#originally this concept was a clock with the spinning hands behind it but it looked Bad

[rhythmmortis]

day 2: a character you'd want to cameo

#kingdom hearts #kh #ymx #kh3 #kh4challenge #i procrastinated this one for a whole month<3 #there's still some glaring mistakes im not happy with but i refuse to work on it more #originally this concept was a clock with the spinning hands behind it but it looked Bad #i would like to see our collective dipshit failson again though!! i think he might come back #can he come back with a less detailed keyblade though please. editing that thing was HELL

[yeyinde]

infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) | reincarnation AU

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (OG) x Reader | Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (Remake) x Reader

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

MATURE | 18+ —TAGS: AU, canon divergence: reincarnation; fluff; tagging as fem!Reader due to usage of "bonnie" (not a name—Reader is not named), and mentions of a dress but no other descriptive imagery is used —WARNINGS: grief, loss, unhealthy coping mechanisms, existential crisis, allusions to smut; cosmic horror (but??? it's a romance????) —WORD COUNT: 11,9K —NOTES: I like the idea of fated pairs, soul mates, but I can't write this concept without somehow diving into the cosmic horror of something, someone, controlling you from behind the scenes. So. Um. Idk what to call this abomination. It leaks horror but is meant to be quite fluffy. It's romance. It's a love story. But it's also kinda eldritch. Oops.  This was also originally a request I got back in November (I'm so sorry!). I have since lost the request, but Reincarnation Anon, this is for you!!! 🖤

In Greek, there are two words for time: 

Kronos—chronological, the clock: fixed—measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. The world runs on Kronos. On its merciless rigidity, it's apathetic, unending trek forward. It is cruel, sometimes, but it cares little for you, or anyone else who exists inside its unforgiving realm. Time is linear. A steady March. 

And then there is Kairos. In its essence, and in utter simplicity: timelessness. 

It's often found in grief when the world around you shatters and implodes. When it lapses into pain and agony. Into how and why and—

Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters. 

You've never experienced any such loss. Gran, grandad, friends, family—all alive and well. And yet—

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before. 

And then you find him.

Or, rather, he finds you. 

(Over and over and over again—)

It starts in university. 

Start, of course, is an operative word. It's an incipient event: a slow burn in the back of your head that gets hotter and hotter, but you can't quite discern why. You just feel wrong. Shaken. The foundation in which you walk wobbles. Crumbles. 

There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone. You know it's there—are aware of the yawning chasm that wants to swallow you whole, but you don't know where it is. 

And then—

There is no phone call, no blunt condolences for any particular loss, just—

A knock on your door. It's just your flatmate, but the rhythm cuts through your head, right down the middle. 

Agony. The world around you flips, topples off its axis, and just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning—

It hits you with the force of a tsunami. A deluge of biblical proportions that uprooted everything you'd ever know, casting you out into a frothing abyss, ravaged by mountain-tall waves that left you asunder. Awash in a tumultuous sea.

It would make sense, you suppose, had you lost someone, but you haven't. 

The most you've lost was a pet. 

And yet—

You sob, scream, and claw at your chest until your skin is torn and shredded, trying futilely to get to where it hurts the most. It's agonising. Brutal. They sedate you—no choice is given when you're so frantic, so desperate. The world slips away. The pain abated. 

But it doesn't stop it. 

They call it grief, and you don't know why. You haven't lost anyone. Mum, dad, gran, grandad. All alive and well. All there, standing clustered around your hospital bed (admitted when you wouldn't stop screaming) looking quite bewildered by you. By the things you say—missing something, someone, gone, just gone—and the way you're acting. 

And it scares you just as much as it does them, but you can't just push it aside, let it go. There is a gaping hole in your chest, one punched straight through your sternum. It's gangrenous, and rotting; the stench makes you dizzy, makes your head spin. Your heart is necrotising between your ribs and spine, but no one knows why. No one understands the agony you feel because everyone is alive. 

They all say the same: we don't know. Depression, perhaps. You just need time. 

Time does nothing to heal the wound. You can't run from the hurt—it's never-ending—but you get better at hiding it, at dealing with pulpy remains of your still-beating heart that slugs on despite the mouldering wound ripped open in the centre. 

They tell you it's Thursday, now. 

Before you'd throw something, thrash, and scream yourself hoarse because what does it matter when your heart is dying, decaying inside of your chest. 

Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it? 

Time doesn't exist to you anymore. It's just an endless stream of days and nights that get easier to withstand as the foreign clock on the wall ticks down the seconds you don't feel. 

The world is a murky haze of confusion and pain. You move on only because you have to. 

Things—

Well. They don't get better, but they get bearable, and you suppose that's the same thing, isn't it? 

And then you dream. 

They come in flashes. Snippets. Little moments of a place and time that doesn't exist, that isn't real. This life was not one you lived. The taste of elderberry has never graced your lips, but you think of the sweet, tartness like it's an old comfort. 

It makes you ache. 

Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—

—you should… you should sit for this—

Crushing heartache. It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss. 

—i… i can't promise you forever, but i can promise you now—

You dream of a man. Of hands on your body. Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something. 

Something, something—

You wake up, hand to your splitting chest as the agony rips it into pieces. Heartache, grief. It drapes itself over you like a storm cloud. Looming there, ever-present, and ready to chisel open a deluge of pain so visceral you weep. And weep. And—

Your pillow is wet. Nose stuffed, eyes gritty. You've been crying, sobbing, in your sleep again. 

It's a cycle. Memories flood your head until it's splitting apart at the seams, making room for that life it wants to force you to remember, acknowledge, and pretend exists, and one you're in now. 

It breaks something inside of you. Cracks the levee. In the midst of crumbling concrete, and a roaring deluge, you hear a voice. 

(You stare at the bottles lining the shelves in your vanity, and tell no one.)

—excuse me? You dropped this—

HERE

There is a tavern on High Street. 

It's nothing special on its own. Just a building, just a pub. You pass it twice a day on your commute to work, and it should be background noise. A blur of scenery and objects as you stroll through the streets. A melding of the world around you, an inconsequential smear of cobblestone and brick. 

And yet—

Your eyes keep finding it, seeking it out. It's involuntary. Automatic. You pass the grocer and the pharmacy, head angled down toward the grey stone below, and then, like an unignorable force, a gravitational pull, your head lifts. The fairy lights are strewn around the outside coruscate in the gloom. You nearly trip. 

It's strange. Odd. 

It's just a building. Just a tavern. 

—got some of the best brews in town—

But you remember it. Are familiar with it in a way that makes absolutely no sense. You've never gone inside, never heard anyone speak about it. It's a building on a street of many. Ordinary. Plain. Nothing about this place should stand out to you. It isn't eye-catching or garish. It's—

—cosy little spot—

It's an anomaly. Much like—

Well. Much like everything in your life. 

There is a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, one that's so achingly familiar that your head swims from deja vu that shouldn't exist. It fits inside like an augur. A portant. 

How can the unknown be a comfort to you? How can it blister your heart with such ferocity that you find yourself pawing at your face to stem the deluge of tears that cascade down your cheeks in rivets? 

Whatever it is, it's calamitous and entirely unignorable. 

Your life is asunder, in shambles because of it yet each hiss in your ear addles your thoughts until you become overwhelmed by it all. Until the echoes that tell you to wander down a random side street, sign a lease for an apartment you can't afford, to leave the safety of your home country, and—

On a whim, you packed your things up on the behest of that strange, Eldridge feeling eating you alive that made you cut ties with your old, peaceful life, and book the first plane ticket to Elgin. No plan, no money. 

(You'd call it an afflatus had it not been so drenched in the unknown.)

It's paradoxical: you cry when you see that stupid church in the distance, your feet drag you to places you've never been before, and now. 

Now: 

You can't stop staring at a nondescript pub in a sea of many. 

Ignore it. Leave it. You take another route, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket to keep them from trembling. It'll pass. It'll go away. 

It doesn't. 

It pools in the pit of your stomach, noxious and rotten, until you wake up drenched in sweat, hands grasping for a phantom who no longer exists—

—wanna come with me?—

You break on Saturday. 

—i like when you wear that dress—

You wear it, and hate yourself a little bit for it. It's stupid, and out of place, but you do it, anyway. 

—booth in the back is where i always sit, want to come join me—

The inside of the tavern is just the same as you remembered it—

No. No. 

You've never been here before. 

You smell malt in the air; the same amber that spumes in your veins. You dance in circles between the tables, giggling at the people who smear by in a haze of gold and red. 

A hand reaches, snags your waist. "Where are you going, pretty thing? Wanna come sit with us?"

It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—

"There a problem?" Heat against your bare back. Ironclad arms around your middle. His voice is a rumble. A thunderclap. "She's with me. Go on now. Get."

You pull away from him, smirking, and—

The air is punched from your lungs. Longing sits in your throat, heavy and thick. It aches. God, it aches. A phantom pain that never quite dissipates. A raw wound left to fester; exposed and open to the elements. It never heals. Never scabs. It oozes grief and headache into your bloodstream and makes you feel lost. Dazed. Confused. 

It's silly. 

Stupid. 

The warm blends of burnt umber and gold make you tremble. Everything inside is—familiar, in all the ways it shouldn't be. 

You can't be here. Can't—

Something quivers inside of you. The sting of a guitar being plunked by indelicate hands. It snaps, breaks. You turn, eyes wild, wide—

—hey, where are you—

"...goin'—?"

A chest. Warm. Familiar. 

Your neck aches when you jerk your chin up, hands beaded against the hard, firm flesh of a stranger who feels all too familiar, too—

Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—

"Honey…"

It's out before you can stop it. 

Green and golden widen until they're drowning in a sea of arsenic white. An island of bloom, spring, carved in the middle of a barren, icy land. Lids fall, lashes dust across the shadows of the valley smeared beneath the red seal of his lower lash line. 

Your breath catches when they slide open, a slow crawl over a varicoloured plume of witch elm and wheat. 

—dark eyes, a furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips—

No. No. 

It's different. This isn't the man who haunts your dreams and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. This is not the cut of a man who once curled his fingers over your hips, lips glued to your pulse as he spent himself inside of you—

Heat sears your cheeks. 

His mouth opens, and closes. Opens again. No words spill out. His confusion is an oppressive silence. 

You swallow down the bitter tang of panic that pools on your tongue, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt. 

This isn't that man. 

He just—

"Sorry," you think you say, but it's all a blur. There was a blue ravine in his eyes, one with shallow shores, and crystalline waves that rippled with the breeze. You're sinking in those waters, now. Dragged down to the murky depths of blue, blue, blue that once made you see samsara with just the brush of his lips. Everything sounds distorted. Hollow. 

—you make me crazy. make me want things i shouldn't. Riley thinks i'm whipped. kinda agree with him, but i can't let you go. i can't get you outta my head, and i don't want to—

"Sorry—," you choke, the words a crumpled piece of paper lodged in your throat. Papier-mache seals over your trachea. 

You push away from him, stumbling out of this paroxysm. Flames lick at your heels, carrying you further from the laps of blue that flicker over beige. 

He chases after you. A warm hand around your wrist stops you on the corner outside of a pharmacy. The streets are dusted in white. It trickles from the sky in a thick hail of cosmic dust. 

His breath plumes in front of him when he breathes, pure white tendrils ghosting into the midnight blue silk that covers the town. 

"Hey, you alright? Can I—call someone for you, or—"

"No." You gasp, shaking your head so fast, you're nearly sick with it. 

"Hey, hey." His hand moves, perches itself against your cheek, eyes brimming in the flushed lamp overhead. His brow is drenched with concern. With confusion. And anger. Anger—why, why—

"Did someone drug you? Did you drink anythin'?" 

It rips a bark of laughter from your chest. "Drugs? No. I'm just—"

Spiralling. 

You make a vague motion with your wrist, and hope it's enough to convey the absolute travesty of your life. It meets the mark. 

The divot in his forehead softens, eyes creasing in the corners. Full pink lips knot to the side. Something passes his expression that looks a little too much like understanding to ever sit well in the pit of your stomach. 

You swallow down the acrid residuum of panic, and nod. Why—who knows. It just feels appropriate. 

"I need to go—"

"—I like your dress."

The words tumble over each other, barely coherent amid the amalgamated syllables, but ring with distinct clarity in your head. Your dress. Your brows knot, eyes dropping to the stupid little thing you'd picked out in a shop you had no business being inside. Led by the nose. A puppet on strings. 

You scoff. "I hate it."

You don't. You'd have picked it out yourself if you had that funny little thing called freewill; that precious little something you'd left behind in a dorm on a university campus you haven't thought of in years. 

"It's, ahh—," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes skirting toward the bar you fled from. "It's pretty."

Pretty. 

"Oh…," you say, quite intelligently. "You can have it if you want." 

It's only when his brows buoy to his hairline do you realise the innuendo within that. 

The fire inside dies. Doused with the waters of Acheron.

"Sorry—"

"—'dunno if it'd look as good on me as it does you, bonnie."

Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie. 

"What—what did you call me—?"

He blinks. "Oh, it's not—," his hand slides away from his neck, scrubbing over the stubble on his jaw. He looks bashful, almost. The man in your dreams is—

Reserved. Cool waters. A rock. 

"It's just a nickname, it's not—it's not anythin' weird, I promise."

A nickname. You should have known that, you suppose; but like many things, it slips, silken and liquid, through the cracks wrought by paradox. 

"Right." Your nails dig into your palms, cutting the flesh until your fingers puddle with something warm, wet. Tacky. The breath you suck in between clenched teeth is a sharp hiss. "I should go."

"Ah, yeah," his brows tighten again, jaw ticking. He looks uncomfortable, unsure. Concerned. His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. And that—

That is familiar. 

You swallow down mildew and honeysuckle. Heart lurching in your chest, a painful crescendo that echoes to the whispered beat of soft words in your head. 

—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—

"Can I at least make sure you get home safe?"

You can't. You can't—

There is a tavern on High Street that you've been to before in a dream, where you are taken to by a man with a distance in the crook of his smile; a degree of separation that makes you yearn. It pulled you in, gravity and magnetism and that primal something that they often talk about in wordy biology papers you can't understand. 

Maybe it's the chemical slurry in your head—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—all mixing together, and polluting your rationale, but it made a shade of roseate fall over your eyes; veiled like a Magellanic cloud. Through the startling nebulae and cosmic radiation, he loomed. Your fingers reached out, latching on to him, and you pulled him into your orbit. 

The reservations slipped, dulled by the way you fit against him. A missing piece. A complimentary artefact. His edges softened until he looked at you with nothing but warmth, affection. 

And then—

Then:

Three knocks in halted succession. Military precision. Boom, boom, boom. 

A man stood before you, achingly familiar in his mutton chops and hat. The gleam of his metals—chest candy—caught in the setting sun. Ochre, gold. You think of him, and you smile. Was smiling when you peeled back the curtain to greet him. 

It wavers. Your heart aches for that person standing in the doorway; you from a dream. 

It drags in slow motion. He takes his hat off, and cups it on his chest. 

—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—

Then—

"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."

Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you. 

It's your turn to walk away.

And so, you do. 

(He doesn't follow. You don't know why you expected him to.)

—be patient with me, Bonnie. my job is my life. my everything, but you–you're my—

It doesn't rain—a rarity in Elgin—but the scent of wet soil, petrichor, clings to the air. 

It isn't raining, but it feels like it should.

You don't expect to see him again. 

And why would you? There are so many people in Elgin, so many men. The chances of finding him again—shaggy mohawk; kind, amber eyes—were nearly impossible. Infinitesimal, really. 

So, you push him to the far reaches of your mind, and try not to dwell on the stranger that smells so strongly of coumarin that your head still feels dizzy from the scent of golden wheat fields in the spring and sycamore when you breathe in some mornings.

Out of sight, out of mind. 

A familiar stranger in a foreign land.

But you should have known better than to expect anything in this strange purgatory you’ve slipped inside where dreams are sometimes a reality, and you can’t stop comparing a hazy figure in your mind, someone you might have loved in a distant life you have no memory of, to a stranger who slots himself into your path like he was meant to be there all along. 

It starts three days later. 

You tuck a book under your arm, and walk the unfamiliar path to a small cafe you’ve never dreamed of, have no lingering sense of recognition in the small building. 

Safe, you think. 

And then—

Blooming honeysuckle. The heady scent of coumarin. Salt, amber. 

He crashes into your life again, and again, always with the same expression of happy surprise when recognition bleeds into wheat-tinged eyes. 

He offers a wide smile, a little wave, and seems unbothered by a dizzying sense of unease that sweeps through each uncanny meeting, each strange divergence of paths always, always, leading to each other. 

In the produce section of the grocery store halfway across town, he holds an unripened apricot and grins at you over the yellow sign above (30% off!). The colourful anchor in Cooper Park, where he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes listing toward the swans in the background, drifting idly over the dark water. At the counter in a Turkish restaurant, laughing at something the waiter says as he takes his bag of takeout. 

You turn down a random sidestreet, trying to navigate the tight, claustrophobic streets of Elgin, and he's there, suddenly, at the end. Legs thrown over the seat of a sleek motorcycle, fingers toying with the clasp of his helmet. Wander into a shop, and he's already sat at the table. Reach for a carton of eggs in Tesco's and his hand bumps against yours as he tries to grasp the same. 

You hear his voice crackling through the concrete. A whisper in the back of your head. The grit, the cadence, is so different from the man you dreamed about, the hazy spectre who haunts you, that you know, instantly, that it's him. The man whose only resemblance to the ghost latching onto you is his eyes, the hairstyle. The scent. The familiarity blooms in his proximity. Two strangers sharing the same essence of a soul. 

He drives past you on his motorcycle, wanders down the same alleyway, boards the same train, and gets off at the same station. 

A living phantom. 

It's always the same, too. His eyes always shift, somehow catching yours. Easily, effortlessly, finding you even in the midst of a crowded shop, a bustling park, or a loud eatery. 

Each time, you run. And keep running. 

And then once, you catch him. 

He leans with his forearm resting on the railing of a mezzanine at dusk. His wrist resting on the iron, fingers gripping the nozzle of a lagger that dangles over the edge. 

Behind him, music spills out from inside the flat. French doors spread wide open, leaking the whisper of a party into the warm air. 

No one joins him. He doesn't look back. 

His chin is pointed up toward the varicoloured sky streaked with lavender and pink and blood orange. Eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. A field of wheat against the midnight blue gloom of an approaching storm. 

It's mesmerising. 

Despite the urge to run, you stop. Can't help yourself, really. Not when your heart cracks at the expression on his face, eyes drawn tight, brows pinched. Full of—

Longing. 

Like a magnet, then, his gaze drops to the ground where you stand, clutching your book so hard, your joints ache. 

His hand lifts, fingers still curled in a loose fist, and he gives you a lazy wave from above, lips pulling back into that same wide, infectious, grin. Happy—for some inexplicable reason—to see you, his own little poltergeist. 

You hesitate for a moment, burning the image of him in your retinas where he'll stay, a permanent scar, in the black puddles for you to see again when you close your eyes, or look into a mirror. Another ghost. 

And then you turn. Run. 

(He doesn't try to stop you. He never does.)

It is almost clockwork.

The same soft hazel eyes creased lightly in the corners. Broad shoulders are hunched as he gazes down at his phone resting on the countertop. His brows are furrowed today. Irritation bleeds in the crevasse. 

Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out. 

(It doesn't surprise you that you can feel the phantom warmth of his finger under your flesh.)

It's strange. All of this is. Paradoxical, really. 

You know him. You don't. You've never met him before. You know he'd taste of honeysuckle. 

There is a war in your mind. A long, drawn-out battle. 

(No victor in the carnage.)

You should walk away, leave, like all the times before when you'd spotted him, and ran, but:

Frozen. Paralysed. 

You can't move. Can't—

—maybe, you're just tired of running—

—maybe, i'm just waiting for you to catch up—

His head lifts, and he catches sight of you before you can run. Hazel flashes in recognition. Spotted, you think; but it doesn't matter, it doesn't. 

He isn't waiting for you—

His chin lifts, a smile crooking on the corner of his mouth. 

—you'll be waiting a long time, Bonnie—

You want to run, but you can't. Can't. All you can do is watch as he slides out of the booth, hands shoved into his pockets, and makes his way to you. Tucked into the corner near the counter, away from everyone, everything, but he still spotted you. Still noticed. Still—

"Hi," he greets, low and cautious, like he's trying his best not to startle you. His eyes crinkle. "Didn't expect t'see you again."

You shouldn't be here. "Yeah," you say, instead, huffing. "I, uh… life is pretty funny that way, isn't it?" 

His brow furrows together at your words, eyes darkening with something you can't place. An unknowable emotion, hidden from your prying eyes. You think of him, then, and see the similarities you tried so desperately to ignore each time you saw him. Each time you ran. 

"Aye, it does." 

You should leave him here. Turn around, flee. Forget this place, this microcosm that blooms, and spreads over parts of Elgin you know so intimately; sure, somehow, that you'll find your fingerprints smeared across the ruins despite never having been there before.

Little pieces of yourself. Shedded skin, hope, dismay, peace. Longing. Laughter. It echoes through the tight webs of cobblestone buildings, bouncing playfully off of the pilasters and balustrades, the wrought iron fences, the fanlights, forever embedded in the grout. 

