark, cozy sheets on the mattress, a warm light overhead — his name on the door. Jack actually sort of felt important for once in his life, and he began to understand the draw and appeal of military life. There was one tiny problem with the lone dorm, though.

Even at UCLA, he dormed with someone else. His first apartment had a roommate, and the same man moved with him into their home in Los Angeles with a handful of friends. He had no siblings as a child, but Keegan and Alex were at his house so frequently he may as well have at that point. Being alone did not come easily to Jack.

“Hey — came to drop off your tags.” Keegan knocked at the door, a little whistle coming from inside telling him to enter. When he threw the door open he saw Jack sitting on his bed, legs crossed, just sort of looking lost once again. A recurring theme for the blonde. “Need some decor in here, seriously. It’s abysmal.”

Jack just sort of shrugged, catching his tags mid-air when Keegan threw them, the jingling making him flinch slightly. They had, of course, his name on them. Blood type, affiliation, spot for a call sign if one ever stuck to him. He thumbed over the engraving before undoing the clasp and snapping it back into place around his neck, stuffing it beneath his shirt. It was ice cold, but the metal would warm and warp to him eventually. Become like a second skin, something he couldn't go anywhere without.

“I had something else, too, but — s’up to you if you want it or not. Could always make your own.” Keegan added as he came a bit further into the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside Jack. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of black fabric, neatly folded into a little square. When unfolded, Jack could see it was a mask, his very own. It looked similar in pattern to Keegan’s, but noticably neater and cleaner in texture and facial features — across the mouth were two black strips in an X. Maybe a little bit on the nose, but he couldn't complain.

“It’s not great compared to what you could probably do — don't know if you’re still into the whole art thing these days.”

Jack shook his head, turning the mask over a couple of times in his hands before he went to put it on. The fabric was thick, making him uncomfortable at first, but once it was in place he could breathe easily. He looked over at Keegan as if to ask how he looked, the scrunched up wrinkles around the other’s eyes telling him everything he needed to know.

“Little Ghost.” Keegan hummed, ruffling up Jack’s hair in a playful manner. “You’re one of us now, as far as I’m concerned.”

Wide eyes like saucers, just looking up at Keegan with awe, wondering how they'd managed this. Circling back to sitting in Jack’s room, though this time it was less than cozy. Even without the Christmas lights casting a warm glow over everything, though, Keegan was more sure than he ever had been that everything was worth it to end up here.

That summer, July was hot in Santa Monica. The sun bathed the city with regularity, not even letting up in the evening. Though, there seemed to be a brief respite in between months of hardship.

After a particularly good bout of missions, Jack even getting some more confidence in himself (and a call sign, while he was at it) they decided to have a small leisure break. Time for themselves, to breathe in without the threat of being dispatched on a mission looming overhead. Something that many of them hadn't had a chance to do in a long, long while. There often wasn't much remaining time for recreational drinking, but Keegan couldn't lie, there was something about Jack in the doorway of his dorm with two cans of beer that made his heart skip a couple of beats.

Sure, they’d stolen liquor as teenagers and gotten wasted on Jack’s roof. His mom always made sure that they were safe and well looked after when they made those foolish errors, giving them plenty of room to make mistakes and not feel stupid about it.

They had kind of missed out on sharing 21st birthdays, though. Keegan's was a year sooner than Jack’s, so they would've had to wait anyways, but they’d inadvertently waited over a decade. The crack of the pop-taps couldn't come soon enough, and neither could the ensuing burn of alcohol. It was liquid comfort, burning the whole way down and settling in the stomach, leaving every sensation tinged a hazy shade of amber.

Kick, in his endless curiosity, had obtained a camcorder at some rate. They had access to new technology, high quality drones and cameras, and yet he was obsessing over the film grain and scan lines of the older camera. It was probably as old as him, the brand name long scratched off from time and use, but he still boasted it’s American made durability. Pointing it at Jack after a couple of drinks, giggling to himself as he zoomed it in and out.

“Alright, alright — this one’s Jack. We’re still — heh — getting used to him, but this kid?” Kick turned the camera to himself for dramatic effect. “Sharpshooter. I think he could shoot the pimento out of a fucking olive from a hundred meters out.”

“He said that’s pushing it.” Keegan answered for Jack, having taken up that role nicely. They weren't quite at the point of telepathy, but beating ASL into his head was starting to work. Jack picked up usage of it back in college, so a refresher was needed before he could actually use it, but the main problem was teaching it to Keegan. He was impatient and short tempered, but he could learn it for the other's sake.

“Maybe! Maybe it's not! Only way to find out is to try, Jack.” Kick snickered as he turned the camera around again, watching through the viewfinder as Ajax joined Keegan and Jack on the balcony. The sunset over Santa Monica Pier was beautiful, even now, with a fort plopped overtop of it. Ajax took his spot between the two others, throwing his arms around them with a smile.

“Good to have the gang back together.” Ajax hummed, pulling Jack in a bit closer, spilling a little bit of his drink in the process. “Fucking missed you, kid, seriously. You have no idea what it was like dealing with Grumpy over here for 15 years without you.”

“I’m not grumpy.” Keegan huffed. “I’m apathetic.”

“Whatever you say.” Ajax laughed, snatching Keegan’s drink from his hand before disappearing back inside with Kick hot on his heels. It was a mostly empty can anyways, so he wasn't terribly disappointed. Still, he wanted to obtain just one more for the end of the night, grabbing one for Jack as well. Turns out, both of them grew up with quite the tolerance for the stuff despite having exactly zero when they were younger. Keegan’s resilience could be attributed to body mass, but Jack’s was built entirely on whiskey lullabies.

The years of travel were hard on him, a once soft and fearful creature of a boy, now…a man.

Keegan took a moment in the doorway to look at him, really look at him. Wearing sweat-shorts and that blasted knee brace, scars drawing up and down the length of his left leg. His sweatshirt, an increasingly well used and loved camouflage tarp of cloth, swallowing up his lanky frame with ease. Those pretty brown eyes, watching the sun dip beneath the horizon, casting tangerine and coral hues all over him.

It was straight out of a movie, or a memory, he couldn't tell.

What’re you staring at? Jack signed, catching Keegan a bit off guard. He bit at his bottom lip beneath his mask and unhooked one side of it to take a drink from the fresh can.

“You. Just…taking it all in.”

Take your time. I’m here now.

“Got no idea how good it feels to know that you're still kickin’ dirt up, Jackie, I…” Keegan stuttered a bit, an uncommon occurrence for him. He didn't feel that sort of nervousness often, hadn't since he left for basic. Scratch that. He hadn't felt genuinely nervous since Tel Aviv, calling Jack from the back of that plane, hands trembling in fear. This wasn't anything like that, though, this was the butterflies sort of nervousness. Somehow, infinitely more terrifying than getting shot at. “I want to make it up to you, somehow.”

What?

“The last…what, 15 years?”

We're older now. You know that. Can't go back and change what already happened. Jack shrugged, not quite grasping that Keegan meant it. He wanted to repair what damage had been done to whatever extent he could, even if things were vastly different, even if they were entirely different people now.

Whether Jack knew it or not, he still had the combination to Keegan's pad-lock chest, the chasm labeled hollow to keep anything good out. It didn't matter how they got here, what mattered was now Keegan has a shot at actually apologizing. Making right what he had once done wrong. He would regret not reaching out sooner until the day he was dead, but he could do better this time around. This is not the kind of opportunity he could squander.

No way in hell.

“I know. But…I can be the person now that I couldn't be then.” Keegan came closer until he was leaning up against the railing, too, overlooking the pier. If he looked up at the stars long enough, he could almost imagine the floating space trash left behind from ODIN, what didn't enter the atmosphere swirling and churning above their heads. “I’m not saying we pick up where we left off in ‘07, I’m just asking that you hear me out.”

Okay. I’ll bite.

“Plain and simple. We know what happened in-between then and now, but we can just…ignore it.” Keegan inched closer as he spoke, until he was shoulder to shoulder with the shorter man. The cold drink in his hand was all he had to steady himself, shocking his system into continuing to speak. “You know I loved you then and I still do.”

Jack swallowed. Loud. The can in his hand crinkled slightly under the pressure he was holding it with, his mouth dry. He still loved him? He? Stone cold, violence wrought, Keegan fucking Russ still loved him?

He, who hid at Jack’s house from his parents, always thanking Mrs. Skalbek for the place to stay, always denying how often he was there. Hiding the fleeting kisses, never lingering long enough to leave a mark on soft flesh. Lying to himself and his father, always forcing himself into the image of what he thought a man to be, never showing much softness at all.

