#THEY SPEND SO MUCH TIME IN THE SUN THOUGH WHY DO THEY NOT HAVE FRECKLES. THIS IS A CRIME

[the-terrible-theys]

currently thinking about What If They’d Kept Their Freckles

behold my quick twelve second edits:

[suuuupernovaaa]

Relief ft Benjicot Blackwood

Benjicot is to be married off, and you don’t believe it is to you.

Tags: fluff, arranged marriage, lots of fluff, not proofread

The grease from the bird coats your fingers as you pick at your food, pushing it around the plate but not eating.

“Y/N!” your sister hisses, chiding you for the mess you’re making, and you cannot offer her anything in response but a childish eye roll.

“Stop that,” she whispers. “You blame me, but this is not my doing.”

Though she’s right, you fear you will hate your only sister until your final breath rattles in your chest.

It is you who has loved Benjicot Blackwood since you were practically babes.

You who has spent your years teasing him, learning him, meeting him in secret as - even though you still kept your maidenhead - the two of you spending time alone was improper.

It is you who knows every freckle on his face, has the brown of eyes his memorized so that you see it when you close yours, and can smell his scent in the wind on cold days.

Yet you know, by the end of this night, your sister will be betrothed to him. Not you.

Everyone whispers of it. A union between your great houses. A lord and lady to wed. Your sister is older and must marry first, and Benjicot is heir to the stewardship of these lands, and so it will be the two of them united.

Wiping your hands on a napkin, you rise and excuse yourself. Your parents sit even now with Ben’s parents, bartering the union, and soon it will be announced. You exit the hall and find yourself outside, the chill in the air raising bumps on your uncovered arms. The guards in the courtyard glance at you, and then away.

No one stops you as you cross the muddy courtyard and through the open gate under the quickly setting sun. Just ten minutes, you tell yourself. Ten minutes to gather your composure, and then you can return.

Ten grows to twenty, and thirty, and the chill is bone deep before you return to the fort. Unable to bring yourself back to the banquet all, no matter how you will be chastised for it later, you make way for the guest quarters, aiming to cry yourself to sleep.

“Y/N!” a familiar voice hollers as you begin to round the bend in the stairs. You stop, and turn to see Benjicot charging up after you, breathless. “I have been searching everywhere! Where the fuck have you been?”

“Out,” you reply.

“Out? You left in the middle of dinner.”

You shrug. “Why does it matter? I am sure no one else noticed.”

You try not to be touched by the fact that he did. After all, he won’t be yours much longer. The thought grips your chest, spreading like black ink out to your limbs, and you feel exhausted by it. You just want to lay down away from everyone and forget even your own name.

A smile spreads across Benjicot’s face, a familiar, cunning smile that sends chills down the spines of his enemies, and up yours.

“Everyone noticed you left. How can they announce my betrothal, if my betrothed is missing?”

The words don’t quite make sense in your mind when you first hear them. “Missing?”

You ask. “My father made to announce that we are to wed, and a panic ensued when you were found not present.”

“You and I, to be wed?”

He simply nods.

“But, my sister?”

“I spoke plainly with my father, and yours. Your sister has many prospects for her hand, and we will wait until she is married to proceed with our ceremony, but I would have none but you.”

Your heart, heavy almost moments ago, flutters in your chest.

“We are to wed?” you ask again, and Benjicot cannot help but laugh. Instead of answering, he wraps a strong hand around the back of your neck and pulls your mouth firmly to his.

“You are to be mine, as you always have been,” he whispers against your lips, and you fall into him, a sob of relief escaping you.

“Hush now,” he chides as he places kisses all over your face, still cold from the outside chill. “No tears in the face of good news, my beloved.”

You throw your arms around his waist, and he holds you tight to him, tucking you into his warm chest.

“They are happy tears,” you manage to say into his coat, and he laughs again, the sound more beautiful than any you’ve heard before.

“I am hurt that you thought I would let you go so easily, my dove. Come. Dry your face, and we will go show them all how happy we are.”

And indeed, you do. There are huge for everyone. Your father and mother, your sister with tears of relief in her eyes, and your future family as well.

Benjicot steals you away once the congratulations have ended, to join the dancing. You feel lighter than air as he spins you around and dips you down low, whispering kind words and dirty promises your ears all the whole.

When the night is ended and you must part, he kisses you again. “Sleep well, wife,” he whispers, and you blush.

Sleep does come, eventually, and your dreams are filled with your betrothed.

[underoossss]

Driving Lessons — S.H

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader

warnings: none

masterlist

4k

an: hi everyone! here’s a new fluffy fic for you. best friends to lovers goodness to brighten your weekend. I dedicate this to everyone who like me was terrified when they learned how to drive and those who don’t drive bc it’s scary af. steve is just so sweet and perfect and I think he’d be a wonderful teacher specially if he has a crush on you. I hope you enjoy! Pls let me know if you liked this!

The doorbell rings just as you finish getting ready. It’s a sunny summer morning and you decided to fight off the heat with a white dress with tiny pink roses printed on it, a denim vest and converse. You check the clock by your bed and as always Steve is right on time.

You’d woken up with a start this morning from a terrible nightmare you don’t want to think about. Steve had an angry wound on the side of his abdomen and was in no state to drive. He needed your help, but you don’t know how to drive, so you were helpless to do anything else but to press his own t-shirt against the wound. The same desperation haunted you all through breakfast and gave you the push you needed to face your fears. Driving. You’re going to learn, no matter how much panic it causes you.

That’s why Steve is here, you called him earlier and agreed to meet here at noon. And punctual as ever, he’s already waiting on the porch. You heart drums loudly inside your chest, excited to see your friend, your best friend, and object of all your affection. Though no one needs to know the last part.

You open the door, and the pitter patter of your heart gets out of control no matter how much you try to remind it that he’s your friend. Nothing more. Steve looks sun kissed by the summer sun and beautiful as always, with various freckles standing out across his face. Broad shoulders in a white t-shirt and light washed jeans that fit him just right, his old Cortez shoes and usual brown watch. You hate him, and you love him so much.

“Hi Stevie.” Your smile breaks free as you greet him with a hug.

“Hey you.” Steve’s smile is clear in his voice as his arms go around you. It’s a tight hug and soon enough, he’s lifting you off the ground and spinning you around.  

You laugh as he sets you down on the ground. “Someone’s happy.”

“How can I not be? I’m spending the day with you.” Steve smiles brightly, “What’s this you have to ask me? Got me nervous all the way here.”

You shake your head; how can you not be crazy about him when he’s so damn sweet with you. You decide to tackle his question instead. “Why would you be nervous?”

 “I wasn’t sure if we need to hide a dead body.” He shrugs.

“Not today.” You play along with a fake frown and smile when it makes Steve laugh. A moment later you turn shy under his gaze when it lingers on your face. “Okay I called you because I need you to teach me how to drive. Please.”

“How to drive?” Steve’s eyebrows shoot up towards his forehead as his brown eyes widen. “You got tired of me already sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the nickname, and hit his shoulder softly; Steve takes that same wrist and holds on to swing your hands between you. It endears you and makes you love him a little bit more, it’s only noon. “You hurt me.” He says all drama as always.

“No, Stevie.” You tilt your head towards your shoulder, choosing not to tell him about last night’s nightmare. “I just want to learn in case there’s an emergency or something.” When Steve’s eyes soften, you look away.

“Okay,” He says quietly, then tucks a rogue strand of hair behind your ear. “Do you want to start right now?” Steve asks you, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve stopped breathing.

“God, no. I’m scared.” You shake your head, trying to ignore the way your heart hurts at his soft gesture. “I was going to suggest ice cream first.”

Steve smiles and wraps an arm around your shoulder pulling you to his side as he leads both of you to his parked car in the driveway. “Alright, ice cream first. You look beautiful by the way.”

You lean your head on his shoulder and shake his head. “Is this you trying to get me to pay?”

Steve only laughs and rolls his eyes.

“First things first, seat belt.” Steve glances behind you with a nod of his head. The two of you are sitting in his car, but while he’s always in the drivers seat, he’s the passenger today.

You turn around and bring the seat belt across your torso before it clicks into place once fastened. “Okay.”

Steve scratches his chin and you watch for only a second before looking ahead, no distractions. “Now, adjust the mirrors; you should see everything with the rear view mirror and the front door’s handle with your other two. I’ll move this one for you.” He reaches out of the car and brings it forward a tiny bit until you nod.

“Alright that’s good.” You do the same with the one on your right before wiping your hands on your dress. You take a shaky breath and look back at Steve. “Now what?”

Steve’s grinning when you meet his eyes and shakes his head briefly. He nods towards the keys hanging from the ignition switch. “Now you turn on the car.”

Panic bubbles deep in your stomach but you nod anyway, pushing through the many anxious thoughts in your head. This is why you never made it past a single lesson during driver’s ed, your fear. What if you crash the car, hurt someone, hurt Steve? You’re grateful that your hand doesn’t shake when it turns the key, bringing the car to life.

“Hey,” Steve says, and you look over at him to find him smiling at you. “You’re doing great.”

“Thank you, Stevie.” You swallow down the rising panic inside your chest as you look at the steering wheel. At least Steve’s car isn’t mechanic. Steve points at the pedals by your feet which makes you focus again.

“Right one’s accelerator, and the left one’s the break.” Steve explains. “The car’s in park now so it won't move even if you hit the gas.” He looks up at you to make sure you’re okay to go on and you give him a half nod. “If you break and change the gear to Drive, then it’ll move.”

“What?” You ask him when he glances at you expectantly.

Steve motions to the gear stick behind the wheel with his head. It’s time, you guess and swallow hard, pressing down the break pedal and shifting the car to drive. You can feel your heart pounding in your ears, and your hands break a sweat. Trying to push through though, you take your foot off the breaks and accelerate slowly, but it only seems to make your panic worse. The car only moves about 8 feet before you stop and put it back on Park, shutting your eyes tightly. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

Steve reaches over and shuts down the engine before turning towards you. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He asks you softly, a hand on your shoulder. It rubs down your arm gently and grabs one of your hands from the steering wheel. “Talk to me, what happened?”

“I’m sorry I panicked.” You confess, keeping your eyes shut. “This is scary.”

“Okay.” You open your eyes to see Steve nod, gaze full of concern as it meets yours. “Want to tell me what scares you?”

Taking your seat belt off you turn towards him and rest your forehead on his shoulder. “Stevie, what if I crash your car and we both end up hurt.”

You feel Steve take a deep breath and his hand let go of yours in favour of running up and down your back. “That won’t happen.”

“You don’t know that.” You mumble with a shake of his head.

“I do.” Steve counters, pushing on your shoulder gently to look into your eyes. “We’re only going to turn right and drive to the dead end, nothing crazy. No cars will hit you, babe, you know it’s a quiet road.”

You look out the windshield towards the road in question. No one ever drives by, just the three homeowners who live in the dead end, but they’ve already left for the day. If that’s the only practice you’ll have today, you think you can manage to keep your fear in check.

“There we go.” Steve smiles triumphantly when you nod in determination. “Ready?”

“Yes.” You click your seat belt into place and turn on the car.   

Just as Steve promised, you only go back and forth from your house to the dead end. He’s patient and gentle as he gives various instructions, when to break and when to accelerate. He guides you through the u-turn and how to back up when you mess up said u-turn. The initial paralyzing dread fades to manageable nerves as 45 minutes go by, and smile when Steve gives you a knowing look.

“Feeling more confident?” He asks as you park in your driveway once more.

“Yeah, a bit.” You let out a deep breath and nod.  “I know I’m safe if I’m with you, Steve.”

“You are.” Steve mirrors your nod and clears his throat, then motions towards his door. “Come on, let’s switch. We’re renting a movie so you can relax.”

❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎

“Stevie, it’s so early.” You mumble, opening your front door at 6am on a Saturday. You look up at him, he looks just as sleepy as you but handsome as always. His hair is a mess of chocolate waves, and the light blue polo he wears with his jeans looks great on him. An outfit so basic shouldn’t look so good; it’s his shoulders you think, they make those damn polos look gorgeous on him.

“Well, you’re the one scared of driving.” Steve’s voice brings you back to the present. “If we go right now, the streets will be all yours. It’ll help with your nerves.”

“I’m sure, it’s the crack of dawn during summer after all.” You joke, sleepiness slowly leaving your body. A smile takes over your face at Steve’s sheepish expression and you can’t help but lean in for a hug. “Thank you, Stevie.”

“You know, people aren’t supposed to look so pretty at 6am.” Steve says, stepping back and meeting your eyes. You heart drops to your stomach for a moment at his words and you look down at your clothes. Black denim shorts, converse, and a sweatshirt.

“You really need some glasses, Steve.” You chuckle, bumping your shoulder into his as you walk towards his car.

“My eyesight is perfect, babe.” Steve gives you a wink that leaves you flustered and trying to understand what’s happening. “Come on.” He places the keys to his car on your hand and opens the passenger door.

Steve lounges back on his seat, pointing towards the direction he thinks you should go. He tells you when to break, what to do in an intersection and the roads you should avoid at a normal hour. Like he said, all of Hawkins is asleep and there’s not a single car on sight as you drive through the town. He was right, the nerves and awful dread you felt the first time you tried to drive his care are gone as you drive the empty streets; no one’s gonna hit you because no one’s here. The radio stays off though, you’re not a professional yet and the music only distracts you. There’s no way you’re crashing because you were singing to Blondie.