If you go there now, in that beautiful divisional line between new Georgian and old Baronial, you'll hear it whispering through the alcoves, a tantalising sound that rents the air in two. 

But it shouldn't. Can't. 

You've never been there, or here, or anywhere else that wasn't the winding path from your rented flat to the tavern, and the place you eked out from stone to support the vagary of moving to a whole new place for a dream. A feeling. 

And yet—

You taste malt in the air. Smell the barley, the sickly sweet scent of wet dirt on the slick pavement. 

It's familiar in your olfactory senses. Petrichor. Loam. Humus. It congeals in the slick mortar, clinging to the moss that weaves over the old concrete. 

If you looked down, you'd find a little weed growing through a crack beneath your feet, and so, you fix your eyes up, ahead, and try not to weep when the swooping sense of deja vu nearly knocks you off your feet.

But the only thing ahead of you is him. Expectant, curious. He looks at you like he knows you, like he can peel back the skittish layers that cling to your skin until you're shiny and new again. 

It's too much. Intense. Hazel. 

Your gaze drops, fixed on the rounded points of your shoes. There is no pavement beneath your feet—just scuffed linoleum. 

"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?" 

His voice carries that same heft, that same weight, as the look in his eyes. A strange approximation of wariness and steeled scepticism, blanketed together by intrigue. Curiosity. Concern. 

"No." 

It sounds uncertain. A white lie that crackles in the air between you, nestled amid the sound of chatter muted in the background, as if someone turned the radio on in a different room. Everything seems to contort, and shift around you when he's near. 

A little microcosm eked out inside a cafe you've never been to but know, innately, what you'd order, and what you would recommend. 

"Well," he dips his head like he's trying to catch your eye, and when you lift your chin, the flash of teeth nearly makes your knees buckle. He's softer when he smiles. "How 'bout lettin' me get t'know you then?" 

It's a bad idea etched into the cold marble of a headstone.  

Your mouth opens, but the word that chews through your teeth isn't no, but yes. 

And fuck—

Something in his gaze shifts. Noctilucent eyes widen, staring down at you like he somehow didn't expect a yes at all, and was bracing for the harsh impact of no. 

"Well—" he starts, but the words fall into ash when you duck your head to avoid the crevasse of hazel washed out in flushed gold. "What's your number? I'll call you when m'free next, and we can—"

"Sure," you cut in, hand sliding into your pocket. The cold metal of your phone burns the tips of your fingers when you pull it out. It feels a little bit like a mistake when you hand it over, but he says nothing about the way your hand shakes when he takes it from you. 

His brows draw together in a childish concentration as he taps away at the screen. The artificial light, dimmed as low as possible, brightens the craggy ravines that cut across an emerald tinged boscage; sunlight splitting a lush valley of yellow and green. His puckered lips, the flash of a deep red tongue swiping across his sun-chapped mouth, seems designed to appeal to your baser desires. The one that knows how he'd taste if you pressed you let your tongue grace the tip of his, and can feel the weight of his hands on your flesh. 

He'd hold your hips like he was anchoring you to the earth: tight, warm, and a little bit desperate as he devoured you whole. 

You shiver, and try to ignore the way his pupils bloom into pits of black eclipsing lightened hazel when his gaze settles, hot and heavy, at the brief brush of skin when you reach for your phone. 

"I'll call you," he says, low and strained, like he was choking on the words he wanted to say. "I'll call you as soon as I can, bonnie." 

You nod. It's all you can offer with your heart scrambling up your throat, pulsing furiously against your trachea. 

His nails scrape the skin of your palm when he curls his fingers into a fist, and pulls away. 

"I'll see you around." 

It's not a choice, you want to say. You nod instead. Choke out an equally strained, yeah, and fight the urge to follow him when he finally pulls away. 

"Are you ready to order?" 

The world bursts back into sound, colour. You blink rapidly against the light that seems harsher now than that it did when he was blocking out the sun. 

"Uh, yeah—"

The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds. 

You order tea instead. 

(It tastes like defeat.)

You only stop running when you can't anymore. When the murmuration in your head turns into screams, and the white-hot agony of grief, of yearning, threatens to make your knees buckle and your bruised heart give. 

You stop, letting him finally catch up. 

(Somehow, somehow, you feel lost and found at the same time.)

His name is Johnny MacTavish. He tells you this over dinner at some upscale restaurant that feels out of place on the old side of Elgin where the walls bleed history, and stink of old bones, and funeral dirt. 

Over a steaming dish of shrimp scampi and burgundy wine that makes your head spin and belly churn, you wonder why it doesn't feel new to you when he murmurs it. 

(A bit late, you find, since you've been texting rather infrequently since you gave him your number three days ago.)

Names never mentioned. Somehow, they didn't have to be. Until now. Until there was emptiness at the end of his question when he posed it, hazel eyes bright and blooming under the hushed yellow glare of the coruscating chandelier hanging above your heads. 

It feels a touch too late when you share your names over dinner despite already knowing he's in the military—opinions clenched between aching teeth and a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes—and that he normally adorns a Mohawk when he's on missions, but grows it out, rather haphazardly, when he's home. 

Everything between you and him seems to happen in reverse: fears, wants, and worries are known before his given name; the touch of his skin on yours, the taste of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the weight of his palms holding your hips as he buries himself as deep as he can go in a haunting sequence of memories that bare their teeth at the starkness of reality holding them at bay. All of this before you've ever even touched him with your bare hands. 

There's a strange listlessness that envelopes you—a tangled web that spools around you, trapping you in this realm of hypnagogia. The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe. 

It's not meant to be this way, you think, watching as he feigns not knowing the name that slips between your numbed lips in the same manner you had only moments ago. Traps surprise in the tilt of his chin, but the display is largely done out of some unspoken agreement that this paradox does exist, and the emotion is fleeting. Temporal. He cloves it down the middle, and discards the excess as soon as you look away. 

(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)

He knows more than he lets on, but you don't begrudge him his secrets—not when you have to turn your gaze back to the curled shrimp on your plate to avoid reminding him he prefers fish over crustaceans when he makes a face at the steamed scallops, and should have ordered the Maple Crusted Salmon instead. 

Like he didn't before, in a life you've never lived. In a place that mirrors this world. 

(It isn't something you should know, but you do. You do.)

You know more than that, too: whispers late at night when he couldn't sleep—internal clock still stuck halfway around the world—and urges you into playing a dangerous game of asking questions of each other when pieces of truth buoy in the dark like bobbing for poisoned apples in a barrel. 

You have to erase the words when you type them out, preemptively answering questions he'd never asked yet, and filling in the blanks to ones you posed yourself. 

Odd, you think. Strange, and weird, and macabre in that way that only deja vu gnarling between the broken crevasse of your grey matter can imbue. 

People don't just—

Know each other. 

And yet—

"They call me—"

"Soap." 

Your eyes snap up. A misstep. A grievous one. You've both been content to ignore this paradoxical magnetism that draws you together like eager poles, unable to stay away (not by choice or freewill, but some design that has no place in rigid structures of reality), and you broke it. Trampled over the unspoken rule left to linger in the foreground while you navigated around it like some misshapen elephant in the way. 

He tries to hide the suspicion, the surprise, but it falls between the empty space of his plate (food he only ordered because he's never been here before despite the familiarity that bleeds from the walls like condensation in June) and the ledge. A proverbial precipice that you leaped down; the steep incline filled with detritus and broken shale sharp enough to carve skin, muscles, from shattered bone. 

You want to swallow the words down, but they sit—innocuous and damning—between the salt and pepper shakers where his hand twitches, curls into a tight fist, knuckles bleaching under the strain of reeling himself in. Joints, cartilage, bulging through translucent skin. Reddened around the angry peaks of distrust and wariness; a summit you're not sure how to descend from now that you've crossed the arching tops. 

(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)

"How—" his voice is gravel, lavascape. Jagged rocks. Lakes of sulphuric acid. "How did you know that?" 

His accent thickens when he's angry. You wonder if he knows that. 

"I—" 

Excuses float like moots in front of you. You reach out, grasping for one, but it dances away in the turbulent wake you leave behind. You bite your tongue until it tastes of oxidised pennies, and then shrug. Nonchalant. Indifferent. Fear curls in your gut. Military, right. You wonder what you'll say if they arrest you for treachery. That you dreamed about him? Stupid. Stupid.  

"You told me," you murmur, eyes downcast and heavy, fixed on the bloody cup of wine you don't like, and trying to find solace in your downfall. "I think. I just remembered it from somewhere." 

It makes no sense, and the weak explanation would crumple like damp papier-mâché if he pressed, even just slightly, against it. A single touch, and the house of cards you built from the ground up on nonsensical lies will come crashing down around you. 

He shouldn't entertain it. Shouldn't let it go. 

"Yeah." But he does. "I must'a, huh?"

When you look up, you catch keen hazel eyes, sharp and pointed like the curved talons of a hawk. Johnny MacTavish is many things, you learn, but stupid, guileful, naïve is none of them. 

"Yeah," you echo hollowly, and give another shrug. "Guess so. It's, ah, an interesting nickname."

The clumsy barb seems to break the surmounting tension, and the pieces fall around you like poisoned raindrops, staining your skin. 

A reminder, then, when it crawls down your throat, that this balancing act can't last forever. That, eventually, your excuses will run dry. Empty. They'll be picked at and poked until they burst like a waterlogged, bloated corpse drifting aimlessly down the Nile. 

"Not the only thing that's interesting about me, bonnie," he says in a way that bleeds boyish charm, but his grin is wide, wild, and untamed. White teeth, sharp canines. You think of a wily fox on the prowl, and reach, reflexively, for the glass of wine, swallowing it down like a lifeline. "But I'm beginnin' t'think y'know that already, don't ye?"

It's a threat. A warning. 

You stare down in the half-empty glass of burgundy, the same colour red as the papercut on your index finger, and try to read the beads of crimson that run down the glass in a bloodied rivulet as if the answer could be found somewhere in the liquid. 

(Crystal Ball. Crystal glass. It's all the same, isn't it?)

"Not really," is what you eventually settle for, hedging through the murk that swims before you, an unsettling fen of unknowns and praeternatural happenings that you no longer than chalk up to happenstance. 

Kismet. 

Horror. 

Some cosmic merging of the two. 

It's all—

Absurd. 

And when you politely whisper to him that he should have gotten the salmon, you can't help but notice the ravines in his eyes widen slightly, the chasm growing and gaping, and taking on new shapes in the boscage that blooms like a familiar friend. 

(Kismet, indeed.)

He tries to pretend he doesn't know what the maple salmon tastes like, but slips up when the waiter passes by, and says it was good the last time. 

You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth. 

He stands with his hands in his pocket, rocking back and forth. The uncertainty in his brow is swallowed by the tendrils of pleased excitement that knot over his expression, unable to hide his glee when the hazel of his eyes glow brighter than the sun. 

Isn't this strange, you ache to say, words painted with the aftertaste of brine—sea, salt, and sand that are so uniquely him—but they, too, are swallowed down. 

The urge to lacerate the bubbles of complacency, feigned normalcy, are eclipsed by the raw shock of seeing him happy. Of wanting to make him happy. This stranger in a strange land. 

So, you offer some facsimile of a smile when he asks, words pushed out through a wide grin; infectious, if you had a good time. 

"Yeah," you say, and know that this word, this blase affirmative is quickly becoming your faultline through this mess. The thread keeping you sane, keeping you steady. 

It's at the curve of the word when everything else in the world is devoured by the shadow cast under his magnetic glow. The bright yawn of the sun in shades of white teeth catching on some ephemeral magic still dancing within the aether. Atoms spark. 

You try to run from it, ignore it, but your core teeters on the edge of instability. You think of neurons. Protons. Criticality. Something inside of you heats to almost half of the degree of the sun, sweltering and unrelenting. Pulsing, blue-hot. 

"That's good," he husks, eyes lidded and heavy. "I did, too. Whaddya think about doin' it again w'me?" 

It blooms. A great, scorching mushroom cloud plumes in midnight black in the milky white of your eyes.

You shuffle through the darkness, the artificial, comic night, and try to pat at the walls until you find something familiar in terror, the gnawing sense of loss that permeates through your pericardium, thrumming like a mourning toll. 

Sightless, you nod. "I'd love to."

And you mean it, too.

(Damn you. Damn you—)

Despite that tangled web that snakes around your jugular, twinning threads between the two of you, Johnny MacTavish is relentless in his pursuit. 

Where someone else might have shivered at the ghosts that brim in the tenebrous of your pupils, lurking in the untouched corners where your fingerprints stain the sediment, he lingers. Stays. Fixes himself in your path, and refuses to acquiesce to the whims of the world that keep stringing you along like reluctant puppets to some unseen, unknown marionette. 

It's almost charming in its own right, and really—when has a man fought so hard just to simply coexist in the space you deign yours? When has he torn nails from their beds, clawing at the walls that stand tall and proud, a protective tower of ashlar and dread around you until it starts to give. Until the stone crumbles away under his bloodied fingers. 

But as potent as his statement is, it gnarls inside your stomach like a poisoned seed. 

Bending to the demands of whatever this paradoxical realm goes against every fibre of your common sense that you recoil, almost, for just allowing him the scant space he occupies in your proximity. 

It's a deranged pantomime with some unseen force at the helm, conducting the madness with fingers drenched in whimsy and fate. Notched between its knuckles is the mockery of freewill and choice as it pulls you around a soundstage set in a place you've never been. It makes you dance. Amused god, eldritch horror. It takes pleasure in your discomfort, and glee in your fickle humanity. Weaving webs of tangled kismet until the silken threads are pulled taut and there is no more room, not a single atom, between your body and his. 

A nameless, faceless playwright with you as its shining star. 

Hapless leads stuck in an unending beat, a cantastoria, waiting for the shoe, the curtain, or anagnorisis to drop. 

You want to run again, but your feet are glued to the floor. Tangled in webs, threads of abstract concepts your mind threatens to come undone at the mere thought of. A cosmic sense of surrealism: crushing helplessness. 

This is horrific and terrific in equal measure, but the ache, the agony, of distance hurts more. And so, you stay. Watch as the curtain shudders over his eyes. As the etchings of complacency seem to gnarl in the tussock that line the expansive valley. He looks at you and doesn't see the awful truth nestled in the scant distance between your flesh, unable to be apart for too long. He sees you, somehow, and for him, that's enough. Enough. 

Johnny smiles at you, seemingly unbothered by the precariousness of this dance you're caught inside. In this strange equinox where you can answer questions he hasn't asked, and know things he hasn't said. Where you catch yourself leaning closer, starved for a touch you haven't forgotten despite never experiencing yourself. 

He's content, then, chasing the whims of a ghost, reaching for a fantastical dream in the head of another. 

But as content as he is, Johnny MacTavish is a hard man to catch, you think, noting the distance in his eyes, the arm's length of space he keeps between the version of him not haunted by the wants of ghosts, but such an easy man to love. To fall for. 

He balms the panic—that world-ending sense of uncertainty that nips at your heels—and makes you forget, sometimes, that there is more to him, and more to you, than anyone else could ever know. 

He's kind. Charming. 

A little space inside of your head is eked out just for him, and you find yourself hating that person for falling for some version of him first. Loathe them just a little bit more with each effortless grin he sends your way for tainting the experience of knowing him yourself. 

But you wonder, when he turns away, hiding the shadows in his eyes, and the pinch in his brow, if you really, truly know him. 

Or if the face he's wearing belongs to a phantom.

The dance continues. 

Your feet move to a soundless beat, steps preordained in a sequence lived world's ago. Nothing can feel surprising when you know a man so intimately without more than a touch, when you feel the burn of winter's chill in the middle of summer, and long so desperately for someone you just met. 

Nothing is new, and yet everything is novice. A paradox awakening with each gravitational pull to him, this man who looks only vaguely like the phantom who lives in your head, and tastes of longevity between your teeth. 

An arranged romance. Possession by ghosts who want to drive your bodies until they can live again, and love in tandem, vicariously through your living flesh. 

It makes sense to you, then, to call for an exorcism. 

(It just surprises you that Johnny does it first.)

Johnny has his secrets, just like you have yours. A small morsel of agency after autonomy has been stripped from the bone. 

You see the shadows of those hidden things etched in the topography of his valley-filled gaze, crevasses and canyons that pitch themselves in the tenebrous, uncrossable to even you. 

He reaches for you through the murk, fingers threading through your own, hands trembling with the shock, the electric current that sizzles through your blood at the brush of bare skin against quivering flesh. His hands are rough—worker's hands—and chock full of callouses and cuts, multitudes of scar tissue packed tight on top of each other, a thick layer of a life you will never know. Don't want to know. 

He seems settled when you touch, finally, thumb brushing your skittish pulse point as if he could somehow calm the acrid panic in your chest. 

(And damn him, damn this, he does. He does—)

Magnets fixed together, locked tight. You feel like a conduit to his frenzy, his hidden mania, and feed your own through the line, the red string that ensnares you both in a tangled web, until it's buzzing with shared panic and serenity and joy and helplessness. A feedback loop of emotions too extreme, too flighty, to catch. They run in droves along the lines, weaving into your skin, your chest, your head, and then pulling away to do the same to him. 

His eyes are heavier than steel when he gazes at you, expression caught between relief and longing and fear and—

Something, something. You can't pick it apart. Can't undo the tight knot until it spools, open and known, in the palm of your hands. Some unseen distance. It feels like standing at the highest peak of the valley and trying to make sense of the men in the tussock who look like mere ants from this high above. 

Is it happiness, you wonder. 

(Or maybe it's the same reluctance that wraps it's boney, gnarled fingers around your neck—)

It becomes too much. Too soon, too sudden. In the back of your head, you see images and flashes of a life not yet lived, a world still taking shape. You see him and you and a clock above some blue, broken bed. You see his smile, wide and elated, caught on the dawning sun spilling from the open curtains before it disappears under the covers, taking your laughter with it, stuck between his teeth. 

You see the past, the present. 

And your future. 

Cold. Barren. Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle.

Future. There's no future. 

Your chest twists. You let go of his hand and find bloody crescent moons embedded in a ring along his flesh, knuckles whitening under your harsh grip. He said nothing about the pain. The flicker of worry across his face is genuine, you think. Real. Current. 

You smell funeral dirt in your nose. The mud is called under your nails. 

You pull away. He lets you go. 

"I, uh," he breaks off into a soft huff, injured hand lifting to scratch at the back of his shorn nape. His eyes slide away from yours, listing seaward. Avoidance undercuts the arch in his brow, the sheepishness in his mien. It's his turn to run, you realise. 

"Glad I met you," he says instead, and it's a confession and a curse. 

A bonfire burns in the river that runs through the valleys in his eyes. It's pitched on the sandy shore: an ochre flicker in the cobalt hue that saturates the land. You see the dark peaks of the rolling hills in the distance, black shapes in draped blue. 

The river is calm. The fire burns a smear of orange across the tranquil surface, meeting the milky white glow of the moon. 

It makes you think of those nights in the zenith of summer, the ones that feel neverending. Timeless. A piece of your history etched in balmy melancholy. Alone in the great expanse with nothing but the trill of cicadas, and the echoing chirp of the crickets hidden in the lush grass below. 

The sky shifts. His eyes plume with lavender-tinged stratocumulus. 

"I really like you, bonnie." It's whispered in your ear, and you wish, oh, how you wish, you couldn't hear it. That you could block the words, and the world, out so that it never reaches you again. 

Sweet longing. Beautiful agony. 

Your heart races, and you wonder how an empty space can beat at all. Can feel anything when it's just a hollow chasm. 

A heat blooms under your skin, desperate and aching. This, this, is everything you've been looking for since your heart split free from its fleshy prison, and ran away to find him, tucking itself in the boscage that glows in the flame on the shores. It's hidden somewhere. The palpitations sound like a song. You could follow it, you think, and find its lovelorn shell nestled amongst the grass that sways to its beat, and tuck it back into your empty chest where it belongs. 

(But it belongs to him, now.)

And you—

You hesitate. 

The words well on your tongue, but you think of fate, of choice, and swallow them down. 

The flames in the distance flicker, growing dimmer and darker as the moments stretch on, unbroken and barren until it's snuffed out. Gone. 

What can you say? What could you say? 

Instead, you say nothing at all. 

Johnny leaves a piece of himself on the table when he walks away. 

(You don't pick it up.)

Johnny doesn't say anything at all when he brings you home, when he stands outside of the archway to your flat, eyes lidded and pensive. A smile snakes across his face, but it's brittle and full of uncertainty, and your fingers ache to smooth the rugged lines in his brow, in the stress in his shoulders. You push it down. Smile for him instead. 

"I'll see you later," you say, and wish the ghosts wailing in your head would drop dead. 

The valley is drenched in ink when he nods, catching your gaze. 

All black, black, black. 

No sounds escape. 

"Sure, bonnie." 

You dream, and when you dream, it's of him. 

He stands at the top of a hill, and when he smiles it's full of starlight so bright it could eclipse the sun. 

In his hand, you see a pair of shears. Your mouth opens, but no sound escapes.  

He says just one word—your name—and then he lifts his hand, and cuts the rope. The sutures knit your bodies together, the string that holds him to this mortal plane, falls in swaths of golden thread to the ground where they're devoured by the earth, dissolved into nothing. Gone, forever. 

