#want it ninety minutes long like a match at man u

[gayforbronze]

someone’s feeling horny on main today🤨

[infinites-chaser]

Librarian! PH. 52 MLQC MC / Victor :)

HELLO ANON U WERE ONE OF THE FIRST PEOPLE TO RESPOND TO MY LIBRARIAN ASK GAME I’M SO SORRY IT’S TAKEN SO LONG,,, victor is just. hard to write. aLSO I'm doubly sorry since i’ll be combining this with the Victor ask from @truth-be-told-im-lying ​ hope neither of you mind T-T i don’t think my mind could do two victor ficlets akwlfjsdkls

ANyway I love you both LOTS AND LOTS hopefully this attempt at Victor isn’t extremely out of character;;; it’s a lowkey soulmates AU if that counts for anything :> aND this fic gets the special treatment of an actual Title bc True was wonderful enough to help me by typing Victor as an Enneagram Type One

okaaay and without further ado, 

49, 52 + Victor/MC

‘[He] wakes up in [his] bed, determined to begin again.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 49)

‘As [he] pushes through the onlookers to meet [her], he is certain he is the only person moving.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 52)

((pronoun changes in both quotes to better fit the ficlet))

spoilers for Victor/MC’s childhood!

spend my whole life searching

Victor doesn’t believe in soulmates. (After half a lifetime of searching turning up nothing, he doesn’t believe in much.)

Once upon a time, he might’ve. (He wanted to). His heart rate doubled and sped up to match hers— a carefree little girl skipping across the road, too far away to hear his nerves cry danger, too caught up in dreams and fantasies to hear his warning shout. Time slowed down so he could save her, and on that afternoon on the crosswalk, drops of rain suspended in the air, he did.

At that age, he hadn’t had the sense to wonder why a young girl like her had been crossing the street without supervision. Why her smiles had come freely, but had always looked a little sad, a little wistful. Why she’d been so eager to accept his baked treats. Why she’d been at the playground without a parent. Why she’d always been alone.

Now, seventeen years later, he wishes he did. Wishes he’d known something as simple as her last name.

He dreams of her. Of finding her again: the girl whose heartbeat matched his. The girl whose smile had slowed down time itself for him, as if short moments with her could’ve each stretched into a gentle eternity. He’d wanted them to. He’d wanted to capture every moment spent with her, to make them last, to savor them, so they’d pass slow and sweet like honey on the tongue.

Time had passed slow when he’d wanted it to. Those sunlit afternoons had been sweet, they’d been happy.

Only, time is a fickle thing. When he takes his eye off it, it races away, too fast for him to keep up.

The kidnapping. The experiments. The torture.

The escape.

She saves him. He’s too slow to save her.

And even if he can stop time, here’s the thing: he can never turn the clock back.

Still, he wakes up. Every morning, he gets out of bed. Gets dressed and goes to work. The world around him moves on, and demands he does, too, even if his heart’s still eleven years old and clutching her motionless body, eleven years old, the only sound in his ears his pounding pulse, the absence of the accompaniment of hers an accusation more painful than any hateful words.

It’s a recurring theme in his life, time. It’s ironic, really, when he thinks about it. That he can stop time without lifting a finger, and yet, when it comes to things he cares about, people he loves most, he’s always eleven years old again, always too late.

(His Evol’s time control, but perhaps, all this time, he hasn’t been controlling time, it’s been controlling him. He’s imprisoned by a single moment, a memory, a regret. A past that can never be undone.)

Whenever he has spare time, he devotes himself to searching. Resigns himself to the fact he’ll probably never find her, if all he has to go off of is a child’s face, once preserved in his memory, now fading. Hair color. Eye color. Age. A name. Nothing more.

The searches turn up nothing. 

He spends late nights in the office to distract himself, builds up a capitalist kingdom of a company, if only to put off for a few hours more the prospect of returning home to face his nightmares alone.

His father praises him for LFG’s growth over dinners filled with awkward silences. The name Victor Li appears more and more often in business newspapers. Investors approach him. He gets interviews. Gets offers for TV appearances, for sponsorships.

He takes them, these material successes. Wonders if any amount of them could ever make up for the failure from his childhood. If they could bring her back. He tells himself if he finds her, when he finds her, when he brings her back, it’ll be to a more perfect world. One in which he’ll never fail her again. It’s a foolish thought, but it keeps him going. With it in mind, he proceeds to work twice as hard.

Souvenir is what saves him. A small allowance, a self-indulgence, a seed of hope planted in what he thinks is his darkest time.

It’s for her, more than any of his frantic searching ever was. A dream, a foolish one, that one day she’ll step through his memories and through the restaurant’s door, that one day they’ll share a pudding together again, their hearts beating as one.

He doesn’t get to open Souvenir often; his job doesn't let him. He made sure of that, long ago. But when he does, after the last customer’s left, and he’s put up the closed sign, he cooks for two.

(The first time, Mr. Mills had taken a single look at his silent, still face, and his expression must've spoken volumes. The older man hadn't said a word, only helped clean the kitchen after, the normally gentle lines around his mouth pulled taut in a worried frown.)

He sets the second place at the table himself: carefully places fork, knife and spoon beside lukewarm appetizers, tucks a napkin under soup bowls going cold. Watches the empty seat and the untouched meal for an eternity before finally eating his own. His technique's impeccable. It has been ever since he'd aced his culinary lessons, since he'd bought out the school. He'd used the finest ingredients. He always does.

The food still crumbles like ash in his mouth. (It always does.)

Mr. Mills will find him there, nursing a glass of wine long into the night. He knows better not to question it, but sometimes he'll pull up a chair, drink a glass, too. talk of everything and nothing, talk of his parents, his sister's family, of times gone by.

Victor will never admit it, but the older man's presence makes those nights less hard. his stories, his memories — they keep the ice in his heart from spreading any further when it feels like nothing else will.

Ten years stretch into thirteen, into fourteen, into fifteen, into a broken clock, time stopped because does the passage of time mean anything if he measures it, measured it in time with her? If she's gone?

The meals shrink. First appetizers vanish, then entrees too, until all that's left are desserts, puddings that he stares at all evening, puddings a girl had loved once, that he can almost imagine her sitting there eating, her noticing him watching her and her answering blush and smile. His smile back.

Almost, because after all these years without her, he can’t quite imagine her face. Not as she would look now. Not even as she was, seventeen years back.

(He dreams and finds he doesn’t remember what her smile looked like, exactly. Doesn’t remember the sound of her heartbeat mingling with the sound of his.

Memory is cruel. Memory is imperfect. No matter if you can stop time, no matter how hard you try to memorize a moment, when you revisit it, it’ll never be the same as when you lived it the first time.)

Then:

The day starts like any other. He wakes up, gets out of bed, gets ready for another day of work, another night of searching. He scrolls emails while waiting for his espresso machine to heat, then puts his tablet aside when the coffee's done. He eats in silence. As always, he's done five minutes before he needs to leave for the company, the perfect amount of time for him to do a last-minute check in the mirror— his tie's straight, his shirt unwrinkled, not a hair on his head out of place. The reflection that stares back at him is unchanging; these days it barely shows even the passage of time.

He sighs. Shakes the thought off like the piece of lint it is on his otherwise immaculate state of being, and heads for the door, the lock automatically clicking behind him at eight o'clock am, exactly on schedule, exactly as planned.