“You’re doing amazing.” Steve says, and you control your reaction to his praise. Knowing you’re doing a good job makes you feel giddy inside, so you glance at him quickly with a smile. “Pull into that parking lot right there. I think we can practice parking today.”

“Okay, good cause there are no cars for me to run into.” You joke, looking at Steve and laughing when he frowns. He doesn’t like you doubting yourself, right. “I’m kidding, Stevie.” You check your mirror, and turn the blinker on before you make a turn towards the parking lot. The concrete floor is deserted and fifty-something empty spaces stare back at you.

“Now what?”

“Okay,” Steve sits up straighter and rubs his chin, deep in thought. You can imagine the way his eyes light up when the idea finally comes to him. “Now you have to sort of turn away from the parking spot then turn back in.”

It sounds like gibberish for a moment before you go over his words and catch on to his explanation. Still, how can you pass up an opportunity to tease him?

“Real good explanation, Steve. Super clear.” You chuckle with an eye roll. “But I think I know what you mean.” Following his instructions, you drive the car towards the right before turning left and moving between the two white lines in front of you. At least that’s your intention, but what you end up doing is driving over one of the lines –taking two spaces.

“Come on don’t make that face, it’s your first try.” Steve shakes his head taps the dashboard. “Check the rear-view and backup. You got it.”

You do as Steve says and try to park on the spot next to you, turning a little more to the right so when you drive into the empty space, you’re perfectly parked in between both lines. “There! I did it!” You cheer, putting the car on park and turning to Steve. “Ha!”

He’s smiling too, celebrating this small win and high-fiving you. Steve’s fingers intertwine with yours and keep your hands in his hold, giving them a tight squeeze. There’s happiness and affection shining in his eyes –brown and beautiful and a little sleepy from how early it is– making your blood fizzy under your skin and your body feel like it’s glowing. There’s no one in this world like him, someone who is your cheerleader and makes you feel this happy and safe. And in love.

But the glint in his eye tells you he’s going to say something; you definitely missed something. “You didn’t check the right-side mirror babe; a car can come from your right, and you could’ve crashed into them.”

“Ugh!” You lean you head back on the headrest and look at the roof. Defeat washes over you, there’s so many rules to this driving gig; just when you think you’ve got it right, it’s actually the opposite. Your hands cover your face. “Fucking mirrors.”

Steve laughs next to you, a warm and beautiful sound that wipes away your frown as he shakes his head. His hand takes one yours again a moment later and gives it a squeeze. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Glancing to your right at him you feel your heart dance in your chest at his soft smile. His eyes dance around your face in a way you can’t really describe, and it flusters you beyond words. You smile at him though, ignoring the acrobatics your stomach is performing and the feelings rising to the surface once more. He’s your friend and he’s helping you, nothing more. Don’t make it something it’s not.

Steve is the one who breaks the moment first, eyes going back towards the dashboard. His hand lets go in favour of motioning towards the steering wheel. “Come on, let’s keep practising.”

“Can we go get coffee after?” You ask as you spot the sun beginning to rise in the distance.

“Anything for you babe, you just gotta learn how to park.” Steve settles back on his seat and you look out your window to bite back your smile. He’s got to stop talking to you so sweetly.”

❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎

“Can they please stop honking!” You mutter. The burning orange of the setting sun is shining through the trees and painting the dark asphalt in front of you as you drive by. It would be beautiful if not for the car that’s been tailgating you for five minutes now. To say you’re frustrated at the incessant sound of its honking would be an understatement, you’re sweating buckets, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. Your shoulders are tense and pulled tight towards your ears and there’s nothing you wish more than to arrive to Steve’s place. “Stevie.” You plead, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“Ignore them, you’re doing great.” Comes Steve’s easy response, but he still checks the rear-view mirror and glares at the car behind you. “Of course, it’s some dude in a truck.” You hear him mutter as he shakes his head.

“I’m sweating, I told you I can’t drive on this road yet.” You complain, rolling your shoulders back to ease the tension. “But no, you had to insist.”

“Well, you had to eventually, babe.” Steve shrugs leaning towards the window and looking at you. Then after a sigh, he adds, “Nothing’s going to happen, relax alright.”

Another loud honk helps you do the opposite.

“Tell him to fuck off.” You groan, glancing at the truck behind you. Great now he’s flicking his headlights at you. “I’m literally driving at the speed limit.”  

Steve shakes his head and motions to the road ahead, where the lane splits into two. “You’re fine, look, he can drive past you now.” Right on cue the truck accelerates and drives by, letting you breathe. Your shoulders sag, and when you spot a dinner in the distance you finally relax. There’s no way you’re driving the rest of the way.

“Okay, you’re switching places with me. I’ll try again tomorrow.” You announce after a sigh.  

You turn the blinker on, and perfectly park on a free spot before shutting off the car and getting out. You look at the setting summer sun and breathe in to calm down, at least you made it halfway to Steve’s. Even the shirt you’re wearing feels stifling and your back is sweaty, so you take it off, which leaves you in a black tank top. “That made me age like 70 years.”

You look to your left and find Steve looking at you in that way you both hate and secretly love. He’s leaning against the car, arms crossed in front of him, and his eyes have gone soft. They linger on you, like he loves watching you, like you’re his favourite sight. But is it him or you projecting that? What does that mean, Steve, what is this look? You shake your head and look away; he always looks so handsome in the golden hour, you can’t catch a break. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, stop apologizing.” He rolls his eyes, sounding exasperated but fond as he offers you a hug. You’re quick to step into his arms and relax against him, you stand no chance when it comes to Steve. He calls and you’ll always answer. Though you wish for nothing more than to bury your face in his neck and breathe him in, let yourself melt against him, you don’t. That it would be weird and you’re just friends. “You, okay?”

You nod against his shoulder and hug him tighter. “Yeah, I just wish I didn’t get so nervous.” It’s been like this a few days, you stopping and getting out of the car; it’s frustrating and a big blow to your confidence every time. “

“You know I don’t mind driving you, right?” Steve mumbles against your hair, his thumbs rubbing circles on your lower back. “If this is stressing you out too much we can stop, I’m happy to drive you anywhere.”

“I know that, Stevie.” You whisper as you close your eyes, deciding to tell him about your dream. “But I had a nightmare the other week, we were in the middle of nowhere, you were really hurt and I couldn’t drive you to the hospital. It was horrible but it made me realise if that happened, I wouldn’t be able to help and I don’t want that.”

“Babe.” Steve sighs, his hands pressing firmly up and down your back. “That won’t happen, it was just a bad dream.”

“I know, but in the off chance that it happens, I want to know that I can help you, Stevie.” You say, shutting your eyes tightly as the image of a hurt Steve comes back. There’s no way you’re losing him over something as simple as driving.

“Alright, we’ll see this through then.” Steve breathes out, holding you for a moment longer before he places a kiss to your temple and steps back. His beaming smile is back on his face, to ease your nerves, you’re sure; it works. “Let’s go, the ice cream’s going to melt. Good job today.”

❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎

“Are you sure?” You ask Steve on a Monday morning, one month of practice later you’re ready to take your driving test. Steve Harrington is offering you his car for the test.

“Of course, babe.” Steve shrugs and hands you his keys. “Let’s go get that license.”

You want to smile at him, thank him for how wonderful he’s been but there’s a sadness creeping into your heart and it casts a shadow over your joy. No more lessons after today. Steve is probably sick of you already. You, on the other hand, don’t want this to end, you want to spend more time with him. Hell, you want to spend all of your time with him. Steve notices your frown and steps closer to you, his hand reaches for yours.

“What’s wrong?” A gentle squeeze.

You let go of his hand and lie. “Nothing, I’m just nervous.” With a half-hearted chuckle you leave his side and walk towards his car. “We should get going.”

The drive towards Hawkins High is quiet, with you concentrating and ignoring your aching heart and Steve looking out his window. It’s still early and the town is quiet around you when you drive by. You’ve come so far since your first day and this is where it ends, with you coming closer to Steve after all those hours spent together –something you didn’t think could be possible. Now you’re trying to think of excuses to continue the driving lessons but come up empty handed. Maybe this was all a mistake, the worst mistake, for now your feelings are all over the place and the words I’m in love with you are on the tip of your tongue.

Your favourite song comes on the radio, and you don’t pay it any mind; you can see Steve look at you in surprise from the corner of your eye. Then, because he’s wonderful, the most wonderful and caring boy, he reaches for your hand and squeezes it tightly.

“Hey, I know you’re scared.” He says gently, “And I know me saying this doesn’t help but…”

Steve takes a deep breath, and you squeeze his hand again before he continues. “I’m not lying when I say you’re ready, so please relax this is your favourite song.”

With a quick glance at him, a grin breaks free and soon you’re laughing as Steve turns up the volume and sings loudly. “There’s a room where the light won’t find you! Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down!”

You laugh and smile and sing with him, letting nerves and aborted confessions slide off your back for now. “When they do, I’ll be right behind you!”

The two of you continue to drive like that, happy and carefree and clutching the other’s hand –like you’re unwilling to let go– until the song ends right as you arrive at the high school. Your smile is replaced by a frown and you glance at Steve as you spot the evaluator. He’s a middle-aged man wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants, black rimmed glasses are perched on top of his nose, and a mustache sits over a deep frown. “He looks so grumpy.”

“Well, it’s 9am on a Saturday.” Steve says simply, “He probably hates you.”

Your eyes widen and you glare at your friend. “Steve!”

When he laughs you shove his shoulder and roll your eyes. Leave it to him to be a jerk when you’re already nervous. “Get out, the faster we’re done the better.”

“Okay, okay.” Steve turns on his seat to face you and his hands move to hold your face. Your next breath catches on your throat at his actions as you look into his lovely brown eyes. They’re full of faith in you, encouraging you with only one look. “Good luck.” He whispers as his thumb rubs at the apple of your cheek. Brown eyes drift down to your lips, and Steve’s face leans the tiniest bit closer to yours. Is he going to…?

Then just as fast as it happens, he’s stepping out of the car; you feel the ghost of his touch burns your skin. Not a moment later, the evaluator gets into the car.

“Seatbelt.” You mutter, watching Steve’s retreating figure head towards the bench by the entrance. Is there a tiny chance that Steve feels the same way about you?

“Let’s start.” The man next to you grumbles, snapping you back into action.

Your mind is half present on the test and half wondering about what just happened. Following your usual route through town, you come to a conclusion. Of two facts you’re absolutely sure. One: You’re hopelessly in love with Steve, and a moment ago you thought he would absolutely kiss you. The other, well the man sitting next to you hasn’t said a single word since the test started. His only instructions were Just drive. And so, you drive. Every time you try to ask something he shakes his head, so after a few turns around main street, you go back to the school.

You heave a sigh as you parallel park and shut down the engine. “Well?”

“Passed.” The evaluator hands you a slip of paper with your test without another word. You don’t care as you thank him quickly and run out of the car, towards Steve.

“Stevie!” You yell, meeting him halfway as he run towards you, and waving the piece of paper frantically. “I passed!”

“Babe! I told you so!” His arms are around you a moment later, holding you tightly and lifting you off the ground just like the day your quest for a driver’s license started. You hold onto him just as tightly, laughing against his shirt as he spins you around. “Told you, you could do it!”

When you’re back on the ground and look up at Steve, the same joy you’re feeling is shining back from his beautiful brown eyes. All the same emotions including love, in the very same way it sparkles whenever you’re looking at him. Your best friend who’s also so kind-hearted and amazing, and so devastatingly handsome, you never stood a chance against falling for him. This is who you love, who you want. The man who woke up at 6 in the morning to teach you how to drive, who chased off your fears and cheered on your wins with hugs and sweet milkshakes; the one who never once lost his temper, no matter how much you messed up. Steve who let you use his car.

“It's all thanks to you.” You whisper, hand going to his cheek and drifting upwards towards his hair. “Thank you, Stevie.”

“You know I would do anything for you.” Is all he says, his voice matching yours.

You nod, smiling a teary smile when your emotions overflow. “I love you so much, you have no idea. And I know it’s stupid but I don’t want to stop spending all that time with you just ‘cause I passed my test.”

“I think you don’t know this, but,” Steve smiles disarming you in a second as he leans closer to you. “I’m crazy about you, babe, I want to be with you all the time.”

“Really?” Your voice is breathless as you lean closer.

“Would I wake up at the crack of dawn just to see you, if I didn’t?” His lips are so close to yours you can feel your breath mingling. Then after a pause, he whispers softly, “I love you.”

Leaning up on your tiptoes you close the gap between you and kiss him. It’s a short press of lips before Steve’s hands hold your face to kiss you better, angling your faces in the perfect way to deepen the kiss. He takes your bottom lip between his, your hands run through his hair, and the brush of his lips is as soft and as urgent as you dreamed they would be. How many times have you imagined this exact moment and still be so unprepared thing. Kissing Steve is wonderful, it’s perfect, it feels like drinking stardust and glowing from within. You can tell how much both of you have wanted this from the overwhelming emotions threatening to consume you; the fact that it’s taken you so long makes you giggle against his mouth.

“What?” Steve asks against the corner of your lips, unwilling to pull away.

“Nothing,” You shake your head, stepping back and looking up at him. “I’m just so happy.”

His gaze goes impossibly softer as he looks at you, “Me too.”

A long moment later, you steal another kiss because you can, and take Steve’s hand. “Celebratory breakfast?” “You got it, beautiful.” Steve says, eyes unable to contain his affection towards you. He leads both of you back to his car, swinging your hands between your bodies. “You’re driving.”

reblogs are appreciated💖 motivate an unmotivated writer pls

[nordickies]

Sweden Headcanons

I compiled a list of big and small headcanons I like to implement in my work when writing Sweden's character! More may be added if I come up with them. Feel free to steal them in your own work

Read the whole list under the cut!