Only to Jack, only back then, only behind closed doors.

This was a massive, groundbreaking departure from whomever that was back then. It took their semi-permanent separation for Keegan to admit that he loved Jack the first time, it only took a few months this go around. The promise of staying, rather than leaving or coming back, was much more emotionally grounding.

“Was that too much?” Keegan asked after a moment. He seemed on edge about Jack’s reaction, gaze flickering anywhere but on those soft brown eyes, eating him alive.

No. It's just been a long time.

“You probably moved on, like, a few months after I last called, huh?”

Never. Jack sighed softly in reply. There was emotion in the movement of his hands, his eyes portraying all of that sadness well. It was never really over.

Just five words, but those five words carried an unspeakable weight. Keegan stared for only a few seconds, going to speak when Jack continued.

Everything came back to you one way or another. My thesis for my degree was a portfolio full of you. I still texted you every time I needed to talk even if you didn't answer, I needed you. My mom called me every few months and I was so scared that she would tell me you were dead that I just didn't pick up. Everything I did up until the fucking world ended was about you, no matter how fast I ran.

It all spilled out so fast that Jack couldn't even be impressed with himself. His hands stuttered every once in a while on more complex words. The words themselves shocked Keegan, too, but that was secondary. He felt wholly guilty for ever letting himself get so close to Jack back then, because his own feverish dreams of doing something with his life just meant he did that to Jack. Got him hooked and ran, watching it spiral out of hand until he was sure he lost Jack forever. The red string tying them together threatened to be severed by the universe with every knot and fray in its threads.

But it never broke. It never fell lifeless.

He would've thought that Jack married, maybe even squeaked out a kid or two, joined the PTA. Cut his hair short and finally start making art for a living, take his kids to soccer practice — not wake up in the middle of the night missing his highschool boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

Were they ever even that much?

Are you gonna say something or what, K? Jack added, breaking Keegan out of the cyclical nightmare of thoughts in his mind.

“I just didn't…know you felt that way about it.”

You had everything to lose by loving me, and you did it anyway. How could I ever move on from that? He wasn't speaking, but he was feeling every emotion from every word. Jack’s eyes were all welled with tears, a soft gasp escaping with every mouthed syllable. Threatening to spill out, but not quite making a sound.

Keegan knew what Jack meant. He would’ve been kicked out if his father ever caught wind of what Keegan was doing with ‘the no-good Skalbek boy’ down the street. If not for Jack’s mom, they would’ve never gotten as far as they did back then. Even then, it wasn't far. He would’ve been spitting teeth from that fight, if he ever found out, probably dead.

He’d unknowingly shown Jack that someone could love him enough to die for him, and as a consequence he never really learned how to be loved any less.

“You still feel that way?” Keegan asked after a moment of silence, a bit of his inhibition slipping away. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was just an old spark flickering back into life.

Always.

“Can I start trying to make up for that lost time, then?”

“Please.” Jack replied out loud, gaze averted out of embarrassment. That didn't last long, though, not with that spark beginning to rage into flames. Nothing could've kept Keegan’s hands off of him, his drink thrust into Jack’s hand so that he could pick him up a little bit easier. Hoisting him up onto the railing of the balcony for balance, strong arms laced around Jack holding him steady. The railing creaked, the drop was far, but neither of them seemed to give a damn.

Hot. Heavy. Hurried, whiplash kisses, hands in hair and lips on teeth. It was not gentle, it was not pretty, it was feverish and raw. Keegan could've made him bleed with sharp canines on his bared neck and he would’ve been quite alright with it.

Even when Kick threw the door open, trailed by Ajax with the camcorder, he couldn't have guessed what was going on outside until he saw it. Under the haze of one flickering light that never quite stays on long enough to catch a clear glimpse, but the camera picking up their meshed bodies nonetheless.

“Get a room, you two! Sheesh!” Ajax laughed, but impressively enough, neither seemed to care.

“Mmmhmm…Can’t hear you.” Keegan murmured against Jack’s lips, earning a snicker from the blonde in his arms, still faithfully holding both of their drinks.

“Talk about making up for lost time.” Ajax joked. Kick all too certain he would get chewed out by Keegan if he drunkenly giggled too, he stayed quiet. As quickly as they came they dipped back inside with Ajax pumping his fist, proclaiming that he always knew.

“This alright, Jack?” Keegan asked, breathless as he took a moment to cool off. Still holding the other man, just leaving some space between them for now. Foolishly, Jack dropped the cans so he could sign, a blush dusting his cheeks as the half-drank liquid spattered on the ground beneath them.

Haven’t been this alright since I don't know when.

“Can't lie to you, I never — you were — ugh, fuckin’ sounds pathetic…” Keegan sucked a breath in shakily and buried his face in the crook of Jack's neck, faint scent of cologne and body wash still attached to him. “Never let anyone get close after you. No-one.”

Touch-starved did not begin to cover it.

He didn't hug, he didn't do physical contact, skin-to-skin was a foreign thing. Jack was probably the last person who touched him with bare hands and he didn't convulse. Ajax was an exception to that rule, but it wasn't like they were snuggling. Pats on the back, pull-ups onto a ledge — those weren't intimate like this. He didn't get intimate.

Jack felt sort of dirty knowing he'd gone and tried to bury the feeling of needing someone he couldn't have in the arms of others, never succeeding, whereas Keegan had done the opposite. Instead of voicing that he only ran his hands through Keegan’s short, scruffy hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“You think it’s pathetic, don't you?” Keegan sighed, nuzzling into the other man with wandering butterfly kisses, lips ghosting over his main artery.

Two whistles for no.

“Hah! Sure thing, Jackie, sure…” He laughed. “Remind me to never ask you that sorta thing again, ‘cause even your whistles sound sarcastic.”

They weren't, but Jack would let him live in his little bubble. Moments like this were never long enough, and thankfully they got to spend the rest of the night catching up on the important things, previously undiscussed stories of Jack’s life in SoCal. It was good to know that they at least had a chance before things began to kick up once again.

For some reason, things didn't.

It was a pure, mostly calm stalemate.

Sure, they still got sent on patrols. They often made ventures to the No Man’s Land border, overlooking the minefields and traps, wondering what could possibly shift the tides. Piece by piece, some bizarre force of nature allowed them to rebuild what used to be between them.

Some nights that meant they’d climb atop the roof with Keegan's iPod, still functional despite a cracked screen and barely functional UI, and let the world melt away. If only for one night at a time they could pretend to be real people, living some sort of domestic existence in a place far from the halted war. Perhaps, in that distant timeline, they wouldn't even have survived a relationship in their teen years without the hardship they’d suffered.

As far as either was concerned, it made them stronger.

Forced them to learn what it meant to live without the other one. Of course, this meant that they knew how dull and awful life could be when it was empty, and they'd fight a hell of a lot harder to stay now that they'd been threatened with separation once.

Jack was a silent killer, Keegan a mouth full of vicious mockeries. Ghosts. Wisps in the wind. Dead already, living a better afterlife on the other side of the apocalypse. Nothing the Federation could throw their way would hold any weight, of this they were certain.

Until they did, of course.

No good thing lasts forever.

[cookeybg]

Unexpected Cohabitation a JonDami fic - Chapter 11

Title: Unexpected Cohabitation

Main Characters: Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne (some of the others show up too, the list is too long)

Eventual relationship: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne (my fave)

Stuff to know: No capes, reverse robins, high school AU, no smut, no Brucie Wayne, I know nothing about sports but it will show up, (aaand I think that's it, will add more if it comes up)

Word Count: 1,147

[Here's my table of contents]