There's distance now, and separation. Nothing ties you to him except space. 

You wake up with the ghost of a scream on your lips, and the feeling of silken threads dragging over your flesh. You reach for them, and catch nothing but air. 

Palm pressed to your chest, you feel the rapid pulse under your fingertips, and know that it's back. Back where it belongs. 

Belongs, but doesn't want to be. 

You think of Johnny. 

And you weep. 

He sends a text message, and for the first time since you've met him, it surprises you. Nothing should shock you with him, anymore. You know everything, anything, about him. 

Gonna be away for a bit. Should talk when I get back. 

You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands. 

You don't dance, and you don't dream. 

You wander down the streets of Elgin, and for the first time since you woke up screaming in your bed with ghosts wailing in agony inside of your head, you get lost. 

Johnny comes back a week later, eyes heavier than you'd ever seen them, and shoulders drawn tight together as he asks you why—

"Why'd'ya keep runnin'?" He asks, words pitched and heavy with something lour and aching, a phantom pain you know all too well. There's desperation in his eyes, a low keen settling in the depth of his throat, echoing with the clamour of his despair. "If you don't want this—;" don't want me: "—then just say so, bonnie, 'cause I ain't forcin' ya t'be w'me, I ain't gonna make you stay. You wanna leave, you can just go—"

Can't. Can't. 

"Johnny—"

"No, none o'that, now. You make up your mind, 'cause I ain't makin' it for ya. I ain't makin' ya do somethin' you don't want to, and I ain't—"

He's pleading, you think. Begging—

For this, this strange thing. This awful, broken calamity, this abomination in the face of free will and autonomy. Despite the rage that hums in your veins at the idea of being controlled, manipulated, he finds something worth chasing. Worth running for. 

Why?

And what?

And—

It comes in flashes, snippets. Fragmented pieces of bright eyes—brighter, maybe, than the sun—and warmth, one hot enough to burn but it doesn't, it won't, it soothes instead. Eases coiled muscles, and absorbs the lactic acid that leaks from shredded, knotted fibres. Hands on your body, on your skin: the press of rough fingertips over prickling flesh. A whisper of curiosity, the slow descent into affection, adoration. Plush lips pillowing sharp teeth, too reverent to ever leave a mark behind—part in fear of marring fragile skin, and—

Letting the ghost of permanence fester, take root, inside his chest where his heart beats—

Jus' f'r you, bonnie. Jus' you.

For once, the phantom touching your body isn't a dream, a half-lived fantasy in another world where a man-made you whole and then ripped you into pieces, letting the scattered fragments blow with the sharp winds howling through the highlands. You know the touch, remember it. Felt it. New, and tangible. A touch that never lingered, too afraid of letting something, something, stick. 

For once—

The snaps flashing, blindingly, through your synapses are not made of dream dust and kismet. 

And—

All at once, it shatters.

—you know, i never thought i'd say this before, but i—

(You were lost in Elgin, but when you see his face, you feel found—)

THERE—

There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish. 

Good things—kind, dedicated, driven—and bad things—bold, stoic, dogmatic—but one thing neither have in common is tardiness. Broken promises. 

So, when Johnny calls you in some distant land you've never heard of, and says: 

Things got bad. I might not—I might not be coming home.

You believe him. 

But the thing is: there's a difference between believing the words being said to you, and understanding their meaning. Your mind is not equipped to latch onto devastating blows with the same swiftness you do ignorant bliss. 

So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner. 

(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)

And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe. 

"Okay, Johnny," you say, and those words will come back to haunt you three days from now, when John Price shows up at your goddamn door, stupid bucket hat tucked tight to his chest, and rips your heart into pieces. 

But for as much as you are blissfully ignorant, your mind still understands nuance. They used to call it foresight, a sixth sense; hindsight. 

You add, softer than you've ever said the words: "I love you." 

His breath stutters through the line in response. A brief pause. And then—

"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."

It knocks something loose inside of you. Some primaeval thing that nestled in the safety of your ribs, moulting along your moon-white bones and glueing to the soft tissue that pulsed around it. It's shaken. Dislodged. 

It feels a little bit like your soul is being scraped off of bone. 

"Johnny—"

"—gotta go. We haven't heard from Roach or Riley in a while. I probably won't call tonight. So, don't wait for me, bonnie." 

The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.

You hate Johnny a little bit for this. For digging his roots deep into the soft chambers of your heart where it gnarled around your pericardium. A perfect little knot. A bow tied nice and pretty just for him. 

It makes it so much harder to bare when John fucking Price knocks on your door, stupid fucking bucket hat tucked tight against his chest, ghosts in his eyes, blood on his hands, and rips your heart into pieces until nothing but the rotten, dying roots remain. 

"I hate you so much right now," you hiss at the tombstone—the only thing you have left of him. "I hate you and I miss you and I wish you were here so I could—"

John finds you with your forehead pressed against the brass plaque, cheeks raw from the rivulets of tears that feel endless—a baptism in grief; in your tear ducts, Noah battles the biblical flood, and loses. 

Eyes that can't see past a shimmering hinterland of death and abject dismay are fixed, broken, against speckled granite. 

It's agony. The kind that makes it feel as if the marrow in your bones turned into a corrosive liquid, molten and devastating, and burst through brittle, hollow bone. 

Price, you've come to realise, seems to know things beyond what you tell him. Always picking up the shedded skin that falls from the people around him. Little pieces of them that he shoves in his pocket to ruminate on when he's trying to put together the puzzle of who they are. 

Words won't penetrate through the haze in your head. It filters in like water through a rhyne, back out to the open sea. 

(He knows this, of course, because you've been shedding pieces of yourself around him for years.)

It doesn't surprise you, then, when he says nothing. When he just falls to his aching knees in the soft humus, resting beside you as your world crumbles into ash and heartache. 

You sit in numbed silence until the sun is swallowed by the dusk that creeps across the sky. The moon itself seems to mourn along with you, hiding her eyes behind a nebulous veil of gunmetal. 

Price, without a word, helps you stand when the gravekeeper comes and ushers you out. He shepherds you into his Jeep and brings you back to the place that reeks of loneliness and dinners for one. A place that still carries the ghost of his presence around every corner, tucked away in each alcove and nook.

He might be gone, but his shadow still lives and breathes the dank, funeral air that clings to your sallow skin. A miasma of loss that tangles itself in every atom around you. 

Price seems hesitant to step inside, but you'd rather sleep on the patio with the chirping crickets and the weeping moon than be inside where the echo of his voice whispers through the halls, and he knows this, because he knows you, and so he brings you in before you can entomb yourself in grief, lost to the elements. He sets you down gingerly on the couch, body now more fragile than fine china, brushing your tangled hair from your forehead. It catches on his weathered hands. You barely feel the pull. 

He looks at you like you're a battle that can't be won. 

"Take care'a yourself, yeah? It's what—" he chokes, then, and you feel the hiccup like a white-hot knife to your gut. "It's what he would've wanted."

What he wanted is gone, and it's dead—just like him.

You don't say these words, but you wonder if he knows them, hears them, anyway. He must, you think, watching as the ashy, smoked cedar of his beard twitches. His mouth gnarls to the side in grief, uncertainty. 

He says your name. You know this because you know the shape it makes of his mouth, but don't you hear it. All it sounds like is a nail scraping over waterlogged, mossy wood. 

Price leaves.

A part of you goes with him.

You rest your forehead against his pillow, the one that smells of him still—warm milk, honeysuckle—and you wish so hard on broken promises, unfilled dreams, to see him again, to hold his face in the plinth of your palms, that your heart feels like it might burst—

—break. 

But it's already broken. There's nothing left to shatter. The pulpy mess he left behind beats not because you want it to, but because it has to. A biological failsafe that does not care about your human emotions even as it quivers and shakes at the loss that tipped your world upside down. A gaping hole sits in the middle in the shape of his smile, and your stubborn heart pulses around the wound. 

Sometimes you think it would be easier to feel nothing at all. To shed the agony like a rotting limb, cutting it as close to the bone as you can, and watching it fall, blackened with decay, and postulating with infectious spores that bud, devouring unblemished, unhurt, flesh until you're a pristine corpse. 

Grief twists you into the living dead. Breaks your head in two, cloved clean down the middle of unrelenting panic and anger—anguish so severe, you can easily convince yourself nothing at all is real. 

But it is. 

And then there is only denial and abject horror at that unimaginable nothingness that looms, blooming in your insides until they turn into a gaping, festering maw. One that makes you feel like you could swallow the whole world and still feel empty. 

No longer a human on the inside but a chasm. The person you were before died the moment his heart stopped beating. Irrevocably changed with three, stark knocks against the door he painted yellow because it reminded him of the way you looked standing in a field of sunflowers. Gone. Gone—

A barren void with its insides scraped out. Hollow. Wind rattles through your chilled bones. It sounds like his voice when it ghosts over your ribcage. 

You chase the sound. 

Running, running, running. Going so fast, it barely feels like your feet touch the ground. A wingless bird soaring across the valleys that gleaned in his hazel eyes. 

Running, running—

Your feet slide against marshy peat. A hidden bog gurgles beneath your soles. 

You don't scream when you sink. 

(The bubbles sound just like him—)

You smile.

—NOW

Eldritch machinations, some fanciful god playing a chaotic game of matchmaker, a dizzying sense of folie a deux—you haven't quite determined what the reason for this is, who or what might be behind it, but one thing you do know is this:

Something might be aligning your paths until all trails lead to him, but when you wander down those Wonderland roads, your heart beats for him. 

A second heart pulses under your skin. One slipped inside when you cupped his cheeks in your palm, and told him when you looked, you saw only him.

It might not be a choice you've made in this lifetime, but it's certainly one you can't bring yourself to regret. 

You run, but this time, it isn't away from him, but to him. 

He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle. 

You're lost, now, in the swell that gusts across the boscage. A breeze dances over your ears. A thousand starlings coo in the clear blue aether above. You feel the tickle of barley against your knees. Rasping tussock sedge curls over your ankle, weaving together until you're tied to the ground. Anchored against the stalks of wheat that shiver in the wind. 

His hands are warm, solid, on your skin. One hand braced on the small of your back, keeping you pressed firmly against him. The other cups your chin like you're made of fine china, polished crystal full of precious gems and rare metals. He holds tight as if he's afraid you'll drift away when he lets go. 

Your head is blooming full of sunflowers. They germinate in your thoughts until the petals burst through, lifting high to the heavens where the sun burns half as hot as his body angling against yours. 

His atoms sing, calling to yours. A buzz, a hum. You feel them stretch, shifting from the prison of you until equilibrium is reached when they merge, tangling together. A new being, a new entity is born from the collision—a person made of two with lungs and hearts that breathe and beat in the same cadence as it's ghosts. Woven together with marionette strings. 

It feels like coming home and getting lost all at once. 

Etched in the delicate flesh of your heart sits a kairos moment. A brief period of nothing that runs as deadly and tumultuous as the Swillies. An upheaval. 

Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented. 

An arm stretches out, anchoring across your waist. His mouth presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, eyes glossy in the mid-morning sun. 

"Wha' time's it?" He slurs out, words thick with sleep. 

Your eyes cut to the alarm clock on the end table. A slow, languid smile curls across your kiss-bruised mouth. 

"Eleven-fifteen," you breathe, eyes fixed on the red lines. Your heart stutters when it flickers. "Eleven-sixteen."

"S'too early," he moans, lips rubbing over your flesh. "Stay in bed with me." 

You peel your gaze away from the clock ticking down the seconds (minutes, hours, days, months, years), and turn to him. Hazel in bloom. A boscage in spring. Your eyes mist a little from the morning dew. 

"I love you, Johnny." 

His breath ghosts over your skin. You hear the hitch in his voice when he speaks. 

"Been waitin' a long time t'hear you say that, bonnie."

"Sorry to keep you waiting." 

—don't wait for me, Bonnie. i'll come find you—

—THEN

"Excuse me? You dropped this."

It's raining. Pouring, really. The droplets are the size of pennies and pelt the top of your umbrella with an unforgiving force. It sounds like the clatter of a mourning bell, and drowns everything else out. 

But it catches. Clear. Low. 

You turn, blinking through the thick fog that congeals around High Street in a dense, white blanket. 

"Sorry?" 

A man. He's towering above you, cut off at the chest by the fine points of your umbrella. You lift it, and—

Your wallet is the first thing you see. Wet, covered in grit from the cobblestone. It's clenched between a thick thumb and forefinger, held delicately together. You baulk. 

"Oh, shit—," it's snatched out of his hand, and pulled into the sanctuary of cover. You can feel it already. The mess inside. Still. You hope—

The leather peels back. Mush. 

You groan. The meagre bills you'd pulled from the machine are now wet, sticking together in a papier-mache square. Useless. No one is going to accept sopping wet bills. 

"Alright?" 

"No, I—," you glance up at him, irritation cutting across your brow. No, you're not alright. You're shit out of luck, and stranded here, now. And—

And—

Hazel. It's the first thing you see. Mountains of brown slope into a lush green valley. A cool blue lake cuts through, splitting off into a ravine. 

Your breath catches. 

"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"

Attractive is the first word that springs to your mind when you stare at him—dark eyes, furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips. Kissable is the second one. 

And then—

Oh, God. 

"Sorry," you murmur again, cheeks heating despite the chill. "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm—"

"You're not," he says, and it's uttered so assuredly that you can't find it in yourself to lie. As if he is somehow able to chisel into your head, and rifle through your problems with ease. "It's all wet, isn't it? Were you heading home, or—?"

It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.

Mortifying. Absolutely—

His lips quirk up. A soft, almost secretive smile. Reserved. "Well, I know this place around the back. I could use the company, if you wouldn't mind."

You should say no. No, thank you—because you were raised proper. But all you can think about is the deep, brassy tone that tickles your ears when he speaks. The distant, almost careful way he regards you, as if he's putting himself at arm's length so you aren't scared off by his brawn. 

Hazel is dusted in gold. You want to bask in his warmth for just a moment longer—

"I'll pay you back, I promise."

His brows raise. Hazel framed in white. A soft huff leaves his full mouth before his lips pull up in a slow, genuine smile. 

"Y'alright, bonnie. I'll hold you to it."

(And so, it begins.)

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #Johnny MacTavish x reader #og soap x reader #og soap #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #cod fanfic #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #this took me forever #idk why #i just?? expected more fluff but instead we get horror and grief and eventually fluff #kinda #like #sorta #idk #enjoy

[somewhatgreatexpectations]

Set You Free (Wanda Maximoff/ Reader)

Hello friends!

Once more, double Lizzie!

Buckle up... it's a bumpy ride. :)

The sight of your ceiling etched itself permanently in your mind because that was all you were capable of doing. Staring at the ceiling. Wasting away. The concept was much more appealing than the decision that awaited you when the sun rose over the horizon.

Regardless of what you did you’d be breaking the heart of someone you loved. You had to face that.

Your own heart be damned. You’d break yourself a hundred times over if you believed for even a second that it would spare them.

Except you knew it wouldn’t. You knew that even not making a decision would be making a decision. Your heart thudded anxiously against your sternum at the thought, the deafening sound ringing in your ears.

The words they’d both said playing over and over in your mind. Every touch… every kiss.

All of it spinning rapidly in your mind until you were sure that no other thoughts would ever be capable of existing there ever again.

__________________

It had been twenty-four hours since you slept, give or take, and it took everything within yourself to drag your body out of bed and into the shower as a last-ditch attempt of clearing your mind.

It didn’t work. Of course, it didn’t.

Why would it?

After getting dressed, you took a deep, calming breath hoping that even for just one second the world would stop spinning and you would be able to focus your thoughts.

Again, it didn’t work.

Without thinking, you grabbed your keys and left the seclusion of your home. You needed to do something, not just wallow in your own agony and hope the answers would appear out of thin air. They deserved more than that. They deserved effort.

When you arrived at your destination, your hands trembled with each step you took up the familiar path. You clenched them into fist just for the sake of eliminating the issue.

Everything was amplified as you willed your hand to raise and knock on the door. The knock against the door reverberated through your sleep deprived mind. When the door swung open and your eyes met hers, you felt the tension drain from your shoulders. Even if it was just a bit.

“Wanda.” You breathed out, leaning into her automatically, sighing contently when her arms wrapped tightly around you.

You could vaguely feel her pull you into her apartment. “Y/n, you look exhausted. Did you sleep at all?”

Shutting your eyes, you hummed against her shoulder. “What time is it?” You asked dazedly.

“8 am.” She replied wearily.

Her fingers soothingly running through your hair almost lulled you to sleep until you heard her call your name again. “Oh. Right. No, I didn’t.”

The feeling of her gentle touch on your cheeks forced your eyes open again as you met her worried eyes. Those gentle eyes that you’d come to live for. “Moya lyubov’. You need to sleep. Come with me.”

Every movement felt disconnected from your body as the lack of sleep finally caught up to you. Wanda gently guided you over to the bed you had spent dozens of nights comfortably tucked into. The feeling heaven sent as she pulled the comforter over your shoulders.

You felt cared for. Loved.

“Wanda?” She hummed. “Can you stay with me?”

There was no response and for a moment you were sure she had left until you felt the warmth of her body gently turn you on your side as she crawled into the bed behind you. The familiar feeling of comfort overcame you as you felt her arms wrap tightly around your midsection and pull you close.

The scent of sandalwood invading all of your senses and the soft sound of her humming in your ear was the last thing your mind processed before you drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

When you opened your eyes again, you saw the sun significantly lower in the sky than when you had first arrived. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you made your way out of the warmth of Wanda’s bedroom and into the cold of the kitchen where you found the other woman at the stove.

The sight was familiar. Soothing.

“Wanda?” You called out, your voice still thick with sleep.

She spun around to face you, her eyes widened slightly in surprise, but the smile on her face was warm. “Good morning, Krasivaya. Well... afternoon I suppose. I was wondering when you’d finally wake up.” She said lightly.

You wandered over to her and rested your head on her chest as her arms wrapped easily around your waist. “Is that hot chocolate?”

Her lips pressed lightly against your hairline. “It is. I thought you could use a pick-me-up.” You smiled lightly with the ease of the moment. The ease of being with Wanda. The ease of… Everything.

“What time is it?” You eventually asked after allowing yourself to relish in the peace for just the briefest moment.

You could feel her lift her wrist to her face. “It’s just about to be 5. You slept for nine hours.” Her body shook slightly with her giggle and you couldn’t help the way your lips quirked up at the sound. Until you remembered what that time meant.

“I… I have to go.” You mumbled, stepping back awkwardly.

Wanda’s smile faltered, and your chest clenched at the sight. “I understand.”

You pressed a soft kiss to her lips, lightly brushing your thumb along her jaw.

When she pulled back and looked at you with a mix of love and pain you knew you couldn’t lose her. The thought alone terrified you.

With one final kiss, you turned and made your way to your car.

Love was supposed to be easy. With Wanda it was easy. It always had been. Falling in love with Wanda was as simple as breathing. You couldn’t lose that.

The racing thoughts in your mind made the drive feel like it passed in seconds. Your heart was anxiously pounding against your rib cage, and you were sure it was moments away from beating right out of your chest.

A selfish part of you wished that it would because then you would be spared from having to hurt someone.

Glancing at the clock on your dashboard, you saw it was 6 which meant there would no more opportunity to avoid the inevitable.

It was time to face the reality of what was about to happen.

The steps you took down the path felt never ending, each movement heavy. Heavy to complete, heavy on your heart. The situation felt familiar though, as if you had tread this path before.

The further down the path you walked, the more you became sure that the path would be something you could never come back from. You would never be able to change the outcome.

When you finally reached the clearing, you found her, and you couldn’t help but think back to all the moments that you had spent here with her before. The happy moments. The moments before life caught up to you both. A place of happiness.

A place that had originally started out as yours, until you realized that everything that was yours was hers too.

Leigh’s smile when she saw you made your heart clench, but you kept moving forward. You found yourself unable to stop yourself from smiling back at her. Especially since this might be the last smile she would ever give you. You wanted to curl in on yourself at the thought alone.

“How do you even remember this place?” You asked, still surprised that she was able to find you in a place you hadn't been to together in years.

Her shoulders lifted slightly in a small shrug. “Because I spent the last two years coming here when life got too much.”

Your breath hitched with her words. “Why?” You asked even though you weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answer.

“Because it always reminded me of peaceful times.” She laughed slightly. “Looking back now, I guess I would just come here and hope in the back of my mind that one day you’d be sitting under this tree like you used to when we were kids.”

For a moment you let the words wash over you because even if you didn’t say it out loud, that was why you found yourself seeking out this former place of comfort as well. “Leigh…”

Her smile fell when you finally met her gaze. The eyes that were shining happily just moments before were now filled with tears. Your heart broke at the sight. You couldn’t do anything to make her feel better though because you were the cause.

You caused her pain.

“It’s her.” She whispered, her voice thick with emotion. It wasn’t a question. You didn’t have to say anything. Leigh knew you well enough to know where you stood without words.

She sounded like she was about to cry, then she took a breath and it was gone. “I’m setting you free, Leigh.” You murmured passed the lump that had formed in your throat.