Physical Features

Sweden is one of the tallest nations at around 2,00 m / 6′ 7″. He has a heavy build with notable muscles on his upper body. Though, he gets bloated very easily, especially after a heavy meal, so his body definition varies a lot.

Sweden is physically in his early to mid-thirties.

As a teenager, Swe usually experienced nausea and dizziness from growing pains. Definitely didn't help with his already bad temper and moodiness.

Sweden has cold hands constantly.

He tans quite easily during summer. In his youth, he had visible sun freckles.

He's not as fit as people might think at first. His grip is firm, and he can lift. But make him run stairs, and he's out of breath. That is probably why you'll never catch him running - even in a hurry.

Swe has frown lines on his forehead and around his eyes, probably due to squinting so much before getting his glasses.

He has a small silver cross necklace, which he obtained from his long travels in his youth.

Personality

Sweden is stoic, but he's not that serious - even though he might appear to be so. He just has an unfortunate face, according to Denmark. Norway says Sweden is friendly; he just doesn't act like it. Swe has a playful side to him, and even he isn't above banter from time to time. He is even a bit sassy. And while he might be a man of a few words, he has a sense of comedic timing. He often manages to make his friends crack up in inappropriate situations, and people never believe them it was due to Sweden.

Sweden has an eye for quality. He's also a bit frugal and refuses to throw stuff away, especially if he could fix it with little effort or repurpose it for something else. For most of his life, he had to deal with limited resources anyway, so his thrifty tendencies continue to this day. People tease that Sweden prefers crisp bread (knäckebröd) because he's too frugal to bake fresh bread every day

He is known to be innovative! He'll ponder his head empty to devise a solution to a given topic, and sometimes, they can be pretty creative and unexpected. He has a lot of fantastical creativity, and his thinking process is a big mystery to everyone else.

He cherishes silence and personal space. Loud noises and massive crowds of people make him very uncomfortable, so he avoids situations like that beforehand.

Sweden takes things very literally at times, and he can take things to heart. He'll always go out of his way to do his best and put on the best show, down to a single detail. If someone requests a cake with flowers, he'll spend the entire night crafting marzipan daisies and placing them individually

Sweden could be described as somewhat of a control freak. He'll get highly anxious if he's not in control and making decisions - or kept in the dark about matters that concern him. He has always been self-driven, and he can become quite rowdy if he's forced to follow other's orders.

Sweden is a bit of a mother hen, taking care of people and providing for them at all times. Though sometimes, he takes this role a bit too seriously. Sweden has a tendency to get involved in other people's business and try to come up with solutions for their problems, which his neighbors don't always appreciate.

Because of his rational and calm nature, people often seek Sweden's advice and help. Well, at least people who don't have to deal with his unprompted advice constantly.

He has always struggled with being a bit selfish. Not that he lacks the skills to share or be empathetic, but he always seems to put himself first. People often need to adjust to Sweden's comfort and needs rather than the other way around.

He's definitely the most family-oriented out of the Nordics. He has always wanted to be a parent, even if others never really understood it. Even as a teen, he would look after the youngest members of his family, ensuring they were clothed and fed.

Even though he's not very sociable, he hates being alone for long periods of time. Since he has always lived with others, he wants life, color, and chatter in his home. That's why he has arranged a free "open door" policy in his house. His family (and adoptees) are welcome in his place at any time

But, even though Sweden is tolerant and welcoming, it sometimes might backfire on him if his visitors aren't too caring. Denmark and Finland are particularly good at this and leave the place messier than they found it. Meanwhile, Norway empties Sweden's fridge and pantry before he's on his way (which he just calls harrytur). Sweden is non-confrontational and rarely dares to bring it up, though.

He finds work-life balance extremely important. He takes his job seriously, but when the clock hits 4 p.m., he's already out of the door. This can annoy his overachieving coworkers sometimes, but this is a subject Sweden just won't give in. He is highly productive and a hard worker - it just happens strictly during office hours. He remembers to unwind by taking a week off at a cabin or simply having coffee breaks multiple times a day.

Swe sticks to schedules and usually shows up early to be on time. He's punctual and expects things to be done on time with efficiency. Swe has a personal calendar that he follows, and events, such as dinners, need to be planned in advance with him. He also follows a tight sleeping schedule.

Sweden is candid and answers others' questions bluntly. Interviews are a nightmare with him. Small talk is difficult with him, and he'll stay quiet if he has nothing to say. 

Sweden expects honesty. He wants to know if he has upset someone and, in return, wants to talk things out. Resentments, petty disagreements, and gossip annoy him greatly, especially if the other person expects him to recognize when he has done something wrong.

Sweden doesn't feel that awkward in social situations unless he can tell the other person is finding his silence uncomfortable. Swe becomes more shy and uneasy if he has to fake small talk. You'll get the most out of him when you bear his silent breaks.

Sweden can come off as nitpicky or even snobbish; he cares about the little details and, in true artistic fashion, can be a perfectionist sometimes. Whenever he's nervous, he starts focusing and fixing the tiniest of details in his work.

Sweden has a lot of confidence in himself and his abilities. Maybe, at times, a little bit too much, which makes him proud. Especially in his youth, he considered himself invincible and constantly overestimated his capabilities.

His tendency to be taciturn and not talk about his problems puts him at odds with people around him. Usually, the issues build up when he refuses to confront them. Combining this with the fact that he believes himself to be in the right - and solving issues with pure logic, it seems like he forgets to consider the emotional side of things. He can't understand why others don't see the world rationally like he does.

Hobbies

Sweden has a workshop in his house where he likes to go and work on DIY projects, make various crafts, or fix broken items. In there, he could spend hours pondering and trying to find solutions to problems - not only on broken appliances but his personal issues as well. Also, the workshop offers Swe a form of escapism. It's his domain, where he prefers to be alone (His little snickerboa, if you will)

Handicrafts allow him to express himself and carry out his wild creativity and imagination. He takes pride in his art; every item is made with love and thought. Besides making furniture, Swe is skilled in glass crafts. Sweden is also a skilled artist. Though it's more of a hidden talent. People never see him draw, but if you get him a pen and paper with a basic prompt, he will draw like a professional. He paints Christmas cards every year and sends them to other Nations.

Sweden is quite active and tries to get himself moving through everyday activities, such as house chores, biking, or even just taking the stairs. He likes going on long city hikes and can play a football or ice hockey match if asked to. But nowadays, he has begun to enjoy more relaxed sports, such as golf.

He loves cooking; Swe appreciates and values quality food. Perhaps he's not a culinary chef, but he can make any comfort homemade food if asked. Sweden is consistently in charge of the food in get-togethers and family gatherings. He's also a great baker but doesn't have time to focus on that hobby. Nevertheless, he always ensures at least a few types of cookies, buns, or other pastries are available. It's important to take a break occasionally and sit down for a cup of coffee.

Sweden enjoys a variety of music. He hasn't really mastered any instrument, but he loves singing group songs at events. He considers music a big part of his life, and he really enjoys musical events.

He is a plant mom with thriving houseplants all over his residence. Iceland is jealous of him because his own houseplants seem to always die as soon as he attains them. Sweden also has an impressive outdoor garden during the summer.

Sweden is obsessed with crime shows and literature; he's always in the process of reading the newest thriller books.

Lifestyle

His human name is Björn. His nickname "Nalle" (teddybear) can be used as a term of endearment - or annoyance, depending on the person and context. Though he has had multiple names throughout his life, such as Berwald.

Sweden is skilled in mental math, though not in a "superhuman" way. Sweden is an experienced merchant and builder who can solve basic math problems immediately in his head. He's definitely more talented mathematically rather than linguistically.

Sweden feels the most at peace when he's prepared for the future. Even on vacations, he'll fix his porch, paint the house, or do massive spring cleaning. On cabin weekends, he'll maintain the boat or drive the other Nordics crazy for using the lawnmower early in the morning

He's a recycling freak who takes the matter very seriously. He'll definitely let you know if you have done your recycling wrong and scold you for it

Despite his quiet and seemingly shy nature, Sweden likes hosting parties and events. He can even give a short speech if he's allowed to prepare for that beforehand. Swe doesn't go from table to table chatting with people. Instead, he'll ensure there are activities, games, music, and enough food and drinks for everyone.

Sweden has a tendency to socialize through activities like games or quizzes. People groan when Sweden has to bring yet another board game to a party, but that's just his way of ensuring people have something to do. And if he doesn't have a particular activity to participate in, he might just sit in silence the whole time!

Swe can handle booze very well, only becoming talkative. While he's reserved and quiet sober, he bubbles up immediately after a drink or two. Usually regretting his loud mouth the next day.

Swe has always had a hard time learning second languages, which is one of the reasons why he appears so quiet. When he can speak his native language, he's way more talkative. He often forgets words when talking in different languages, and that's when his insecurities and nervousness take over.

He speaks Swedish and will hesitantly admit that he understands Norwegian and some Danish just fine due to their long relationship and exposure to each other's languages. He speaks English and used to speak French and (Low) German. He also used to know Latin and Old Norse but has forgotten them both.

Swe thinks rules are rules, and in his household, candy can only be eaten on Saturdays.

Sweden has an inherent sense of style, perhaps due to his tendency to care about the little details. He wants his home and personal style to look nice and put together, and he spends a lot of time focusing on them.

Due to his big size, many spaces aren't made for him, especially abroad. He finds it embarrassing when other people notice this and try to offer him special treatment because of it. He hates to cause extra trouble.

He experiences "sunshine guilt" very often. If it's a beautiful day outside, Sweden can't sit inside without feeling guilty, like he's wasting his time. He will often tell people to go outside and appreciate the short summer that they get. And when the first rays of sunshine appear in spring, Swe might drop whatever he's doing and face the sun with his eyes closed - just taking it all in and immediately feeling better. He also starts having picnics and hanging out in outdoor cafes early in the year, regardless of weather or temperature.

Sweden has calmed down immensely from his youth to the point some consider he has gone soft, acting like an old man with no ambitions. But maybe nowadays, he puts in the effort to enjoy the things he values in life. And as a result, he's pretty content with how things are going for him.

[melrodrigo]

Daydreaming - T.C.

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Summary/Sneak peek: It's one of those days again, you and Tara are passed out on her bed; sun beaming through her curtains.

Warnings: Suggestive themes, fluffy fluffy stuff

Word Count: 950

A/N: Have this drabble before this next chapter…y’all need it. This is also partly inspired by ‘Daydreaming’ from Mr.Styles himself.

It's one of those days again, you and Tara are passed out on her bed; sun beaming through her curtains.

The rays frame her face so nicely, complimenting her freckles and making them pop. She doesn't like her freckles, but you absolutely adore them.

It's that type of day where you don't care about how pathetic or lovesick you sound, because she's here with you, in your arms; where she should be.

Nights with Tara were usually very hectic, she was always so pressed and fast and wanting; it's hard to savor the moment. It's also why you treasure the mornings after so much more.

You slip out of her embrace, as softly as you can. She stirs a little bit and you're quick to press a kiss to her forehead and whisper that you'll be right back.

She grumbles a little but loosens her grip on you.

You make your way to the kitchen, humming while slipping on a t-shirt.

Nobody's in the apartment today except for Sam, and you cringe internally at how awkward it's going to be with her today. Sam's starting to warm up to you, you can feel it. It's subtle, but after spending so much time with her sister you're sure you know the signs. They really were similar in many ways.

That didn't change the fact she probably hated you for nailing her sister though.

You let out a little sigh of relief when you see Sam isn't in the kitchen, and get back to your original plan.

Now, you weren't the best cook; but you did decently. It's not Tara's level of cooking, but you could always manage a killer American breakfast.

No wonder they're all overweight, you wonder as you stare at the back of the pancake mix box.

You contemplate making her an actual healthy breakfast like you normally do, but give in to the pancake mix. It was Tara's favorite anyway.

You turn on the speaker, but keep it low enough as to not wake Tara and play a TV Girl song.

Music's always been a sort of coping mechanism of yours. It's nice to just play a song and get lost in the melody, forget your problems and whatever's wrong in the world.

Tara's often made fun of you for it, for always carrying around an extra pair of earphones with you wherever you went.

You sway to the beat now, watching over the pancakes intently; determined to get that perfect brown color.

"Who's gonna kiss the brown hair girls? Who's gonna wipe away their tears?" You sing, grabbing the spatula and bringing it to your mouth.

“Well, I hope it's you, or that's going to be disappointing."

You don't have to turn around to know who it is, you would've recognized her voice from miles away. Soft hands touch your waist, sliding in behind you and peering at you.

You smile, boop her nose with your finger.

"Go back to sleep, I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed." You tut, trying to shoo her away and back into her room.

She shakes her head against you, "Nuh uh, all you do is surprise me with breakfast in bed. I should be the one cooking for you today. Plus, I don't sleep very well without you anyway."

She says it casually, but it still makes your heart melt.

You and Tara weren't one for words of affirmation, in fact; you both loved to shit on each other. That was your love language.

But the fact that she's willing to admit something like that to you with no second doubt fills your heart with pride. Maybe you are turning her a little soft.

"Okay, come on, come help me decorate these plain ass pancakes." You say, motioning for her to stand beside you at the counter.

She happily obliges, skip in her steps.

You'd arranged some toppings already; powdered sugar, bananas, fresh strawberries.