He's about to take a seat in his car when an inexplicable urge to walk to work takes hold of him. He pauses. Calculates and re-calculates the time it would take (fifteen minutes, not accounting for rush hour traffic making crosswalks slow), and he's about to decide it's not worth it, it's a silly thought, but the urge intensifies.

Do it, the eleven-year-old in his heart seems to be telling him. You won't regret it.

He frowns and rubs his forehead— for a moment, he wonders if all his searching, all his foolish hopes are finally getting to his brain.

He decides to take the walk, anyway.

He regrets it, not nine minutes later, when despite the sun's light shining strong through the clouds, a light rain begins to fall.

Worse still, the traffic lights haven't changed once in the past ninety seconds. He won't be late, he'd accounted for this, but he's stuck in a crowd of pedestrians, and their chatter's beginning to grate on his nerves. He's considering calling the mayor about it after exactly one hundred seconds have passed— clearly, the light's broken, this is far too long for commuters to wait— but then, finally the walk sign flicks on.

He's already across the street when it happens:

First, a phone rings.

Then, the loud honking of a car.

Tires screech.

Time slows. Time stops.

He's back on the crosswalk in a matter of heartbeats, the inattentive idiot in his arms (it's a girl, it's always a girl, hair dark, eyes wide, expression shocked).

"You..." She says, blinking up at him with those wide, almost-familiar eyes. Distantly, he registers the echo of a heartbeat overlapping with his.

"Who are you?"

Who are you? His mind asks, but deep in his heart, he already knows the answer. It can't be.

"Evolver?" He says instead, shoving down memories that threaten to surface: another rainy day, another crosswalk, another heart that had seemed matched to his. He tells himself he's being delusional, that he thinks he can hear her heartbeat because she's in his arms, wide-eyed and fragile, her heartrate skittering back and forth like a fool— this isn't like his careful, methodical searching, this is a fluke beyond flukes, it means nothing, it'll lead to nothing in the end.

But she's in his arms, warm and soft against his protective embrace, she's in his arms and it feels so right it's almost painful, his pulse pulled into a panicked pace to match hers.

He sets her down abruptly, as if burned, and turns to go.

"Someone can't come to your rescue every time."

Around them, suspended raindrops begin to fall. The world, resumed. The world, once again predictable and mundane. Except for her.

He knows, without looking back, she's staring after him, her heart, his heart, still racing.

He allows himself a smile.

He allows himself some small sliver of hope.

(His frozen time starts moving again.)

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Arranged {1}

Yahya Abdul Mateen II x OFC Nyorie Kane

Warning: Plot

Words: 1.4k

Summary: Yahya is thirty-three, and his friends and family all seem to believe that it is long overdue for him to have a wife. He’s been set up more times than he can count and with his busy schedule and rising Hollywood star, it is becoming even more difficult to meet people, well people who aren’t looking for a come up. In the beginning, he said he didn’t want anything serious; his motto was “I’m was here for a good time not a long time.” Then it became he didn’t want anything that would distract him from where he wanted to go and what he wanted to accomplish. Now that his fame is rising and he’s approaching a sweet spot in his career he decides what the hell the time might be right.

In comes “A Match”, an exclusive matchmaking company run by his best friend Ramel’s wife Tamika. He gives Tamika and Ramel free rein and all his trust to find him, someone, he’d mesh well with. Instead of going through her clientele Tamika has just the right woman in mind, her best friend, Nyorie. Things are done a little unorthodox at “A Match” though. This unconventional route is credited for a near-perfect success rate.

Note: I’ve only tagged those who have expressed to be on a forever tag list. 

****Also, please keep an open mind.

**Loosely Proofread/Edited**

✧*.。:。✧*.:。✧*✧*.。:。✧*.:。✧*✧*.。:。✧*.:。✧*

 Chapter One

  “Man, you not getting any younger. Plus we all know how important family is to you the rate you’re going you not even gonna have one till you fifty,” Ramel said as he came back into the living room with his hands full of food. Ramel stopped in front of the U-shaped sectional and handed out bags to their owners. He stood up and took the cream-colored plastic bag Ramel held out for him.

 “I don’t know how many times you’re going to keep saying this.”

 “As many times as need be. I mean really, is uncle Ya good enough bruh?”

 He pulled out the containers of food and thought about Ramel’s words for a few moments. He loved being uncle Ya, loved picking his niece Havea and nephew Rami up for their biweekly ice-cream and bowling night. He loved showing up to their school functions and trips to Disney and tagging along to kid movie premiers. He wouldn’t change anything about it.

“Look man, I know you love my kids. What’s not to love? I also know you want kids of your own. You can’t have that continuing on the way you are,” Ramel drilled home.

 He knew it. Truthfully, he’d been mulling the pros and cons over for months. Ramel wasn’t the only one in his life badgering him like this. His mother, sisters, and brother were all on his case too. His mother liked to pile on the guilt asking him when she’d get a grandchild and when she’d get to see him walk down the aisle and made it no secret she was praying for it before she died. What the hell was he to say to that?

 “Not everybody wanna be married Mel, you got half the squad on that ball and chain shit leave him alone,” Rashawn blurted out. The four of them laughed loudly. Normally they’d be keeping it down because of the kids but they were at a sleepover, so they were free to be as loud as they wanted.

 “Man, shut up. He the last one. Your ass bout to be on that ball and chain shit too. One-week fool,” Ramel added.

 “You don’t have to remind me. Torri has the house filled with everything wedding related. Man, this week needs to hurry up so we can get back to real life.”

 He leaned back and focused on his food. He was the last one in the group still single. The last one of the four musketeers, the lone wolf. It didn’t bother him before; it was just the way it was. Now—he wouldn’t focus on it, not now.

 They continued to watch the basketball game and talk like they always did when they got together. They’d been friends for a long time, and he valued their friendship and advice. He trusted them with everything and would always have their backs as he knew the same was true for them.

 Rashawn desperately stayed away from all and any talk about his wedding to Torri. He acted like he’d been caroused into the wedding when everyone knew damn well he was stupid in love and cried through the proposal. Ramel assumed the role of loudmouth big brother pretending like he knew everything; it was a role he’d played for most of their friendship. Tyrell didn’t pretend to not be the hopelessly devoted husband he was to Dacia; he was the one who was always caught texting her and secretly face-timing her during guys night out. When they got together, a lot of fun and a lot of shit-talking always happened and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 By the time the game ended, the food finished, and Tamika came home it was close to two in the morning. Ramel wasted no time kicking everyone out when he saw how inebriated Tamika was.

 “Y’all don’t have to go home, but you got to get the hell up outta here. My woman is drunk, we got no kids for the night, some freaky shit bout to go down!”

 They all rolled their eyes and quickly began gathering their things.

 “How freaky?” He looked back to see Tamika crook her pointer and wiggle it to Ramel who smiled but pushed her hand down trying to hide her finger. He knew they were into some freaky shit and he did not need the details or the visuals.

 “Imma head out. I have an early day later anyway. Stay up man,” he said and went around the group giving each of them their handshake.

 “Think about what I said burh. We here for you,” Ramel finished. He nodded and walked over to Tamika and gave her a kiss on the cheek before he walked out the door to his car in the rounded driveway.