“Maybe I don’t want you to set me free, Y/n.” The response was quick. Like the slipping of words that weren’t intended to see the light of day. Her sharp intake of breath confirmed that. The words dug deeply into the furthest crevices of your heart, making the world around you darker as you fought to push down the emotions that they evoked. “Did you love me too?”

The silence that hung in the air was heavy with words left unspoken. Heavy with emotion that pressed down on your chest like bricks. “I did love you, Leigh. Beyond words. And I think… I think that sometimes you loved me too.” You eventually said. Your words were quiet, as if they were a secret meant just for you two. You kicked absently at the leaves beneath your feet to distract yourself. “We were just never able to get our timing right. And maybe that was a sign.”

A weak chuckle filled the air around you. “I didn’t love you sometimes, Y/n. I loved you always. Even when I didn’t say it. Even when you walked away... Even when I walked away” The tears that fell burned a path down your cheeks as you quietly listened to her. “We didn’t lose each other because of time. I think we lost each other by waiting for the other to admit that we were in love... Two soulmates who could never find each other even when we were standing right in front of each other.”

Your heart fragmented and you could feel the broken pieces hammer in your chest. “Leigh-”

“You know, I may not have been daylight for you… But you were my moon and stars… And when you left you took them with you. You were my light in darkness. I’m sorry that I turned off the light.”

The air became razor blades around you as it became impossible to breathe.

You couldn’t find it within yourself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Leigh.” She didn’t respond, and you didn’t expect her to. “I’m so sorry.”

A tense silence hung in the air as though you were both trapped in limbo. Both terrified to move. To let go.

“Do you regret it?” You asked softly, the words so quiet you were certain they barely reached her ears.

Your heart thudded in agony when she refused to look at you. “Do I regret what?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice shook. “Everything.” Leigh was quiet for a long moment and you could feel heat burn the skin of your cheeks. You knew you should have left well enough alone.

Just as you opened your mouth to apologize to her for asking, she finally said, “Just because we didn’t work out doesn’t mean that you weren’t the best thing that ever happened to me… Because you were.”

“Yeah.” You said thickly, feeling the tears prickle in your eyes. “You, too.” You wanted to tell her that you wanted to fight for her, but you didn’t know how. You wanted to tell her of the fear that had become a permanent fixture in your heart. You wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her fault.

The battle had felt like it was lost long before it had even begun.

Instead you said nothing.

Leigh stepped closer to you, her eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “One last kiss.”

Your hand found her cheek as your palm slid against her skin. You nodded and pressed your lips to hers.

Soaring.

That’s what it always felt like when she was pressed against you like this. You felt the rush of helplessness, and a surge of emotion that filled you with warmth and she clung to you as if you were the only solid thing in this dizzying world.

Her mouth was insistent against yours and you could feel the shake of her lips that sent tremors through every nerve ending in your body. You slowed the kiss down. You needed to remember this. Everything... Before it was gone for good. Like how sweet her lips tasted even over the salty tears that fell from your eyes.

The kiss goodbye lasted years in your mind, yet it still wasn't long enough.

Then she stepped away and the spell was broken. You dazedly allowed your fingertips to brush away the stray tears on her cheeks even if they were replaced with fresh tears a moment later.

“I won’t love you forever, but I’m terrified I might. I won't stand in your way though” Leigh whispered, the words against your lips, sending chills down your spine. “Goodbye, Y/n.”

Before you could say anything, she pulled away, her hand slowly trailing down your arm until it stopped at your fingers. You could feel her lightly squeeze three times before she turned, and you quietly watched her walk away.

Every word stolen from your lips because what could you say? You had made the choice. When she had disappeared in the distance, your gaze fell to the grass where she had just stood and couldn’t help but ache.

Losing her was one of the worst things you could face, but you survived it once before. Loving her was a worse pain. It had to be.

You knelt slowly in the grass, the weight of the situation forcing you to your knees. When you attempted to stand again, you couldn’t move. It was as if the grief you felt changed everything within yourself entirely.

If this was what you wanted, why was it killing you inside to let her go?

___________________

Wanda shifted slightly in your arms and you tightened your hold around her, pulling her closer. Always pulling her closer. You could see her shift closer to you in her sleep and you couldn’t help but smile slightly at the sight.

You glanced at the clock to see the time glaring brightly back at you. 6 am. You hadn’t slept well in the last three days, but you didn’t want Wanda to know that. She would just worry.

Eventually, you were able to fall into a fitful sleep as the sun began peeking over the horizon.

The door opened, and you forced an unconvincing smile on your lips. “I did it. It’s over.” You said quietly.

Wanda just stared back at you with her brows furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” You mumbled as Wanda let you inside.

The concern never faded from her features. “You don’t have to pretend to be. It’s okay if you’re not.” Wanda said cautiously, her arm wrapped around you.

As if she said the magic word, the fake smile crumpled, and you felt the tears begin welling in your eyes. Wordlessly, she pulled you into her arms. You melted into the embrace, bunching your hands into the front of her sweater as quiet sobs fell from your lips. “I choose you, Wanda… but it hurt to let her go.” You whispered through tears.

With a start, you opened your eyes to the bright room, groaning when you saw how late in the afternoon it was. Even though you shouldn’t have, you closed your eyes again. The world was dull. And you couldn’t get out of bed.

You should be happy. So why weren’t you?

After another hour in bed, you knew you couldn’t avoid it anymore. Using all your willpower, you rolled out of bed and made your way to the bathroom. Forcing yourself through the motions as you brushed your teeth, showered and got ready for the remainder of the day.

It wasn’t until you looked in the mirror that you stopped. In the mirror your eyes met your own and you could hardly recognize yourself. You forced a smile, quickly dropping it when you realized how unbelievable it looked. You sighed.

The feeling was reminiscent to the night of the wedding. Only this time you made the decision. You made this choice. You loved Wanda. You wanted to be with Wanda. She was your daylight. You loved her. You just needed to get out of this rut.

The mantra looped in your mind as you made your way downstairs and into the living room. You smiled slightly when you saw Wanda curled up on the couch, an old sitcom playing on the screen in front of her.

“Hey.” You said, getting her attention, before you took a seat next to her. “What are you watching?”

She smiled back at you, but it was soft. Sad even. “I think we should break up.” Wanda replied suddenly, ignoring your question.

“What?’ You sputtered in shock at her words. If your heart wasn’t already broken, you were sure it would have been now.

Wanda reached a hand over to soothingly stroke your cheek. “Y/n. I love you.”

You placed your hand over hers to keep her there. To anchor yourself. “If you love me, why are you leaving me?”

A sigh fell from her lips as a single tear rolled down her cheek. “Because you made the wrong choice.” She whispered.

Her thumb soothingly running along your cheek bone did nothing to ease the chaos in your mind. “What do you mean? I lo-”

“You’re not in love with me.” Wanda interrupted quietly. “I know that we would be happy, and I can see us spending the rest of our lives together… but you weren’t meant for me.”

Tears prickled your eyes as you stared helplessly into the beautiful emeralds that you’d come to adore. “I choose you though, Wanda. I want you.”

The tears that fell down her cheeks made you want to scream. You never wanted to hurt Wanda when all she had done was love you, yet you had still managed to do it anyway.

“Who you want and who you need are sometimes two different people.” She said sadly. “It would be selfish of me to keep you when I know your heart is with Leigh.”

You gently wiped away her tears. “But Wanda, I-”

“I’m setting you free, Y/n.” The words hit you and you recoiled slightly. She licked her lips as she seemed to contemplate her next words. “I’m setting you free because I love you and I don’t want you wonder what could have been if you had actually listened to your heart. I’ll be okay.”

All you could do was collapse into her chest, the tears flowing freely and feeling like they would never end. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You repeated until your voice was horse.

The tears the fell onto your neck made you weep more as Wanda stroked your hair. Both of you allowing yourself to relish in the embrace. As much as you tried to fight the knowledge, Wanda was right. It was Leigh. Even if you desperately wished it was Wanda, you couldn’t change the composition of your heart.

You loved Wanda, but you’d never be able to match the love she gave you. Not when the vast majority of your heart would always be in the hands of another as long as you were breathing. It wouldn't be fair.

Two years away just taught you how to muffle the way your heart still screamed out her name.

After what must have been an hour, Wanda pulled away, her eyes still distraught. “Remember that night when you said that we can chose what to define ourselves as?” You nodded slightly, your mind drifting to the night you spent together looking at the stars. A fond memory. “Don’t let yourself be defined by your fear… As much as it breaks my heart to say this, go get her. Let yourself be defined by love. Don’t let the end of us be in vain.”

You swallowed thickly. “I do love you, Wanda.”

She smiled weakly at you. “I know. I love you, too.” Wanda pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and you closed your eyes at the contact. “I should go now.”

When you opened your eyes, your heart clenched in your chest at the sight of her. The sight of her pain. “I’m sorry, Wanda.” You repeated again.

She shook her head slightly. “I’ll be okay.” As she made her way to the front door, she turned to face you. “Learning to forgive ourselves and others because we haven’t chosen wisely is what makes us human. We make mistakes. You and Leigh have made mistakes. Don’t let the fear from the past ruin the future.”

“I won’t.” You whispered, she sent one last weak smile your way before leaving. The door closing behind her sent a new influx of tears rolling down your cheeks as you tried desperately to process what had just happened.

________________________

After the talk with Wanda, it took you several days to work up the courage to reach out to Leigh again. The fear of the past and the fear that you had ruined the future still kept you up at night and made it almost impossible to function. You had to try though. You couldn’t let her slip away without her knowing that it was her… Even if she didn’t want you anymore. She deserved to know that her love wasn’t in vain. That she was right. It was always going to be her.

A quiet curse slipped past your lips when your call when straight to voicemail and a quick glance at your text messages further confirmed what you had already suspected. You were blocked. You couldn’t even blame her because when the roles were reversed you fell off the face of her earth entirely.

Your heart dropped at the thought that you would be forced to live through the same outcome once again. Stuck in the cruel cycle of tragic timing.

Except you wouldn’t let that happen again. You couldn’t. You refused to let her be the one that got away. Never before had a decision been clearer to you. Once the walls fell, everything else came crashing down around them.

As you ran around your house searching for the keys to your car you pulled up Jules’ contact and hit call hoping that she would answer. After several rings you were sure the attempt was fruitless when-

“What could you possibly want, Y/n?”

You winced at the bite in Jules’ words. Sometimes you forgot how punishing Shaw’s could be when they wanted to. “I just-… Is Leigh there? I think I’m blocked.”

“For good reason.” Jules snapped. “She just stopped crying. And I don’t mean a couple of tears because she was sad. I’m talking about collapsing and sobbing at the sky tears.”

Tears began falling down your cheeks with Jules’ words. You clenched your eyes shut to push through. “Jules, I’m sorry. I need to make this right. Please. Help me make this right.” You took a shaky breath. “Is she home? Can I see her?”

“We’re leaving, Y/n.”

The world stopped spinning. You were sure of it. “What?” You choked out.

“We’re leaving.” Jules repeated, her tone softer. “I’m going to Vietnam and Leigh decided to come with me. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”

Your knees felt like they would give out under the weight of her words. “When?”

There was a brief moment of silence. “Today. We’re leaving in a few minutes actually.” A lump built in your throat because you couldn’t believe that you lost her. Again. And you were entirely to blame.

“Jules-”

“I have to go now. I’m sorry, Y/n. Take care of yourself.”

Before you could get another word out the dial tone filled your ears. “No.” You mumbled to yourself. “No, no, no.”

Grabbing your keys, you sprinted out the door, breaking several laws to get to Leigh’s house. You had to see her. To tell her that she was right. That no one else made sense. It was always her from the very beginning and it would always be her until the very end.

Your heart was Leigh Shaw and it didn’t matter how hard you tried to push her out, you couldn’t. You’d spend the rest of your life with her name etched into every part of your soul. She was in your veins and there was no way you’d ever get her out. You didn’t want to. Not when you finally knew that she loved you too. Not when you were finally ready to face your fears and take the leap of faith.

A loud curse slipped past your lips when you were a block away from Leigh only to see the road blocked off from some unnecessary LA construction. That wasn’t going to stop you.

You could run the rest of the way. You’d crawl there if you had to.

Quickly parking your car off the side of the road you stepped out and began sprinting in the direction of the house. Hoping and praying with everything within yourself that you weren’t too late.

The sight that greeted you when you finally made it to the house made your heart stop. You slowed to a stop. Leigh’s mother was making her way back into the house after waving to a car that had already made it half way up the street. Even sprinting you wouldn’t be able to catch it.

You were too late.

Leigh would become your greatest what-if. No matter how hard you tried it seemed the universe was adamant about keeping you two apart. The timing of the car in the distance proving that more than anything.

Except this time you had no one to blame but yourself.

With a heavy heart, you dropped your head and turned around. You couldn’t bear to see the car disappear from sight. Taking with it the love of your life and the one thing you never got right.

Desperately you fought back a sob, as you began your slow trek back in the direction you came from. The hole in your chest making the task feel almost impossible. You just wanted to be alone and wallow in the misery that was a cause of your own indecision.

Everything around you quickly faded into nothing as your body went numb. The feeling reminiscent from the night of her wedding when you lost her the first time… only this was worse. So much worse. Your heartbreak was caused by your own hands and it was your burden to bear alone. You could have been happy.

Almost. Maybe. Perhaps. So close. Could have. That’s all you had ever been with Leigh and it seemed that you were destined to finish that way as well.

Heartbreak would be her name, echoing over and over again in your mind until the end of time.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

Your heart leapt in your chest at the sound as you quickly turned. The sight rendered you immobile because there was Leigh. Not in the car. Not disappearing in the distance. Not in another country. There. Running at you with tears streaming down her cheeks.

The ability to breath became almost impossible as she got closer and closer. Then suddenly she was where she was always supposed to be. In your arms.

Her tears soaked through your shirt as she openly cried into your chest and you could do nothing but allow your tears to flow as well as you just held one another tightly.

As if you were both scared any movement would make the other disappear.

“I love you.” You gasped in her hair. “I love you so much and I’m so sorry. I was scared. I don’t expect anything back. You don’t even need to reply. I just needed you to know that I love you, Leigh Shaw. I always have and now I know that I always will.”

Leigh pulled back slightly to stare at you with parted lips, her watery eyes searching yours. “I love you, too.” She breathed out, giving you a watery smile. “That was just the end of the chapter, not the end of our story.”

Your heart soared, and you gave her a smile of your own. Because finally… finally. There was no one running away, you were just running towards one another like you always should have been.

Like two magnets, you were both drawn into a passionate kiss. The kind of kiss that breaks open the sky and steals your breath away.

The kiss showed you that every other kiss you’d had in your life had been wrong.

Her fingers slid into your hair, pulling you closer, as close as physically possible. You were sure your heart had exploded under her touch. All you wanted was Leigh. The feeling of her in your arms – all of her – pressed flush to you. It was right, and your heart had never felt more whole.

The moment was interrupted by a hand lightly tapping your face. You and Leigh pulled apart with matching expressions of confusion, your arms still wrapped tightly around one another. “Hi, yeah, did you forget about something?” Jules asked sarcastically.

Your heart dropped as you looked over at Leigh, remembering the fact that she was leaving. “Jules, I-” Leigh began.

Jules face broke out in a smile. “I was kidding. Don’t even worry about it” She waved a hand dismissively. “You were planning on buying your ticket when we got to LAX anyway.”

You could feel Leigh lean into you in relief, her head tucked just under your chin. “You’re not mad?”

“Of course not. I’ve been waiting for you two idiots to admit you were in love since I was five.” You smiled, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “Besides... now no one will judge me about how I do things on the trip. I'm kind of relieved.”

You chuckled as you absently ran a hand up and down Leigh’s back. “I resent that.” Leigh mumbled.

“But do you deny it?” You asked teasingly.

There was a short pause. “No... but I resent it.” You could feel her press a kiss to your collarbone and you smiled.

For a moment the three of you stood in comfortable silence. “Leigh?” Jules called.

“Mhm?” She mumbled into your neck.

“I’m happy for you…” She paused and looked at you meaningfully. “For both of you. I think this is where you both have always belonged.”

Leigh lifted her head and smiled back at Jules. Your heart fluttered at the sight. “Yeah. I think so too. How about you?” She asked as she looked at you with glimmering eyes.

You melted under her gaze. The sharp edges faded away. “I think so.” You breathed out, smiling lovingly back at her.

Jules clapped and you both turned your heads to look at her. “Alright, kids. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Like elope or something.” She pointed warningly at Leigh. “I’m serious. I have dibs on maid of honor. You can’t take that moment from me because I’ll be out of the country.”

You laughed awkwardly as Jules got back into the car and drove off. “I think Jules is planning our wedding for us and we aren’t even official yet.”

Leigh stroked your cheek tenderly. You felt every nerve ending in your body burst at the simple touch because of the love in her eyes when she did it. “Well, I don’t know when you’ll be ready for titles, but I hope you know I don’t plan on letting you go again.”

She leaned in, so her lips were ghosting over yours. You smiled. “I don’t plan on letting you go either.”

With a smile, Leigh connected your lips again and you lost yourselves in one another.

And when Leigh proposed to you a year later you said yes without hesitation because while there weren’t many things in life you were certain of, you would always be certain of her. You loved her and you didn't plan on letting her go.

And with that... we have concluded with the Leigh/ Wanda story. I would just like to thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for reading this story and being so passionate about it. I would not have done it without the support from all of you.

I loved each essay I got defending the girls and every single comment that you all made defending your position. I am a little heartbroken to see this story come to an end because as much as I love my other stories, this is my favorite thing I've ever written.

Anyway, sorry for getting sappy. Please let me know all your thoughts and comments I'm so excited/ nervous to hear what you all think! I hope you enjoyed taking this journey with me.

p.s. shout out to @sokoalex and @abimess for helping me find the Leigh gif!

Tag list:

@khiaraaa-in-spacee // @causeitswhatjesuswouldfreakingdo // @halobaby // @madamevirgo // @aimezvousbrahms // @trikruismybitch // @marvels-writings // @izalesbean // @imdreamingblo // @i-choose-you-cyndaquil // @helloalycia // @scarlets-maximoff // @cantcontroltheirfear // @women-am-i-right // @funnysoldier // @myfavoriteficss // @imapotatao // @imagine-reblog // @blackxwidowsxwife // @purplemeetsblue // @cristin-rjd // @ravens-ss // @legaypandaboi // @myperfectlovepoem // @diaryoflife // @stupidsapphicsstuff //@ouat2017 // @abimess // @wellsayhelloaagin // @mionemymind

#wanda #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda marvel #wanda maximov #wanda maximoff fic #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x y/n #sorry for your loss #leigh shaw #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw imagine #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x you

[matsbarzal]

Time’s a Ticking || Matthew Tkachuk

Notes: anyways I decided to do matty and I found this long list of soulmate AU prompts so I know what I’m doing tonight yikes. so here’s a lil bit of a nervous/anxious matty even tho he refuses to admit it. hope you enjoy!!! let me know how you like it <3 

Summary: everyone is born with a dwindling time on their wrist. the moment the time reaches zero is when a person meets their other half, the person who makes them whole; their soulmate. 

Word Count: 3k+

10,584. 7 days, 8 hours and 24 minutes. 7 days until he’d meet his other half, the person that’s meant to complete his soul, be his better half, or whatever a soulmate is meant to be. Matthew wasn’t crazy about the idea of soulmates, sure, he was surrounded by people who were madly in love and happy and complete; but he was also surrounded by those people... the one’s whose time stopped, girls and guys who had a permanent marking of time on their wrist that would never move again.

He wouldn’t say he was a pessimistic person, but he had seen so many friends and family fall into a spiral after their soulmate clock stopped ticking, watched as their other half broke them without even meeting them. He wanted to be excited and optimistic but Matthew couldn’t bring himself to feel the same delight that his friends did on his behalf. Anything could happen in this 7 days, 8 hours... and 22 minutes now.

6160 minutes

You could feel the bump of the plane as it touched the ground. This was the one part of flying you hated the most, the anxiety and the bumping as the plane made its way down the runway towards its destination. You knew anything bad was unlikely to happen, but your nerves were on edge. All you could think about was the time on your wrist, the time that kept on ticking. It hadn’t stopped in your entire 21 years of life, and from the looks of it, you were approximately four days away from that happening.

Sighing, you listened to the claps from around you as everyone congratulated the pilots for landing the plane safely. Around you, people stood up and began collecting their belongings, grabbing their bags from the overhead compartments as the chatter continued in the cabin.

You politely smiled at the man beside you as he passed you down your bag, a quick “Thank you” leaving your lips as he gestured for you to walk in front of him towards the exit. 

Originally, you hadn’t had any intention of leaving Alberta for the holiday break, but your parents had practically begged you to come home for the holiday’s, citing the fact you had remained in Lake Louise for the last year and that they had only seen you once since you made the choice to unravel everything you knew by packing a few bags and moving halfway across the country to Alberta to work at some fancy ski resort in the mountains. 

It was originally only meant to be a few months worth of work, waitressing in Lake Louise at a 5-star resort that is, and then time kept going by, and the more and more you fell in love with not only the scenery, but the people. Everyone was happy there, tourists were always excited and polite, everyone just wanted the chance to see the Lake, skate on the Lake, whatever it was. No one was ever unhappy here, and you loved that. 