Part 3 - Chapter 11

Jon mucked up the last of the manure into the wheelbarrow, his strength had increased in the last three weeks he had been joining Damian in his chores. He refused to think of it as blackmail enforced labor and thought of it as helping, he was after all staying at his house for free. He stopped to rest against the shovel, his eyes catching on the only other human in the room. Damian joined him every morning, wearing the same type of hoodie and shorts he always did, that he was always able to keep pristine due to the fact that he never lifted a finger. He lounged on the bench located near the exit, his back resting against the saddle he used on Lady, engrossed in his phone. That in itself was strange, mainly because he couldn’t hear the sounds of the Cheese Viking’s game he was obsessed with. Not once had he commented on how slow Jon was, or what he was doing wrong, or that he should smile and think of the chores as training, that it built character. Damian sometimes sounded like an old man. Instead, he smiled and snorted at whatever or more likely whoever he was distracted with. “Should I take this to the compost bin?” A stupid question, he had been taking the manure to the compost bin every morning. Instead of Damian giving him a response, Alfred the cat meowed at him from atop a barrel. Jon had found out no less than ten cats lived in or around the manor, though he only ever saw one or two at a time. He hadn’t met all of them and just knew of them because Dick liked to talk. The orange cat, Ginger, tended to stalk the halls indoors while Alfred liked to mysteriously pop up, much like his namesake. Jon let the shovel fall noisily to the ground. “Oops.” Jon said carelessly. He ignored Damian’s glare, lifted the wheelbarrow by the handles and rolled it out of the barn towards the compost area. He could hear Damian follow him silently. He tipped the contents into the bin, when done he walked back into the barn to sit on the wooden bench. He took off the rubber work boots that he had been provided, for his chores, and replaced them with the ratty sneakers he wore to go on runs with Damian. When he stepped out he saw Damian leaning against the post of the corral’s exit, still on his phone. Jon frowned at the sight. He approached casually, his hands in the front pocket of his own hoodie. “All done.” Jon shrugged. Damian hummed and nodded in response. “So, are we going on a run or…” Jon huffed, waving his hand towards the offending phone, “you too busy?” Damian looked up at him through long black lashes, his green eyes looking a bit lighter in the morning sun. “Tt, it took you long enough.” “Well, if I had help, it would be much quicker!” “Didn’t you live in a farm or something, Corncob?” “No, I help at my Maw and Paw’s farm.” “Then why are you so slow?” Damian started stretching. “What had so much of you attention, anyways?” Jon pictured white hair and a black cardigan. Damian raised an eyebrow and bent at the waist to touch his toes. “I mean you normally talk to me, but you might as well not have been here today.” Jon huffed. “Aw, lonely?” Jon sputtered a denial, his cheeks warming up. Damian smirked and ran off leaving Jon to catch up.

The rest of the day had been uneventful. The only highlight of the day was meeting Jay at Journalism club during lunch, they had type up some of the article they were writing together and promised to meet up again after baseball practice to finish up. Jon stood stretching his legs out after the brutal run Coach put the whole team through, daydreaming about asking Jay out to eat somewhere, when his absent gaze caught the color white. He stopped short narrowing his eyes at the girl sitting under the shade of an old tree next to the bleachers. She was focused on her phone, one foot crossed over the other, back against the tree. Jon wandered over to get a closer look, his water bottle conveniently in the same direction. She was wearing a white crop top, which was seemed to be against school dress code, a black bomber jacket, black ripped skinny jeans and white high tops. The girl seemed to like to match. “Jon.” Damian’s voice startled him, nearly making him drop his water bottle. “What?” Jon whipped around to face him, slightly embarrassed at being caught. “I’ve been looking for you since lunch.” Damian put a hand on his hip, a frown on his face. “Oh sorry I was doing something for journalism.” Jon said. “I wont be home for dinner,” he lowered his voice, “Could you please make sure Bat-cow and Lady are in the barn and lock it up for me?” “Where are you going?” Jon tried not to look in the direction of Damian’s possible girlfriend. “Tt. It’s not really something I need to report to you,” Damian lifted a finger to stop Jon from arguing, “but, since you will be doing this favor for me…I’m going out with Colin and -“ “Damian!” The girl at the tree walked up to them, “are you done with practice yet?” Jon felt instantly annoyed at being interrupted, but he watched the tall girl stop a bit too close to Damian. “Yes, I just need to change.” Damian told her, then turned to Jon, “So, will you?” “Hi, I’m Jon!” Jon abruptly turned to girl, smiling the bright smile everyone seemed to like and extending his hand for her to shake. “Hi, I’m Nika.” She smiled back shaking his hand. “Jon-“ Damian bristled beside him. “Did you just transfer or…?” Jon kept smiling, ignoring Damian. “No, just visiting Gotham.” Nika said. “Oh? For how long?” Jon feigned curiosity. “For a bit,” Nika smirked, “Damian’s been making it a blast.” “Jon-“ Damian tried again. “He’s showing me around town again tonight.” Nika purred grabbing Damian’s hand. Jon stared at their hands, at their intertwined fingers, for some reason his heart squeezed. He then snapped his head up, his smile much more forced. “I gotta go, it was nice meeting you!” Jon turned, quickly walking away. “Jon-“ Damian caught up with him, he was headed in the same direction after all. “Yes!” Jon continued walking, “I’ll make sure the girls are safe and sound, go have fun with your girlfriend!” Damian stopped walking beside him. All he heard from him was a disgruntled “tt.” Jon ignored it, he did not look back. All he wanted top do was shower and leave. He couldn’t wait to hangout with Jay.

Not sure about this chapter but get ready for a bit of angst in the next one. Medical drama!

[literatureatthebowofnails]

A/N: Finally got around to finishing this one.

Series masterlist

Pairing: Loki x reader

Summary: The Avengers conspire to keep love alive

You stand on the train exhausted, travel mug hanging from one hand, your second cup of coffee gone before its time. Head lulling against your arm, you're jostled against fellow commuters as you mentally review your "To Do" list.

Two weeks left to decide whether or not to renew your lease. You're seeing a couple of places after your shift. One's in the South Bronx, just a few stops down from your current place. It would make these early morning commutes direct and reduce travel time to Avengers Tower, where you spend most nights when Loki's between missions.

The second place is higher rent, but it's waking distance to the cafe and about half the ride time to the Tower. If you manage to get either, it would be an improvement, though moving is always a headache in and of itself.

Your keys jingle as you unlock the shop and turn on the lights. You make yourself a third cup of coffee before beginning the morning routine. Ovens preheating, kolaczkis waiting on their baking sheets, register filled, counters and tables wiped down. You're just sliding the first sheet of pastries into the oven as the owner, Bramborslav, arrives.

The warm, stocky man greets you in his jovial manner. His Slavic accent is thick, and you have yet to witness him in a bad mood. On the whole, he exudes the comforting nature of well-seasoned potatoes.

"I have someone coming in for a meeting about an hour after we open. I trust you can handle the end of the rush on your own?" he asks.

"Of course," you slide a second sheet of kolaczkis in the oven with the first. "What's the meeting about?"

"Some sort of proposal. He hasn't said much beyond that." He unlocks the front door and sets out the sign before disappearing into the back to continue food prep.

As things slow down, the last person you expect saunters into the cafe. "Tony?" your greeting is rife with confusion. "Is there something I can get you?"

"Ah, hey princess. Thought I'd find you here."

"You know I work here, right?"

"Exactly. I'll take a double expresso, and you can tell Mr. Kaschak I'm here."

Your eyebrows draw together. 'Bram's meeting with Tony? What on earth could they have to talk about?'

"Uh, sure, I'll go get him." You poke your head into the back. "Um, Bram? Tony Stark is here for your meeting?"

☕

A couple hours of hushed muttering pass before the men stand and shake hands.

"I'll extend the proposal to our third partner today," Tony gives Bram his signature charming smile. "Assuming everything goes as planned, the notaries should have the paperwork signed and sealed by the end of next week."

Bram seems pleased and Tony takes his leave with a wave in your direction. "Later, princess!"

"What was that about?" you ask Bram.

"He's investing in the business."

☕

After work you walk to the Yorkville apartment. The manager, a curvy woman in her early 30s, keeps a running monologue as she shows you through the building and into the unit.

A tiny studio that hasn't been updated since the 70s, the industrial space features original hardwood floors and slanted ceilings. A slim loft for storage, efficiency kitchen, and a bathroom in dire need of scrubbing.

The barred windows look into an alley, providing an impressive amount of natural light. You'd be able to keep a few plants on the sill; might even squeeze in half your living room setup.

When you get up to the South Bronx, you find the unit there is almost twice the size of the first. The owner is brusque, walking you through the unit, asking about your credit, listing the rent and amenities as though he's late for a much more important meeting.

The space is recently updated by comparison, sporting late-90s granite countertops and a subway tile backsplash in varying shades of brown. Commute aside, it would be significantly more comfortable than the Manhattan suite.

You're still pondering your options with a yawn as you unlock the door to your apartment. A text beeps from your phone.

Loki: Mission concluded early. See you tonight?

You grin despite your exhaustion and tap in your response. Just need to grab clean clothes and a few necessities.

☕

Upon your arrival at the tower, you find a construction crew working on the ground floor. You wave a hello and make your way to the elevators, wondering what Tony's latest addition entails.

FRIDAY lets you out on the Avengers' common floor to find the whole team standing around a transparent projector screen.

"Hi?" you look around at the group, "Am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all, darling," your lover strides out from around the display.

"We have a proposal for you," Tony announces, pulling up a model of the tower. Two points glow orange against the otherwise blue display.

"It's come to my attention," he continues, "that the tower is lacking. Missing something coffee pods cannot compensate for."