 The drive back to his house was a quick and quiet one. When he got home he showered and used the rest of his awake time to prep for the coming day. He knew it would be a long one.

  -The Next Day-

 Just as expected the day stretched on and on. He got maybe two hours of sleep before he was out of the house and on a set for a photoshoot. That shoot went on for eight hours, then he was off to a string of interviews then two meetings and yet another photoshoot.

 It was now close to one in the morning and they were just getting their last shots. He was exhausted. he knew this came with the territory. If he wanted to act he had to be okay with photoshoots, interviews, paparazzi, and everything else that came with fame. Some days it was a tough pill to swallow and he wondered what it would have been to continue on in architecture, and others he took it in stride and piled more onto his plate. Today was a mix of both.

 “All right Yahya, thank you that’s a wrap,” the photographer called out. He nodded and went around shaking hands with everyone who worked the shoot. A woman with dirty blond hair approached him with a wide smile.

 “I am such a fan, Yahya. I loved you in Aquaman.” He graciously smiled and thanked her. She bit her bottom lip and gave him a look he knew wasn’t strictly friendly. “Can I have a picture?”

 “Sure. No problem,” he cautiously responded as he stepped beside her and waited for her to angle her phone just right.

 “Say Black Manta.” He smiled at her request and held up his peace fingers. Once the photo was taken she turned to him again and thanked him.

 “Look, I know this is forward and normally I wouldn’t do this but it’s 2020, I’m gonna shoot my shot.” She held out a piece of paper to him and he could see a phone number scribbled across it.

 “This is my number. No pressure to use it, just—if you want to use it, I’d answer, and we could hang out.”

 She was attractive, he wasn’t going to deny that. Her skin reminded him of smooth chestnut. Coupled with the color of her hair she was a beautiful woman. He was just leery of her motives. Ninety percent of the women he’d met since his breakout roles all had ulterior motives.  Most just wanted to be seen out with him so the rumor mill could start circulating and give them their fifteen minutes. He wasn’t with that. That was the one thing about his newfound fame. He never knew what anyone wanted from him anymore.

 “Uh--.” He was speechless. He didn’t want to embarrass her by rejecting her, so he took the paper and nodded. “Thank—you.”

 She smiled and again bite her bottom lip. “Okay, great. See you around.” She walked off leaving him to look down at the paper with her name and number. “Thalia-954-389-3048.” She’d dotted her I with a star. It bothered him and he didn’t know why. He stuffed the paper in his pocket resolved in his decision not to take it there.  He didn’t have the time or energy to sift through the sea of clout chasers.

 He quickly finished up, got his things and left. He’d missed his workout for the day and needed to get one in. every little bit helped especially with him trying to get into Matrix shape.

 Luckily his trainer was up and was able to meet him at the gym to train. A few reps on the treadmill, another couple sets of weights, then some time on the bar and finally a brutal boxing session rounded out the hour and fifteen-minute rotation. By the end of it, he was dripping sweat and ready to just drop in bed which is just what he did. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

***If you want to be tagged please SEND AN ASK SO IT WILL BE EASIER FOR ME TO KEEP TRACK OF. Thank you for reading!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TagList:

@chrisgalore @thatrandomhetaliachick @missdeerstalker15 @queenbetter @jesseswartzwelder @briellableu @titty-teetee  @zaddysqueen7 @melaninhawtie  @simplyyamberr @airis-paris14 @ashanti-notthesinger @afraiddreamingandloving @ajspencer1892 @wakanda-inspired @chillavesss @drsunshine97 @cleothegoldfish @builtalongthewayside @theunsweetenedtruth @geeksareunique @aykanna @hanasamara @profilia @ollieveracity @autumn242 @missyperle @sup3rn0va13 @chaneajoyyy @forbeautyandlife @kreolemami @designerwriterchic  @laketaj24

[areiton]

text me maybe

Summary:

He’s drunk and there’s a really hazy decade in the nineties that Rhodey looks pained when he even thinks about that says doing shit when he’s drunk is a bad idea.

There’s also a new building on MIT campus and a yearly donation that supports that theory.

But MIT and Rhodey are far away and that clunky black flip phone is not, and he snarls as he snatches it up and punches in the message.

It takes almost five minutes because the tech is obsolete and he is drunk but he does and he smiles at it, viciously pleased.

~*~

Chapter 3 of 4. Lots of angst and miscommunication and pining. Enjoy.

Read on AO3

~*~ 

The truth is--he doesn't do it on purpose.

He's sitting on the couch, in the middle of the morning, and something under his ass vibrates, and it--

It's a message.

Angry and hurt , and he stares at it for a long time, before he every decides to respond.

 ~*~

  He knows better, is the thing. He knows the right choice is--give the damn thing to Stevie, walk away. Don't make an already broken team even more fractured. He's done enough damage.

But there is Wanda's fury, when Stark's name is mentioned, the way Steve's mouth goes tight and unhappy, the way he looks at Bucky like he's reassuring himself that his best friend isn't dead.

He isn't. They're both fine, and even Sam and Wanda have been patched together. Natasha is quiet, especially now that Clint went back to his family and his farm, taking a voluntary house arrest to be with his family, and she doesn't get involved when Wanda starts spitting her fury at Stark.

They're all fine . They all walked away, even if it did take a prison break that stretched even his considerable skills.

Stark didn't.

Stark almost died in Siberia. He doesn't know if Stevie knows--but he kept an ear to the ground, hacked Tasha's computer to get the intel he wanted, and--he survived, but he was hospitalized for almost three weeks, and Rhodes was still recovering.

No one died--but Tony almost did, and he is still reaching out, furious and hurting, and almost begging for an answer.

He pockets the phone, and when Stevie mentions misplacing it, a few days later, he doesn't say anything.

Because it's almost relief, in his tone, at having lost that lifeline to his one-time friend. Because there is still righteous fury in his eyes, when he looks at the empty sleeve where Bucky's arm isn't .

Because he smiles, just a little, when Wanda mutters dark insults at the breakfast table, watching an SI press conference.

Because Tony--Tony was hurt, was almost killed, and maybe all of them fucked up, in Siberia and in the days before that showdown--but he thinks maybe Tony is the one who deserves an apology.

  ~*~

  You're right.

  I'm sorry.

  I'm so fucking sorry.

  ~*~

  It occurs to him, about the sixth message from Tony, that he should probably explain who he is.

That Steve isn't on the other end of these messages.

But Tony is so guarded, so defensive.

And there's the ugly, selfish truth:

Bucky is lonely.

He is so goddamn lonely.

He's on a team, for the first time in seventy years, has his best friend back at his side, and people who would throw themselves--had thrown themselves--into the line of fire without hesitation, and he felt more alone than he had when he was HYDRA's pet.

Steve watched him, constantly, big blue eyes hopeful and sad. Tasha watched him with wary caution tinged with disappointment. Wanda he avoided completely--she was a good kid, he was sure, Stevie said so, but she was created by HYDRA and she terrified him.

Sam--Sam was the closest to normal, quick to tease and snark, push Bucky on his bullshit. But he was wrapped up in Steve, head over heels pinning, and Bucky was on the outside of that, alone.

He was so fucking lonely, and the phone buzzing quiet in his pocket--made him wonder if maybe Tony was lonely too.