You were pulled out of your thoughts as the line in front of you continued to move quickly, people eager to get out of the cabin and get back into the fresh air that flowed outside. You could barely contain your giddiness as you stepped off the plane. You could barely believe how much you missed the province, missed your friends, coworkers, you even missed the tourists. Who would’ve thought?

After about 20 minutes of watching the carousal spin and spin and spin, you finally eyed your bright red, Flames red, as a lot of people reminded you, suitcase. Grabbing it, you hauled the bag off of the carousal and onto the ground. You were eager to get to your car, which you had already paid a good 500 dollars worth of parking for, and eager to get the move on the three hour drive across Highway 1 to Lake Louise. 

After four and a half hours of travelling, you knew this three hour drive was going to exhaust you. And with the temperature out in Alberta right now? All you wanted was your bed and a cup of piping warm hot chocolate to end the day.

4590 minutes

“Man, your face is already awful to look at. You really trying to ruin it even more right before you meet your soulmate?”

Before Noah could even think, a wad of tape hit the side of his head while exclamations went up around the room about the choice of target. “Whoops, guess my tape slipped... out of my hand.”

Matthew shrugged his shoulders, an innocent grin on his face as he stood up to grab the tape from beside Noah Hanifin’s locker. 

“No, but seriously, why are you getting into fights with three days left on your wrist? Don’t go and get yourself killed or something, they’d be devastated if they’ve waited this long for your dumb-ass just to have 4000 minutes tattooed on her wrist for the rest of her life.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Matthew ignored his teammates comments, choosing instead to run his finger across the always-changing number on his wrist. 

“It’s not like it matters anyways.” His words were barely above a mumble, but it was enough to spark the attention of his captain, who was quick to tell him to meet him in the trainer’s office after he was done showering and getting the blood that was currently dripping down his face, cleaned.

Obliging on his captain’s orders, he found Gio in the office, a tight smile the only warning that he was about to get ripped apart by the veteran. Gio was one of the lucky ones, he had barely been 16 when his clock finally hit the big 0. It made him an advocate for all the soulmate bullshit, constantly encouraging his teammates to wait it out, be patient, their time would come. 

“Chucky, buddy, we gotta have a chat.”

Quirking his eyebrows at the older man, Matthew nodded, “Well Gio, I kinda figured that one out buddy, unless you pulled me in here to look at my oh so pretty face.” 

“I’m serious. You need to stop with this constant bashing of soulmates and times and shit. I know you don’t like it and you hate the concept of soulmates and whatever, but you’re doing nothing but worrying the younger guys. These kids are constantly terrified their minutes are just going to stop and be etched into their skin.”

Subconsciously running his fingers across the number on his wrist again, 4530 minutes. Wonder what that is in exact time. Shrugging his shoulders, he was quick to apologize to his captain. “Sorry, G. Not trying to scare the kids, just getting a little... I don’t know? Worried? It’s getting too close, I don’t want to get like...  it’s not important, never mind. I’ll stop talking about times in the locker room. Sorry.”

Quickly tightening the tie that was now wrapped around his neck, Matthew raced out of the office before Gio could say something else to him. He eagerly grabbed his phone, wallet, keys and suit jacket before quickly making his way towards the parking garage, the only thing on his mind was of course, you.

2120 minutes

One whole day and just a few hours. You could barely breath as you ran your thumb over the little black number on your wrist. You knew it was inevitable that you’d be meeting your soulmate while working, the moment you looked at the work schedule when you arrived back from home, you knew you’d be stuck working during the time in which you were meant to meet you soulmate. You were giddy, sure. But what if they didn’t like you? What if whoever it was, was snooty, and rude, and didn’t like you for who you were?

“Y/N, you gotta stop thinking about it, babe. You’re gonna get your head stuck in a whirlwind of thoughts. Think about other things! Like... the Calgary Flames.”

Eyeing the blonde beside you, “Tell me Cassidy, why in the world, would I think about the Calgary Flames, instead of thinking about my soulmate?”

Your coworker shrugged her shoulders and gestured to the board behind your head. You had all been notified a day prior that the Calgary Flames had reserved a whole floor of the Chateau for the weekend. With your restaurant being directly in view of the Lake and the Mountains, you were expected to be the main dining spot for the team over their course of the weekend.

“Believe me, Cass, the last thing I want to think about is a bunch of hockey boys who are going to make me miserable the weekend where I’m supposed to be... not miserable.”

She winked at you, a teasing glint in her eyes, “Maybe one of those awful hockey boys has the same number on your wrist. Maybe Noah Hanifin’s your soulmate. God, I’d be so jealous, could you imagine being destined for that beautiful exhibit of a man? God, I’d climb him like a tree.”

Laughing, you wacked her with the towel in your hand as she continued to egg you on, gloating about how beautiful of a specimen Noah Hanifin was, and how she’d do just anything to crawl into bed with that man. Cassidy was always like this, bubbly, happy, positive. Her number had stopped moving 12 years ago, or so she says. She hadn’t been paying attention the day it stopped, the number etching itself into her skin permanently, to never move again. She was never negative about it, always saying that she hoped just the thought of her brought peace to her soulmate in their last moments. 

“Okay okay, enough about the Flames. I doubt it’s even going to end up being any of them, hockey boys and I do not get along. Especially the one’s that are just constantly bothering people, and that’s the entire Flames roster, so... let’s get back to work.”

440 minutes

One thing Matthew was sure of was the fact that he loved everything about the drive to Lake Louise. He wasn’t notorious for being a huge fan of the scenery around him, but something about the drive across Highway 1, the trees, the snow covered mountains, they all just faded together and created this picture in his head. It was hard to describe, there wasn’t anything specific to the picture, it was just joyful, it was happy, it was calm. Jesus, maybe he was just fucking crazy. 

A lot of people always said you feel more calm in the hours leading up to the first time you meet your soulmate. But he sure as hell didn’t feel calm. He was on edge, the scenery around him, albeit, it was beautiful, it was not calming him down. His leg was shaking, his foot tapping the ground beneath him on the bus. He could see Johnny giving him a look every time his shaking leg touched his teammates. He knew the entire team was frustrated with him. Two games straight, two 10 minute fighting majors. 

He was being a pest, constantly egging people on, trying to ignite arguments or fights or just some form of stimuli to get his mind off of the only thing it could stray to. You. He didn’t want to think about whoever the hell you were, he didn’t want to get his hopes up that maybe his clock would actually hit 0, maybe he’d actually meet his better half. Or maybe he'd fall through a crack in Lake Louise and never have to worry about it again... hopefully. 

“If you touch my leg... one more fucking time, I am going to sock you in the fucking face Chucky.”

Immediately pressing his heel into the ground, Matthew mumbled out a quick ‘sorry’ to the teammate beside him as he watched the trees continue to go by outside the bus window. The time was still changing on his wrist, every minute counting down as the minutes passed outside. There was barely any cell service on the drive up, so the only thing that could truly distract him at this rate, was you, and he hated that.

“Soooo... you excited Chucky? It’s gotta be the big day, no?”

If choking a teammate was legal, Matthew would already be wringing Noah Hanifin’s neck. 

“Yeah, delighted.”

“C’mon grumpy pants, you’re literally like what? 6 hours away from meeting the person who’s supposed to complete your soul... and you’re in a foul mood. Did Doughty crawl up your ass and die last night or?”

Grinding his teeth, Matthew tried to bite his tongue, refusing to lash out at his teammate, even though he so desperately wanted to. He wasn’t going to be the cause for a toxic locker room, especially over something as stupid as soulmates. 

It was obvious that something was going on, everyone on the team knew the time on his wrist equalled out to less than a day. Everyone could see how on edge he was slowly getting as the time dwindled down, but no one could figure out why he was getting more and more frustrated, why the excitement wasn’t shining through as the time continued.

“Why the hell aren’t you excited man? This person’s supposed to be the love of your life, and you seem like you couldn’t give two fucks if you meet them or not?”

It was too late, Matthew was exploding before he could even comprehend what he was saying. “It doesn’t fucking matter man, okay? I don’t give a shit about this soulmate bullshit. Everyone’s soulmate is gone one day anyways, what the hell does it matter if you meet them now? I’m gonna be aching at some point because they’re gone and I’m alone. Woohoo, I get to meet them today, woo-fucking-hoo. I could literally not care less, so stop bugging me.”

27 minutes.

It was all around, highly likely, that your soulmate had some form of connection with the Calgary Flames. Their reservation was scheduled for 23 minutes from now... and your wrist had that small number 27 etched on it as it continued to count down. 

“Wow... maybe your soulmate really is Noah Hanifin... I’m sorry for saying I’d climb him like a tree.”

A loud laugh left your throat as you watched a guilty smile form on your co-workers face. “Cass, I highly doubt it’s Noah Hanifin. It’s probably just a coincidence that their reservation time coincides with my meeting my soulmate time.” Cassidy gave you a knowing look as she walked away, a small smile on her face.

You were anxious, you couldn’t deny it. Every second that counted down, you were nervous, what if you weren’t good enough for them? What if they were embarrassed it was you? What if... oh god... what if they hated soulmates? What if they were one of those people who was willing to cut the tie, ignore the call, ignore the connection?

You refused to think about that, instead putting yourself to work, clearing the tables and plates of the previous occupants, you waved off the clearing crew, instead choosing to do it yourself. Anything to get your mind off of it. 

The Flames weren't the only occupants of the Chateau tonight, only taking up about half, you were able to still seat other tourists who were interested in the view tonight. 

That’s how you found yourself, 25 minutes later, your hand on your hip as you interacted with the group of rowdy guys in front of you. They were from Edmonton, and they were absolutely hammered. They were as nice as you could expect them to be, continuously flirting your ears off, as they tried to impress you with their... what was it? Accounting job? You couldn’t remember for the life of you, your mind solely stuck on the small number 1 now etched on your wrist. 

You were roused out of your thoughts at the feeling of a hand touching your waist. “C’mon sweetheart, you’re not even paying attention to us here. Take a shot with us, baby!”

You politely removed the offending wrist, a tight smile now etched on your face. “First, I would ask that you please don’t touch me. Second, I was most definitely listening. You boys want another round of beers, and 6 tequila shots. Unfortunately, I don’t believe the shots are the best idea, nor do I think the beer is, but I’ll definitely get you a glass of water.”

Spinning on your heel, you went to walk away but were stopped by the feeling of a hand tightly gripping your wrist, a small squeak falling from your lips.

“We don’t want water.”

“Please get your hand off of me.”

“Get us what I asked for then, bitch.” 

You were about to retort, a vicious snarl on your lips, but your words were caught in your throat as you watched a fist connect to the cheek of the man in front of you, a gasp leaving your throat.

2 minutes

This had to be a joke. He was apparently two minutes away from meeting his soulmate, and here he was, in an orderly fashioned line as him and his teammates made their way into the restaurant. He could barely breath, his pants felt too tight on his hips, he could feel the sweat seeping through his shirt. Thank god he made the choice to wear black. 

It felt like everyone’s eyes were on his, everyone was wearily watching the number on his wrist go down, as the obvious anxieties began to cloud his every thought, action, move... everything.

He tried to take his mind off of it, observing the restaurant as the team slowly made their way to their designated tables. There were a few other patrons, most of them caught up in their own world. One specific table caught his eye, they were a group of rowdy guys, maybe a few years older than him. 

Quite frankly, they looked like all around assholes. Looked like the guys you’d see from Wolf of Wall Street, and from the looks of it, they were really starting to irritate their waitress. Although, all he could see was your back, your posture was unbelievably straight, your hand on your hip as you inventively listened to the guys in front of you.

Matthew continued to watch you, something inside of him telling him that he just couldn’t look away. He had to keep looking. He watched as you turned your body, ready to walk to wherever your destination in mind was, but he instantly zeroed in on the hand that was now tightly wrapped around your wrist, a violent look on the man’s face.

He wasn’t moving on his own accord now, his feet were basically moving by themselves as they raced towards you.

“Get us what I asked for then, bitch.”

His fist was connecting with the other man’s face before he could even think. He heard the gasp from beside him, he watched the number on his wrist hit 0 the exact moment he looked at you, a look of shock on everyone’s faces.

“Chucky!”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m going to call the police you fucking curly-headed fuck.”

He could barely focus on the voices around him. You were here. You were literally right in front of him. Both of your numbers were at 0, he could see it on your wrist. He was literally staring in the eyes of his soulmate.

“Oh my god, you punched one of our guests.” Your voice was like bells to his ear, soft, delicate, everything he wasn’t... but god, you were perfect.

“I’m Matthew, and yes... I uh... I think I did punch one of your guests. I also think you’re my soulmate. Does it count as self-defence... if I punched him in my soulmate’s defence?” 

You laughed, trying to cover it up with your mouth as you watched your manager’s rush towards the now bleeding asshole at the table behind you. 

“I think I like you already, Matthew.”

#Matthew Tkachuk #Matthew Tkachuk imagine #Matthew Tkachuk fic #NHL fic #NHL imagine #Matthew Tkachuk imagines #my fic #my writing #honest to god I wrote this in like an hour and a half #I dont even know if its good #it just feels so perfect to me #pls tell me if you like it

[prettywordsyouleft]

The Cowboy - Part 10

Summary: Leaving the city for a rural area called Blayne seemed simple enough. Your task was to convince the people to agree with selling their land for a resort redevelopment. But once there, you soon realise that your city ways are entirely different to theirs. Winning their trust was going to take some effort, and when you start to fall for a local cowboy, you wonder if you really needed Blayne more than the city life after all.

Pairing: Jung Jaehyun x female reader

Genre: cowboy au / drama / romance / if you squint there’s some enemies to lovers up in here.

Warnings: Jung Jaehyun is a cowboy, need I say more? (a bit of angst and drama, and it sometimes might feel like you’re reading a Nicolas Sparks book, so I’m told lol) -- swearing, and I’ve never been to a rodeo in real life so I probably didn’t make a fully realistic scene, so don’t hate me, it’s fiction lol

Word count: 2281

This series will be updated every Thursday and Friday.

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

It truly was another world. The country music was playing live from the stage nearby and the endless row of stalls selling assortments from horse gear to food overstimulated you. You had lost Avery in the crowd, the tall man crossing paths with a group of women from high school.

Jaehyun smirked. “He’s always been the popular one.”

“And you the troublemaker?” you offered and Jaehyun laughed, shaking his head.

“You’re the troublemaker. How do you propose I deal with worrying about you when I’m warming up Trickster soon? Maybe you should come with me.”

“I’ll be fine exploring whilst you do that. I’ve seen you ride so much now, I’m convinced your butt is a perfect shape to mold to any saddle seat.”

“Well, you should know, having seen my butt how many times now?”

“Jaehyun!” you gasped, slapping his upper arm and looking around yourselves. You relaxed, realising you saw no familiar faces nearby.

He seemed to read your mind. “Avery knows about us. He’s helping me out by keeping his mother clueless.”

“Would anyone else come from Blayne today?” you asked, and Jaehyun shook his head.

“Not really. It’s more so people from the town over that will. And whilst you’re a household name in Blayne, you’re not on familiar terms yet with others. Which means…”

“Which means?” you repeated, grinning when Jaehyun reached for your hand, interlocking your fingers. You looked down at the gesture. “I felt that tremble, Jaehyun.”

“What tremble?” he feigned innocence for only a moment. “Maybe I have some butterflies about today. I want this to go well.”

“It will. I know it will.”

“Because I have your support?” he teased, and you shook your head, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Because it’s a passion of yours. I can tell you want this opportunity.”

“It would be real nice. Joey told me if I qualify, he can help me with the training. I’ll need to find extra time to do it, maybe travel to his barn a few times a week for evening training but it’s doable.”

“You’re so cute, you know that?” you said, recycling one of Jaehyun’s lines. He picked up on it and laughed. “I like seeing you this hopeful.”

“I’m hopeful about us too.”

“You are?”

“If I win today, my Dad will be pretty chuffed. Maybe we could tell him about us.”

“No more acting like teenagers over this. We’re grown adults, Jaehyun. Regardless of if you win or not, let’s tell him. I’m planning on meeting with him on Thursday for my business proposition, so if that goes well, I doubt he’ll have any concerns about us.”

“This is my Dad we’re talking about. There’s a whole lot about him, about us, that you don’t know.”

“Are you hiding someone in the attic?!” you asked, gasping dramatically. Jaehyun rolled his eyes. “You’ve got an entirely different life kept behind closed doors? How about being the culprit to-”

“Here you two are,” Avery interrupted, eyeing your linked hands with high interest. “Is this why you wanted to come today, Y/N? Away from the prying Blayne eyes, you can finally go on a date with your beau?”

“A date?” you pondered before looking up at Jaehyun. He grinned. “We’ve been on a few of those already in Blayne.”

“And no one knows that you two are together? Woah, I’m impressed with how well you’ve covered them up.”

“Not for long,” Jaehyun announced and you smiled happily, nodding in agreement. “But I am mighty glad you’re back, Avery. Can you keep an eye on this one? I’m sure if left to her own devices, some of the sellers in the market here will have her pulling out money she doesn’t need to spend.”

“You’re insulting my judgment so easily!” you called after Jaehyun’s departing back.

Avery grinned. “Well, you chose him over me. I’ve been doubtful of your taste this whole time.”

“Avery McConnell?”

Spinning to see another woman approach you both, you grinned. “He’s all yours. I’m going to go watch from the stadium.”

An hour had passed by, and you were struggling with the concept of being at a rodeo. On one hand, it was thrilling to watch but also reckless. You knew there was a danger behind the sport, as there was with most sports. But you didn’t realise how easy it was to fall off at this calibre of competition.

You gasped as a young girl, no older than fifteen hit into a barrel and her horse was deep in the turn, losing its footing and the pair fell, the horse landing on top of her. With bated breath, you watched as she managed to get back to her feet, albeit with an evident hobble.

“Your first time?” an older woman asked knowingly, and you nodded. “Not from around here?”

“Originally from the city,” you admitted sheepishly, and the woman laughed.

“Called that by a mile.”

“Do I stand out that much?”

“You’re no country pumpkin like me, that’s for sure.”

“Ah.” You looked her over and smiled. “I think you’re lovely.”

“I wasn’t meaning how we look, love. You’re here to support your boyfriend, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“And he’ll come out here soon, and you’ll be the type to cheer. Don’t. It’s really tacky and could throw him off. Do you even know what barrel racing is about?”

“Some. There’s three barrels, and you have to make it through the sequence with the fastest time and without touching them.”

“It’s a dangerous sport. The horses are trained athletes. It might be all over in fifteen to seventeen seconds, but during that time, it’s a race against their life. They need to move without any issue, carry the weight of their rider perfectly, and dig deep to get around and then gallop off again. And the riders are just as focused. It’s more than just a sequence. Everything counts.”

“Wow, and he had a chance to go pro for this?”

She laughed loudly then. “All cowboys will tell you that, sweetie. Who are you rooting for?”

“Jung Jaehyun,” you mentioned and her amused expression dropped, scooting closer to you. Leaning back from her sudden invasion of your space, you laughed weakly. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh, he’s good. He’s back on the circuit? He took time off ever since the fire. I didn’t think he’d be back to this level.”

“What fire?”

“Blayne’s fire,” she replied, her eyes now peeled to the catalogue, checking out Jaehyun’s details. She gasped. “Joey Newman’s horse?! He didn’t come to mess around today.”

You smiled politely at the woman, slipping into your thoughts. You knew this was a big thing for Jaehyun, but was he that big of a deal in this world? The new information explained the nerves, but he had downplayed this to you all day long. The barrel racing was one of the last sports on the schedule for this rodeo, and for hours beforehand, Jaehyun had assured you it was like a training event. Yet, this woman now had you believing otherwise.

“Can I ask something?” you enquired, coming out of your reverie and the blonde woman nodded. “What happens if he makes the top five today?”

“He’ll be scouted. Perhaps he already is getting calls. He held the fastest time for five years straight in this region. Everyone wanted a piece of him before his father pulled him out.”

“Pulled him out?” you breathed, blinking rapidly. “Why did he-?”

“How about you ask your cowboy that you’re having a fling with all about it, once he’s done racing the clock, if you have further questions.”

“It’s not a fling,” you corrected and she smiled sadly at you.

“Darl, I was dating Billy Burke. You might not know that name but everyone around here did. He went pro, won the Nationals and become a million dollars richer.”

“A million dollars?!”

She shrugged. “I was pregnant with his baby at the time he got offered to go pro. We were supposed to get married. But, you know, it was his dream to go pro. When given the choice between love and the race, he chose the latter. So what if he has money? He has all that fame now too. All I have is his kid who hasn’t met his Daddy once. Let me warn you, cowboys might charm you with their country hospitality but they all have bigger goals than the farms they run back home. Once Jaehyun is given the chance, he’ll forget that Blayne even exists.”

“I doubt that,” you defended. “I’m sorry to hear of your circumstances, and even if Jaehyun and I end, I can confirm Blayne means more to him than-”

“You really don’t know what he did to Blayne, do you?” Pity for you emerged in her eyes. “What do you know aside from his body then?”