Pepper cuts in, swiping all but the ground floor from the screen. "I've had some designs worked up, which I think you'll be pleased with.

"We would like you to open a Domácí Kuchyně location here." She expands the view of the lobby.

"A cafe?" your eyes widen and you turn to Tony, "Is this what your meeting was about?"

"That's right, princess. And you're going to manage it."

"Now, if you accept the proposal," explains Pepper, "we'll of course have to work out all the details. We spoke with Mr. Kaschak, and he's agreed to make you a partial owner."

"This is," you gape. "An owner? I can't believe you did all this for me."

You walk around the model to get a better look. After you've had a moment to get a sense of the design, Loki comes up behind you. He holds one arm around your waist, the other reaching out to pull the upper floors of the tower back into view.

"Darling, I do realize the business Stark has proposed would significantly lengthen your commute. I've been thinking about this for a while," he expands the other orange area, "and I'd like you to move in."

You turn to face him. "Loki, I..."

"We've set aside space on the 43rd floor for you," Pepper notes, drawing your attention back to the screen. "The two of you can design it to fit your needs, and when you're ready, we'll send a team to help you move."

"A team?" you laugh as heat seeps up your neck. "I don't know what to say. This is...thank you! Thank you so much." Tony pops behind the bar and you throw your arms around Pepper.

A/N: Thanks as always for reading. Feedback and reblogs are the greatest blessings.

@peaches1958, @javagirl328, @loopsisloops, @goblingirlsarah, @buttercupcookies-blog, @lovelysizzlingbluebird , @cakesandtom, @ladymischief11, @km-ffluv, @coldnique, @glitterylokislut, @eleniblue, @lokiprompts, @lokisgoodgirl, @muddyorbsblr

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Next part

Main Masterlist

[austajunk]

Hello, possibly if you can the n. 22 and n.24 with Vivia x Halara? I have been curious about it. Also, amazing fanfics! They are really good!

Thank you so much! <3 I'm sorry this took so long to write, but I hope you enjoy this little Vampire Vivia and Halara au.

Fic beneath the cut.

Triggers: Dubious Consent, Vampires, Possessiveness, some genital mentions for Halara...

A deep pulse of pain circulated throughout Halara's head as they opened their eyes. Once they were awake, the soreness made itself known in an instant. They groaned and brushed the back of their head as their sight shifted back into focus. 

"Where am I?" Halara wondered to themselves in a hushed voice. Something warm trickled down their neck. Immediately, Halara slid their fingers up their jugular to find two distinct holes there, damp with smeared blood. Had they been knocked out? Perhaps an assailant had tried to slash at their neck before they had incapacitated Halara instead. 

When Halara pressed the wound on their neck, they found it to be quite swollen. It left an uncomfortable knot in the pits of their stomach, but they turned their attention to their surroundings. 

The air was thick with dust. They were in a shut, wooden room with no light whatsoever. Even as they shook off the last remnants of unconsciousness, their eyes could hardly adjust to this murky room at all. 

And yet, Halara didn't feel they were alone. The floorboards creaked behind them and they sensed someone else's eyes following their sluggish movements. Turning around, they could make out the rasping breaths of a creature nestled in some sort of fireplace. The walls were cramped around a dark figure, but strangely, its violet eyes flickered up at Halara from the shadowy depths. 

"Who are you?" Halara hissed. 

It had all come back to them within moments. They had been in the pursuit of a killer they had caught on the scene, ripping open their victim's throat. After returning to the crime and hovering over the victim's body as Halara had anticipated, they had given chase to the fiend, hoping to strike them down. At the end of an alleyway after a long run, Halara found themselves stuck in a dead end with no killer in sight. Nothing was hiding in the shadows. It had seemed they had vanished into thin air. 

And then, a force crashed into the back of Halara's head, flooding their senses with darkness as they collided with a building wall before them. 

Halara opened their eyes and narrowed them at the fireplace. They knew what this was now. Trapped in an unknown location with these strange injuries? They had been kidnapped. 

Well… that wasn't pleasant. At least, the killer/kidnapper was going to realize their folly all too soon. 

"Come out," Halara demanded to the pair of eyes that swayed in the shadows. 

There was a pause.

And then: 

"I'd rather not if it's all the same to you," a deep and raspy voice said back. It was darkly masculine, but quiet… almost too silent to hear. "It was exhausting enough to drag you back here." 

"..." 

Without much to lose, Halara knelt to the cold stony floor surrounding the fireplace. There, they could make out more of the features that the figure sported. Dark, unkempt hair splayed out over the sharp face of a slender man curled up on his side. His violet eyes were trained on Halara, but they were lowered in an almost careless gaze. They were relaxed. Much too relaxed for Halara's liking. 

"Who are you?" Halara asked them again, firmly. "Answer me or I will make you regret ever coming across me." 

The man shrugged. "So violent…it's really unnecessary… but in a way, I think that's nice to think about." His voice was slow enough to almost make Halara feel drowsy. There was a sweet sway to how he spoke, rough as it was. In a sense, it made something sweet and gentle worm its way through Halara's body. Despite their better judgment, they wanted to inch closer to the man, to let down their guard. 

He gave a warm chuckle and closed his eyes. "If you hurt me, how will it make you feel? Satisfied? If not, would you continue until that feeling you're looking for was etched into your body?" 

Halara shook their head, irritation spreading across their face. The more the man spoke, the more they had to fight the urge to lie down and simply listen to him. "I will hurt you only as much as needed to get my way." 

The man said, "Oh well. My name is Vivia Twilight. Hmm…" He rested his head in his hand, but smiled in his silence. 

"You kidnapped me," said Halara, gritting their teeth. 

"Ah…" Vivia sighed. "For that… I apologize, suppose. I was still hungry and you were drifting around the area… unfortunately I'm not quite as adept at hunting for blood as I should be. It's not that I can't… I just merely forgot when there are so many books to read." To demonstrate, he pushed a small, slightly damaged novel forward. Halara peered down as its discolored pages and ripped cover, making it out to be one sort of fantasy story. 

As they spoke, Halara felt another painfully thick pulse to their neck. "You… fed from me…?" They ran their fingers over the two holes in their neck. It… it could be a bite. Halara shuddered in disgust. They couldn't tell what was worse: the implication that someone was draining their blood from their neck like an animal as they slept or the heat that warped around their body as Vivia confessed it. 

Why, still, did Halara long to get closer to him? 

"Something like that." Vivia gave them another dark chuckle. "Feeding is too exhausting. You have to understand… I'd waste away if I could. It would be beautiful to lie still and just… fade…" 

Holding the dried wound on their neck, Halara tried to maintain their dangerous glare at Vivia. With every sting of their flesh, Halara found themselves wishing for the fangs that claimed their neck in their sleep to fill it. 

Before he continued expressing his little fantasy to Halara, Vivia gave an exhausted sigh and pulled himself from his spot in the fireplace. Cracking his back into place, he towered over the detective on his feet and tucked his pale hands into his large overcoat. 

"It would be so easy to die…" He said, his voice now drifting into the open air. "However, it's painful and I'd rather avoid the painful route. Can you understand that?" Sweeping a dark, green bang from his eyes, he glanced down as Halara. 

"So… you're just a monster who revels in his laziness?" Halara shot back, clenching their fists. "A vampire… and a miserable excuse for one!"

"Hmmm…" The vampire reached out and stroked a lock of Halara's hair. "Pretty… like the protagonist of a novel. That defiant face you make is passionate and picturesque… So yes, I took you. Because it's easier to have you here instead of hunting you down when the urges finally begin to set in." 

"Urges…?" Halara's voice wavered and they took a step back. 

Vivia smiled. "You've already felt it. I've been watching you and it's easy to tell you've been under the influence of my bite." He swept against Halara's chest, his hands reaching to catch their shoulders and pull them close. Astonishingly, Halara couldn't bear to pull away from them. Heat overwhelmed their logic and disconnected their mind from their wants. 

Halara gasped as the hand of the vampire slid beneath their coat and urged the zipper down. The cold air hit their bare chest. Vivia caught them before their legs could give out on them and steadied Halara against the wall. As Halara had secretly been craving all this time, Vivia gently moved their hand into his and brought it away from Halara's neck. There, he placed his teeth. Tiny, dart-like canines sank into Halara's chest and filled the detective with an undeniable ecstasy that bubbled through their veins. 

The warm blood flowed to Vivia's lips and he greedily drank, dipping Halara lower and lower. Halara's body was torn. Something so debased shouldn't be filling them with this bliss, this buzz across their body that made them want to open themselves to a new lover. They didn't know this monster. Vivia was the assailant they had so desperately pursued before he had kidnapped them. 