She immediately reaches for a strawberry, popping it into her mouth before you can scold her. You stare at her pointedly, but all she does is smile cheekily.

“At least cut up the rest of the fruits, I'm almost done with these pancakes." You grumble, turning your attention back to the smiley pancake in front of you.

She nods adamantly, grabbing the cutting board and heeding your instructions. Nobody says a word, and the sound of the music behind you makes you feel like you're in the end credits of a rom-com.

You flip the last pancake right as Tara finishes slicing the strawberries and bananas. You grab three plates, one for Tara, one for you, and one for Sam.

You let Tara decorate her pancake as she pleases, taking a portion of the pancakes and putting them on Sam's plate.

When you turn back to Tara, you're met with the sight of her with her hands up slightly in shock, icing powder falling from her like snow.

You can't help but snort at the look on her face; which was also covered in white icing.

The bag of it's in her hand, looking like it exploded from the seams.

The sound of your laughter breaks Tara from her shock, and she giggles a bit too.

"I look like a snowman!" She exclaims, brushing the substance off her shirt quickly.

"Snowman's are taller than you are." You quip, smirking.

She opens her mouth to reply, no doubt with an annoying jab back at you; but is cut off by lips on hers.

You kiss her tenderly, squeeze her hips slightly.

You pull back, pursing your lips as you bring your pointer finger up; fake thinking.

"Hm....sweet."

[sparkles-and-trash]

dabihawks au

...where Keigo is a burnt out child and teen actor in his early 20’s that has a shot at a part in a big, serious western movie that's rumored to start casting after the summer.

Luckily his agent knows the owner of this ranch, so his managements sets it up so Keigo will spend the summer there to learn to ride and also get away from the big city life for a while.

Touya's been working at this ranch since he was a teenager that got sent there after a stint in juvie, and ended up staying there to work full time after he finished school.

When he gets told by his mentor, Hakamada, that the owner of the ranch have already said yes to host Keigo, Touya’s not happy to hear it.

He has more than enough to do with the rescues and horse training business as it is, but Yagi, who owns the ranch, has already said he wants Touya to take care of the guy, so he doesn’t really have a choice. 

After some discussion the new deal is that Keigo will be staying at the ranch for two weeks at first, to make sure that he doesn’t get in the way too much, and if Touya and Hakamada accepts him he’ll stay for the entire summer. 

Touya plans to make sure he won’t have to look after some spoiled actor the whole summer, but Hakamada keeps reminding him to give the guy a chance, and he isn't scared to bring up how Touya was once the guy who needed a chance, which pisses off Touya even more at this point.

When he shows up, Keigo is trying to seem all chill and charming, but Touya spots the dark circles under his eyes, and the way he seems sort of desperate to have everyone like him, which makes Touya not like him right away.

He could never stand fake people, which is why he's most happy around horses after all.

Touya is supposed to have the actor help him out with the rescues, but he's really not letting him do any of the real work, making Keigo fetch and put out horse after horse, drive around wheelbarrows, lift heavy saddles and basically do all the hard, thankless work Touya doesn't feel like.

He's gonna break this idiot so fast he'll run away with his tail between his legs before the two weeks are up.

But then one morning Touya spots Keigo in a pasture he's really not supposed to be in, with a horse he has no idea how he got there, and it turns out Keigo had misunderstood and accidentally handled even though the horse was way too scared and aggressive, but somehow with Keigo, the horse seems totally fine.

Well shit.

So now Touya actually lets the stupid blond help with the horses, and of course he turns out to be a natural.

Not with riding, though, which brings Touya great joy.

To see the usually calm and cheerful actor bounce around in the saddle like a sack of potatoes was rewarding in itself, but when he realizes that Keigo himself is having a blast, not caring how stupid he looks, openly laughing at himself...

Maybe he's just a little bit cute, after all.

When the two initial weeks are up, Keigo is looking like a different person.

His hair is slightly longer and lighter from the sun, his dark circles are gone, he has a farmers tan and the sun has brought out a bunch of freckles over his nose and cheeks.

Touya finds himself hoping he takes up the offer to stay for the summer, after all.

//

This was supposed to be a fic once upon a time, but it got away from me, sooo I decided to make some drabbles out of it in stead!

Maybe I'll do more with it, maybe not, but it helped me get out of my writing slump and that's good enough for me!

[idontknowanametouse]

Straw Hat girlies headcanons! (Sanji included cuz transfem bigender Sanji lives rent free in my head. Also Bonney cuz why not; And Vivi is on the straw hats I don't care)

TW: mention of sexual abuse and other kinds of abuse, and also the trauma that comes with it

Nami

Autistic, but developed the habit of masking. Has been learning to undo it around her crew. Special interest? Maps, maps, maps. Tangerines are comfort food. She also has hypersensitivity to clothes, so she picks them very carefully. Her meltdowns are often, they come when she is emotionally overloaded, and she usually needs to stay alone to calm down.

After her meltdown in Arlong Park, her arm got paralyzed due to nerve damage. Now, she uses a sling to keep it always in place and not get hurt. Her tatoo covers a little, but not all her stabbing scars.

She has PTSD due to Bellemere's death, her enslavery and also due to being a survivor of SA. Has been doing therapy sessions with Chopper (he is learning about human psychology in order to help the crew) to help cope with it and receives help and support from the rest of the crew.

VERY pale, but due to spending so much time in the sea and under the sun, she ends up having many, many freckles through all of her body. Usually keeps wavy hair in ponytail due to it being really long.

Lesbian, loves girlies. Dating Vivi ever since they set foot in Alabasta. Clings to her so much it looks like they can't be separated. Also, Vivi was her lesbian awakening in the way of "wait, I think I like girls romantically???? And they are also hot????"

When she first entered the crew, she was underweight, almost malnourished, due to never having enough food and saving almost all money to save her village. However, after Arlong Park, she started gaining weight with the help of Sanji and Chopper. Now, she is fat, healthy and happy.

Loves orange, but also blue (no, it's not to match Vivi, shut the fuck up Usopp)

Swears and yells a lot. Has low voice tone control, actually.

Sometimes, when she is sad, she speaks to her tangerines as if Bellemere was there, as it feels comforting.

Ever since she received news that Cocoyashi Village got a Den Den Mushi, she calls them everyweek to tell Nojiko and Genzo about hers and the strawhat's adventures.

Besties with Usopp and Zoro, they talk shit about everyone. Gossip friends with Robin. Is one of the few people that can make Luffy not destroy an entire fucking island. Jinbei's second daughter (first is Koala).

Loves Beyoncé, rap and brazillian funk (Luffy introduced her to it) (yeah, I know this is a more modern-au like one, but let me have my headcanons ok).

Due to high sensitivity to clothes, she usually wears beach-like clothing cause they are light and let most of her skin exposed, so she can feel better the weather.

Terrified of bugs AND bats. Almost fainted when she first heard about vampires and now is fucking terrified of the possibility.

Likes drawing, not only maps, but her crewmates too. She is really good at it, however, she won't show it to anyone, just Nojiko (she's embarassed).

Only wears makeup and/or does different hairtyles in special occasions, as she finds it to be very inconvenient when they are on the sea.

Watching and hearing the sea is a nice visual stim. It helps her to calm down from the crazy thing that is day-to-day life with the straw hats.

She may say shit about her friends sometimes, but will absolutely kill you if you say anything bad about them.

Sanji

Autistic, special interest is fishes and the All Blue. Cooking is so stimmy hmmmm. Does not realize when she is being way too much on others. Even though he doesn't seem like, is very picking about food, can't handle anything made in a shit way. Has shutdowns instead of meltdowns as trauma response, and needs to stay around the crew these times.

Has PTSD due to constant abuse in childhood and from being stuck on the rock-island with Zeff (and also due to Zeff eating his leg). Due to never telling about it to anyone, he tried to hide it from the crew because of self-loathing, but after Whole Cake Island, the moments of crisis and panic attacks were so frequent it turned impossible. He is now working on it with Chopper, just like the rest of the crew.

Tall, with very strong legs with many scars on them. Has leg and facial hair, but, after Momoiro Island, she let her wavy hair grow and now keeps it in a bun, still with the part in front of the eye, of course.

Egg cracked with Ivankov, about both gender AND sexuality. Bi queen. Even though he didn't want to pass through surgeon (aka Ivankov's fruit) he still got a lot of help from the newkama. Also learned he loves drag and will do it sometimes for the crew.

Learned ballet as a kid from Reiju and his mom. Even though he always practiced it in secret, it came out once she started to do drag (on her shows, she uses ballet steps a lot).

Fave colors are yellow and blue, it feels soft.

Swears a lot. Zeff did swear a lot back on Baratie, after all.

Calls Zeff monthly to tell how things are going. Sometimes, after this, she cries a little.

Started dating Zoro shortly before timeskip and was afraid of how he'd react to the whole trans thing, but he couldn't care less. She cried over a week because of this.

Loves woman with all of her heart, specially her crew's ones. Not in a more sexual like way, but in a whole-heartdly way. Besties with Usopp, surprisingly VERY friends with Brook.

Listens to classical and french music, but sometimes likes some rock and roll.

Has three types of clothes: suits, dresses and a suit with a short and skirt. No matter the look, is always with ballet shoes.

Fucking scared of bugs. And pigeons. Don't ask, ok?

Sings very well, but doesn't like to show it. Only does it on the bathroom, but everybody ends up listening. They don't comment cause the single time they did they thought Sanji was having a heart attack.

Adores make-up and diverse hairtyling, finds it to be really cute.

Usually rocking back and forth on her feet, it feels nice.

Once kicked a guy to uncosciousness when he touched her butt.

Vivi

Autistic, has those big bug autism eyes, even though she masks well she cannot function daily without help, Karoo is her therapy animal, special interest in bugs (shares it with Luffy), has meltdowns whenever she knows she is completely alone and helpless.

Developed some level of paranoia after being infiltrated in Baroque Works, and sometimes has frenzys in which she thinks she is back there and that Alabasta is still in danger. It diminuted drastically after Chopper developed a medicine for her, but it still happens sometimes. Those moments, she can turn aggressive and needs to stay only with Karoo so she can calm down.

Has brown skin and some tatoos typical from the Nefertari family. She is short and skinny, and the secret nobody can absolutely know is that she dyes her (curly) hair blue (it's her favorite color and her mom used to do the same, so, she dyes it. Nobody other than Nami can know though).

Lesbian, her first crush was Miss All Sunday (it didn't last much, but o boi, how many nights she spent thinking about how ABSOLUTELY WRONG having a crush on your enemy is). Had an immediate crush in Nami, but couldn't say it cuz of the whole Miss Wednesday thing. They kissed after they left Drum Island and started dating at Alabasta.

Deals with the guilt of being with the strawhats instead of Alabasta very often, and likes having hugs so it can go away.

Favourite color is blue, but not all blue, just sky-blue.

Never swears, feels a little embarassed whenever someone does.

Resolves troubles from Alabasta through Den Den Mushi, that way she doesn't get that much worried. Also keeps in contact with her dad, Pell and Igaram.

Even though they had a complicated relationship at the start, Robin and her ended up being very friends, they love parallel playing (honestly, who doesn't?). Also very close to Luffy and Yamato, the one that keeps a leash on the two of them, relates a lot to Zoro in that aspect.

Loves bubblegum pop, an absolute Swiftie. Sometimes also compelled to Aurora and Halsey.

Whenever they go to an island, she likes keeping her formal clothes (after all, she is the crew's diplomat!). In fights, she uses more simple clothes and a mask to keep her identity hidden. In the ship, however, you'll always find her in pajamas (no, she is not always sleeping, Zoro does that very well for the whole crew).

Is scared of the sea, even though she can swim, nobody knows why.

Likes dancing and presenting to the crew, but the crew only. If some outsider is there, she won't dance at all. Likes helping Sanji with the choreography of her drag shows.

Likes makeup, but hates stylizing her hair. She is absolutely terrible at it, so she just keeps it in a ponytail during fights and that's it, that's the best you can get from her.

Likes playing and fidgeting with small things like coins, buttons, rubik cubes, pebbles and stuff like that. Usually has something in her hand.

Feels bad for being one the weakest crew members, but is always cheered up by the rest. After all, she doesn't need to fight to be nakama, even though she can kick some asses.

Robin

Autistic. Weirdgirl, big autistic stare, says every single creepy fact she knows in not very good situations, no social cues get to her head, never masks, almost always same expression and tone, special interest in history, does not know how to function normally, has auditory and light hypersensitivity, meltdowns caused by way too much light, sound and visual information.

Has PTSD due to the destruction of Ohara, living her childhood, teenagehood and adult years as a runaway and being constantly betrayed and abandoned. She sometimes has moments of profound anxiety in which she asks herself if she is gonna lose her family. Chopper helps her a lot with it, and, when she has those crisis, she gets a hug from everyone anytime she asks for it.

Very tall, with a few specific parts of her body being thicker than the rest. Her skin is dark, with many scars through all of it, and she has blue eyes and long (but not as long as Nami's or Yamato's), straight black hair.

Trans woman, found out during early childhood, and bisexual queen. Even though she was never in a relationship before entering the crew, she was with a few people before. Franky is the first guy she is with, and also the first person she dates. It's a bit scary for both, but feels also really, really good.

She was underweight most of her life due to the inconstancy of her nutrition and life situation, but in Baroque Works she had lots of food. She thought a pirate crew wouldn't care about their nutrition or food, but it was opposite. Even though she does not gain weight easily, her sillouette, that was VERY slim before, became thicker in a few points. Not much, she still is thin, but it's less ill-looking.