  ~*~

  He reads what he can about Stark. He's careful about it, but sometimes, when he hides behind his tablet, he can feel Tasha's gaze on him, and he looks up to see her watching, her green eyes narrow and far too knowing.

He ignores it. Ignores her, as much as he can, and reads.

Before the war, he wanted to see the future. Took Stevie and a couple dames to an expo, right before he shipped out, because it's the closest he was going to get. But what Howard Stark had displayed at that long ago expo--it's nothing compared to what his son does.

Tony is the future he's always wanted to see, and he gets to live in it, gets to listen to the man babble about his projects and chatter about his bots, and with every text--he doesn't know how to give this up.

He doesn't WANT to give this up.

  ~*~

  He sends pictures.

It's dangerous. He knows it's dangerous. But he can read the loneliness in Tony.

Honey bear went back to DC today. I know I can't keep him here--but the man broke his back, I thought I'd get him longer than this.

Pepper is dating Norman fucking Osborne. Norman. I think that's a step below Hammer.

He's lonely, and he can see that same loneliness reflect back at him, and he does it impulsively, sitting in Paris because Natasha's safe houses are only ever in the middle of huge cities and in the middle of fucking nowhere.

He sends it, and Tony is teasing him, gentle and sweet, about being alone, and Bucky drinks his too-sweet coffee and savors the feeling like, maybe--maybe they aren't.

Maybe together, like this, neither of them are alone.

  ~*~

  He doesn't understand the accords.

Or maybe it would be better to say--he doesn't understand Stevie's reaction to the Accords.

They're watching a tiny TV. Stark is at a narrow table by himself, sunglasses perched on his face, arguing with representatives from around the world.

He looks tired, Bucky thinks, and touches the phone in his pocket.

"He's an idiot," Steve says, softly. It's the first thing he's said since they turned the damn thing on.

"He's trying to improve them," Natasha says. She's not against the Accords, Bucky knows. Of all of the Rogues, she's most likely to sign them. "That right there, what he's doing--he's trying to find the middle ground so we go home."

"No one asked him to do that," Steve says stubbornly.

"No one would," Tasha says, even and a little cold. "No one had to."

She leaves, and for a long time, no one says anything. Then, cautiously, Wilson says, "I could sign them. If he can get these concessions made--I could sign them."

"Sam," Steve says, and he sounds--shocked. Almost betrayed.

Sam flushes and looks away. "We didn't because as they were--they didn't work. But this puts the power in our hands, and yeah, we gotta answer to the committee--but Steve, we should have to be accountable to someone other than ourselves."

Bucky is silent. He doesn't get to have an opinion about this--or maybe he does, but he knows Steve sure as hell doesn't want to hear it.

He rubs his finger over the phone and pulls up the current version of the Accords.

If he is going to have an opinion--he sure as hell wants it to be an informed one.

  ~*~

  Wanda treats Stark like a monster, her eyes narrow with barely contained hate when she talks about him. She treats him like something to be afraid of, something to protect yourself from at best and destroy at worse.

"Stark hurt her," Steve explains, and Bucky snorts.

Because he didn't. Something he created did.

But the image that Wanda presents doesn't match the one that he has, happy, goofy inventor who bitches about his bots.

  U put motor oil in my smoothie.

  They're trying to kill me. Skynet is finally happening.

  Bucky smiles.

  Maybe they're giving you oil because you give them oil.

  You take good care of them, they're trying to do the same.

  He gets a picture of DUM-E with a truly horrific looking smoothie.

  Nope. Gonna die. Remember me fondly.

  And watch Terminator. You and your frozen buddy would appreciate it, I think.

  He pockets the phone after that, not wanting to deal with the inescapable fact that Tony still didn't know who he was actually talking to.

But he held that image in his mind, when Wanda ranted about how horrible he was, a put upon, fond smile and a bot nudging him with a black sludgy smoothie and laughter sparkling in dark brown eyes.

He thinks maybe--maybe his team never knew Stark. Not if they believe a man that gentle and patient with his children could ever be anything but kind.

  ~*~

  Tony talks about Pepper and Rhodes and Happy all the time, the three satellites that orbit him like he's the sun. He knows who they are--one dark night, when the team was sleeping and Tony was quiet and he couldn't stop or distract himself, he looked them all up,  reading everything he could find about the pretty CEO of Stark Industries, the decorated Colonel, the man who seemed to be in love with Potts and devoted to Tony.

The next day, three files appeared on his tablet and Tasha smiled at him, sphinx-like and lovely.

He didn't thank her.

But he did read the files, devouring the information.

He *knows that Tony doesn't have many friends, many people he's close to--and he knows who those people are.

And then he gets the text.

  Pete says I’m happier.

  And his whole world kinda screeches to a halt because there's someone else.

A man, who Tony cares about.

Cares about enough to actually mention, and that--he doesn't know what to say, and doesn't know *how to feel, so he shoves the phone away.

  ~*~

  It takes three days for him to admit--he's jealous.

He's jealous .

And if he's jealous--he has no fucking right to be jealous is the thing.

Tony is allowed to be happy, with whoever manages to make him that way. Bucky has no claim to that.

If this faceless Peter can make him happy--who the hell is Bucky to take that away.

  You ok? Been quiet.

  I'm fine. Just got a lot on my mind.

  Want to share with the class? I'm not always good at listening but I always try.

  He pauses, considering.

He wants to say, I'm jealous. I don't want you seeing Peter.

He wants to say, I'm falling for you and it's the best thing to happen to me in seventy years.

He wants to say, I'm not Steve and I would never hurt you the way he did.

He doesn't.

He doesn't say anything, and eventually the phone goes quiet and still in his hand and he closes his eyes and breathes through the ache in his chest and tries not to hate a man he's never met for loving the man he wants.

  ~*~

  "Do you know what you're doing, Yasha?" Tasha asks, one night. The phone is loose in his hand and a beer that will do nothing to get him drunk is dangling from his metal fingertips and he blinks at her, lazily. Her bright, avid gaze is trained on that damn phone, and he shrugs.

"Don't hurt him," she warns, and vanishes down the dark hallway, leaving him alone with his churning thoughts.

  ~*~

  Peter is a child.

A teen with a big smile and adoring eyes and—if Tony is to believed and Bucky has made a habit of believing him at this point—a brilliant mind.

He’s a child, and Tony—

  I'm not dating. Not since Potts left me. There were a few one night stands but not--not for a while.

  Not since before we started talking.

There it is, spelled out in grainy pixelated green and black.

It shouldn’t give him as much hope as it does.

It shouldn’t fill him up with dread.

  ~*~

  He curls in Tasha’s bed, his phone silent and still in his hand, and says, “I think I love him.”

She pets his hair, and he nestles into her lap. “What do I do?”

“Tell him the truth. He deserves that.”

“Will I lose him?” he asks, watching her, because she won’t lie. Not to him, not about this.

“You might. But if you don’t tell him—you’ll never really have him.”

  ~*~

  Is it selfish of me to say I'm glad?

  I want to keep you all to myself.

  I know you have Pete, have Rhodes--but I hate them sometimes, for seeing you, for getting to see your smiles and hearing your laugh. Is that stupid?

  You asked what i'd want if I were there. i wish I could show you, baby. I wish I could touch you.