"You're wet…" Vivia's voice dripped in their ear. 

Halara opened their eyes. Their body had been undulating to Vivia's strokes. Every command he whispered to Halara had the detected obeying and curling closer. They spread out on the floor and let Vivia cup their naked chest. Those slender fingers pinched their nipples and traced down their flat stomach until Vivia had reached into Halara's pants. One finger followed the other between Halara's legs and played with their clit until it swelled pleasantly between his digits. 

"How… how are you…?" Halara could barely form the words. Their actions that they wanted to perform were null and void beneath the vampire's gaze. 

"It can't be helped," Vivia uttered to them, giving their wound a breathy kiss. "When I feed, some of my saliva still seeps into a human's veins. Your body…it can't help but to want to be mine…but… trust in me…" His violet eyes flickered sincerely to the detective. His fingers slid up Halara's folds, earning him another groan from his captive. 

"So long as you remain my source to feed, I'll never abuse this bond between us… I'll cherish and nurture it…"

[the1975attheirverybest]

Warm calloused hands venture beneath my shirt, flat to my back, my arms wrapped around his neck, kneeling before him and leaning up.

"Tell me if it's too much; we don't have to—"

He's so soft, despite his rough, large hands; he's a gentle giant,

"I want this. Regardless of him"

Soft murmurs outside the door, waiting for the 7 minutes to be up,

"So just kiss me already," I said, speaking in hushed whispers, letting him guide me and tilting my head enough for him to bring his lips to mine, soft and slow.

In this small airing cupboard, it's warm and cramped, his much larger frame taking up a mist of the space.

"Are you ok? You seem cramped." Even in the dark of the cupboard, I can tell there's a genuine care reflected in her deep brown eyes.

"Yeah, I'm just getting used to it," I assured him. I was fine, because really I was. Despite feelings for Matty, I couldn't deny how Ross had been keeping my attention more and more as of recent.

"Here," without warning, the hands under my shirt pull me up, straddling his lap, feeling my shirt ride up even more when he presses open-mouthed kisses to my neck and shoulder. Gasping for air and desperate for more all at the same time, my back pressed against the door.

"Can I?"

"I-ahhhmhm"

Pulling away to remove my shirt almost entirely

Large hands running up your back, pressing me against his front, feeling his ragged breaths fan across my neck and collar, shirtless and vulnerable, sucking gently on untouched skin,

"Fuck. I've wanted to do this for so long."

Bringing one hand round between us, he cups my breast over the thin material of the sports bra, circling the nipple with his thumb, pulling my hair, and kissing me deeply, his tongue pressing itself into my mouth.

Holding me still while I desperately try to squirm or do anything to get more stimulation, feeling him swallow small sounds hungrily. Unable to move or think of anything but his hands on me.

Loose jeans pulled away from warm skin, nudging my head up with his nose and biting into my neck, blood rushing beneath sharp teeth, his hand still on my breast, pinching a pebbled nipple between thumb and forefinger, and drawing a yelp.

His other hand, large and warm, comes to rest under my jeans, comfortable against the curve of my ass, squeezing and pulling me in closer, hips sliding up his lap, leaning back slightly at out position, back against the cold wooden door as his head dips down further, teeth grazing my collar bone and tongue flicking out,

"So fucking good for me."

I don't reply; I can't. I'm too lost in the feeling of his hands on me. The way he teases my core, pressing his thumb to my clit over my underwear, the way his lips continue to traverse exposed skin, the way his fingers roll abused nipples and flick them

"Answer me."

"Yesyesfuck yes ok," trying to speak in a hushed whisper. A few yelps and squeaks just barely escaping.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hair scrunched in his fist, messy and tangled, his other hand dips below the band of my underwear, feeling bare skin, new and unexplored by his hands, fingers pressing against my pussy and the way he slowly circles my clit, pressing down on occasion and pinching cruelly, surprised yelps turning to languid moans, dazed and practically melting into him, pressed solidly against the door and grinding down into his lap.

feeling ross smirk against my neck; breath hot and heavy as he slips a finger in, biting down on my shoulder at the same time

"AH~ fuckfuckfuck"

"That's it. Come on princess"

Letting my hair go and pulling a hand down, feeling it pull through tangles with a Sharp sting, delicious in contrast to the sudden tightness and warmth of my lower half, guiding my hips to grind against him in long and slow motions,

"You like knowing they can hear you? Hear how good I make you feel?"

"Mhm"

"Good"

Another finger, not even moving, letting me do all the work, pressing his mouth to the material of my bra, licking and sucking through thin material

"Fuck I ahhhnng"

Ross' teeth graze my nipple, biting down lightly until I yelp, breathless and needy, curling his fingers inside me and pumping them slowly, continuing to guide me grinding down on him

"So pretty like this"

Deep breaths, god, the way he murmurs against my skin, lips moving softly, eyes staring up at me, mouth pressed against my shoulder with a cruel smirk, something in his gaze is wild, untamed,terrifying. 

"Want me to tell you what you look like baby?" Batting his eyes, licking a soothing strip into skin he bites harshly, panting under me, the hand on my hip coming up to brush my hair from my eyes, staring into them, as if seeing me for the first time, nothing but adoration.

"You're a mess, hair all over the place" he speeds up just a little, his fingers finding a much crueller rhythm than before, pinching my clit and relishing in the way my mouth falls open with a groan, "all flushed in the face” mouth pressed to my jaw, forcing my head back, sharp teeth pressed to my throat as if ready to rip it out, hunter and prey, “pretty eyes so so hazy” curling his fingers suddenly, pressing against a particular spot, crying out and gripping his soldiers with trembling hands, 

“it just feels so good doesn't it?" low and teasing, lips brushing against exposed skin with every word.

swallowing hard and nodding, my voice catching in my throat "all drooling and fucked dumb, pretty pink blush and heaving chest.” pressing a kiss to my collar, licking the skin beneath his lips and trailing his tongue down, over the fabric of the bra, tight warm circles around my nipple, pulling away before he gives me what i want, “You look so fucking perfect begging for me"

(reminder this is unedited stream of consciousness writing dont crucify me if its cringe please.)

(For context: he sent this last night but I was having a mental breakdown and logged off before I could see it. Just emptied my inbox and saw it)

sir- (take your time writing is difficult especially rn) HOLYYYYYY SHIIIIITT

[stewartginnjr]

Mastering Golf Course Etiquette: A Guide to Playing Like a Pro

Golf isn’t just a game of skill; it’s a sport steeped in tradition, respect, and etiquette. Observing the unspoken rules of the course shows consideration for other players, the grounds, and the spirit of the game itself. Whether you’re new to golf or looking to refine your on-course behavior, understanding and adhering to basic etiquette can make your experience—and that of others—far more enjoyable. Here’s a streamlined guide to golf etiquette essentials to help you navigate the course like a pro.

Be Punctual and Prepared

Respect for your fellow golfers begins with showing up on time. Arriving at least 15 minutes before your tee time allows you to check in, gather your equipment, and mentally prepare without causing delays. If you’d like a warm-up, allow extra time to visit the driving range or practice green. Arriving late or scrambling at the last minute isn’t just stressful for you; it can throw off the schedule for everyone on the course.

Stick to Your Tee Time

Tee times are scheduled to ensure that the course runs smoothly. Missing yours might mean waiting for the next open slot, which could back things up for others. Being on the tee box a few minutes early ensures you’re ready to start when it’s your turn. Within the group, you may decide who tees off first, but many golfers now use “ready golf” to keep the pace brisk. Ready golf simply means that whoever is ready takes their shot first, keeping things efficient.

Maintain a Steady Pace

Nothing frustrates golfers more than a slow round. A typical rule is to keep your pre-shot routine under 45 seconds. This includes assessing the shot, choosing a club, and setting up. To avoid slowing things down, try limiting practice swings and keep your shot decisions straightforward. If your group is holding up others, it’s courteous to let faster players “play through.”

Playing ready golf is an excellent way to keep up the pace. This means preparing your shot while others are taking theirs and being ready when it’s your turn. If a shot is giving you trouble, don’t dwell; move along so the game doesn’t lag.

Respect Other Players’ Concentration

Golf is a game of focus, and even minor distractions can affect a player’s concentration. Show respect by keeping still and staying quiet while others are preparing to hit. Stand clear of their line of sight, ideally off to the side, and avoid making any noise until their shot is complete. Keep your golf cart stationary, too, as moving carts can be distracting.

When it comes to conversation, try to keep your voice low, especially around the greens, where players require maximum concentration. While it’s natural to discuss the game, avoid chatting during another player’s setup and shot.