Favorite color is purple, black and dark blue. Goth girl Robin is real.

Does not swear, but says such weird, creepy and worrying stuff it makes everyone wish she did. It would be less scary.

Loves organizing stuff, for some reason. If you leave her alone in a messy room, in a short time it will be very nice-looking and clean. She has fun with it!

After some initial tension, she started taking care of Vivi like a big sister. Was called "mom" by Chopper once and almost had a heart attack. Enjoys parallel playing with Zoro and Law, scaring Usopp and playfully flirting with Jinbei (Franky loves this, it makes them laugh how embarassed it makes Jinbei look).

Likes goth and punk music, it feels very nice to her. Also loves horror-like classical music, it helps her to sleep (weirgirl Robin weirdgirl Robin weirdgirl Robin-).

Even though she appreciates goth fashion, it's not really for her. She prefers long, purple jackets to her elbow over dark flower-pattern dresses, dark boots and her cowboy hat with sunglasses (they help her with light sensitivity and it also looks really cool).

Absolutely HATES to be around statues. They just get a nerve on her. It feels awful, she wants to break them in half so they stop looking at her.

Likes sending messages to the crew in the vitorian flower language. Nobody gets it, but they try. She keeps infodumping about it, so they can get at least a few things.

Doesn't like makeup very much, but simple hairtyling is nice. She will experiment on it, but only in particular.

Makes many vocal stims. They variate from humming to speaking random syllabes to screaming out loud. The crew has gotten used to it. Stimming with her akuma no mi also feels very nice.

Has broken more necks than you would think. Is also nicer than you would think.

Bonney

Autistic. Very loud, has no control over her tone, emotionally extreme, no social abilities, pizza is her comfort food, has hyposensitivity to sounds and lights, sarcasm queen but doesn't get other's sarcasm or lies, has meltdowns because of people fighting that involve a lot of self harm.

Has night terror with her dad being chained and his death. She needs to go to Luffy so she can hug him and feel better. Also has hyperactivity and needs medicines from Chopper so she can sleep and focus on stuff.

Small for her age, has white skin that is also tan due to the sun, likes putting piercings through her body (Chopper is scandalized), has brown eyes and hair, which she dyes pink cuz she knows her mom did as well.

Transfem demigirl, came out when she was 7 and told her dad "I wanna be a girl" "alright" and that was it. Didn't know what was a period until Chopper explained, and then got reliefed she didn't get that shit.

Eats A LOT, but runs so much throughout all of the ship all the day through it basically doesn't affect her body in a noticeable way. Shares this fact with Luffy.

Favorite color is pink, all of them. Does not matter the tones, if it's pink, she loves it.

Learned to swear on her time as a pirate. Does it on a daily basis.

Always speaks to her dad when she feels alone. It makes her feel better, to think he is accompanying her journey with the straw hats.

Likes smelling stuff. Sometimes looks like a dog while doing it. She just can feel the vibes of the person through their smell. She warns the crew whenever she smells evil. She is never wrong.

Calls everyone her big siblings. Luffy's apprentice, spends much time with him, specially when they are eating. Is spoiled rotten by Sanji, he loves when she asks for food. Loves being carried by Zoro, Yamato, Brook, Franky and Jinbei. Never gets tired of hearing Usopp's stories. Besties with Chopper.

Loves pop and rock, always sings along while screaming.

Always wearing clothes way too big for her size cuz of her akuma no mi, likes wearing bubblegum-pop and tiktok like clothes.

Scared of labs and doctors. Had to be convinced throughout an entire week to do her first check-up on Chopper. She is now ok around him, but other doctors are terrifying (she keeps trying to find out where Law hides the bodies he obviously kills. He is called death surgeon, come on).

Likes hearing Robin read books for her and Chopper. It's nice and recalls her home, plus Robin's voice is really sweet.

Loves experimenting on makeup, specially with help of the girls, but hair is too complicated. When she is not with her hat, she keeps the hair in a bandana and that's it. Plus it's always messy and she has a hard time combing it.

Stims by running. A LOT. And jumping. Whenever she thinks something interesting, she goes through the entire ship, down and up, until she falls on the sea and someone has to get her.

Can kick ass, but is still a child, so the crew kind of... overprotects her a little. Basically, if she gets hurt in battle, prepare to die. Very painfully.

[imrllytootiredforthis]

VACATION SEX!!!!!! Specifically thinking about either beomgyu or lix for this one idk why they are so cute and would just be so easy to fluster

Like spending the whole day at the hotel pool or waterpark subtly teasing him, eyeing him up in his swimsuit without even hiding it just to see him blush, grabbing his ass when he walks in front of you, “accidentally” grinding up against him in the wave pool bc the water was just too rough before suddenly deciding you want to go tan as he begs to stay in the water a bit longer so he can calm down bc poor baby gets hard from the smallest touches. but of course you drag him out anyway as he pretends he doesn’t like the embarrassment of having to walk in front of everyone with a boner. & sitting him down on the towel to rub sunscreen on his chest and back, paying extra attention to his nipples as he whines that you guys are in public and anybody could see, even though he pushes his chest out into your hands for more (tsk tsk again with the pretending to hate the embarrassment) and also pretending to fumble with the sunscreen and dropping it on the opposite side so you have to lean over him to get it, putting your hand right by his throat for leverage and practically shoving your chest in his face as he whines harder

AND THEN FINALLYYY after a long day of him having to endure all the torturous touches and you making up excuses to stay at the pool longer because it’s funny to see him lose it, you bring him back to the room. and he is already desperate and pliant just waiting to be thrown around and used as your little doll. he’s sitting patiently on the bed as you lock the door and put up the do not disturb sign before turning to him and shoving him down onto the bed, climbing onto his lap and grinding against him like how he’s been waiting for all day. bonus points for a sloppy kissing session with his arms pinned by his head as he can hardly reciprocate bc he’s moaning so much and begging as he thrusts up into your bathing suit, asking in the sweetest voice “please please take it off, touch me, just do anything!” and how can you resist your sweet boy who’s been so patient even though he’s been waiting so long?

and round 2 in the shower afterwards bc you can’t go to bed soaked in that chlorine water… but i had this epiphany while i was scrolling through pinterest and had to tell you. anyway i see that you’re having another busy week, remember to take breaks and relax if things get too overwhelming!! also don’t forget to eat and drink water:) nothing is more important than your mental and physical health

-🎀

thank you so much<3, i'm actually gonna take a break over the weekend so everything i post is queued and i'm just going to relax for the holidays and recharge after everything that's been going on!

honestly, thank you for caring, it feels really good to have people understanding that it takes quite a bit out of my time and is also mentally as well as physically draining,

but anyway,

going on a vacation with lixie, holy fuck, the sunscreen visual you gave me was the best fucking thing in the world,

teasing him all while under the guise of simply keeping the poor baby's skin safe from the sun, brushing over his nipples, smirking as he whines about being and public, begging you to stop all while he keeps pushing his chest further into your touch and you really can’t help but notice the way he’s subtly pressing himself against your knee

whispering to him about how he’s a dirty boy, wanting to get off on your thigh in front of all these people, the little perv

he tries his very hardest not to moan from that, his lip pulled between his teeth, tiny hands fisted at his sides to keep from touching your when you ‘accidentally’ drop the lotion bottle, leaning over his body to retrieve it

after you notice how red your baby is, brushing your fingers over his freckles with a slight frown, cooing about how he’s gotten burnt all while you know damn well the effects you’re having on him. He nods along sullenly, giving his best puppy eyes and you decide to be merciful, saying you should go back to the room now so he doesn’t get more burnt

that do not disturb sign getting put to good use but he only blushes as you put it up, imagining about fifty different positions he wishes you would fuck him in right about now

he’s just so needy when you finally touch him, whining and pawing at your body, lips latching onto your skin wherever they can find purchase.

so sensitive and so worked up, moaning when you finally begin to grind down on him. he swears he can see stars, he’s so pent up from all of your teasing touches and malicious, knowing smiles

his hands rest on your hips, wanting to explore, not wanting to piss you of any further, looking up at you with the sweetest doe eyes

“can I touch, please, please, let me touch, I promise, I promise, I’ll make you feel good, I’ll make you feel so good.”

his lips leave wet kisses all over the top of your chest, a trail of saliva left behind costing your skin

but no, no because you pin his hands above his head, “no touching puppy.”

Poor puppy cries out, as you kiss him, messy and sloppy with teeth and tongue and drool and his tears mixing in, thrusting up desperately

and when you pull away you can’t help but admire how pretty he is, all messed up

“i-I’ll do anything! I’ll be good-I promise I’ll be so good!” He cries

so you take pity, grabbing the phone off the nightstand and handing it to him while you reach over to put the number in.

“okay puppy, call room service for me, make sure to not make a sound and maybe if you do good baby, I’ll give my good boy a reward~”

you slither down his body, pulling his swim trunks down right as a voice comes over the phone

“room service, how can I help you?”

—

sorry this is a bit sloppy and rushed, I wrote it on my phone right as I was about to leave😭

[killerpillar]

from your dearest historia.

[F/F] [G] yumihisu drabble/oneshot, post-canon, afterlife, fix-it (kind of), fluff, growing old, losing memories, reunited, requited love, undying love.

wc: 1176・ ♫ sailor song - gigi perez ・ read on ao3.

. . . . . .

Historia can’t remember the shade of her eyes anymore.

Whether they were the same hue of earth or a faint, chestnut hazel. 

Whether the sunlight made them glow like gold or umber.

Whether her freckles were something she imagined, or if the memory of lying beside her on a concrete rooftop and tracing constellations across her skin was really real.

Maybe it wasn’t real, and she’s just holding on to nothing and hoping it was something.

Maybe she wasn’t real.

(She had to be real.)

(Right?)

Historia names her daughter after her.

Her husband says he likes it. He thinks it's a beautiful name.

Historia agrees. Tells him she thinks it is, too.

But he doesn’t know anything. 

He doesn’t know just how beautiful that name really is.

(It’s not his fault he doesn’t know.)

(She knows it isn’t.)

(But it still makes her bitter.)

Reiner and Connie come to visit. She lets them hold Ymir. 

They ask for her name, and she tells them.

Their faces change. 

They look at her like they pity her. 

Like there’s an apology waiting on the tip of their tongues.

She hates it. 

She hates that look.

But she pretends not to notice.

Mikasa comes too, later. Jean is with her. There’s a ring on both their fingers.

When Mikasa hears her daughter’s name, she doesn’t give Historia that face. Historia realises it’s probably because she’s the only one that understands. 

There’s something else in her eyes. 

Something familiar.

Mikasa tells her the name is fitting.

She comes by more often now. Alone.

They talk. 

They listen.

There’s things they tell each other that they tell no one else. Things nobody else would understand.

Sometimes Historia cries.

Sometimes Mikasa cries.

Most of the time, they do everything they can not to start.

Their kids get along, too. 

Somewhat.

Her daughter is older now. 

Too rowdy for her to hold on her hip.

Historia can’t remember her face anymore.

It’s only her daughter’s face she sees in her mind when she hears Ymir.

Not her’s.

She still dreams about her, though.

It's always fuzzy like her mind can’t decide on whether her skin was always so tan or if her hair was always so dark.

She can’t remember her voice anymore. 

She just remembers that it was something she used to really like hearing. Her voice would wake her up in the mornings. Tell her goodnight before the lights went out. Whisper to her under the covers after dark. Her voice called Historia’s name in a way nobody else’s ever did. 

Historia wishes she could still hear her voice.

Still see her. 

Touch her. 

Feel her.

But she can’t.

She’s not there.

Her husband doesn’t know how to comfort her.

Why would he?

He didn’t know. 

He doesn’t know.

He’s done nothing wrong.

She has.

Historia’s done a lot wrong.

She must have done everything wrong if she can’t even remember her face or her voice or her touch anymore. All the things she swore she’d never forget. The things that she thought were carved and branded into her bones, from how often she’d think about them, replay them over and over in her mind. The things she’d beg and plead and pray she wouldn’t one day forget.

But maybe she can’t blame herself that much.

Even the skies seem blurry to her, nowadays. 

There’s roses in the yard. 

She can’t see far enough to make them out anymore.

Autumn’s colours are dull.

Spring’s breeze feels stale. 

Summer can’t warm her and winter makes no difference.

Historia’s always cold nowadays. 

She spends nearly all her time in that armchair on the front porch, behind a white picket fence her husband had built, and still the sun doesn’t seem to warm her skin like it used to. 

Her daughter came home to introduce the man she was going to marry yesterday.

Or maybe it was last month.

Or last year.

Or maybe it’s already been a decade.

Historia can’t really remember. 

Soon there’s another child on her lap. 

She thinks he looks like Ymir. 

But not her Ymir. 

… her Ymir?

She wonders who her Ymir was.

She remembers she loved her Ymir. 

Loves.

She loves her Ymir.

Yes. 

Her Ymir with the golden eyes and the sunkissed skin and freckled cheeks.

Her Ymir who wrote her the letter with the faded ink and the words she can no longer make out, but somehow still read.

Her Ymir, who wanted to marry her dear Historia.

Yes.

Historia remembers, now.

She murmurs something about her Ymir.

Her daughter answers. 

Historia can’t understand why it feels so wrong to see her daughter’s face and not her.

… Her?

Who?

Her… someone.

She’s forgotten again.

Forgotten…

Who?

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe it was her everything.

She doesn’t know. 