  We're leaving here, soon. I don't know where we're going.

  Tony, please talk to me. I know you're scared, sweetheart, but I promise I'd never hurt you.

  You got no reason to trust me. I know that.

  There's--we--

  He hesitates over the picture. He’s never sent pictures of himself, or any of the team—to big of a security risk, too much of a chance Tony would put it together, that he wasn’t talking to Steve.

But he wants to send this.

He pushes send before he can talk himself out of it.

  PICTURE ATTACHED

  I want to go home. I'm so tired, Tony.

  And scared. I wish--I wish things were different.

  i need to talk to you and i'm so scared.

  I know--we have to talk. Not like this. But soon. We have to talk.

  We're going out on a mission. I'll text when we get home.

  ~*~

The mission goes to hell, and he sees the messages—two—from Tony when he turns on his phone, but he can hear the gushing of Steve’s heart behind him, and terror is bright and coppery on his tongue, and he says, “Stevie got hurt.”

  ~*~

  Tasha squeezes his hand, and steps away, steps down the ramp, and he swallows the fear in his throat as he follows the rest of the team.

Tony—Tony is standing there, near Rhodes, beautiful and fragile, his eyes big and bright and hurt as he watches Steve in Sam’s arms, and yeah.

Maybe he had a chance. Maybe those feelings weren’t one sided.

Too late, now, he thinks, and reaches out, phone in hand.

He sees the fury and hurt and grief in Tony’s eyes, a moment before they go blank, and a heartbeat before Tony punches him and he thinks, this is exactly what I deserve.

[wolfeyeslonelynights]

Strip Club II

“Fucking seriously Theo.” If Liam could kill with his eyes, he would be shining his flashy wolf ones. Right. This. Fucking. Second. Instead he couldn’t, stuck with glaring murderously from behind the wheel of his Bronco across the parking lot from the coffee stand. The bikini coffee stand. Dic’s n Daisy’s 4 U. The name matching the one Mason had texted him earlier.

Liam was going to have a serious sit down with his best friend about his choices in clubs and beverage places. And why Theo was always at these less than kosher places. But for now he was fuming, silently, sunglasses forgotten on the seat next to him as he watched Theo worked.

Apparently women didn’t just work at this places; but so far Liam had only seen Theo as the sole male employee. The chimera was shirtless, of course, and seemingly enjoying himself. The older teen had no qualms about helping the scantily clad women by running the bags of garbage outside or reaching things on oh-so Inconveniently placed high shelves. The girls definitely seemed to be enjoying the help. And the view he was sure.

It was after the first couple hours, that he noticed that as the work traffic started picking up, more women were pulling through. It didn’t surprise him that Theo was now at the window, his flirty smile and laughter could be seen from where Liam was hunched over brooding. This was not the deal they made. Liam was ninety percent sure he had used the words ‘respectable’ and ‘clothing required’. This fit neither and had most certainly not been part of the jobs he had sent the chimera.

When he saw a slender manicured hand reach out towards Theo - what looked like a ten dollar bill fluttering down the well muscled chest before falling into the tip jar, Liam had to close his eyes and count to ten. Twenty. Fifty. Before grabbing his phone and firing off a text. Gripping his phone tightly he watched with narrowed eyes while Theo waved as the car drove off before slipping a hand into his back pocket. The moment the chimera finished reading what Liam texted, he was leaning slightly out the window, eyes scanning the parking lot. When their eyes collided, Liam straightened up and slowly brought two fingers up to his eyes before shoving them in the air towards Theo in classic ‘i’m watching you asshole.’

Theo’s face was blank for a moment before he was blocked by a large suv. Liam chewed his lip and grumbled when his phone gave two short buzzes.

Stalking isn’t attractive Dumb Bar

Liam growled before smashing his finger across the screen. Just before he pressed send he paused, a slow and most likely regrettable idea forming in his head. Really, as self-conscious as he was, Liam knew he was a pretty well built guy. Being a were wolf helped, sure, but he worked out a lot. He knew he wasn’t as bold as Theo but he knew some stuff. Sexy stuff.

Absently drumming his thumbs on his thigh, Liam briefly considered how crazy he was being about this situation. They weren’t even really involved with each other like that. Sure, he had told Theo that if he needed to strip tease someone he should call Liam but that had been to get him out of a strip club. The idea of people googly-eyeing the chimera made Liam want to inflict serious damage on someone; whether it was the oglers or Theo he couldn’t decide. Still, Theo had a point, Liam was starting to enter the land of unhealthy obsession. For god sake he had been in this spot for over three hours, slowly crawling out of his skin at the sight of a half naked  Theo helping other people. Part of him wondered if Theo did this just to see if Liam would catch him. Seems like something the jerk would do.

Pressing back against the headrest, Liam closed his eyes and considered, pushing images of Theo - dripping sweat and wearing those stupid skin tight pants, out of his head. Those stupid pants that showed every single inch. That he knew were stuffed in a gray duffel bag in the bag of Theo’s truck. Chewing on his bottom lip, Liam opened up his chat with Mason and sent a brief text. Looking up he saw Theo looking his way with a frown on his face, realized he hadn’t replied to his text when Mason sent a reply.  Feeling a smile grow on his face, Liam sent another reply to his best friend in the whole world before buckling up and starting his car. Looking towards Theo, Liam sent the chimera a bright grin, laughing at the chimera’s startled and apprehensive expression as he drove by. He had work to do.

“Like, I know we’re best friends and I love Corey but Liam…you look very fuckable right now.” Liam snorted amused at his friends torn expression; like the teen couldn’t decide if he liked this  version of Liam or not. They were at Mason’s house, a place they both decided on when Liam told Mason his plans. The human had looked almost too excited. It had been a very long time since Liam had been willing to go clubbing; as in never. The only time they had been to a club together was when Hayden had been in trouble. And Mason knew Liam could actually dance. It drove him mad that the beta didn’t really like the crowd.

Looking at himself in the full length mirror, he thought it turned a pretty interesting picture. The pants were super uncomfortable though, like how the hell did Theo move around in these things? Why would anyone be willing to put these on, which was a terrible experience and he was sure even his excelled healing was going to take a while with the scratches from yanking them up. And he had a feeling that if he popped a bone it was going to go numb instantly. Turning to look at his butt he glanced up at his friend. “How did you know what store to buy these at?” He immediately regretted asking when a dazed smirk crawled onto Mason’s face. “Nevermind!”

Mason laughed as he grabbed his phone, texting Corey while Liam turned to look at himself one more time. Reaching up, he poked at the small lump that Mason had painstakingly pulling his hair back into. He should probably get it cut soon, he wasn’t sure about rocking the man bun. Flexing his back and twisting to get a feel of the pants and loose tank top he shrugged before slipping on the soft bottom shoes. It had taken them both an hour to find the shoes in his closet, having not used them in months. But he need something that would slide easily and these were the only pair of shoes that did that. Tying them tight he stood up to look at the dark sky before turning to grin at Mason.

“Ready to dance?”

The answering smile was wide.