Care for the Course

Golf courses are delicate environments, and every player has a role in keeping them in good shape. Replace divots, repair ball marks on the greens, and rake bunkers after taking your shot. Many courses provide tools or rakes near bunkers specifically for this purpose, so take advantage of them. This small gesture goes a long way in preserving the quality of the course.

Also, be cautious on the green. Avoid dragging your feet or putting excessive pressure on the grass, as this can damage it. When driving a cart, adhere to the designated paths and avoid driving over delicate areas near greens and hazards. Keeping the course in pristine condition is a shared responsibility that shows respect for both the game and other golfers.

Practice Proper Cart Etiquette

Golf carts make it easier to get around, but they come with their own rules. Always follow the course’s specific cart policies, which vary depending on conditions. For instance, courses often have “cart path only” rules, particularly after rain, to protect the fairways. Keep the cart a reasonable distance from the greens and hazards, and avoid blocking another player’s line of play.

When sharing a cart, be mindful of the other player’s rhythm and location to avoid slowing them down. Have your clubs and equipment ready so that both you and your partner can smoothly transition between shots.

Know When to Pick Up Your Ball

In golf, it’s essential to know when to keep going and when to move along. If you’re having a particularly challenging time on a hole and have exceeded the stroke limit (often double par), it’s a good idea to pick up your ball and allow others to continue. Many courses encourage a maximum score to avoid unnecessary delays.

This doesn’t mean giving up on improvement; it’s simply a practical step that keeps the game enjoyable for everyone. You can always work on those challenging shots during a practice round.

Show Good Sportsmanship

At its core, golf is about personal growth and respect for others. Acknowledge other players’ good shots, maintain an upbeat demeanor, and remember that frustration is part of the game for everyone. Showing frustration or throwing clubs detracts from the experience for those around you and detracts from the sport’s spirit.

At the end of the round, thank your playing partners, regardless of how well or poorly you played. A handshake and a few kind words go a long way toward reinforcing the camaraderie that makes golf such a cherished game.

Golf etiquette is more than a set of rules; it’s a code that elevates the game, showing respect for the course, your fellow players, and the traditions of the sport. By arriving on time, keeping a good pace, respecting others’ space, and caring for the course, you’ll contribute to a better experience for everyone involved. Embrace these practices, and you’ll find that playing with etiquette is just as rewarding as hitting a perfect shot.

[techforevil-er]

Vauxhall Leisure Centre

It's my last Monday without a Japanese lesson in the evening so I decided to check out my most local Better-operated swimming pool. Unfortunately Westminster decided to go with another operator for the local gyms (daft decision I resent them for) so I had to cross the pretty grim Vauxhall Bridge Road / Millbank and Vauxhall Junction. 🤢

(All photos are screenshots from Better/Google's virtual tour.)

The pool and changing area are located on the lower ground. The lift was broken when I visited, which was not an issue for me but for a facility that boasts a pool hoist for users with limited mobility it's not very helpful.

I think I accidentally booked a slot just after a swimming lesson the pool closed for, so throughout my swim it was just filling up and there were NO children meaning it was nice and quiet.

The changing room is not gender-separated, with plenty of cubicles for individuals and very spacious ones for families and people who need assistance to change. There's also individual shower cubicles in addition to the standard poolside quick shower area. The only snag to this pretty inclusive setup are the toilets, which are gender segregated. It's a strange decision, almost like someone chickened out at the last second.

There's a swimsuit spinner and free hairdryers for after the swim.

There's plenty of lockers, they require a £1 coin (returnable). The plastic bracelet is very hard and uncomfortable to wear, but feels secure.

Easily the weakest point of the facility is the swimming pool itself. I guess I am spoiled by my usual London Fields Lido, but it felt extremely tiny and the slow lane was definitely not suitable for wider strokes - especially in the half where you need to swim by the edge.

This was a problem for me as:

a) I can only swim breaststroke. 🐸

b) Midway through my session another person started swimming in extremely wide backstroke and came milimitres from slapping me on the ass when we were passing.

I feel like backstroke is an antisocial way to swim at the best of times but hey, it's a free country! So I simply got out. 😂 But the fact remains that the pool is definitely more of a 'leisure' pool than a sports one. The water was very warm, the depth was consistent (goes from 1.05m to 1.20m), and it has a sauna and steam room immediately next to it (bookable separately for extra charge, I think). I did not spot the hoist but apart from the standard ladder there's shallow steps with railing to get into the pool.

Will I be back? It would be last resort for me, I'd rather go to Oasis because it's open air and longer (33m instead of 25m) so worth it for me despite being more run down and futher away. It also seems pretty hard to book, I lucked out today finding a last minute slot for the evening when I looked in the afternoon. I will check out Chelsea centre on the weekend to see if it's a more viable option!

[daitoshi]

Muscle Rigidity in autistic people can be caused by several factors:

Proprioception, also known as kinesthesia, is the internal awareness of the body's position, movement, and orientation in space. It provides input about movement of body parts, required muscle strength to do delicate manipulations or big feats of athleticism, and even the regulation of breathing for vocal loudness. Engaging that sense of self-in-space is at the core of many stimming behaviors like hand-flapping, bouncing, seeking to be squished, or swinging in a hammock. They also may have trouble walking in a straight line when not paying a lot of attention, so might cause injury by bouncing off doorframes, table corners, tripping over nothing, and faceplanting when the floor changes. Keeping muscles more tensed up means I have a little more control over my body, and I can react faster if/when I start to stumble. The 'bumping and tripping' aspect can be improved by regular practice! Being in a highly active sport helped my body awareness in leaps and bounds. Gymnastics and Dance especially were helpful. It's not FIXED, but it is improved.

BODY LANGUAGE - Many of us have had bad experiences with someone else assuming we meant to be mean or rude because our body language didn't "match up" to our words. So if I'm masking to talk to someone, I tend to automatically tense my entire body into a rigid block so I don't accidentally give the wrong impression by swinging my arms, swaying, or other movements that feel natural to me but give other people the wrong impression.

STRESS/ANXIETY - When feeling fear, the sympathetic nervous system sends energy to every part of your body and prepares it to deal with danger. Your muscles represent the parts of your body that need the most energy if you were facing a predator - the ability to run away or fight back.  But with anxiety (or the very reasonable stress from trying to anticipate the moods of people who have control over you but you don't understand them) your muscles are essentially experiencing non-stop energy to tense and ready all those muscles, and eventually, that energy can translate into muscle problems. Not all stiffness is the anxiety itself - sometimes it's from how you cope with that stress. Those that experience a great deal of stress may end up reducing their activity levels. They sleep longer, or they lay down more frequently, or they sit in positions that give them comfort and help them cope but are unnatural for their body. When you decrease your activity levels you also increase the likelihood of muscle stiffness. Muscles need you to be moving and active, and not giving them enough chances to be moving and working also can lead to muscle pain and rigidity. And THEN you get a stupid cycle of 'Coping with outside stress had me sleeping the day away, but being still for too long made my body hurt, and the pain made me more stiff in different places, which also hurt, and it's a bit loop of stress and muscles tensing so hard they're like fuckin rocks. 4. Shit sense of hunger & thirst. The amount of times my muscles have seized up, cramped and had me miserably stiff from DEHYDRATION is innumerable. Turns out muscles and organs really need water to work. Nowadays I keep a big-ass water bottle with me at all times. It has helped so much.

How to deal with muscles stiffening to the point of rigidity:

Chug so much water. Piss like a racehorse. I promise you need more water than your sense of thirst will ask for.

Warm your body up with some sort of exercise that gets your heart pumping and your breath quickening. Once you're at a point where you're breathing hard enough that you'd have to stop or slow down to rant about your favorite thing, move to step 3.

Stretching. Resistance stretching. Pilates. Tai Chi. Stuff that will get your joints and muscles doing their full range of motion, and easing into a position that makes some muscles engaged, and makes other muscles stretch out.

Massage the area. Warm the area. Try to move it around. Even without pushing a stretch, just using a muscle gently over and over will help it loosen up. -- SHARP PAIN IS BAD. If, while moving to stretch a super-stiff muscle, your muscle or joint has a sharp pain like stabbing, a sudden 'ping!' or 'electric zing!' or little pops, STOP DOING WHATEVER MADE THAT HAPPEN. When athletic people say 'push through the pain,' they mean 'Keep trying even when you're grumpy and tired and your muscles are shaking from exhaustion.' If you're feeling ACTUAL PAIN, you need to either stop what you're doing or ease back and do a gentler version that doesn't hurt. A feeling that is kinda achy, dull, 'muscle stretch' or 'tired from exertion' or ''using my locked-up muscle feels like a bruise' is fine. That's what you push through.