She can’t remember again. 

Historia’s eyes feel heavy.

Everything seems dark

Maybe the sun had set. 

Maybe that's why the lights had all gone out.

Maybe that’s why she can’t feel anything anymore.

Maybe that’s why her fingertips are so numb and cold.

Historia wishes she could see the sun again.

Her sun.

Something featherlight brushes her cheeks. She could’ve mistaken it for the wind, if it hadn’t been for the warmth of the touch.

Historia opens her eyes, and it feels like her first time truly seeing.

She sees colour. 

She sees light.

She can see again. 

It’s golden and beautiful and warm against her skin. She thinks she’s lying on a field of flowers. The grass under her fingertips is soft against her skin. Petals of all the most beautiful colours. The sky is the bluest she remembers it has ever been. 

… She can remember again.

She can breathe with all her lungs again.

She feels young and new again.

She hears a voice call out her name.

For a second, Historia doesn’t understand why her chest grows so tight and why everything seems to fade from around her, just at the sound of it. Why it feels like it’s everything she’s ever wanted to hear. Why there’s heat swelling in her eyes and why everything is going blurry again. 

She turns. 

Amber eyes meet hers. 

Dark hair sways in the wind. 

Freckles like stars pepper her cheeks.

Freckles.

Yes.

Historia remembers now.

How could she ever have forgotten?

Ymir calls her name again.

Historia feels like it's her first time ever hearing her own name.

It was her Ymir. 

Her sun. 

Her lover. 

Her every sin and every happiness. 

Her every mistake and every victory. 

Her Ymir.

Historia takes her hand. 

She tells her Ymir she’s never letting go.

Never again.

Ymir laughs.

Historia’s never heard a sound more beautiful.

She tells her ymir she’s serious and to stop laughing at her, even though Historia wouldn’t mind hearing that laugh on repeat even for aeons.

Ymir manages to stop laughing somehow, smiles, and says she believes her— yes, really, she did.

Tucks a lock of golden hair behind her ears and says she won’t let go of her, either.

Ever again?

Ever again.

.

[outofangband]



Working on some longer xenobiology/speculative biology posts so in the meantime here are some more random thoughts

Updated edition a year later! I hope these are ok!!

These are more jotting down ideas, please please feel free to give me any to elaborate on!

Also not all of these I necessarily consider my Headcanons, they’re just fun to play around with

Location edition

1. Tapetum lucidum or, eyes that can glow in the dark. (similar to the eyes of cats and raccoons) This is not limited to the Caliquendi and so is not directly related to Treelight.

Related to this is the potential ability to see infrared or other light spectrums like certain animals. I do like the idea that elven vision in the dark is more complicated than simply being able to see through the dark.

They navigate in unique ways, using the earth, trees, and even rocks to orient themselves. (I’m basing this in part of Legolas’s words about the elves of Hollin where he appears to draw sense memories from flora and stones) This also fits into my ideas for some ways elves are disoriented and controlled within Angband.

When elves are kept away from the natural world, in monotonous environments, without access to plant life or even a variety of geological information, they can enter a sort of stupor. Even in Angband which of course does contain rocks and life in the form of fungi, algae and even some plants, Cyanobacteria and certain creatures, much of the mines and dungeons are deliberately kept barren, lifeless and separated enough from the caverns and tunnels. What information they receive is never comforting. On that note, Ecological empathy taken to an extreme. Elves becoming depressed from ecological destruction, feeling the changes to landscapes on an innate level. Hence again why Angband is so damaging

Ears that express a wide range of emotions like how eyebrows do with humans. Elven ears will flatten, perk up, twitch, and even fold at times.

. I talked about phosphorescence here which actually has roots in canon!

Being able to navigate on all fours with ease, particularly while climbing and on a similar note, advanced balance.

For some of them, partially webbed feet and possibly even gill like structures on their chests for the sea elves.

On that note I think evolution works obviously differently for elves. Traits adapt and spread at different rates.

Pressure to areas of their body causes them to fall still, like with puppies and kittens. They have very sensitive areas in the backs of their necks and behind their ears. I've talked about this on my states of consciousness and sleep posts!

They do not have fingerprints though the skin on their hands will sometimes absorb and take in the colors of the things they touch, regardless of skin tone though skin tone does effect how clearly these show. For example, if an elven child spends some time playing in grass or clay, they may come back home with the skin up to their forearms that color.

Elves rarely have freckles but those that do will notice that they change colors and shades. Sometimes russet, sometimes even silvery, gold, or blueish. This is also true with birthmarks and even some scars. As they predate the sun their freckles are more similar to spots for camouflage and most words for them translates something to spots or foilage.

Elves can imitate sounds of animals very easily, especially bird and insect songs. While being able to communicate with animals is a rare gift among them, most can speak basic warnings and declarations, such as being able to warn sparrows that there is a hawk around. They can also pick up song very easily, often feeling the rhythm of even very gentle music in their hands.

I have a lot of thoughts on elves and synesthesia. I think most stimuli and input for elves is experienced through multiple senses for example being able to feel sound (obviously humans can to through vibrations but elves are more attuned to this). Synesthesia of the kind humans experience is somewhat more common in elves and other kinds unique to them also exist. (I have a whole post about this here!)

I talked about snow blindness and elves’ unique experiences with winter here!

I headcanon that elves have a specific sense for growth; they can hear and feel for lack of a better phrasing, shoots of grass growing, flowers blooming, roots expanding out. Not all are equally attuned to it or aware of it and some can become extremely overwhelmed by it if their ability to process is affected.

[casxsunshine]

They're lying in bed; it's half-dark in the bedroom. Dean thinks he could spend eternity like this: with Castiel's chest pressed against his back (yes, Dean's a little spoon, and he's not ashamed), with Cas' arms wrapped around him, like he's the most precious thing in the whole universe.

In the warmth. Safe.

Dean lounges in Castiel's arms for a bit longer, feeling the angel's breath on his neck. Then he turns to face Cas.

“Why do you love me?” Dean asks. He can't help but asks, because he's Dean Winchester, the I-can't-believe-that-you-love-me guy. He needs to know. He closes his eyes and runs his nose lightly over Cas'. This tenderness is small and intimate at the same time. “There are millions of people in the world and you chose me anyway.”

“Dean,” Castiel mutters, and Dean can feel the angel's warm breath settling on his lips.

“Tell me,” he asks without opening his eyes. “I want to know. Please.”

Castiel is silent for a while, making small circles on Dean's back.

“I remember saving your soul from Hell.” He says eventually. “There, in the darkness and terror of the underworld, I held your soul in my hands like a little kitten. You were covered in blood, and there was little humanity left in your eyes. But you know, your soul was still shining like a little sun, despite the nightmare around you. And you thought you deserved to be there. That selling your soul for your brother was the only right thing to do. You fought back in the beginning when I carried you up to the light. You growled and cussed and scratched, but then you... You went quiet, as if you realized something, and you... You cried. You cried and you curled up in my arms, so small and so... Brave. And I guess I somehow already knew then that we are bonded.”

Dean listens, holding his breath. He still hasn't opened his eyes.

“And when I reassembled you, when I placed each of your freckles in its place, I... I didn't understand feelings yet, didn't know anything about it, but I realize now that even then I hoped deep down inside that I would be able to touch your body again someday.”

Castiel puts his palm on Dean's chest, right where Dean's heart is beating loudly, and kisses his chin softly.

“I love everything about you, Dean. People sometimes say that to love is to ignore the worst aspects of a person and exalt their best. But I... I love you for everything. For all the light in you and all the dark in you - though there's much, much more light in you, even if you try so hard to deny it. You care about your family, you care about the world. You have so much love in you, my little human, and you spend it so generously on everyone but yourself that I can't help but love you for it.”

[bizarrebazaar13]

short little thing about cat Vela in Parabola meeting @thedeafprophet’s OC Penny! (Penny isn’t named here, but it’s her.)

Vela feels zirself shrink as ze moves through the mirror, and when ze is on the other side, ze knows the transformation is complete this time. Parabolan selves are unruly, unpredictable things. Since being made an honorary cat, Vela’s mirror-self has shifted to reflect zir title, but never the same way twice in a row. Sometimes the only change is that zir eyes glow apocyan, or sometimes ze is still mostly human, except for the claws and ears. And sometimes ze is fully changed.

Proper cats become big cats in Parabola, tigers or leopards or panthers. Vela isn’t a proper cat, but ze is close enough to change into a small cat on the other side of the glass. A serval.

Vela had only intended to pass quickly through the mirror to Station VIII, but it seems a shame to waste this form on so brief an errand. Vela arches zir spine in a long, luxurious stretch, the kind that ze always longs for in zir human body. Perhaps ze can do a little hunting before moving on. The Fingerkings can always use reminding not to get too close.

It isn’t long before Vela finds something much more interesting in the forest than a snake. A child hangs upside down from a tree, a child that glows. Her freckles glitter in brilliant cosmogone, and her hair and eyes shine like the sun. Are those scales on her skin?

“Hello!” the child says. “Can you talk? Most cats can talk, I think. But I haven’t talked to very many of them. Papa says not to talk to strangers, but he likes cats, so he probably won’t mind.”

Vela blinks. The child’s voice is almost an unwelcome sound in the ominous quiet of the forest. Overheard, a warbler soars. “Hello,” Vela says at last. It seems the most obvious choice.

“You can talk!” The child flips herself over and lands clumsily on the ground. “I haven’t seen you before, I don’t think. What are you? You’ve got spots like a jaguar, but you’re smaller. And you’ve got bigger ears.”

“I’m a serval,” Vela says with a laugh. The child is clearly, absurdly, unafraid. The forests beyond Vela’s base camp still give zir pause even after all this time, but this strange little girl couldn’t be more at home.

“Why are you small? Are you a kid like me? How old are you?”

The flood of questions startles Vela for moment. Ze would never have dared to be so bold, so loud, at her age. “I’m not a real cat,” Vela answers. “I’m a person outside of here, so I don’t turn into a big cat, like the others you see. But the cats and I are close.”

“Oh.” The child looks momentarily disappointed. “So you’re not a kid?”

“I’m thirty-two.”

“I’m six!” the child says proudly, her disappointment forgotten. “Do you want to come see my fort? I built it all by myself.”

Vela hesitates. Ze has no reason to think the child would mean zir any harm, but something is clearly not right here. Why is a child all alone in the forest? She mentioned a “Papa”, so she must have family somewhere. But where?

“You could meet Papa, if you wanted.” It’s as though the child has read zir mind- can she do that? She is of this place, of that Vela is sure. Like the hybrid, she is an impossibility, more at home in dreams than in the waking world.

Vela almost says yes, but then stops. Something tells zir that meeting this child’s father would not go well. He and Vela should not exist in the same space, even here. Where this certainty comes from, Vela has no idea, but ze doesn’t want to test it. “I don’t think I should,” Vela says at last.

“We could still play,” the child offers.

“All right.” Something about her makes it hard to say no.

The child grins, then reaches out and touches Vela’s leg. “Tag! You’re it!” She runs off into the trees, Vela following close behind.

Vela doesn’t know how much time ze spends with the girl, the two of them chasing each other around the forest. Ze loses count of how many times ze’s tagged, or how many times ze tags the child by pouncing (always with zir claws retracted). At last, though, Vela tags her and she runs away, not towards Vela. There is no fear or malice in it. It is simply time for her to go.

Vela watches her, then turns and heads back to zir own camp. Ze finds zir way there easily, somehow. Vela has no doubt that ze would have gotten thoroughly lost if ze went this far into the forest on any other day. But the trees part easily for zir today, and Vela wonders if it’s the child’s doing. How she would have done that, Vela can’t imagine. But ze is grateful all the same.

Vela wonders, as ze slips through the mirror into Station VIII, if ze will ever see her again. Ze hopes so. 

note: Vela and Alex are both light fingers players, which is why Vela feels like they shouldn’t exist in the same place. they shouldn’t. but Parabola is weird, so they can still sort of meet via Penny. also I have no idea what the timeline for this even would be. but it’s still a fun au-adjacent concept!

[theangrykimchi]

Your writing and art are so good! Do you have any little tibits or headcanons for Thorki you would like to share 👉👈

Aaaaaahhhhh Nonny thank you so much 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 I'm very happy you like them 🥰

Oh my...Getting asked about my headcanons in general always makes me blank out and be like

so I've been trying to think about them for the past day and they refused to resurface 🤦‍♀️

But here we go:

✵I love the idea of Thor having freckles all over his body. They are so light in winter that you can barely see them but when spring comes around they start getting more and more visible because of how much time he spends under the Asgardian (and not) sun, usually shirtless, either training or lazing around. Of course Loki is OBSESSED with them. He loves caressing them with both his fingers and lips, and every winter he can't wait for spring to come around again so they will decorate Thor's body along with his marks on him.

(and I just got a nice image of Thor walking through a field, barefoot and shirtless alla Billy Lee, just enjoying the warmth of the sun and indolently gathering flowers to later braid into Loki's dark hair ugh 😩)

✵Loki for all his smarts and wit and cleverness (yes they are all synonyms I know :p) can actually be really f obtuse sometimes. Exactly like Frigga said to him when he was in the prison in TDW. So one of my HCs is that he is incredibly slow on catching up with his actual feelings for Thor and thinks his obsession and jealousy is for other reasons than the Very Obvious (re: he's in super duper love). It takes him a long while to realise but when he does he's got this enormous *Oh.* moment. Meanwhile Thor has known he's been in love with him (and Loki with him) for years and has probably just been waiting for Loki to catch up because he knows Loki needs to come to his own conclusions at his own pace.