When they finally got to the club, picking up Corey before heading over, the place was already packed. Mason had picked this club, and as soon as Liam saw the metal poles that went fro floor to ceiling with some occupied with people on the, he had agreed. This was perfect. Walking further in, he had to lean close to talk to Mason “You sure he got the message?” Corey was the one who answer “Yup, he gave me shit but said he was on his way. Probably ten minutes?” Liam grinned and Mason laughed. Clapping the two boys on their shoulders, Liam herded them to the center of the dance floor - with an empty pole in sliding distance. Forgetting the whole reason he was doing this, Liam let out a startled laugh.

“Alright, that’s enough time to warm up then!”

Liam was in the middled of an upside down spiral on the pole, shirt taken off and toss away a while ago, grinning as he easily spun around before tensing his arms and back muscles - slowly straightening his legs out in the air. He forgot how strong his werewolf abilities had made him, and was surprised how much fun he was having. Spreading his legs in a wide V, he ignored the large group of women that had gathered in a semi-circle around him screeching as Mason popped up in his vision.

The human had been dancing nearby with his boyfriend, after Corey had watched Liam for the full ten minute warm up before being dragged away. Now Mason was giving him obvious side eye and head tilts towards the door. Theo was here. Nodding back at Mason, Liam abruptly dropped to the floor and grinned winningly at the large crowd.

“Who wants to request a song for me?” The answer was screams and promises, several breaking off to harass the DJ after Liam told them the song. Absently nodding at some of the questions asked at him, waited for the moment the current song to end, for the chimera to enter in his line of vision. He almost felt the moment Theo laid eyes on him; knew he was taking in the exact replica of his pants, chest glistening with sweat, and tried not to grin. Then the intro to the song started and he finally let his eyes meet Theo’s. The chimera’s face was frozen, eyes blown wide as they took Liam in. He smirked.

Backing up, eyes not leaving each other, hand carefully wrapping around the bar. Now he broke the intense contact to look at the girls and wink with a dramatic bow, low enough that his other hand grabbed the bottom part of the bar.

Then he was lifting his legs up in a smooth movement, stomach and legs tightening in control as he kept turning and turning, full circle around the pole before abruptly dropping his legs. Barely giving himself a second, Liam spread his legs again, this time the pole between as he pulled up himself up a few feet before twisting an arm around the pole and twirling around twice. Letting the speed help him swing up until he was upside down again, the pole hard against his back as he wrapped his ankles around it.

Pulling himself up by abs only, he took a moment to acknowledge the girls shouting with a cocky grin and nod; hanging off the pole with one arm and leg. Below him Theo had prowled closer. He didn’t stop to look at him just winked again and pulled himself upside down again - one arm wrapped around the pole beneath him, the other gripping above and let his legs descend slowly. There was a pause, Liam completely horizontal in the air, figured they were getting a pretty good view of his ass in the stupid pants, before he was lifting one leg straight up. Arms straining at the maneuver as he pushed, heading tilting back as he paused again at a split before kicking his other leg other and spinning down the pole. Stopping just a few feet from the floor, Liam gripped the pole with his knees and thighs, upper body dipping back, back until he was curved against the pole.

A few young women who were taking pictures without even bothering being discreet. Pulling himself up, Liam dropped to the floor as a new slower song flooded the speakers. Glancing around he saw Corey getting pulled back onto the floor by Mason. Then Theo was stalking towards him, pausing only to growled something at the girls taking pictures, sending them scurrying away. Forcing himself to not grin, he leaned against the pole and let his body relax. It had been a while since he did something like that and it burned pleasantly.

“Where the fuck did you learn to pole dance?” Theo didn’t stop until he was crowding the beta. Up close Liam could see that the chimera’s eyes were subtly flashing between hazel and gold, the rest of his face tense. Straightening up he shrugged “I was bored one summer?” then he glanced down and grinned widely before looking up “Basketball shorts? In a club?” But it seemed like the other teen wasn’t listening, his breathing was a little too shallow to be normal; hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Liam wasn’t sure what he was expecting but Theo grabbing his hand and pulling him into the crowd with a muttered “Fucking pants.” wasn’t it. When they were safely enclosed in the mesh of bodies, Liam found Theo crowding him again, a leg slipping between his as the chimera dropped his arms over his shoulders. His eyes were definitely going more gold right now, gleaming at Liam before leaning to speak roughly against his ear. Liam tried not to shiver at the lips brushing against him.

“Now we dance.”

It was stilted at first, Theo being way too fluid with grinding and Liam feeling several different kinds of stiff; but then Mason bounded over followed by a sheepish Corey, “Liam I forgot you could do that! That was awesome man.” Corey simply nodded, seemingly speechless. Liam laughed a little, shaking his head, trying to ignore the fact that Theo was still hanging on him like the chimera didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.

Mason got a weird glint in his eye, one that had Liam shaking his head while his friend started nodding back rapidly.

“Oh yes, yes Liam we are doing it.” He practically hissed. This had Corey and Theo eyeing them with startled confusion, the former letting his arms finally drop as Liam sighed heavily and backed up a few paces. Rolling his shoulders, he cracked his neck and shook out his arms before nodding in resignation at Mason. The human gleamed childish delight, and waited for the beat to hit right before breaking in what could only be described as a series of footwork that was very Usher. Liam fought a grin as his best friend did a couple moves that had him brushing off invisible lint on Liam’s shoulder.

He laughed “You’re enjoying this too much Mase.” His friend laughed loudly while backing up with a mocking bow of giving the floor to Liam. Who rolled his eyes before dropping to the floor in a smooth worm. Arms pushed up, legs kicking a couple times in the air before he flipped and spun on the floor - ending in a relaxed posed in front of Corey - elbow holding his head as he grinned up at the chimera’s deer-in- the headlight expression. Standing up he repeated Mason’s bow, giving him the floor. After a few seconds Corey, shrugged before doing the running man followed by a surprisingly good robot that stopped with him pointing at the other chimera. Theo’s eyes were no longer gold, still looking at Liam with a promise of finishing whatever they started later but he gave a sarcastic head bow to Corey before stepping forward. They expected something exotic, Liam licking his lips as he waited to see what he was going to do.

Then the chimera shocked them all by starting a rather…improvised way of doing the chicken dance. He didn’t remember the dance involving some of the dirty moves Theo included, but it felt good to be laughing even as he was turned on. When the chimera ended in front of Mason, Liam saw his friend was too busy laughing against Corey to respond so he slipped up behind Theo - knowing the chimera sensed his movement. When he turned, Liam was the one to grab his hand and pulling them back together. Leaning up just enough to brush lips against the underside of Theo’s jaw, he whispered a “Let’s dance.”

The rest of the night was spent with them mostly oblivious to the world. Foreheads pressed together, eyes refusing to break contact while hands roamed over backs and hips as they swayed and moved with whatever was playing. Theo seemingly slipping his hands lower and lower on Liam’s back, fingers pressing on the top of his pants before sliding back up. Liam gripping the slick material of Theo’s shorts at his hips, bunching the fabric tight as they pressed together.

The only time they broke apart was when Mason butted in for another dance off; each time getting sillier and sillier.

[dothewrite]

idk if you would do something like this but would you be able to do a scenario with terushima or akaashi with their s/o based off the song 'i found' by amber run? i just thought it was a really beautiful song and your writing style is written so beautifully and idk i just thought you would be really amazing at it :)) like pure passion angst love u feel

This was a ghostly song that’s nothing like anything I’ve listened to, and it’s brilliant. To me, the song as a whole called out like a cry for help, for anything at all, so I took that feeling and wrote something that’s pure emotion and very little exposition. I do recommend having the song on while reading this though. Here is my explanation of the plot!