--

If you were talking about like... emotional rigidity, or rigidity around routines & shit, my bad!

I think every time I search something related to autism and all the results are "DEALING WITH YOUR AUTISTIC CHILD WHEN" "HELPING AUTISTIC CHILDREN TO" "WHAT DO I DO IF MY AUTISTIC CHILD IS" I should be allowed to commit at LEAST one freebie murder

[likeastarstar]

12:32 AM - Yoongi

The elevators opened and you looked up, face splitting into a wide rim grin almost instantly.

"Hi," You greeted before a long pair of arms were reaching for you.

Yoongi was sporting a similar smile to yours on his face. He pulled you into him, hugging you to his body as his face buried itself in the crook of your neck.

He was warm- on fire with adrenaline so strong you could feel his heart beating through his chest and against your skin. You laughed, running your hands through slightly sweaty, soft long hair that tickled the back of his neck. This was your favorite Yoongi- one full of confident energy and beaming with happiness. The one you only saw when he was truly in his element, after a concert.

"You were so good," You complimented, letting him walk you backwards until your ass hit the wall of the elevator.

"Oh yeah?" Yoongi smirked, excitement palpable in his tone. He froze, twisting around to look back at the elevator doors, held open by his security guard and manager, "I'm gonna head back to the hotel alone- just meet me there."

"I should go with you," His security suggested politely.

"I have a driver, it's fine," Yoongi argued, an annoyed tick in his jaw.

You felt your hand close nervously around the material of Yoongi's shirt, stiffening in his embrace as you watched his manager's eyes flick between Yoongi and you.

"I'm closing the door now," Yoongi said in a flippant, dismissive tone and you felt cold for a moment when he let go of you to press the button for the parking garage and then shut the doors.

Yoongi snickered as their faces disappeared behind thick sheets of metal, returning himself to you with a content sigh, "They'll live."

You hummed in response, leaning your head against the wall as you admired the post concert glow Yoongi had on his skin.

"You had fun?" You asked, watching Yoongi's chest heave as he caught his breath.

He laughed with the giddiness of a child, nodding wholeheartedly, "That was so short- I want to do it again."

"You'll be back on stage soon," You assured, smiling at his alive he looked right now.

He was practically floating- it was amazing to see how passionate a person could be. You wished you had that kind of ambition, even a fraction of the amount of devotion your boyfriend held for performing. You couldn't even imagine how he felt- it was addictive just to be around him, to watch the way he came alive under the harsh lights and lit up in front of crowds of people.

You could listen to him talk about it for forever- you hoped you'd get that chance.

Yoongi stared at his feet, shaking his head with an amazed look on his face, "I knew I needed to be on stage- I could feel it in my bones, you know?"

"Yeah," You nodded, stepping closer to him on instinct.

Yoongi noticed, looking up with a smirk on his lips and a knowing glint in his eye. You watched him bite down on his lip, his hands wrapping around your hips as you stepped between his legs, throwing your arms around his neck.

"I've got all this energy now, I feel so alive- it's electric," He gushed, "Feels like my entire body's full of lightning."

"I know where you can direct that energy towsrds," You mumbled, tilting your head before he leaned down and kissed you.

He kissed you slow at first, deep and dirty. You egged him on, pressing your torso flat against him and moaned lightly. You felt Yoongi's hand drift, palming your ass. Your lips moved faster against his, more intense as your tongue licked into his mouth.

"You're so fucking sexy," You moaned against his lips, "How does it feel, knowing every girl watching you perform wanted to fuck you?"

"I dunno, how does it feel knowing you're the one I think about fucking while I'm performing?" He bit back.

You whined in response, tugging at his hair so sharply that it was his turn to moan, turning the two of you so that you were slammed up against the wall with his knee pushing between your legs and up. You grinded down on him, shamelessly rubbing yourself against the top of his knee- completely grateful that you just happened to be in the world's tiniest black skirt.

You felt lightheaded and had to pause to catch your breath, laughing when Yoongi grunted in annoyance as you pushed him away. He settled for sucking bruises into your neck.

"You're gonna have to fuck me in this elevator if you keep that up," You tempted, taking a deep breath.

"You're the one about to cum on my knee right now," He teased, leaning back to get a better look at you.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks blushing with need as you inspected the way his hair had fallen into his eye so perfectly, raven locks framing his cheekbones. You tucked the loose strands behind his head delicately, fingertips stroking his soft skin.

The elevator dinged and the two of you snapped apart, regaining some sort of modesty in case of prying eyes. He kept you hand in his, a bright pink blush flushing his cheeks. You could spot your lip gloss smeared on the collar of his shirt and smirked, wishing you had left that there before he went up on stage.

There was no way his team would let that happen- you were a well kept secret held in Yoongi's back pocket, but it turned you on to just to imagine staking your claim so boldly.

"Your managers gonna be pissed you ditched him," You noted, snickering when Yoongi groaned apprehensively.

"Yeah well, I get horny after I perform and that's just something I like to save for you." Yoongi joked, taking your hand and pulling you towards where his driver was waiting for the two of you.

"Well, I appreciate that." You grinned, skipping girlishly behind him.

"I'm sure you do- Wanna get drunk and fuck all night?" Yoongi smirked, sending you a confident look.

"Absolutely, baby."

masterlist.

[justanothereddiemunsonslut]

The Table In The Woods

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (masterlist)

Eddie Munson x reader

Summary: Working with Eddie Munson as your science assignment partner has meant spending a lot of time together (cute slow burn in progress)

Note: It has been FOREVER, I’m so sorry! I fully intend to continue this series and put up new parts more often! Thank you for reading! Also it’s still doing the duplicating paragraphs around the read more thing so sorry about that but I can’t figure out how to fix it.

Part 4: ‘86 Baby

You sit against the wall outside Hawkins high, head resting back and your eyes shut, listening to your Walkman as the afternoon sun warms your legs. The parking lot had emptied out significantly in the fifteen minutes you’d been waiting, the noise of students dying down. Then a foot taps against the sole of your shoes, like a knock at the door, and you squint up at Eddie Munson.

…

…

“M’lady,” he says with an outstretched hand offering to help you up, “sorry I’m late, Mr K is up our ass about finals!”

You take his hand and hoist yourself off the concrete, “I figured as much.” Mr K was notorious for not letting classes out on time, especially when he got started on a rant about ‘the importance of your education’. The two of you cross the parking lot to Eddie’s van while he went on mocking the English and history teacher, quite accurately you had to admit.

It had been just over a week since you started your science project at Eddie’s trailer and so far everything was going well. Only one day had to be missed when Eddie had Hellfire, and you only had to leave him to do it on his own the Thursday afternoon you were working. It was strange to think that just a couple of weeks ago you and Eddie had no real reason to interact with one another and now it would seem wrong to go even a single day without seeing him.

…

“Look at this!” he’d wailed, as you had barely stepped out of your car on Wednesday afternoon, waving one of the devil’s ivy plants above his head.

“What?” you called back.

“LOOK! Look at it!”

With the despair in his voice you’d thought it must have died but as you got closer, and got him to stop waving it about like a mad man, you realised, “it literally looks the same as yesterday, what’s wrong?”

“Look! Right here! This leaf!” Eddie held the plant a little too close to your face and lifted one tiny leaf with one finger. “It’s brown!”

He wasn’t wrong but you were still confused as to why he was so worked up about it, “and..?”

“‘And?’ That means it doesn’t like my music! It is DYING because it thinks my guitar SUCKS! Do you SEE?!” He seemed genuinely hurt.

You felt bad for laughing but you couldn’t help it, Eddie glared at you for not taking this seriously.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But it’s fine, it is just one little leaf, it probably has nothing to do with the music,” you said, trying to convince him that this small devil’s ivy didn’t have an issue with him personally.

He held the plant level with his face and narrowed his eyes at it, “so you don’t even care enough about me for that to be the reason you’re dying?” he interrogated the plant itself.

“It’s not dying! And we’re tracking growth anyway, one brown leaf doesn’t really make a difference.”

“But that’s like, anti-growth! So we have to track it!” He turned his attention back to the plant, “why do you hate me you son of a bitch?”

“Maybe it’s just not a metalhead, okay? It doesn’t hate you. Just like me, I’m not a metalhead but I tolerate you,” you smirk and give the side of his foot a tap with yours.

“Hey! I thought we were friends what’s all this ‘tolerate’ business?” he jested back.

…

On Friday Eddie had found you at your locker with the intent to change your plans.