✵The above leads me to Thor being really f patient despite his energetic and enthusiastic character (golden retriever spotted!)—he's willing to wait for Loki for thousands of years if need be. On the other hand Loki had to *learn* patience. He gets a thought and wants to act on it? He needs to act on it *now*! But that doesn't work for mischief and it's the reason why his plans usually fail. He's got an especially short patience with Thor. He wants Thor? He wants him Right The F YESTERDAY! WHAT IS THOR EVEN DOING LOSING TIME INSTEAD OF PAYING ATTENTION TO HIM?? THE AUDACITY!

✵And last one (for now 👀) when they do settle down, tired of fighting for their lives and fighting each other, Thor is very pleased to live a quiet life, do stuff with his hands, build, create and, while Loki also feels good, he also needs to escape sometimes. And he does. Sometimes out of the blue, leaving no note, nothing behind him to indicate where he's gone. Thor knows that, understands that and accepts it, finally stopping to count the days for when Loki will return to him after each time. Loki is never away for long though because not having Thor feels like a part of his body is missing. He always returns home to Thor.

Thanks for the ask Nonny, I really loved it 🥰

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 14

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: violence, fire, gore

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Deathless

After everything he'd heard of Zhara's brother, after witnessing every act of cruelty Illarion was capable of, Paul was expecting a villain, someone who exuded power and wickedness. What he saw instead was a boy, looking no older than sixteen, of the same tall, slender build as Zhara, with the same red hair, though it was a shade darker, almost auburn, and the same freckles. There was even something of Zhara's impishness in the turn of his mouth as well. Only the eyes were different. When Paul looked into those eyes, his heart sank, and all his doubt about the boy's true nature vanished. They were the same glittering green as the medallions, hard and cold. Zhara's eyes were always human even when she was transformed into a bird. This boy's eyes didn't even seem alive; the only hint of life in them was a glare of hate.

But Paul didn't spend too long contemplating those lifeless eyes. His attention was riveted on a large mesh cage at the window. Zhara was fluttering in it, while the setting sun cast its light on her plumage, turning her into a fireball, just like the first time Paul had seen her in the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

Underneath the cage, laid out on the table, were an array of strange items and instruments—a gold chest, a hare, a duck, and an egg. The animals each had an angry red slash on its chest. It seemed Illarion had everything he needed for the Deathless ritual, except for the most important one—the needle containing his death. This the boy was twirling between his thin fingers while he leaned casually against the throne, watching Paul with a curious, almost fascinated expression. Under the disconcerting gaze of those flat green eyes, Paul became too aware that he was no knight in shining armor, with his torn and bloody shirt and mismatched weapons. He could only hope that appearances may be misleading.

"For a mere mortal from Rus', he did quite well, did he not, Zharissa?" Illarion said conversationally. "Much better than those bumbling bogatyrs of yours. I wonder what other surprise he may have in store."

To Paul's shock, Zhara spoke. "Paul," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Go! Save yourself!" He stared at the bird. It was Zhara's voice, desperate and full of tears, coming out of her beak. What trick was this?

"Oh, now she talks," Illarion said, sounding annoyed. "I gave you the power of speech so we could have a chat and make the waiting a little less tedious, and you refused to talk to me, but the moment he showed up, you started chattering away?"

"If you don't want to wait until I'm human again to perform the ritual," Zhara said, "why not undo the curse and just kill me now?"

"I would if I could!" Illarion shouted. "Do you think I want to wait? But they are very imprecise, curses. I never meant to curse you, you know. This avian form greatly diminishes your power. If you would only agree to wear that medallion—"

Why, he doesn't know how to undo the curse, Paul realized. He's nothing but a boy, in over his head. He wondered if Zhara had realized this as well and was stalling for time.

"You didn't have to control me," Zhara said to Illarion, spreading her wings in an imploring gesture. "I would've gladly let you rule—"

"What, so you could go behind my back and gather the support of the boyars?" Illarion hissed, baring his teeth in anger. "So you could play the victim and undermine my rule? I know you too well, sister."

They sounded like siblings bickering over a game rather than discussing matters of life and death. Paul took a tentative step forward, reaching for the skull in his knapsack, the only weapon that might stand a chance against Illarion's magic. "Let her go," he said. At least his voice was steady.

"Or what?" Illarion snickered. "Are you going to throw that skull at me?"

In reply, Paul raised the skull. Fire shot out of its eye socket. He meant to aim it at Illarion, but the flame hit a corner of the velvet curtain instead, setting it ablaze. Illarion shrugged, looking almost bored. "I never like those curtains anyway," he said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"How's this for better?" Paul aimed the skull at Illarion's robe. There was a flash, and the robe caught fire. Illarion didn't even flinch. He beat out the fire with his bare hand, as casually as blowing out a candle. Refusing to be intimidated, Paul advanced upon the boy, the skull held in front of him like a musket. He shot another bolt of fire; Illarion dodged it, and the flame hit the corner of the throne in a shower of sparks.

"Enough of this," Illarion growled. He pinned the needle to the shoulder of his robe before slipping something out of his belt and throwing it at Paul.

Belatedly, Paul saw that it was a medallion.

He threw up his arms, but the medallion hit his chest, burned through his shirt like a cattle brand, and adhered itself to his skin.

The pain was unbearable. He'd thought being pinned under an iron-and-copper dragon was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this red-hot agony, this hellfire that seared his very bone, that reached all the way to his heart, that spread through his blood. Was this how it had been for Afron when he foolishly cast in his lot with Illarion? Was this how it had been for poor Alyosha Popovich?

Paul collapsed, clutching at his chest. The last thing he heard was Zhara's panicked voice, calling out his name, as the white-and-gold room around him faded to black.

***

When the darkness cleared from his eyes, Paul found himself on a bed, a large bed, with the silk cover of a pillow under his cheek. There were blue velvet drapes with gold fringes around the bed. The room around him was blue and gold as well, and strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize this was his bed. His room, the one at the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. An untrimmed candle still flickered on the bedside table, but the morning sun was pouring in through the curtains being swept back by a servant. The door opened, and his mother walked in.

"What, still abed at this hour?" she said, though she didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "And on such a big day?"

Paul sat up, blinking stupidly. His hand flew up to his chest. The pain was gone. Had there been a pain there at all, or had he dreamed it?

"A big day?" he repeated.

"Your coronation, of course!" his mother said, laughing and clapping her hands together.

Paul stared at her, too stunned to speak. His mother seemed almost giddy, quite unlike herself. "Are you—are you abdicating?" finally he asked.

"That was always the plan, wasn't it?" She briskly walked over to an array of frock coats and robes being laid out by the servants, pointing to several. "That one, that one... no, that one. Yes." Turning back to Paul, she said, "It was agreed that I would only rule until you reached your majority. Now that you have, it is time for me to step down."

Something was not right, but Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt dazed, half-asleep, as though he'd just come out of a nightmare and was not quite awake. Yet he vaguely remembered that it was true, the council had finally convinced his mother to pass the throne to him. He let himself be dragged out of bed, washed and dressed in full ceremonial regalia, and before he knew it, he was standing in the cathedral in front of a crowd, while priests chanted over him and the crown, the crown he'd seen on his mother's head hundreds of times and coveted each time he saw it, glittered on a velvet cushion before him.

Could it be? Could it be that he had finally achieved what he desired the most?

He looked at the crowd, at their adoring faces all turned toward him. Yes, this was what he wanted, to be seen and respected and appreciated. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he wanted, something missing. He noticed a young lady standing by his mother, doll-like with her porcelain face and tiny rosebud mouth, eyes cast down demurely. Paul didn't remember having seen her before.

"Panin," he said to his old governor, who was standing by his side, "who is that young woman?"

"Why, that is your betrothed, Your Excellency."

Startled, Paul wracked his brain. Again, he had some vague recollection of having chosen one of the princesses from all the miniatures given to him, but try as he might, he couldn't remember her name. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terribly embarrassing to ask Panin her name, wouldn't it?

The young lady lifted her eyes to look at him, and Paul suddenly found himself expecting her eyes to be a warm, golden color, honey held up to sunlight. How strange. Her eyes were blue, perfectly pretty, but for some reason, he kept thinking of those amber eyes. Where had he seen such eyes?

And then, to his shock, the young lady's face began to change. Her eyes turned golden just as he'd imagined; her powdered wigs became a long, red braid, and freckles splattered across her skin. If he looked closely, he could see seven freckles curve around the corner of her mouth... he remembered kissing them... he remembered running his hand over that hair, having those eyes look into his in the moonlight...

"Your Excellency," Panin said in his ears, but it wasn't Panin's voice, it was a strange voice, oily and cold, a voice he'd heard once before in a dark forest. "This is what you want, isn't it?" the voice continued. "You can have all that, and more. As long as you obey me."

Paul turned to his old governor in horror. Panin was looking at him with eyes the color of malachite.

"If you want her," Panin said, still in that spine-chilling voice, "well, I cannot give you the real thing, you understand, but I can give you something very similar." And he nodded at the young lady who looked like someone Paul both did and didn't know.

There was a weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

The young lady opened her mouth. She was standing not five feet from him, yet her voice seemed to be coming to him from far, far away. "Fight it, Paul!" she was screaming. He knew that voice. He knew her.

The crowd around him faded, leaving only her eyes and her voice. Holding on to them as an anchor, he clasped a hand to the base of his throat. His fingers closed around a hard disc, something like a pendant or a medallion that was stuck to his skin. It burned. He pulled it out, screaming as it took some of his skin and flesh along with it, and flung it as far away as he could.

The cathedral vanished. Paul found himself on the floor of the throne room, the marble cool under his cheek. The burning sensation on his chest had gone, but the pain lingered, weakening his limbs. Lifting his head with difficulty, he saw that Illarion stood over him, nostrils flared in fury, while the cage stood empty, with a gaping hole in its side—fragments of the medallion scattered nearby told Paul that he must have hit the cage with the medallion by accident and broken it open. Where was Zhara?

The thought of Zhara finally cleared the cloud in his head. She had saved him. She had pulled him out of that—that vision or hallucination or whatever it was that Illarion had used to tempt him, and brought him back to reality.

This, this was real. Not his mother's palace, not his coronation, not his nameless betrothed. This was real. Zhara was real. And he must save her.

And there she was, a spot of red circling close to the ceiling, out of Illarion's reach. Illarion was flinging his hand at her with his fingers outstretched, launching all sorts of things at her—lightning bolts, stones, even sharp icicles—anything he could conjure out of thin air, it seemed. Strike after magical strike hit the ceiling and the walls, and bits of marble rained down. Zhara flew on agile wings, narrowly avoiding the missiles and the debris that flew off the ceiling and the walls. But she could not hold out for long, not when the sun was getting lower and lower by the minute. Why wasn't she fighting back? Her power may be weaker, but she could still throw a few fireballs, surely? Or did she hesitate because she still thought of this crazed boy as her little brother? Well, if she refused to fight him, then Paul would.

As Illarion twisted and turned like he was battling a particularly pesky fly, Paul struggled to his feet and pulled out his broken sword, holding it ready. At one point, Illarion turned fully toward Paul, arms wide open as he tried to hit Zhara with a whirlwind. This was Paul's chance. He ran at the boy at full tilt and stabbed the sword through Illarion's chest.

Staggering back, Illarion stared at the sword's handle sticking out of his chest in astonishment.

Then he started to laugh.

"You fool!" he said, still laughing. He pulled the sword out and threw it to the floor. There wasn't even any blood on it. If it wasn't for the torn patch on his robe, nobody would know he'd been stabbed.

He truly was Deathless.

With a flick of his hand, Illarion threw an invisible force at Paul, sending him sprawling.

Paul's eyes caught a glint on Illarion's robe. It was the needle, reflecting the red rays of the sun.

The needle! Of course! To defeat Koschei, one had to destroy the needle. Paul picked himself up on trembling limbs and aimed the skull at it. If he could at least damage it somehow, that would distract Illarion long enough to give them a chance...

Illarion spun around. Another unseen hand slammed into Paul. This time the force knocked the air out of his lungs and hurled him across the room. The back of his head hit the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes. Golden ropes sprung out of the floor like tree roots, binding his wrists and ankles. He strained against them, but they only tightened, threatening to slice off his hands and foot. The skull clattered away, rolling to the foot of the throne. Illarion's boot came down, smashing it into bits.

Paul was still staring at the smashed skull, his last hope, when Illarion came to stand in front of him.

"Stupid mortal!" he spat at Paul. "How dare you defy me! Now you shall pay!"

He pointed his hand at Paul and curled his fingers into a fist. Paul gasped. It felt as though there was a claw inside him, squeezing his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in his veins. Incredible, indescribable pain radiated from his heart to his ribs, his neck, his arms and shoulders, and the rest of his body, choking him, paralyzing him. He could feel his life force draining away, but he was helpless to stop it.

From the ceiling, Zhara came barreling down like a golden arrow. She dashed past Illarion, who made a grab for her but missed her by just a hair's breadth. The pressure around Paul's heart loosened, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing. Zhara shot back to the ceiling, and Illarion clasped a hand to his shoulder, the first hint of fear creeping to his face—the needle was gone.

"Please, Lariosha, stop this," Zhara said, the needle tightly grasped between her talons.

"Do not call me that!"

"The magic is killing you! If you go through with the ritual, you'll be dead! Baba Yaga told me—the same thing happened to Koschei—"

So Baba Yaga had told Zhara the truth after all. Was that why she wasn't fighting Illarion? Was she still trying to save him?