I hope you don’t mind, and I hope you like where I went with it!

This is the fourth month he’s been around her since he’s become unrecognizable to even himself in the mornings, but today, yet again, she is someone different.

They say that insanity is a perspective, and Terushima has been slowly growing acquainted with the long strolls and silent walks that madness takes through the minds of man. He and she, they’re both so infuriatingly sane, normal people, but together they’re a combustion- it all evaporates in a searing instant, and all that’s left is everything raw, everything irrational.

She’s not someone he thought he’d fall in love with. For one, he doesn’t like quiet girls. He doesn’t like girls with poker faces either, or crass girls who cuss straight at someone’s face. He likes them pretty, soft, and so wondrously feminine that it makes him feel more of a man when he wraps his arms around them. He doesn’t like dark hair either, and dull, black eyes aren’t his type. Terushima knows everything about what he wants, what he naturally gravitates to. It’s a shame that nobody warned him about being dragged forcibly onto his knees, enamoured and aching.

He sees her approach from the other side of the bridge- sometimes she’s late, sometimes she’s early, and sometimes she’s on time. There’s nothing regular about her, but he does recognize that large bag she has swung over her shoulder. In solemn silence, his breath hitches and his heartbeat slows as his eyes follow her feet, taking one step in front of the other.

Even her loosely tied hair is blowing lawlessly in the breeze, and it’s like everything is in slow motion as all the decisions he’s making races through his head. His rationale screams at him, hollers that he should know better- no, to have already known better- than to spend his time around her type of people, and what they do to him. They make him feel so utterly alive that his soul screams a battle cry, and Terushima knows that life will be tasteless without her from now on. Her crooked, brilliant grins, her sharp glares and cutting frowns brings alive everything he touches, because she’s everything he’s too afraid to try. It’s all so insane, and it’s blindingly beautiful. He has his rails that ensures his life as an easy cruise, but she drives him right off them at a ninety degree angle- nothing is straightforward anymore, not school, not volleyball, and he learns that everything he hates, he yearns for, inexplicably.

Terushima understands, now. In your own, solitary reality, you only follow the things that make sense to you. The moment you come to live and breathe madness, something fundamental in your mind shifts, and it all makes sense. Perhaps insanity is abandon, and abandon is freedom. He knows what she truly is: she’s his all his freedoms that he’s too afraid to stretch out and grasp.

She’s almost here. There are only a few more steps between his future and her ambiguous smile, and he takes those out to meet her midway. He slips into her space like it’s second nature, and she tilts her head up to look at him with those unreadable, nebula eyes. It’s impossible to see past them, there’s no soul except for the echoes she picks out for his perusal, but it’s enough. He doesn’t need complete understanding. He takes what he gets each time, and it’s the journey that counts. Even he is unsure if she knows who she is at any time.

“You look ready to go,” she murmurs, and her voice carries the weight of the wind in its tune. Terushima is more than capable of standing his ground, because this isn’t an imitation. This is his choice, he is her equal, in every single twisted way possible.

He takes her hand in his, and she doesn’t flinch when his callouses grip her porcelain skin with deliberate force. Today, she squeezes back, and it sends a heady rush of resolution through his blood.

“I’ve been ready, are you?” He teases right back.

Her laugh is more ‘yes’ than any word can hold.

This is his plea for mercy. His cry to destiny to give him this one chance, this one thing that he doesn’t want to ruin, because fuck it all, he’s burning everything and he’s going to jump. It’s reckless, blind, like a bellow into a chasm, and Terushima knows that any other love other people sing of is false. He’s going to choose her, he’s going to love her, even if it kills him. It’s always her back that he watches sway, stretching out further and further away from him into the dimming horizon- this time, he’s chosen to run with her. He’s going to match her step for step, stop when she stops, and carry her if she falls.

It’s a one way road to madness, but nothing is telling him no, and with her steady breathing right beside his, ‘no’ isn’t something he feels at all.

Akaashi would definitely count himself as a cold man. One of those men who watch their lovers leave without a strain on their face, one of those men who can laugh when someone slices them in half with a knife. It’s the only thing he can count himself as, because he’s more or less lost the right to be anything else.

Faint are the days where he still felt the warmth of his own life in his veins, when his heart used to bleed for those he loved. When he smiled freely, joked with the intention of making others laugh, when he still felt something when he was around his friends. On good days, he’s graced with glimpses that remind him that he might still be capable of all that- but he’s far more comfortable with what he’s carved himself into now. Habits are hard to break, especially those that he hates.

Although he always liked to fashion himself as a cool man, he didn’t expect the freezing temperatures of her absence. The ghost of her passion visits his dreams more than often, and each morning he wakes up and combs his apartment for any remnants of her that might have triggered his nightmares. Of course, he finds nothing, day after day, for he’d gotten rid of everything the night he took off his wedding ring.

It was one of those breakups that lasted through legends. Everything that those terrible romance novels painted, those incompatible, passionate marriages where everything falls apart and all the exaggerated screaming comes to life about his ears. Their pages never mentioned the icy silences, the stilted arguments. He was brought up to believe that love was all heat, all warmth of two bodies against each other, but the truth is that all he remembers from it was the chill in his frostbitten heart. The only warmth that they had managed to salvage in the end was with their own friends, far, far away from each other. Even then, it was the warmth of rage, and when they opened the door each night to their shared apartment, it became a world where the only existence possible was one of nonexistence.

Today is three years to the day since he’d last seen her. Three years, and his life has turned around- in which direction he’s not sure, but it’s definitely not in hers- and he’s older, wiser, and has his affairs together tightly and shatter-proof. Akaashi Keiji is a fully fledged, jaded adult, and he wonders if she thinks about him too. He certainly does, in those quiet moments belonging to a cold morning, when he’s not quite himself yet.

It’s already five in the evening, but for a moment he thinks he must have left himself at his apartment this morning because his eyes flash to the first sign of her across the room. It’s the same posture, the same worrying twist of her wrist when she’s nervous, and he thinks that he might wake up in the next two minutes or so to find himself crumpled on his living room floor and possibly dreaming, or in tears.

No, she’s right here, even five minutes later.

The only free attendant is the one right next to her, as the gods have decided that day, so he walks up to the glass counter and slides his box across the table top.

“I’d like to sell this, please,” his voice comes out as a hoarse whisper, and he clears his throat like it’s a counter-curse to her presence. The attendant eyes him strangely, but leaves without a word and now, now it’s just him. With her.

She has their wedding ring pinched between two white-knuckled fingers, that trinket Akaashi would recognize even from his deathbed. There’s no attendant around, only her and her drawn in expression, and somewhere, something screams because he takes the first step and speaks.

It’s deja vu, it’s a recurring nightmare that leaves you empty when you finally stop dreaming it, and Akaashi is washed away on waves of her, of fate- and to him, it’s almost the same thing. She tells him everything, and there’s no surprise in her eyes when she hears his voice, empty, just like the look in her eyes. He starts from the very beginning, learning her inside out, and she reaches into him with her voice and her thoughts, and they tug out everything that he’s buried away and forgotten over the course of the endless years without her. They grow, from jewelry store to coffee, to library to dinner, to the past and to the future. It’s almost impossible, and they both blink at each other before each conversation, determined to discover the trickster behind all their coincidences.