“Y/n! Hey,” he hurried over and gave the side of your foot a light kick, “so I just found out that we are meant to have a, uh, sports running something or other thing on instead of last period today-“

“They’ve been telling us that for weeks, how did you not know this?” His complete oblivion to the school calendar was unbelievable to you.

“That’s not the point here. The point is, I am not going to that so unless you also want to skip out on it and leave early you’ll have to catch a bus to-“ mid-scheming Eddie was interrupted by none other than your gym teacher.

“Mr Munson,” he bellowed, “I expect you’ll be making up for your less than adequate attendance in my class by putting in a full effort in this afternoons event.”

Eddie, after making a face that said kill me now, spun around in his full charismatic fashion, threw his arms open and grinned, “there he is! You know, Mr Brant, we were just talking about that and about what a darn shame it is that I have a very urgent appointment this afternoon that just cannot be missed,” he stuck his bottom lip out at your unimpressed teacher. You pretended to busy yourself with something in your locker so Mr Brant wouldn’t see that you were stifling a laugh.

“And here I was thinking you had high hopes of graduating this year, a shame indeed,” Mr Brant said, rightfully not buying it.

“Wait, what?” You didn’t expect Eddie to drop the act that easily. “I’m passing though, no one said this thing counts towards our grades.”

“For those students who are barely clinging to their pass, it will.” With one last pointed look Mr Brant continued on his way down the hall. Eddie looked pissed.

“I feel kinda bad for saying but I wish I had some popcorn for that,” you say, trying to break the tension.

“Ugghh!” Eddie threw his head back against the lockers. “Can you tell me anything worse than running with our entire year in this heat?!”

“Having to repeat your senior year again just because you ditched today,” you suggested, closing your locker.

He gave a melodramatic sigh, “y/n, your wisdom knows no bounds.”

That afternoon you spotted Eddie in the gym amongst the crowd of seniors and made your way over to him and his friends, “I’m impressed. Looks like this could be your year after all, Munson,” you tease.

“It better be if I’m enduring this.”

You all sat on the hard gym floor as Mr Brant explained his expectations, making it clear that anyone with low attendance or wavering grades needed to make up for it today, going on about effort and how this 5000m is ‘about more than running’. Seriously, what else could it be about? you thought.

“5000m?!” Eddie whispered, horrified, “how many miles is that?”

“Like 3,” you said, Eddie slumped over and groaned at the mere thought. You knocked his foot with yours, “you really gonna run that in jeans?”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to run it at all in the first place so I don’t have anything else,” he mumbled. You thought you had been dreading the long distance run but at least you were prepared with gym clothes.

“If you’re lucky maybe you’ll collapse of heat exhaustion real early on then you won’t have to do it,” you joked, tapping your head with your index finger as if this was a genius idea, Eddie shook his head and laughed quietly.

As soon as you were outside and on the starting line though, all jokes were forgotten and heat exhaustion suddenly seemed like a very likely possibility. With zero clouds in the sky the sun was beating down with a thick, burning heat. You could feel sweat already beading on the back of your neck and you hadn’t even started yet. Of all the days they just had to pick today! you thought, the hottest freaking day all month!

One of your friends, Sarah, had lined up with you, “can we make a pact to go together? I know I’m not going to be able to keep up running for long and I don’t want to look like a loser for walking.”

Sports have never been her strong suit, but nearly every other school subject she aced with ease. You’d met a few weeks into your freshman year when she and her family moved to Hawkins and she ended up in most of your classes. Both of you being academically inclined, and particularly interested in science, had ended up hanging around the same group of like minded students and becoming friends. Sarah was one of those people who was going to achieve amazing things and knew it. She was driven, self assured and one of the smartest people you’d ever met, adults included.

Considering you weren’t confident in your athleticism either, you agreed to partner up.

You both tried to jog until at least a few other people had stopped to walk before slowing down yourselves. After regaining some breath Sarah asked, “how’s your science assignment going? Are you actually getting anything done?”

You frowned, “what do you mean?” Even though you knew what she meant. Sarah may be your friend but she could be quite judgemental when it came to your peers.

“Are you having to do the whole thing yourself? We all know Eddie isn’t A+ material.”

You felt yourself becoming defensive, “well neither am I. I’m pulling a B in science, have been all year.”

“Oh I know, but you know what I mean. It sucks that you got stuck with someone so… unfocused,” she said.

“I didn’t ‘get stuck’ with him, we just ended up partnering. And actually he’s doing most of the work at the moment, I’m going to do more of the paperwork stuff once we have our data.”

Sarah went on not realising that you were getting annoyed, feelings and social cues another one of her weak points, “you haven’t got your data yet?” She was shocked, of course, thinking that everyone aims to finish their assignments weeks before they’re due.

“Let’s jog for a bit,” you said, purely to put an end to the conversation.

When it was time to leave you met up with Eddie. His face was bright red, his hair was even more unruly than usual and sticking to his face, his shirt was drenched with sweat and he was carrying his jacket, still breathing heavy. You didn’t feel like you looked much better.

“Graduation is back on,” you said, trying to remind him this would be worth it.

“‘86 baby,” is all he could manage to get out. You looked at each other in mutual exhaustion then staggered to the van in silence.

You were both so wrecked that neither of you cared that no music played the whole drive. Once home, Eddie swapped his soaked hellfire shirt for a slate grey sleeveless top. You immediately found yourself staring at Eddie’s arms, he usually had at least half length sleeves on, luckily you catch yourself and force your eyes away before he notices. You didn’t speak until the second record for your experiment was about halfway through. Both of you were collapsed on the floor, you sitting against the wall with your eyes closed, Eddie sprawled out on his back, as much as was possible in the cramped living area of the trailer. Every so often Eddie let his foot fall to the side, tapping yours.

“I could really go for a milkshake right now,” Eddie said dreamily.

“I would kill for a milkshake,” you said, not moving.

“Oh sorry, I don’t actually have milk or anything to make a milkshake,” Eddie gingerly pushed himself up to lean back on his hands.

You opened your eyes and looked down at Eddie with a deadpan expression.

“You have crushed my every dream.”

Eddie gave a surprised laugh and you smiled as you rested your head back and closed your eyes again.

“You know, you’re funny sometimes.”

“And you lie about having milkshakes sometimes.”

…

Now, Monday, after you’d completed a round of music for all your plants and taken notes and measurements, with a generous amount of time wasting in between, Eddie drives you home.

The van pulls up outside your house, Eddie puts it in park and raps his knuckles on the steering wheel.

“Thanks for the ride.” You undo your seat belt, a necessity when it comes to Eddie’s driving, and notice he is fidgeting with his rings, focused on twisting one around and around.

“Hey, uh,” he starts, “I have something for you.”

He reaches behind and rummages through a bag to pull out a cassette. He holds it for a moment, then extends his whole arm to present it to you, even though you are sitting right next to him in the passenger seat. You take it from him and Eddie’s arm moves back to pull some of his hair over his face as you look down at it. Scrawled across the front in red marker are the words ‘INTRO TO METAL’. The letters are jagged with no smooth lines, the O’s look like diamonds.

“Just if you ever feel like having some metal in your life other than when you’re with me,” he said through his hair. “So obviously it’s got master of puppets on there because that was your true intro to metal, but now you can listen to the whole thing not just me playing it on guitar-“ his words were picking up speed now and he wasn’t hiding his face anymore, “-and then there’s that Judas Priest one that you were tapping along to when it was playing on the way to school the other day-“

Eddie got lost in explaining the mix he’d compiled for you. He hadn’t looked directly at you since he’d given it to you but you watched him intently. You didn’t generally comment on the music Eddie played while driving, you couldn’t believe he paid attention to even your smallest reactions. You studied his face as he gushed about his favourite bands and their best songs. The way his cheeks lifted when he smiled and the dimples that appeared. The brightness of his eyes, despite their dark colour, and the way they widened every time he remembered something else to tell you. He was so animated with the way he jostled around in his seat, too excited to keep still, and clicked his fingers or drummed on his legs. The way his perfectly messy hair would get in his eyes and he’d shake it back out of the way. He really was gorgeous.

“So yeah, no big deal if you don’t listen to it. I just thought you might like it,” Eddie finished with a soft smile, glancing at you and then down to the steering wheel. It takes you a second to snap out of the trance you were in.

“Eddie, of course I’ll listen to it!” He looked up at you with relief. You tried to hold back the stupid grin that wanted to make its way across your face, “thank you.”

You looked back at the cassette in your hands, noticing the feeling of warmth in your cheeks, “so I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said.

“Yeah, see ya.”

Eddie waved out his window as he sped off and you watched him fly around the corner before you went inside, cradling your gift in your hands.