"See, that's where you're wrong, sister," Illarion said, though he indeed did not look well. The boy's face was pale, as pale as the marble walls around them, his hands shook, and he was breathing hard, spittle spraying from his lips. Only his green eyes burned feverishly. "Koschei was an old fool. He put his death into an ordinary needle. But I am cleverer than that. This needle will be indestructible once I temper it in your fire. Don't try anything stupid. Whatever you do to it will only make it stronger."

"I'm sorry," Zhara said. "I can't let you go through with this." Turning to Paul, she said, "Hold on to Baba Yaga's handkerchief. It will protect you."

"Protect me—from what?" Paul gasped. He still hadn't quite regained his breath after Illarion's attack.

"From me."

With that, she pointed the needle at herself and plunged it into her chest.

"No!" Paul and Illarion both screamed.

Blood spurted from Zhara's breast, dying her red feathers a darker shade. Blood dripped to the floor below her, and wherever the blood fell, fire sprang up and spread around the room as though the floor was made of the oldest, driest wood and not cold, hard marble. Flames surrounded Zhara, turning her whole body into a fireball, burning the needle white-hot. Flames swallowed up the table with its instruments of magic. Flames licked around Paul, but he strained his bound hand to find Baba Yaga's handkerchief in his knapsack, and the fire never touched him, though he felt its heat on his skin.

"You think you can stop me by killing yourself?!" Illarion hissed. "No, no, dear sister, you will live—at least long enough to serve me!"

He raised his hand. Zhara was pulled toward him on an invisible string, her wings flailing uselessly against his force.

"I have taken Koschei's powers," Illarion said, "and now I'm going to take yours!"

Just as he had done to Paul, Illarion curled his fingers into a fist. Paul knew now that the gesture meant Illarion was draining his victim's life force. And there was Zhara's life force—flames rolled along the string of air between them, flowing from sister into brother, until they were connected by a rope of fire. Paul could only watch, powerless, while Zhara's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she made a strangled sound. Her plumage started losing its color and luster. The paler she got, the stronger Illarion seemed to be—his face was no longer deathly white, his hair became redder than the fire itself, and his eyes burned more brightly.

The fire was almost gone from around Zhara's body now, her feathers a dim, dark shade of purplish brown, like old blood. She was limp, only held up in midair by the force of Illarion's magic. The needle was lifted from her chest by that same force and flew into Illarion's hand. He caught it, laughing, paying no heed to the incandescent metal.

"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think to do this sooner? This is so much better! Now I can temper the needle with my own fire! I shall be truly invinci—"

He didn't finish the sentence. The smug smile vanished from his face. The fire continued to blaze around his body as it blazed around the room, sucking out all the air, turning the whole place into an inferno. Despite the protection of Baba Yaga's handkerchief, Paul could still feel the heat blasting him in the face and scorching his lungs.

"No, this is enough—" Illarion was saying. "The tempering is done—I want it to stop—Zhara! How do I get the fire to stop? Help! Help me, please! "

Zhara, who was suspended lifeless in the air with her head lolling back and her wings drooping, gave no answer.

"It burns—oh gods, it burns!" Illarion moaned. He tried to throw the needle away, but it had melted into a puddle of liquid metal in his palm. Still the fire raged on. "You witch!" Illarion screamed at Zhara, his face twisted with rage. "You've tricked me! But you won't get away with it! If I die, you shall die too!"

He clenched his fist again, and some of the fire flowed back to Zhara, searing her feathers. She remained unconscious. Soon, the fire would consume both brother and sister...

Paul took his hand out of the knapsack and dropped the handkerchief to the floor. The moment it left his fingers, flames roared up around him. He angled his body toward it, letting the fire burn the ropes around his wrists and ankles to ashes, biting back a scream as it scorched his skin. As soon as he was free of the ropes, he got to his feet.

Illarion saw the handkerchief, and his eyes went wide. They both dove for it. Paul—perhaps by sheer luck—was a fraction of a second quicker. He scooped the handkerchief up, jumped at Zhara, and snatched her out of the air, wrapping her in the square of fabric.

"No!!!" Illarion, now nothing more than a pillar of fire with a vaguely human shape in its middle, charged at Paul. Paul leaped aside, and Illarion crashed through the window, plummeting down the sheer cliff, burning like a falling star.

A long while later, a blast from the sea below told Paul that the boy had met his end.

The flames rose all the way to the ceiling in one last furious eruption, and then, with a rushing sound of air being sucked inward, they vanished, leaving behind only a few scorched patches and an acrid smell.

Paul looked down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Zhara was lying there, in his arms—Zhara, as he'd seen her that first night in the woods of Lukomorye, freckles standing out on her skin, her hair covering her body like a cape, her eyes closed, the wound on her chest still bleeding. Outside the broken window, the sun was taking its plunge into the sea, turning the water into molten gold for a moment before winking out, and darkness descended on everything.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @ali-r3n

[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.

[perceabeth]

“that moment where your character just… looks. just looks at their love interest for more than five seconds and doesn’t understand why or how this earth can exist and the sun and moon exist and the sky can be an eternal source of happiness and yet this person right here can bring so much more warmth and comfort to them with just a single glance” you wld do this SOOOOOO well (as you wld all of them but this one has me w my head in my hands)

cicada my beloved happy happy bday i know this isn't exactly what u said but i tried hope it helps <3333

Annabeth really does not want to be having this conversation right now.

“I’m just saying,” If Silena has registered her disinterest, she doesn’t let it affect her flow. “It wouldn’t hurt. Besides, he owes you a date anyway, so you might as well, right?”

“It wasn’t a date.” Annabeth complains and Clarisse barks out a hearty laugh, leaning back against the stone steps in the amphitheatre and taking a sip of water. Annabeth scowls. “What? It wasn’t! We were supposed to catch a movie but he’s, like, totally into this other girl.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Kind of.” Annabeth thinks about it. “She’s got freckles. I suppose that’s pretty.”

“So you’re jealous.” Silena concludes. “Which means you totally like Percy, and therefore, coming back to my original point– you should ask him to the fireworks.”

Annabeth is not impressed, but it’s harder to wear it on her face when she’s spending all this effort fighting the outrageous heat that’s creeping up to her cheeks. “I don’t like Percy. He’s like– he’s like this thorn in my side.”

“He’s an idiot.” Clarisse agrees. Then she tilts her head to the side and considers it. “But I’d say you were more a pain in his ass than the other way around.”

“No way.” Silena shakes her head, interrupting before Annabeth could voice her outrage. “Annabeth’s right. He’s worse.”

“Annabeth is bossy.” Clarisse challenges.

“Percy is hyper-argumentative.” Silena counters.

“Annabeth is a hothead.”

“So is Percy.”

“Annabeth–”

“Hey!” Annabeth cuts in. “Annabeth can hear you, you know? And she doesn’t like what she’s hearing.”

“Fine. Then scram.” Clarisse kicks her ankle lightly with hers. “This practice session was a spectacular waste of time. We got no sparring done and if a war does come to us, I’m pretty sure Silena’s going to be the first to die.”

“Excuse me.” Silena turns on Clarisse then, holding up her perfectly manicured hands. “I happen to be gifted with these nails. You don’t know the damage I can do, La Rue.”

“Your acrylics  versus the Lord of Time. Interesting.” Clarisse pretends to think about it. “Let’s hope Annabeth kills the Prophecy Kid this summer so none of us have to deal with that coming to fruition.”

“Whatever. Give me two weeks and I’ll kick your ass with a spear.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Even as Annabeth sits between her friends, she feels herself drifting away– as if the scene in front of her is already becoming a memory; as if this is one of those moments she’ll revisit every so often as she moves forward– like she stood on the precipice of the End of something, even if she doesn’t know what yet.

“Annabeth.” A man’s voice draws her out of her thoughts. All three girls turn around to see Quintus standing over them, Percy only a few steps behind him. He peers around their sword fighting teacher to meet Annabeth’s eye, his lips quirking upwards slightly, and her heart somersaults. “I was hoping you and Percy could give me a hand– clean out the armoury for me?”

“It’s my time off.” Annabeth whines. Why is Percy always dragging her into sharing his chores with him?

“Come on, Wise Girl.” Percy matches her tone. “Two pairs of hands are better than one, right?”

“I hate you.” Annabeth grumbles, taking Quintus’ hand and letting him pull her off the ground. Silena wriggles her eyebrows at her and Clarisse smirks, so when their teacher’s back is turned to her, Annabeth flips them off. It does little to subdue them, though, because their cackles echo through the amphitheatre long after she’s left.

“What is this?” Percy pulls out a wicked blade attached to the end of a long, heavy stick. “Oh my gods, is this a javelin? I didn’t even realise we had them here.”

“Yeah,” Annabeth snorts. “As if you could fight with one of those.”

“You calling me weak?”

“I’m just saying that your arms are kind of skinny.”

“You’re one to talk.” Percy cries. There’s something so endearing about the indignation on his face that Annabeth bursts out laughing. Sometimes it’s like Percy does it deliberately– knows exactly how to behave to make uncontrollable giggles bubble in her tummy. If he notices, he doesn’t pay mind to it, instead focusing on clearing the nearest table and resting his elbow on the surface. He looks up at her, unspoken challenge framing his features in a special kind of light. “I’m way stronger than you– so only come here if you’re willing to lose.”

“As if.” Annabeth rolls her eyes, taking his hand and grinding her bony elbow painfully into the wood. Percy’s eyes leave hers, drifting to their hands, his fingers curled tightly around hers, and she doesn’t miss the way his breathing stutters slightly. An unattractive smugness fights its way to her lips. Maybe Silena was right– she could totally ask him to the fireworks– but right now, she has other priorities. She leans forward. “You’re going to get beaten by a girl, Seaweed Brain.” 

“Oh yeah?” Percy, as always, matches her exact energy, narrowing his eyes and lowering his voice. “Joke’s on you, I’m used to it.”

Annabeth grins. “Good.”

“Okay, on three.” Percy says. “One, two–”

The back of his hand crashes into the table. For a moment, he looks confused, blinking at their still entwined hands resting on the wooden surface. Slowly, his grip tightens around her palm, his smooth features twisting into a scowl.

“You cheated.” He says, dangerously quiet. Then he pushes back against her hand until he can pin it down. Annabeth struggles to pull away, but it’s like fighting against iron.

“Let go.” She laughs, but Percy doesn’t budge. The same evil part of her that cheated crows. “Percy, stop.”

“No. You cheated. You have to pay.” Percy’s face breaks into a grin, his shining eyes bright in the dimly lit glorified cupboard they’re stuck in. In a flash, he’s on her side of the table, his fingers digging into her sides, and a squeal escapes her.

“Percy!” Annabeth feels her knees giving way as she drops to the floor, taking her friend down with her. When he finally does stop tickling her, she’s out of breath, her cheeks sore from the laughter. Next to her, Percy leans his head against the leg of the table, his face flushed and his chest heaving, a manic smile on his lips.

“You’re such an asshole, Annabeth.” He doesn’t sound offended by it.

Instead of replying, Annabeth is content to watch him catch his breath, leftover laughter still breaking out from him in throaty splits. Miraculously, his hair is even messier now than it was this morning, but Annabeth thinks it suits him. His lips are parted, and for a second, she wonders what it might be like to be able to lean over and kiss him. She’s never kissed a boy before– but Silena and Clarisse have, and they both seem to enjoy it a ton. For a while in the winter, she’d considered kissing one of the boys at Camp, but they’re all gross. She wonders if she’d like kissing Percy.

It’s like that a lot. Ever since the winter, when he’d admitted that he’d only gone on a quest to save her– Annabeth had found it difficult to even think about him without her stomach exploding into a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Now that he’s back at Camp, back with her– she’s starting to realise just how much more she likes him than anybody else around here. This isn’t how she felt about Luke, not how she felt about any of the boys she’d had a crush on before. With Percy, she’s come to realise, everything is different.

How is it possible, Annabeth finds herself wondering, that she exists in this world at the same time that he does? He’d come into her life, a whirlwind of grief and anger and adventure and something she doesn’t want to dwell on– and he’d healed her, inside and out. Not by trying; not by finding all her broken pieces– but simply by existing. Percy lives, and Annabeth is better for it. He lives, and the sun above them dims, the moon loses her brilliance, the colours in the world dull. Does he know that?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Percy draws her out of her thoughts, touching his cheek consciously. “Have I got something on my face?”

“Yeah.” Annabeth lies hollowly, reaching over and brushing her thumb over his jaw. Is that a stubble? When’d he get so mature? She swallows thickly. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.” Percy mumbles, holding her gaze. It’s a loaded, slow moment, but she draws away first. She always does– in all honesty, Annabeth is a coward. He must sense it, because he brushes his fingers over her wrist and says, “It’s a shame, you know.”

“What?”

A wicked smile grows on his lips. “I never got to beat your ass.”

“You’re deluded, Percy.” Annabeth pokes his shoulder. “You couldn’t beat me if my arm was broken.”

“Wanna bet?” Percy demands. “Rematch. I win, you tell everyone at Camp how strong and impressive I am. You win, and… I’ll shut up about my strong, impressive arms for an entire summer.”

Annabeth can’t fight the smile only he ever seems to bring out in her. He’d chosen his words carefully, just as he always did. A new dawn falls upon them, an idea of this summer being one of many more. A summer in the future after Annabeth’s victory when Percy could go back to bragging about his bicep curl personal bests. What could be better? “You’re so on.”