Getting up, you stormed out from the bleachers you had been sitting upon, feeling foolish for being so worked up by a stranger. Before you could leave, however, Avery leapt up towards you and clapped his hands together. “He’s next up. Where are you going?”

“Oh, I uh, need fresh air.”

“Worried about him falling off? Don’t be. He’s the best here today, you’re about to see it. No one else can go from being a farmhand to a decent barrel racer without practising than Jaehyun. Come on, you can get air after his run.”

Nodding numbly, you allowed Avery to push you along, taking a seat again. Avery greeted a few of the people around you, and you watched the horse and rider before you now, finishing their run with ease. You looked to the sidelines, wondering where Jaehyun was.

“I thought you said he was next.”

“He is. He’ll be making his way in any second now.”

The grating voice of the commentator muted as soon as you saw the spotted horse come racing into the arena, your eyes peeled on the pair heading towards their first barrel. Clasping your hands together, you watched on intensely, praying Jaehyun and Trickster would make it around safely.

The woman had been right. It was a sport that relied on precision and speed. You had always considered a minute to be such a short period of time, but as the seconds went by, you found yourself changed. Every second counted now.

Jaehyun and Trickster rounded the final barrel and galloped to the exit, Avery’s screams and sudden shaking your arm jostled you out of the blur that had been your vision towards the end.

Fifteen seconds was all it took to give you clarity on your feelings.

“He made it! That lucky son of a bitch!” Avery rejoiced, and you stood up jarringly, walking down the aisle to the exit. Avery was still full of energy at your side. “He’ll be cooling Trickster down, Y/N. Come this way to the holding pen.”

You followed along in a slight daze, your heart thumping with the thoughts within your head. You disregarded all the information, the warnings that stranger had given you. When you saw Jaehyun walking the heavily breathing animal around and patting his neck, you almost broke into a run to reach the side of the pen faster.

Noticing your arrival, Jaehyun grinned and walked the horse over. “Well, what did you think?”

“I think I’m in love you,” you announced sincerely.

“After seeing only one run?!” Avery joked, but Jaehyun’s expression grew serious, not shifting away from yours even as he continued to walk the horse around.

Distractedly, Jaehyun called out for the groom of Joey’s ranch and dismounted, walking over to you and ducking under the metal bar that separated you from him. “You mean what you say?”

You nodded, choking on the sudden emotions that had come with your confession.

“You can’t take it back after I give you this chance, Y/N. You mean it?”

“I love you,” you repeated, and that was all it took for Jaehyun to crash his lips upon yours.

There was no thought to the professionals around you, nor Avery who had stepped aside to give you albeit a tiny amount of privacy. You didn’t care at all who watched you lock lips with Jaehyun right now.

Because it felt right.

You hadn’t expected to arrive in Blayne and find yourself looking in different directions for your life. It had always been well-planned out. You would build your career and work hard during these years, so when you had achieved all you set out for you could relax into love and create a family.

The country didn’t work like that. The values were so different from what you had experienced in your fast-paced life. And now that you had been given the opportunity to slow down a little, to take in the world outside of an office and not be attached to a screen day in and out, you were finding your desires were changing too.

You liked the idea of waking up in someone’s arms and falling asleep whispering sweet nothings to one another. During those fifteen seconds, you imagined your life without Jaehyun in it, and it made you want to do absolutely everything in your power to remain at his side.

You meant the love confession. You had never spoken of love to another person before. It was liberating, fulfilling. As Jaehyun burned his lips into yours, you knew he felt the same.

It hadn’t been long between you. But this summer romance was shaping your world more than you believed it had for his parents all those years ago.

You couldn’t imagine going back to the city now.

_________________

Part 11

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[beccascribbles]

kageyama is failing english so he asks you to tutor him. neither of you were expecting the relationship that formed between you as a result.

warnings - swearing, kissing scene, contains a fair bit of angst

word count - 6.3k

a/n - this was originally meant to be a fluffy oneshot where kageyama falls for the person he asked to tutor him. however, it didn’t really end up that way exactly. i hope you enjoy anyway!

read the sequel - ‘selfish when it comes to you’

It was with hands trembling that he approached your desk, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder at the small group huddled by the door. Hinata waved his hands in a 'go' gesture, encouraging him to approach you, while Yamaguchi gave him a thumbs up. Tsukishima, despite declaring he was not interested in Kageyama's educational escapades, had come to watch. He just wanted to see the boy fail. Raising an eyebrow, you looked up at the black-haired boy that you had immediately recognised as Kageyama. Who could forget that face when you had watched him get stopped in the corridor to be handed small gifts by blushing girls, and then watched him hand them over to the energetic ginger at his side?

"Can I help you, Kageyama?" you questioned, shocking the poor boy. Nervously, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, avoiding making eye contact with you. His expression was tense, and you were almost certain this was something he had been forced to do. A glance at the doorway confirmed this, his small group of friends unable to move out of view fast enough. Although, truth be told, Tsukishima had not even bothered to hide. It had been Yamaguchi pulling him out of sight behind the wall.

"Um..." he stammered, face burning a bright red. To think he could look so at home on a volleyball court but so awkward when tasked with an actual conversation was laughable to you. "Um, I, um, heard that you were really smart from Tsukishima, and Hinata was pretty much singing your praises earlier this week when you helped him study before a test..."

He trailed off, looking behind him again. You could not help but wonder as to what kind of emotional support he was seeking from them. Hinata was snickering as he whispered something to Yamaguchi, who was red from holding in his laughter. Meanwhile, Tsukishima was just smirking at the scene unfolding in front of him.

"Yeah, I heard Hinata passed that test," you said, leaning around Kageyama to shout to the hallway. "Well done, Hinata! I knew you could do it."

"You really helped, l/n," he shouted back, beaming at you. "If you hadn't broken down the concepts in such an easy way, I never would have been able to understand it."

Kageyama cleared his throat in an attempt to bring your attention back to him. His hands were now stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, and he was focused on some point above your head.

"Yes?"

"I-I was wondering if you would be able to tutor me in English," he stated, stumbling and tripping over his words. A loud snicker from the hallway caused him to spin and glare at the taller boy, who just snickered louder. When he moved as if he were about to head towards him, you reached out and clasped his wrist, stilling him.

"I would love to tutor you. When are you free? We can work around your schedule as much as possible. I know how busy you are, what with volleyball practice and all."

"Does this Saturday work?"

And that was how you found yourself sitting beside the black-haired boy at nine o'clock that Saturday morning. Textbooks, along with his workbook, were strewn along the desk in front of you.

Currently, you were going over what he had covered in class that week to attempt to pick out some weak points. It was clear to you that his memory was good. When you had quizzed him, he was able to recite the grammar rules perfectly. His spelling was so accurate it made you slightly envious. But, when it came to the application of those facts, he was clueless. You read the sentence one last time.

"Can you tell me why this is wrong?" you asked, indicating it on the page with a point of your pen. He looked down at the page, brows furrowing in concentration as he read.

"I think my spelling is correct," he stated, looking over at you for reassurance. You nodded your head, urging him to continue. "Is the word order incorrect?"

You again nodded your head. "Yep, that's correct. Well done, Kageyama! Now, can you tell me why the word order is incorrect?"

He rubbed the back of his head, returning to studying the sentence. His pen followed along with the line of writing. "Instead of using the English sentence structure of subject-verb-object, I used the Japanese sentence structure."

You smiled, extremely pleased at his ability to critique his own work so confidently. "Good. Remind me what the Japanese sentence structure is."

"Subject-object-verb," he replied with a confidence that you weren't expecting.

The rest of the session continued in a similar pattern, with you getting him to critique what was wrong in his own work. You thought that by helping him see what he was doing wrong currently, he would be able to learn from his mistakes and stop himself from making them in the future. This seemed to be having the desired effect, with the pause he needed to work it out shortening the longer you worked.

You glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall. It was twelve o'clock. "Alright, I think it's time to wrap this up for now. Can you do the same time next week?"

He nodded in affirmation, beginning to gather up the textbooks to return them to the shelf they had been taken from. You hadn't really needed them due to his knowledge of the basics, so they had simply been on the table to take up space. While he put the books away, you gathered your stuff together to put in your bag, also putting his stuff in a neat pile that he could pack away when he returned. Upon his return, he quickly packed them away, slinging his bag over his shoulder once be had finished. Awkwardly, he pulled at the strap.

"Would you like to get some lunch?" he asked, gaze settling on a slight crack in the wall behind you. "Just as a thanks for helping. Not like as a date or anything."

"Relax," you laughed, patting his arm lightly as you walked past him. "I didn't think it was a date and, now that you mentioned it, I would love to get lunch with you."

It took him a moment to process your words, and the fact that you were already walking towards the exit. Hurriedly, he walked after you, his long strides easily allowing him to catch up. You turned to him with a wide grin, "So, what's the plan? You got a specific place in mind?"

He found himself returning your grin. It was infectious. "Not really. But I'll think of something."

From your first tutoring session onward, it became something of a routine to get lunch together afterwards, leading to the formation of an easy friendship. While Kageyama could still be slightly awkward at times, his habit of blushing furiously had diminished slightly. He genuinely enjoyed the conversations with you. You listened with rapt attention when he ranted about volleyball, a fact that warmed him to his core. It was rare to talk to someone who didn't automatically act uninterested when the topic turned to what he was passionate about. But you admired that passion. You encouraged it. And, like you encouraged his passion, he encouraged yours.

At one of your lunches together, you had let it slip that you were currently working on a novel, just a light-hearted way for you to let your creativity flow. It had never been your intention to write for someone else to enjoy. It was just an escape for you, something you found enjoyment in. Something you were passionate about. Your novel was only a passion project.

"Tomorrow, I'm probably just going to work on my novel," you said in response to Kageyama's question. He had just finished telling you his plans for Sunday (it consisted of a lot of volleyball specific training to fine tune his skills as a setter, and also a run - which he had invited you to join him on one time only for you to immediately refuse) and then enquired after yours.

"Your novel?" he questioned. "You're writing a book?"

"No, no, it's nothing serious," you chuckled awkwardly. This time it was you desperately trying not to make eye contact. "It's only for fun. Like a little passion project."

"For fun?" he said, searching for your gaze across the table. Finally, your eyes dropped to meet his deep blue eyes. "I think it's really cool that you've got something you're passionate about."

Those were almost the exact same words you had said to Kageyama when he had tripped his way through an apology after going on about volleyball for an hour.

"Oh..."

It came out on an exhalation of breath. For most of your life, you had hidden the books you had written, terrified of judgement. Yet here Kageyama was telling you that it was cool. "Um, I can show it to you if you want. Maybe you could read it? Tell me what you think?"

He nodded his head in response. "What's it about?"

You launched into an explanation, not only outlining the plot, but also providing him with the main character's backstory, along with their planned arc. He just listened, nodding his head. The way you were so animated pulled him in, making him admire you even more as a person. It was hard to find people with a true passion, and here were two people with a lot of it.

The friendship you formed was so easy and comfortable to be in for the both of you that you gravitated towards each other. At school, it became rare to see you apart during the break times. It wasn't uncommon for Kageyama to show up outside your class with two cartoons of milk, one for you and the other for him, before you followed him out to the courtyard where you would just sit and chat. Sometimes, you would poke your head into their volleyball practice if you had stayed late in the library. It was always to say goodbye to him but ended with him telling you to wait for him so he could walk home with you. On those days, Daichi always thanked you for stopping Kageyama from practising more.

During the weekends, your tutoring sessions had now moved from the neutral ground of the library to one of your houses. He would host one week, with you hosting the next. If it were at his house, you could guarantee that you would be roped in to helping him with some form of volleyball practice after, leaving you sweaty and in need of a shower. Therefore, Kageyama now had a drawer in his room specifically for you to leave spare clothes in. If it was at your house, after tutoring, you read the next part of your novel to him as he listened, his head resting against your thigh. He would always give you his opinion, managing to explain why he had liked certain parts. Then, you would convince him to watch a film with you. Sometimes it would be a comedy, other times it would be a volleyball documentary.

When Hinata had found out that you had a drawer of your things at Kageyama's place, he had become almost unbearable.

Kageyama had let it slip while he was talking to you about your plans for the weekend, telling you it wasn't necessary to bring any more spare clothes when you visited due to the amount already occupying the drawer. Hinata had chosen that moment to walk up to you.

"Why would Kageyama have your clothes at his?" asked Hinata. Both you and Kageyama paused, sharing a look that Hinata automatically read the wrong way. "Oh my god! Are you dating? No way! There's no way Kageyama would ever find some who would want to date him."

"No!"

"We're not dating!"

You both snapped in unison, blushing profusely. Kageyama glared at the smaller boy, "We're just friends, boke. Stop making a big deal out of nothing."

By the time you were in your third year, everyone just assumed you were dating. You attended all his volleyball games wearing his jersey, would occasionally wait for him to finish practice before going home together and were always with each other. He supported you, always there to cheer you on at a school related event or writing competition. He had, after all, been the one who had encouraged you to enter your first writing contest, where you had won runner-up. The photo of you grinning while holding your certificate was one of his favourites. It was also his lock screen photo. Coincidentally, your lock screen was also a photo of him. It was after he was told that he would be representing Japan in the u19s team. He had looked so happy in that moment that you still felt proud of him whenever you saw the photo. You were also both very affectionate with each other considering you were ‘only’ friends. After breaking through the initial awkwardness he felt at physical closeness, being close to you, touching you, brought him reassurance. He would always have an arm slung over your shoulder as you walked. When sitting, he would always be pressed against you, his body warm where it touched yours. In private, it was common for you just to cuddle. As you watched a film, he would have his arms wrapped around you as you rested on his chest.

There was also the small fact that neither of you had entertained the idea of dating someone during high school. Both of you had been asked out multiple times, only for the answer to be no. It was easy for people to assume Kageyama was just too focused on volleyball to be in a relationship that would require so much of his attention. In your case, people found it odd that you had not even gone on a date. Naturally, they just assumed that Kageyama was your boyfriend, so the confessions of love stopped for the both of you. You were not oblivious as to why they had stopped but decided not to deny the claims. It was easier for people to think you were in a relationship.

Kageyama, as much as he hated himself for it, would sometimes find himself wishing that were the case. He could not deny that he was attracted to you. Wherever you were, his eyes were drawn to you. They would follow you around a room, enticed by the way you moved. And, when you were finally close enough to touch, he was unable to stop himself from reaching out and pulling you towards him. It was definite that his own actions had fuelled the rumours. Most of your potential suitors had been on the receiving end of a cold glare from the setter at your side. However, despite this desire for you, he told himself he would never act on it. This was partly due to volleyball. He could admit that your friendship was distracting enough, able to pull him away from the sport with ease. Entering a relationship with you would make it harder, and he could not let that happen. Volleyball was the most important thing in his life. You would always be second, as much as he might want you or need you to be there with him.

For the most part, you were unaware of his feelings. Or, at the very least, you acted like you were. You could acknowledge that he was both overly protective and affection with you considering he claimed to only view you as a close friend. The glares he directed at people had not gone unnoticed by you, especially as they had always been accompanied by the tightening of his arm around you. Equally, you could not deny that his behaviour towards you made you feel giddy. You could not deny that feeling his arm wrap around you to pull you against him made your heart race, or how the sight of him made your breath catch. You could not deny that having his support meant everything to you. But you also could not deny that his attachment to volleyball would override any feelings towards you, no matter how strong they were.

“You need to tell him to stop,” Ichika said, giving you a pointed look. She could see how much you cared for him, how much this affection for him was slowly destroying you. “The way he’s acting is unacceptable. If he’s not going to date you himself, he should stop being so damn possessive.”

You looked up from your coffee. Her words had struck a chord in you. You knew his behaviour was unacceptable, but you let it continue in the hope that it would transform into what you wanted: for Kageyama to finally act on his feelings for you. “Don’t you think I know that? I know it’s bad. I know I should tell him to stop. But I can’t help thinking that if I let it continue, he may finally realise what’s been staring us in the face for the past two-and a-bit years.”

You were so close to breaking. You could feel your eyes beginning to burn from suppressed tears. Again, you looked down at your coffee, hoping that focusing on a specific point would stop the tears from forcing their way out. Ichika reached out a hand to touch yours gently.

“Come on, y/n,” she practically pleaded. “This isn’t healthy, and you know it. The relationship you have with Kageyama now isn’t good for either of you. You can’t let him control you like this.”

“Control me?” you snapped, pulling your hand out of your friend’s hold. “He’s not controlling me. He would never do that to me. You know as well as me that he struggles with his feelings and how to express them. If I told him how I felt, I know he’d stop. But I don’t want him to. If I tell him, he’ll pull away. I’d rather keep him like this than risk not having him at all.”

“y/n, sit back down,” said Ichika, looking up at you. During your rant, you had risen from your seat. You were visibly shaking, whether from anger at what your friend was insinuating or frustration at the truth of your relationship with Kageyama you could not tell. The tears you had worked so hard to suppress were freely rolling down your cheeks.

“No,” you said, turning to walk away. “I think I’m going to go home. I don’t really feel like talking anymore. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

You walked out, hands fumbling for your phone. As much as he was the cause for your tears right now, it was his comfort you craved. So, you called him. He picked up on the first ring, sounding breathless as if you had interrupted his training. His greeting was unusually harsh. Shit. You had forgotten that the volleyball team had arranged an extra practice session today to prepare for nationals.

“Tobio...” you said, voice cracking. It was clear you were crying. Your voice was thick with emotion. All he could hear were your sobs in his ear. “I’m sorry. I forgot you were busy. I’ll just call... actually, I don’t know who else I’d call.”

Your laugh was bitter, and the concern he felt for you hit him with so much force he almost keeled over. You had not even told him what you needed yet, and he was already beginning to gather all of his things together. “What is it, y/n? What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m walking to yours from the cafe close by.” Another sob escaped your lips. “I just need to see you.”

He remembered you telling him that you had planned to meet Ichika there for a drink and a chat. You were unsure as to why she had wanted to have a chat, and he could clearly recall you saying that your friend looked very serious when she had asked to meet up. “I’ll be home soon. Just use the key I gave you to go in... What did Ichika tell you?”

That caused you to pause. He heard your breathing still through the phone. What could Ichika possibly have said that would have made you so upset? You interrupted his chain of thought when you spoke again. “It’s not important, Tobio.”

“Not important?” he snapped, fist clenching around his phone. “If it’s not important, then why are you fucking cry? Why did you call me during volleyball practice?”

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. The sound made his heart crack, almost breaking through his sudden haze of anger. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. It’s not a big deal. I’m just getting upset over nothing.”

“Fine.” His voice had changed again, becoming cold. “If it’s nothing, I’ll see you when I finish practice.”

You heard the stuff he had begun to gather clatter to the floor before he hung up. He chucked his phone back in his open bag, turning to face his friends. The rest of the team were still training, but they had stopped, turning to look at him as soon as he had begun to collect his things, the concern evident in his voice and the lines of his body.

“What was that about, Kageyama?” asked Hinata, looking at his friend with concern. Though his voice had been cold before he had hung up on you, Hinata could still see the conflict on his friend’s face. Concern for you was evident in the set of his face, but his need to improve outweighed your obvious need for him in that moment. “l/n is clearly really upset. Why are you still here?”

“You can go to her if you want,” said Yamaguchi. “You know Coach won’t mind. Plus, recently, you’ve been spending more time here than usual. Missing the end of this practice session won’t affect you at all.”

“Let’s just get back to practice.”

Kageyama walked back over to serve again, ignoring the concerned looks his friends shared. Even Tsukishima was worried, his eyes scanning Kageyama as if trying to gauge his emotional state. Throughout the rest of training, guilt gnawed at Kageyama’s conscience. His mind kept drifting to you, your sobs, the way your voice cracked. But he was too stubborn to leave now, too obsessed with improving in volleyball to waste his concern on you. However, as soon as training ended, he was the first to leave, sprinting out of the school.

Before heading home, he grabbed some of your favourite comfort foods, barely even acknowledging that it was physically impossible to eat the amount of food he had shoved into his bag in one sitting. When he entered his house, he headed straight to his room, knowing that was where you were most likely to be.

What he was not expecting was the sight that greeted him. You were curled up on his bed, hugging his pillow to your chest. But that was not what sent a spike of hot desire running through him. You were only wearing his jumper, your clothes neatly folded on the floor at the foot of his bed. In your curled-up position, his jumper just covered your arse, leaving your bare legs on display. It was clear you were fast asleep. With a sigh, he placed the bag of food gently on the floor before reaching for a blanket and placing it over your sleeping form. He brushed a kiss to the top of your head. Then, he left the room to wash.

Once he returned, dressed more comfortably topless and in a pair of loose-fitting joggers, he made his way back over to you, sitting beside your sleeping form on his bed. He brushed your hair away from your face, treasuring the soft feel of your skin against the pads of his fingers. He wanted to lie down with you, to pull you against his chest and curl around you. He wanted to protect you from everything that could hurt you, not realising the main person responsible for that was him, no matter how much you struggled to admit it. But something stopped him from lying down beside you and holding you in his arms.