He learns that she’s kept up by the same dreams of him, of them, and his heart breaks. It crashes and fractures into pieces unrecoverable, and all that’s left inside that hollow chest of his is a young heart. Weak and beating with the ferocity of a storm, it fights to survive each beat it makes. It’s this young organ that falls in love with her all over again by their sixth date; she’s crying silently, stoically, her shadow against the sunset overlapping his, and right before he tells her to marry him again, Akaashi allows himself one last self-depreciating laugh.

There are four more seconds until he proposes, until he begs and bares everything he is for her, and in those four seconds he prays for salvation from whatever deity is out there. He’s not going to ruin their lives twice, because if it’s anything like the first, his soul is going to bleed to death before he’ll even get to say that he’s sorry. Second chances, in this cold world that Akaashi lives in, are a miracle.

This time, this is his last. He jumps, and believes in flying.

[darbiblog-blog]

Finland Has a Sports Screw Loose

New Post has been published on https://darbi.org/finland-has-a-sports-screw-loose/

Finland Has a Sports Screw Loose

10 interesting facts about Finland

beautiful Finnish women

HYRYNSALMI, Finland — There’s some thing extraordinary happening in Finland. Over the beyond few decades, because it has all but disappeared from the global sports activities level, this humble Nordic nation has the type of lost its sports thoughts.

More than 2,000 humans ventured to the far flung backwaters of central Finland recently for the twentieth annual Swamp Soccer World Championships. If you and your partner want to compete in the Wife Carrying World Championships, you have to come to Finland. The Mobile Phone Throwing World Championships? Finland. The World Berry Picking Championship and the Air Guitar World Championships? Finland and Finland.

“We have some weird interests  Finland ,” stated Paivi Kemppainen, 26, a body of workers member on the swamp soccer Sports  Loose opposition and grasp of the understatement.

Just have a look at swamp football in Hyrynsalmi, an area wherein Jetta can obtain a small level of celebrity over time. Jetta is a stuffed badger ensconced in a hen cage. She acts as a mascot of kids for a crew of 12 pals who make the seven-hour force each year from Vihti, close to Helsinki, for the competition. They offered the doll seven years ago from a junk shop at a dual carriageway rest prevent, and her reputation around the swamp has grown ever since. A couple of years ago, she changed into interviewed with the aid of a neighborhood newspaper.

Continue reading the principal story On Saturday morning, the guys stood around shivering in threadbare thrift-save fits, which they said have been their group’s legitimate heat-up duds. A bottle of vodka changed into being handed round (their preferred way, reputedly, of warming up). It turned into approximately 10 o’clock. Soon it might be time for their first recreation of the day. They set Jetta apart and stripped of their outerwear, revealing skimpy blue wrestling singlets.

Continue reading the primary story

Left, Petra Koskela drinking wine at the Ukkohalla inn, wherein many gamers within the Swamp Soccer Championships stayed; proper, a player’s shoe is held on with tape to hold it from sticking in the muck. Credit Janne Körkkö for The New York Times Before they trodden into the mud, they have been requested a query: Why?

“You can say you’re world champions of swamp soccer,” said Matti Paulavaara, 34, one of the crew members, after a contemplative pause. “How many can say that?”

The genesis of swamp football changed into in 1998, when creative metropolis officers in Hyrynsalmi cooked up a competition-like occasion that might employ the region’s great swamplands. Thirteen groups confirmed up for the first tournament. Since then, the aggressive discipline has grown to about 2 hundred groups.

The latest fits — six-on-six, with 10-minute halves — were performed on 20 fields of varying squishiness, spread out over 50 acres of swamp. Finnish rock echoed thru the woods.

People striding on the seemingly firm ground would disappear unexpectedly into the smooth earth, as though descending a stairway. Some tottered on their palms and knees, like infants. Others stood nonetheless, till they have been waist-deep in the muck. The rankings were normally low. Many of the players were inebriated.

It’s tough to imagine an uglier model of the Beautiful Game.

Continue studying the principal story Photo

Even the best movements are extra hard in swamp soccer. Credit Janne Körkkö for The New York Times “You play, you lose, you win — no one cares,” said Sami Korhonen, 25, of Kajaani, who became gambling within the match for the 9th time. “The entire sport is so difficult, you’re definitely worn out while you’re completed.”

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This streak of strenuous irreverence began sweeping through the quiet Finnish geographical region inside the mid-Nineteen Nineties and has most effective grown considering the fact that.

In 1995, a Finn named Henri Pellonpaa killed a world-record 21 bugs in 5 minutes at the Mosquito Killing World Championships in Pelkosenniemi.

The World Sauna Championships were heavily contested in Heinola from 1999 to 2010 until a competitor died from 1/3-diploma burns.

More currently, hundreds of Finns, maximum of them teenage girls, have taken up competitive hobby horsing, in which competition trot and hurdle barriers while riding the timber toys.

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Finland was as soon as ambitious in traditional sports activities, however, has currently taken a hard pivot closer to hosting weird competitions. Clockwise from top left: hobby-horsing championships in April; the 2009 Sauna World Championships; Wife Carrying World Championship this month; the 2014 Air Guitar World Championships. Credit Clockwise from pinnacle left: Rex Features, through Associated Press; Heikki Saukkomaa/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images; Timo Hartikainen/Lehtikuva, thru Associated Press; Vesa Ranta/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images How did this appear? How did Finland grow to be such fertile ground for wacky sports?

There’s no easy solution, however, Finns offer diverse deep-seated elements, such as an enthusiastically outdoorsy populace (that goes barely stir-crazy all through the place’s oppressively dark winter months), the sizeable public gets admission to recreational areas, and a persevering with rest of the historically reserved countrywide man or woman. (Also, alcohol.)

Finland is the maximum thinly populated united states within the European Union. It boasts endless forests and almost 200,000 lakes, and its citizens revel in “Everyman rights,” which guarantees public get admission to maximum out of doors lands and our bodies of water for recreational purposes. The European Commission continually ranks Finns as a few of the maximum bodily energetic people at the continent.

“We’re like a forest people,” stated Lassi Hurskainen, 30, a former professional goalkeeper from Joensuu, who visited the swamp soccer tournament whilst website hosting a section for a Finnish sports activities television display. “So we provide you with video games that relate to nature.”

Straddling the Arctic Circle, Finland endures long, punishingly darkish winters. Summer consequently marks a duration of country wide catharsis. It enables that u. S . Has a predicted 500,000 summer time cottages, and due to the fact many Finns receive up to 6 weeks of vacation time per yr, the act of unhurriedly passing time outdoors feels almost like a country wide birthright.

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A lake on the Ukkohalla motel. Finland boasts endless forests, extra than two hundred,000 lakes and 24 hours of daylight at some stage in some summer time months. Credit Janne Körkkö for The New York Times The mosquito-killing contest, as an example, changed into invented by way of a Finnish businessman named Kai Kullervo Salmijarvi as a summertime diversion for his children.

“I think we pass a bit loopy inside the summer,” said Hanna Vehmas, a sports activities sociologist at the University of Jyvaskyla. “Mix that with alcohol, and perhaps we need to compete a little bit.”

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