He had added to your hurt. His sudden anger had not been towards you, though it had been directed your way. Though he had not meant to hurt you then, he knew that he had. But he also knew that incident would not be held against him. It was when he had deliberately made his voice go cold, telling you that he would not be there to comfort you anytime soon. In the back of his head, he knew you were clearly not upset about nothing, that it was important. Hearing you talk like that after interrupting his practice, however, had made him snap. He should not have done it. He should have come running to you. If he was not so obsessed with volleyball...

Kageyama pulled away from you, getting up from the bed. As he turned away to search for a futon to put on the floor, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You croaked softly, “Tobio, can you hold me?”

And your relationship continued in much the same way, the incident of that day largely forgotten, your feelings on the matter remained suppressed. Both of you only had eyes for each other, but neither of you were inclined to speak those feelings aloud. Finally, you graduated from Karasuno, both still firmly attached to each other.

All those hidden feelings eventually fulminated at the graduation party Hinata had decided to host, inviting former members of the Karasuno Volleyball Club along with people from rival teams. Kageyama had asked you to come with him, so you had entered the party on his arm to chorus of ‘so you’re finally together?’ and statements echoing that sentiment. You had had to shake your head, forcing a smile on your face as you jokingly dismissed the claims.

“No, we’re just friends,” you said. “This boy has only got one thing on his mind and that’s volleyball.”

You were unaware of how incorrect that statement was. Since he had secured a spot with the Schweiden Adlers following graduation, his mind had been drifting to you more often. Truth be told, you were often all he could think about - your figure, your touch, your smile. As selfish as it was, he wanted you like this, with him, for as long as you would have him.

Kageyama forced a laugh at your words, not seeing the hurt look in your eyes as he unwittingly agreed with your statement.

“I don’t know why you’re not dating yet,” sighed Sugawara, swaying slightly as he walked up to you. “After he called asking me for advice, I thought he was finally aware of his attraction for you.”

“What?” You blinked at Sugawara, needing a moment to digest his words. Then you spun to face Kageyama. “You what?”

“I’m not attracted to you, y/n,” spat Kageyama, shrugging you off him. “You know as well as I do. We’re only friends... and that’s all we’re ever going to be.”

“Hey...” said Sugawara, fumbling for a way to stop this from escalating. It was clear that Kageyama’s words stemmed from his fear that acting on his feelings would affect his volleyball in some way. Meanwhile, you looked close to crumbling, Kageyama’s last statement highlighting how pointless your feelings towards him were. “Maybe you two should walk away before this escalates.”

“You know what, Kageyama?” you snapped back, the emotions you had been holding back bursting out of you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and your fingernails bit into the skin of your palm. “Fuck off. I’m done with this, whatever this is.”

With that, you spun around, storming further into the party. Kageyama quickly lost sight of your figure in the sea of volleyball players. His cheeks felt wet. He was shaking, all control over his body gone as he launched a punch at the wall to his left. Skin ruptured. Glancing down at his fist revealed split knuckles and blood welling up from the cracks.

“Fuck.”

You pushed through the people, desperately searching for anything to help you feel less empty inside. Less broken. Alcohol. That was your answer. Your gaze landed on a table that looked close to collapsing due to the amounts of bottles on it. No one would miss one measly bottle. Not fully aware of who might be watching you, you grabbed the largest one, took off the cap, and drank from it deeply. The liquid burned your throat, a welcoming distraction from the numbness you were currently drowning in.

This time you pushed through the crowd holding the neck of a bottle, looking for somewhere to collapse. Your eyes landed on the open back door. Perfect. The cool air against your skin made you shiver, causing you to pull the jacket tighter around your form. You studied the black denim. It was Kageyama’s jacket. A bitter laugh escaped your mouth. How fucking typical that you were still relying on him to help you, even if it was just his jacket. Actions guided by nothing more than hatred at your own inability to do anything without him, you ripped it off you, throwing it down beside you.

Without his jacket to ward against the chill, you realised how cold it was. You simply shrugged, raising the bottle to your lips in the hopes that the bite of the alcohol would fight away the cold. When a jacket dropped on your shoulders, you barely registered it.

“l/n, come inside,” said the voice beside you. Vaguely, you recognised it as Tsukishima’s. Blearily, you tilted your head to look up at him. “It’s cold. You’re going to catch a fever or something.”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you slurred, slipping your arms into the sleeves of his jacket. It was warm. You snuggled further into the warmth. He just rolled his eyes at you, grabbing you from underneath your arms and pulling you to your feet. You stumbled into him, feeling wobbly and unfocused. “Shit, I think I’m drunk.”

“Nope, you’re obviously completely sober.” His voice was dry, the sarcasm in his tone clear. You shot him a glare, poking your tongue out at him. He observed with a hint of superiority in his tone of voice, “Now, that was childish.”

“I don’t care,” you pouted. “I’m drunk and upset.”

Wrapping an arm around his, you leaned on him heavily as he walked with you back into the party. Barely audible above the noise, you mumbled, “I want Tobio. I really love him… Why does he always hurt me?”

To be honest, hearing you like this made Tsukishima’s chest ache. He had his doubts about your relationship with Kageyama, had taken to observing the dynamic between you two. For quite some time, he had seen the hurt that waited just beneath the surface, the way your eyes would suddenly become unfocused when you came to watch Kageyama practice. It was clear you were thinking back to that day, the way he had addressed you so coldly and emphasised the importance of volleyball over your well-being.

Kageyama watched you with Tsukishima from across the room, his right-hand throbbing with pain. After Daichi had helped Kageyama clean it up, he had told him to go home. Kageyama had refused. Despite the words you had spat at him, he could not leave until he knew you were safe. He had watched you, watched as you attempted to drown your sorrows in alcohol. He knew he probably should have approached you, offered to take you home before you got too drunk. It was clearly past that point now. You were clinging onto Tsukishima as if your life depended on it. This made him grit his teeth in annoyance. It should have been him there to support you. Although, if he had not lost his temper with you earlier simply because he was in love with you, none of this would have happened.

He strode across the room towards Tsukishima, powered by some urge to be the one to take care of you like he had been doing since that first tutoring session. “I’m going to take y/n home.”

“Do you really think she wants to be anywhere near you right now?” questioned Tsukishima, glancing down at you briefly. At the sound of Kageyama’s voice, you had let out a breathy moan, fingers twitching on his arm as if you wanted to reach out to him.

“Tobio…” you mumbled, clearly drunk. You removed your arm from Tsukishima’s, reaching out for Kageyama. “I need you. Please. Don’t leave me. I need you.”

I need you.

The words rang around his head as he curled a protective arm around your waist. You were turned into him, nose pressed against the material of his shirt. One of your hands gripped his shirt tightly, fingers curling in the thin material. He began to walk away with you towards his car. Even if this whole situation had not happened, it was still his turn to be the designated driver.

Silently, he helped you into the passenger seat, buckling your seat belt and brushing a soft kiss to your cheek before shutting the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He opened the door, sliding into the seat and looking over at you once more to double-check that you were strapped in. Much to his surprise (and slight annoyance), you had decided to unbuckle the seat belt. He huffed, leaning over to grab the belt, “Seriously, y/n.”

Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, stilling his movement. Slowly, you brought his hand down to rest on the smooth skin of your exposed thigh. Kageyama froze, his gaze flickering to yours. Your face was so close to his he could feel the heat of your breath against his lips. Gently, almost teasingly, you rubbed the tip of your nose against his. He let loose a breath he did not realise he had been holding, allowing the pad of his thumb to begin rubbing smooth circles on your thigh. While his fingers dance across your skin, you grazed your finger along his jawline, the other hand reaching up to tangle in his hair. Unable to help yourself, feeling needy, just wanting him, you leant in, letting your lips brush against his. Once. Twice. On the third time, Kageyama’s restraint broke, the hand on your thigh tightening while the other went to the nape of your neck, pulling you into him harshly.

His lips pushed against yours, the swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip enough for you to open for him. He tasted you. Greedily. Hungrily. His tongue tangling with yours teasingly as the kiss deepened. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you from your seat beside him. You clambered over the gear stick, falling into his lap. The kiss broke momentarily as you adjusted your position, straddling him, both hands clutching onto his black hair. You did not have to wait long until his lips were back on yours, hands trailing down to grasp at your arse as he strained upwards in his seat to push his clothed centre into yours. The moan you let out against his lips did not go unnoticed, and he ground upwards into you, eliciting another soft groan. You pulled away slightly, stuttering out his name, “T-T-Tobio. Fuck.”

Your breath carried with it the stench of alcohol, seeming to pull him to his sense. Suddenly he released you, causing you to flop forward against him, hands still clutching his hair. Your head was pressed against his shoulder. “Tobio?”

He lifted you off him, returning you to your seat beside him. Without looking at you, he put your seat belt back on, trying to avoid touching you, afraid the feel of your skin and the way you were looking at him, eyes dark with desire, would cause him to snap again.

“Tobio?” you questioned again, voice painfully soft, as if you feared his reaction. “Do you not want me?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Fuck. Of course, I want you. You don’t know how much I crave you. How much my thoughts end up drifting to you.”

“Then why’d you stop?”

“Because I can’t,” he said, the words physical paining him to speak. “You’re a distraction. One I can’t afford as much as I want it.”

A broken sob escaped your lips. But he did not reach over to offer you comfort, as much as he might have wanted to. And, although that night ended with you sleeping at his house, the next morning, there was a noticeable wall up between you. The once easy affection you shared was unwanted, Kageyama maintaining physical distance with you as much as possible.

And, though it pained you to admit, your relationship was never the same after that. It was never easy. It was never comfortable. It was tense, awkward even. Though you parted ways as friends, him going to the Schweiden Adlers and you off to university, it was as if a fundamental part of your relationship was broken. It was unlikely that part could ever be repaired.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyu oneshot #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #tobio scenarios #tobio imagine #kageyama x reader #kageyama imagine #kageyama angst #kageyama tobio x reader #kageyama x you #kageyama x y/n

[falconfriend]

AU where some different things are possible. Don't read too much into Jay's techno babble, quite honestly, I might edit some of it out, it's not the point.

Don't be surprised if you see this edited before the final ff.net post, but it's here, and I'm happy with it. The original concept has a chapter in which our two main characters talk together and process, and that is still very, very important to me, I'll probably bring it back.

See tags for warnings.

--

The amount of power Zane is channeling right now shouldn't be possible. Jay made darn sure to learn everything he could about Zane's possible repairs while Dr. Julien was still alive—the other guys didn't like to think about it back then, but come on, he was old, Jay knew, everyone else knew too even if they weren't saying it— so anyway, he'd spin wild hypotheticals, ask what happens if one tiny piece of machinery goes wrong.

Lloyd would hit the point where he wanders off, self-consciously chuckling that this isn't really his area but he feels like he's kinda learning things, and Jay would watch the clock tick until Nya got bored... and then, that was his opening, to fire off whatever question would come off as too rude while the others were around.

The doctor would smile in a sort of understanding, if slightly flummoxed, way, and he'd start answering. Jay got a lot of answers! He figured out how to put all of Dr. Julien's numbers into his numbers, you know, the kind we learn in the modern century, and made a copy of Zane's schematics with his notes. He had a harder time finding the focus to figure out the Falcon, but Nya and Lloyd are on that anyway. Logical division of labor.

What is he talking about. What was he thinking about. Zane's dying.

Distractedly, he answers- "I said critical mass. If he doesn't contain that, he could go nuclear."

"He's containing it, right?"

"It doesn't- matter." Containing it also means dying.

"Why wouldn't it matter, Jay-"

Jay asked a lot of questions, but he never did even think to ask about Zane's power source. Shouldn't that be the first thing? Why weren't we asking questions about the power source?

He knows approximately how much power Zane runs on. He knows it isn't this much. He knows how a storm feels, right before lightning is about to strike, what builds up in the air and how much damage it can do, right before he—

Jay takes a step forward.

Wu puts an arm across his shoulders, pulling him back. Jay just about slaps him off before realizing that's a quick way to get himself thrown to the ground and shut up before he can start,

So he waits, a frustrating two, three seconds, until he finds words.

"I can help." His throat is dry and he wouldn't mind except that he needs to be louder. "Get me to him, I can help!"

The rest of the ninja are turning to look at Jay… so… slow. Cole looks like he could be swimming through molasses. Jay seethes, and flexes and unfurls his fists by his sides to let it out, and takes a small step back instead of forward.

It works. Sensei releases him, almost.

Kai looks like he might be committing a crime if he lets himself look away from Zane, which isn't helping. Finally, though, he opens his mouth before Jay can. "Your powers? …Do you think?"

"'Do I think-' yes, I think, that's electricity. Or, electromagnetic- whatever. It's energy. I can feel it, Kai- this is taking too long! Where's Pixal- Pixal! Pixal, yoo-hoo, tell them I can help!"

"That won't be necessary," says Wu. Everyone is moving like an old man right now, taking their time; Jay's sure of it. Remember that comment about Cole? It feels like Jay's the only thing who isn't wading through molasses. Jay and the Digital Overlord, that is, and Zane, who cries out so bad Jay spends that moment sure that everything's over and Zane is gone now-

Everyone is moving like the slow old man Sensei talks like, but then Jay sort of- must have blinked, or something, because suddenly, they're all shifted. Cole sets a hand sturdily against his shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize that they're all on his side.

Jay finds a hardened, gold feeling deep in his chest, and latches onto it, and uses it to find his voice. "Okay." Okay. Look. Think. "Cole, I'm going to run at you and I need you to launch me, onto that web. Lloyd, use your energy to boost me."

"But-"

"We don't have time! It's just a scratch."

"Keep him on the edge of the blast. Try to center it about two meters from him." Jay looks back at Nya, Nya looks back at him. It's like they're both realizing how small everything has been. They're nineteen- Jay's nineteen, Nya's eighteen. It's like- like, we didn't need to know the shape of the care right now, I care about you.

Nya waves him away to the task at hand with a smile that means What? Anyway, you're coming back.

Jay looks at Cole and Lloyd. They look back at him. "Well, let's go." With a serious expression, not a word in response and not wasting a second, Cole stoops, palms up and fingers intertwined, a foot-sized platform.

"I'm ready for you, Walker."

He gulps. Time freezes for a second and then skips forward again, like half a second that definitely shouldn't be allowed to be that long. "Okay."

Kai steps forward, like he's going to- hug him, maybe? Rub his back? Push him forward?

"Okay ninja-go—" he kicks off and twists. Off the ground, off Cole's intertwined hands, launching him into the air- about to panic and yell Now, Lloyd when Lloyd finds the right moment anyway, blast re-aiming him just as he's about to fall-

He's sailing through the air, back sore and ears still ringing as the wind whistles past them. Ninjago city sails beneath him. He's two feet short of Zane's hand. He's going to miss.

He's going to miss, he's sorry, and they don't have a second shot, and not that it would be okay if he didn't but now he's going to get all caught in the explosion too,

And Zane reaches back, and grabs his hand.

The jolt that immediately moves through Jay is an absolutely massive electrical discharge. It tries to run from him straight to ground; at first, he was not connected to the circuit, so the electricity is looking for him as its way out. Here's the thing about electricity—it doesn't ask questions. It's already moving by the time your question is halfway out of your mouth, and that's why you need to either be five steps ahead or be ready to start improvising right now or else you're dead.

Something about that isn't how electricity should work, though. It doesn't rush into... a wire that isn't connected to a throughline. Batteries have two ends, positive and negative, and a wire that isn't connected to both of them might as well not be a wire at all— electricity isn't trying to get out, it's trying to get to somewhere, electrons hungry to get to that battery's positive side. Every single electrical invention in the world is formed by humans forcing those electrons to take the long way.

This electricity doesn't have a destination.

The Digital Overlord is always destroying. That means energy in him is leeching outward; this isn't just entropy, this is entropy gone rogue. Jay doesn't know where he's getting the electricity from, but- if he can destroy, maybe he can create. Who knows. Whatever. What becomes apparent right then is that it seems like the Overlord needs to always leech outward, and what Zane is doing is containing him. Sooner or later the snake eats its own tail.

Zane nods, with a firm little hum, as if he can tell from Jay's face what's going on in his head. It's businesslike, and it jolts Jay back to work. Jay can stand this for a few minutes longer, but Zane- Zane's dying.

So: parallel paths. Create two paths, two options, and the electricity will keep looking for how it can be the least crowded. It's like the reason air leaves a popped balloon, kinda like pressure but with a thousand electrons that all hate each other and feel indifferent about you. Or picture... getting into a crowded convention center, and someone coming running to announce they've just opened a second doorway, and that you can get in through either line. Create two paths, and only half of it goes through Zane.

Zane releases his hand.

They really, really need to have a talk later, but Jay is relieved it's not a talk about being willing to be saved. He's helping himself be saved.

Jay holds one of the golden contact points in one hand, and one in the other. The energy rolling around his ligaments and bones deflates, taking the easiest path.

"I had hoped you would do that behind me," says Zane, whose eyes are now closed.

Jay doesn't really try for a little laugh, so much as his body tries for a little laugh, like his brain is fine-tuned into making his excuses with or without him. "You could've said that earlier."

"No, it's alright. Just… here, scoot a little to the side-"

"This is pathetic," hisses a condensed-evil murmur over their shoulder, like it's obligated to, "YOU THINK YOU CAN DEFEAT ME?"

"Yes," says Zane.

And the bluewhite what-is-that-stuff that he'd once used to take down a plain old treehorn beams closer past Jay's cheek than he can really say he's comfortable with. It's almost like being near a fire- a live wire, static. He's not too cold, but he's sure if he touched it, it would move straight through rapid-action frostbite into part of his face falling off.

"Jay, now." Jay isn't sure what he means by now, that uh, isn't very clear, but he spends a half-second in panic before realizing Zane's ice is running a cable to ground. It'll keep a direct hit from coming back for them. It means, since this is the only window before it connects, they need to hit him now.

Jay pulls the electricity out of himself, out of the air- he takes whatever excess Zane will give him, when he touches his hand- and he breaks the circuit. He shoves it, with force, the opposite of the ways electrons want to work, not the way lightning wants to work—but that's the first step of making lightning. You build up a gap. The buildup snaps from him into the Digital Overlord's metal body. Something is wrung out of him like a sponge.

There's a thunderclap that shakes the city and an explosion that's- like a video game character died. Like it's not a real explosion, it's just something- dissipating. The city just turns white.

Jay becomes aware that he's flying again for the first time in two years, and Zane is holding onto him but losing strength. And then it turns out that he's got his arms around Zane, too. He only figures that out when he starts to panic that Zane's going to fall, and the tug of Zane's weight on his arms doubles, and alerts him that they're there, secure. His body was thinking ahead, even if he wasn't.

Zane's out. He's… fine. He's fine. He's got to be fine.

And while we're at it, Jay's hoping he's fine. His heart feels- wrong.

The first thing he needs to do is get back to land, the second thing he needs to do is look at… is get Nya to look at Zane, he's not even sure he can trust his senses. Huh, hang on, there's a sound other than the ringing in his ears.

"Jay!"

That's Pixal.

"Jay!"

She's standing on the roof of Borg Tower, waving her arms, and just as Jay starts to settle enough to realize he's not frozen, adrenaline's not gonna stop him from moving and he should fly somewhere. ...Huh. He has to pick where.

It would be a really good move to let their friends see they're alive. Nya's good at robotics.

Pixal and Borg… can probably fix him faster.

Zane sparks, hard.

Like Superman, made of light, Jay descends toward Borg Tower in a graceful arc. His feet connect with the roof with a very soft patter. He locks eyes with Pixal to hand off their boy to her.

"Whoa, okay, Sparky, geez. Just thought I'd keep the sweat out of your eyes."

Well. That's not correct.

There are the tiles of a hospital ceiling in front of his eyes, which feels more correct. Apparently, Kai is also in the room, because—

"Yeah. He's okay."

—well, because that's Kai.

Cole, of all the things that could happen here, squeezes Jay's hand. It occurs to Jay that he could have died on- on really, really weird terms with him.

Whoof. Jay takes stock of his body. He starts by feeling the sheets, just to figure out where his body is, then investigates the muscles and aches beneath them. He's in one of those medical gowns that closes in the back.

Everything feels... pretty okay? No, everything feels like he's just been stretched in every direction like a piece of toffee.

No, everything feels like he's just been stretched in every direction like a piece of toffee, but also maybe like he is toffee, so he's fine.

He, uh, definitely can't move. And that feels wrong, but at least he's identified the reason he's in a hospital bed, rather than wondering. He'd find this a lot harder to process if he had walked away from it without a scratch at all, even though it would have been cooler. He sort of wonders if anyone would bring his chart over where he can read it.

"Uh, yeah, that's all great, but what about Zane?"

Kai lets out a small, slightly-amused very-concerned snort. "Jay, you asked that already. He's okay."

"Go easy on him."

That's Lloyd. There are, wow, a lot of people in this room. It's gotta be a pretty small room? Hospital rooms aren't that large. Are his parents here?

"They're on their way."

"My mouth keeps saying whatever's in my brain."

Cole laughs. "Hey, don't worry everyone, he's back to normal."

Jay's breath does a weird thing in his lungs. It's like his body is focusing on every sensory detail except where it hurts. "Yeah, you're just jealous of how I looked up there."

Cole could nearly double over laughing at another time, but right now everything about him is subdued, gentle. Jay could see him ruffling his hair if he wasn't, you know. In a hospital bed. "Sure am, sparkplug."

And there's quiet for a beat.

Jay continues, still staring at the ceiling, "Hey, Nya, how bad are you gonna kill me."

"Oh, uh—" That's Lloyd again, kicking one heel awkwardly back against the wall. Kai speaks quickly—

"She wanted to be here. It's killing her not to, I mean— everyone did. Sensei, too. We told them we've got you."

"That's nice."

"I-I said I'd run and call her once you're awake, just to let her know. I should probably go do that now. She's—"

"With Zane," Jay finishes, no bones about it. Kai nods. "That's nice." The way energy thrums from Jay's palms feels different now, like he's not just pulling it from the air, like there's a battery under his skin, but that's. That's a question for training time. It's sleep time, now.

A/N: Why did the writers say "it's reaching critical mass." I still don't know what that means. Zane's power source is presumably based on some kind of nuclear fission then, but I'm not sure what "critical mass" has to do with the Digital Overlord encounter? If anyone knows how that's relevant to how Zane died, please lend me your knowledge, I'd be very grateful and schooled.

Anyway, critically, this is an AU where it is possible for Jay to help, not an AU where Jay notices he can help. It's built on the assertion that there was nothing Jay could do in the original, but in this universe, different things were possible.

#ninjago #jay walker #zane julien #jay ninjago #zane ninjago #warnings: #hospitals #there's some narration of Jay's thoughts not making linear sense which might be disorienting to some readers

[arahul-abyssia]

Festive

Writing number 4 for Nintember (@starprincesshlc , @jklantern )! To hopefully escape the pit of Emotions™ that was the first three stories, here's some hopefully much much much lighter, more slice-of-life-ish fare.

This does correspond to prompts 16-20, but I got caught up in Real Life for a while, so it's going up mega-late, and also it's kinda... abridged from its original concept, and less polished. 'Tis the way the cookie hath crumbled this year...

~~ Horse, Color, Hats, World, Music ~~

Layna awoke to a loud and repetitive hooting in her ear. She blearily turned her head to the side to find a pair of black-framed bright red eyes staring at her with interest. It took several moments of staring before she was mentally present enough to avert her gaze, sit up, and look out the window at the horizon. As she had expected, the sun had only barely risen fully above it.

She turned back to her greeter. “Relos! How many times do I have to tell you not to wake me up?”

Relos merely, and quite literally, hooted with laughter and flew off out of her room. Layna knew it was futile to keep telling him not to wake her, not because of any obligation or the masterful internal clock of his, but because he knew she didn’t like it and he was a mischief-mongering imp.

Normally, she’d roll over and try to get a few more minutes of sleep, but that day was the first of one of the best weeks of the entire year, and she didn’t want to miss a single moment. She quickly pulled herself from her bed, cleaned and dressed herself, grabbed the pack she had prepared the night before, and hurried downstairs, hoping to get through the delightfully aromatic kitchen and out the door before--

“Aaaalwaaaalrwaaa!”

Standing between Layna and the door was the soft pink-and-cream form of Infra, who was gazing up at her with strikingly accusatory eyes, her hands on her hips.

“Yes, Infra, I know I haven’t eaten.”

“Laaalruuwaar!”

“It’s the first day of the festival and I want to do as much as I can! I’ll get something from one of the vendors.”

“Luulrwarraalyaaa!”

“Ugh…! Fine, if it’ll make you happy.”

Begrudgingly, she returned to the kitchen and sat at the table, as Infra went to the stove, gingerly placed an assortment of breakfast foods onto a plate, and set it before Layna, smiling at her with fairy-pink eyes that had nary a semblance of her previous visage. Unlike the rest of Pokémon in her family’s home, who were all quite content to leave the human part of the family to do as they pleased, the Audino practically operated like another mother to her, as if she needed a third one on top of her human two (who also were often subject to Infra’s mothering). Somehow, she had learned how to do a whole plethora of human home tasks and chores, and she never let Layna leave home in the morning without ensuring that she’d eaten. An outside observer might wonder why a Pokémon was apparently her morning caretaker, and not either or both of her mothers, but with both of them having jobs that began long before dawn, it was simply how things were in their house.

She had to admit that Infra was a surprisingly good cook. This evaluation, however, was not based upon the food that she was at that moment rapidly stuffing into her mouth, but rather upon the numerous meals from days where she wasn’t dead-set on going elsewhere as soon as possible. That morning’s breakfast, while certainly of Infra’s normal calibre, was given no time to rest upon Layna’s taste buds, and may as well have been tasteless for all she cared.

As soon as the last bite of egg left her fork, she jumped to her feet, practically threw the plate and silverware into the sink, and darted for the door, calling out as she left, “‘Kthankyoubyyyyeeeeee!”

Infra was not impressed with her, as projectile kitchenware was dangerous and eating that quickly would likely give her a stomachache, but she’d have time later to worry about such things. Her next task was to prepare food for the rest of the Pokémon scattered about the house, who all were beginning to come to consciousness, probably due to the clatter of cutlery, and she set about with the same dutifulness and joy she always did.

Layna, of course, hadn’t even a single neuron focused upon Infra’s judgment, as she was far more concerned with sprinting down a steep road with wanton abandon, the countless colors and lights and tents and tarps of the festival visible in the distance. It had already entered full swing, always beginning with the dawn, and she wanted to explore as much as she could. She had considered bringing along some of the Pokémon, but not long later decided to bring them along later in the day instead. She did not know why she made this decision, nor did she care.

The streets that had been blocked off for the festival were already bustling with people and Pokémon alike, almost each and every one nearly as energized as Layna was. She promptly began to wander the streets, turning and spinning and looking about enough that she ought to have made herself sick, but this had not lasted for even five minutes before she was drawn to a larger vendor stall by an overpowering floral and fruity aroma.

As should be expected, an impossibly wide variety of flowers and fruits were on display, some having been made presentory and others still being attached to their plants, with countless more options upon the boards hanging from the awning.

“Well, hello there, young miss!” said one of the farmers behind the stand. “How can we help ya?”

“Oh, I’m just looking right now, sir.” She paused a moment, then was overtaken by a rather sudden curiosity. “There are so many flowers and berries here, how do you manage to pick and move them all?”

The farmer chuckled. “We have a lot of help, ‘specially around this time of year. Lot of it comes from extra hands, but it would still be impossible without the help of all our Pokémon, like ol’ Sitrus here.”

At this, he gestured to a Mudsdale beside him, which Layna had somehow managed to miss entirely.

“She’s lovely! And so… big…! I’ll bet she must be really strong, too!”

“More ‘n any of us could’ve expected! And she’s friendly, too; wanna pet her?”

Layna’s eyes immediately lit up. “Would I?!! I mean, uh, if she’ll let me…!”

The farmer laughed and brought the horse forward, and Layna tentatively reached up and placed a hand on her face. Sitrus took a moment to consider her latest contact, then, judging her satisfactory in that esoteric way few can ever decipher, leaned in to her touch. She giggled and stroked her a few times more, noting her fur’s strange combination of roughness and softness, before pulling her hand away. Sitrus, in turn, snorted a puff of hot air at Layna’s face before backing into the shade again.

“Aw, that means she likes you! Well, let me or any one of us know if ya want anything.”

“Will do, thank you!” Layna had no intention to buy anything at that time, not when there were countless other things to do and find and see at the festival. She proceeded to bury her face in several of the flowers around the stall, enveloping herself in their different, yet undeniably pleasant, scents, before scampering off to find some other point of interest.

She could have easily checked the maps of the festival area, which were scattered on boards and holographic signs all about the city and even available online, but this sounded boring and unfun, so she did not. Upon her winding, meandering, unfocused path through the streets were innumerable stalls and stands and attractions to take note of--more fruits and vegetables, tickets to special shows on later days, a ferris wheel to ride with someone else later, foreign cuisine and sweets--but it was not until she overheard the faint but unmistakable sound of music that she was drawn in once again.

Upon the boardwalk was a small stage with a frighteningly energetic group of musicians, surrounded by an even more enthusiastic crowd. They seemed to be in the middle of a rendition of a song Layna heard on the radio nearly every day, an anthem for Trainers detailing their goal to “Catch ‘em All.” She never saw the appeal--both of the song and of the objective--but it apparently spoke quite well to most others.

As they finished their performance--and on a much more somber note than the original song did--their main singer pulled the microphone from its stand and began pacing the stage. “I hope you folks are enjoying the show! Now, however, I’d like to take a break from the hype, and sing something a bit slower, something that’s… rather close to my heart.”

Layna watched as a Toxtricity--which had evidently been playing with the rest of the band, but which, just like the Mudsdale, she had failed at first to notice--stepped forward and began playing a slow guitar piece. The lead singer waited a moment, then began to sing a ballad in a tongue Layna could not understand. It was one she was certain she had heard before, but could not manage to identify it any way beyond that it was not the common tongue known by almost everyone across the world.

She tried to stay and listen, but immediately found that, beautiful though his singing was, she was not in the mood for slow music. Along with a small chunk of the band’s crowd, she turned and left, and returned to her aimless wandering and exploration.

Eventually, she found herself in a quarter rife with food vendors, most of whom had one or two individuals calling out and offering free samples. By the smells and descriptions alone, she was greatly tempted to take every single one she could. Of course, her mothers would likely have tried to limit how many she took so that she wouldn’t spoil her appetite for lunch, and Infra would surely have balked at the notion for the same reasons; also, most of the food in the area was rather far from being healthy. Indeed, she had significant reason to not do what she wanted to do.

However, none of those individuals were here to remind her, and as it turned out, the aromas were very persuasive. Layna marched forward and nabbed every sample in sight, only barely stopping to enjoy them before moving on to the next, and only doing so because of the crowds and lines slowing her down.

Her frenzy ended not fifteen minutes later, and as she looked about to find her next target of interest, she realized she had wound up on the very same street she had started on. Obviously, this would not do, as there were so many other, more interesting circles to walk in the festival’s streets.

However, with home being so near once again, she had half a mind to return to grab something to combat the rapidly rising sun, whose rays were just beginning to take too much precedence over the comfortable morning breeze…

“Twee-tweeoo-twrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

Or maybe I won’t have to after all!

A black-and-brown blur was barrelling toward her from the sky, making a frankly obscene level of noise. She stood firm and faced it, staring unblinking at the rapidly encroaching avian, before ducking at a perfect, precise, and repeatedly practiced moment. Like clockwork, Layna’s vision was shaded by an off-kilter hat (which she quickly adjusted), and the feathery form of a Taillow alighted upon her shoulder, whose face she began to delicately stroke.

“Thank you for bringing me my hat, Lond! Wherever would I be without you?”

“Twrrrt-t-twiii!”

“Wait, no, don’t tell me: Infra wanted me to not burn in the sun and you wanted to not be stuck inside with Relos.”

“Twrr-twrr-twrr!”

“I thought so… well, now that you’re here, how about sticking with me for a bit of exploration? I’m sure there'll be plenty of stuff to try!”

Lond pretended to think for a moment, then gave another enthusiastic chirp.

Layna giggled. “In that case, we mustn’t waste any more time! Onward!”

And with no decay to her exuberance, she sprinted off into the festival once more.

#nintember #fun note: i don't really like the whole 'pokemon say their names thing' so i went with Other Sounds instead

[serenzippity]

Be Alright

I haven’t written anything in a LONGGGGGGG time. However I tested positive for the coronavirus and this is the product of boredom, Tylenol PM, and a quaratine playlist that is 2,000 songs strong. I wasn’t planning on writing for Ateez, and I originally wrote this with blanks but I couldn’t get Wooyoung out of my head for this.

Inspired by “Be Alright” by Dean Lewis

Warning: Angst, cheating, and language.

Words: 1115

There’s a static in the air that tells him something is wrong.

It’s oh so wrong.

There, curled up in the darkest corner of the bunk, sat a shell of a man that he had a hard time recognizing. Between the shakes and the sobs came the distinct clicking of an iPhone as swipes and sniffles blurred the tiny black pixels on the dirty screen. He could see the distinct colors of selfies and photos as thumbs scrolled up and down in a melancholy rhythm, succinct with the drips of tears down his friend’s cheeks.

“Woo you can’t lay in bed forever,” Hongjoong tells him firmly but with sympathy laced in-between every word. Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, Hongjoong felt like he was at a loss for what to do. “I know you love her, but you need to put your phone away.” Trying to reach out for the device, Hongjoong only receives a pained glare and whimper that stops his hand in midair.

The bags under Wooyoung’s eyes speak volumes about his lack of sleep and closure. He was destroyed and hollow on the inside, hurting not only himself but the rest of his bandmates. Hongjoong’s chest clenched at the sight of his pallor and the shine of dried tears on his cheeks. Wooyoung’s normally bright eyes looked dull, his lips were chapped, and his hair was unkempt and knotted from both sweat and stress. This was the first time he had see the younger man in such a state, and it hurt every nerve in his body because he felt hopelessly lost. All he wanted was to fix Wooyoung, but the path to doing so was covered in a thick fog that suffocated him with each step.

“Woo,” he whispered gently as he brushed his fingers over Wooyoung’s back, trying to pull the broken man out of his cove of heartbreak with practiced care. “It’s been five days; you need to leave this room.” But there was no response. Nothing—like the silence he had met when he tried to get Wooyoung out of his bed every day for the last three days.

The universe usually tells us that third time’s the charm, but it doesn’t tell us how many times the charm is when dealing with the ultimate betrayal.

-x-

He was in a deep discussion with Seonghwa over their upcoming comeback, running the possibilities of different concepts and hints that would go along with the songs they had begun writing. The vacation time served them well, and everyone was buzzing with the possibility of another round of albums and stages.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa didn’t notice when you slipped silently through the front door, quietly bypassing them as they were deeply engrossed in preparations for the rest of their year.

They also didn’t notice when you went through the closed door of their bandmate’s room, ignoring the click of the lock that signaled the need for privacy.

They also didn’t notice when the surprised and happy words of Wooyoung became words of pain and accusations, the various walls separating them muffling the sounds together into a mess of noise.

They finally noticed when the door slammed open, bouncing against the wall and vibrating through the whole dorm. Wooyoung’s shouts and your cries echoed around them as he stormed out of the room with fire and brimstone hiding behind his usually soft eyes. He practically ran out of the room, fists clenched at his side as he tried to reign in his anger and hurt. You followed him in a cacophony of sobs and pleas that begged him to calm down.

“Wooyoung please!” you cried hoping to bring him back so you could talk to him about how it all went wrong, but he was deadest on the front door to put as much distance between you two as possible.

“No!” he yelled with tears streaming down his face as he quickly grabbed a jacket and shoes, ignoring the two stunned faces of his friends in the living room.

“Please!” you asked one more time, reaching out to grab his arm in a desperate attempt to get him to stay.

Instead he wheeled on you, burning your mind forever with the shattered look on his face. Neither Hongjoong nor Seonghwa would ever forget the look of pure pain on Wooyoung's face as he looked down on you: the tears staining his handsome features that were marred with everything ranging from betrayal to sadness to hate. “Why?!” he hollered, making you jump back. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were stunned to silence at the spite in his voice, completely unable to do anything but watch as a relationship fell apart before their very eyes.

“I-I’m so sorry, Wooyoung,” you sobbed between gasping breaths, “It just happened I didn’t mean for it—.”

“BUT WHY SAN?!” he screamed in your face, causing you to flinch back in both fear and hurt.

“Wooyoung,” Hongjoong whispered from the living room, quickly moving to try to defuse the situation as best he could before it got worse. Wooyoung looked up from your agonized face to see his two friends spectating in stunned silence. Seonghwa could only look on with disbelief while Hongjoong was approaching the two of you like he was about to face a wild animal.

Wooyoung’s eyes flitted between you and his hyungs, his heart shattering more and more as the glass cracked with each breath he took. There was a gaping emptiness where the shards of his heart broke away and dissolved into nothing, and he could feel the cold echo of the void growing and he knew it would soon consume him. He was feeling his whole world spin and tilt on an unfamiliar axis, causing the knife you drove into his chest to dig deeper and deeper into his lungs. With one final, pained glare at your tear-stained face Wooyoung gripped the handle of the door and ran outside.

Wooyoung ran as if running could turn back time. He ran with the hopeful thought that if he ran enough, he could turn back time. He could turn back the clock to the exact moment where you broke. He could go back and keep you from sleeping with San in what you claimed was a dumb mistake. But as his thighs and lungs burned he began to realize that this isn’t a movie where everything miraculously works itself out. This isn’t the ideal world where mistakes can be fixed and forgiven at the snap of two fingers. He realized that his world just shattered around his feet, sucking him into the void in his chest and leaving him suspended in inky blackness.

#ateez #wooyoung #jung wooyoung #ateez wooyoung #wooyoung angst #ateez angst #wooyoung drabble #ateez drabble #wooyoung fanfic #ateez fanfic

[brideylee]

Chateau Quarantine

                 Sophia Coppola smokes a cigarette while she waits for an omelette she has no intention of eating.  It’s a gloomy marine layered morning, you can barely see across Sunset. She’s been in lock down for three weeks and while she normally loves the moody, brooding decadence of the Chateau Marmont, its elite solitude is giving her a bit too much time to reflect. She thinks about the concept of crying as she watches a long torso-ed model skinny dip in the pool from the penthouse. There are no rules anymore, not that there were many in the first place. The hotel was shuttered to the public as of three weeks ago, and those who were already there could stay indefinitely. Sophia lives alone in the tower suite with the three bedrooms and the wrap around porch, known by some as “the Deniro”, but Robert himself couldn’t tell you why. Any legends or gossip about the Chateau were just bread crumbs to keep the public hungry and mystified. The real Chateau for the privileged few who used it, was an unceremonious respite for excessive loneliness, addiction, and often not great sex. The Chateau had a reputation: look but don’t fuck. Everyone’s genitals were rendered useless from anti-depressants.

               She thought she would be filming by now. Her cast is stranded too, with little guidance other than “we’ll wait it out.” The film she wanted to make stars Hugh Grant and Ewan McGregor as two estranged brothers coming together for their father’s funeral. Iman was set to the play the mysterious woman who shows up at the funeral who they then realize was their father’s mistress. It was going to be a slow movie about the brothers coming to terms with their father’s death and equally so falling in love with the woman he hid from them. All this would be suggested through intimate long takes, and funny, stylish, improvised montages. Always subtle and romantic without the sap, this was the tight rope Sophia liked to balance on.  At the end of the movie, both brothers are mildly changed, but not entirely. She has a sweet spot for the immovability of people’s psyches, particularly men. 

Sophia watches impartially, as the naked model floats on her back in the calm pool. It is so cold and early to swim, is she on drugs or is everyone at this place even more numb than they think? She wondered if her film was too male, too disembodied from her personally to mean anything.  Tapping into the male gaze, was an ability she was born with. Her father’s point of view was all she interacted with as a kid, and the underside of his specialties became her focus: the lost parts of men when they are too weak to hold up the heavy crown of their egos, who they were when they could let themselves feel outside of their work. But given the state of the world, and the molasses nature of time during lock down, Sophia started to question if what she always found to be her strength was just simply trauma. Was her whole profession a way to resolve some genetic creative stifling that took place in the shadow of her dad? Surely her body of work contains more than that. It’s not all a selfish attempt at repair. Is any art not selfish? "Maybe I should make a different movie, something that everyones gonna like for once.” She thinks to herself.  Thank God, her goat cheese omelette has arrived.

             Later on, the gothic lobby is empty besides the cast of her film and the elegant model behind the reception desk standing like a hollow sculpture, frightened by the chaos that lurks outside. Ewan McGregor, drunk off of five Marmont Mules, is showing Hugh Grant an app that maps the stars and constellations. Ewan has gone on and on about a camping trip he took around Scotland and how amazing the stars were, but when pressed for details about where exactly he was or what he saw or what year he did this, he can’t seem to remember anything at all.But that doesn’t dampen his excitement about the app. “See, that, there is Orion’s belt!” Ewan enthusiastically points out, his cute smirk displaying his bottom row of sweet corn kernel teeth. Ewan just recently learned about the stars. Until the age of 47, Ewan had been referring to them as “night freckles.” Many think this is why he didn’t have a fun time acting in  Star Wars, space simply befuddled him. Hugh and Ewan are dressed exactly the same: navy blue beanie, black jeans, a tight blue thermal, and desert boots- the actor man uniform they give you after you play opposite Nicole Kidman or Renee Zellweger.

“That’s brilliant,” says Hugh Grant completely perplexed by the app and confused at Ewan’s rambling. Hugh sticks a handkerchief up his nostril with his pointer finger and wiggles it around somewhat violently. Iman clocks this with a blink of disgust, her silk, gold blouse  glistens with god-like royalty in the amber glow.  “Can you turn your face away? That’s how the virus is spreading.” Her voice is deep and she rarely uses it because it changes the direction of the wind and messes with the tides.  “Aw, fuck me. That’s right, isn’t it?” Hugh Grant turns away and starting blowing his nose and coughing obnoxiously. Hugh is acting like a resentful brat because he knows he wont be able to have Iman. He decides he’s gonna pick a fight with Sandra Bullock via face time later to blow off steam. Iman is thinking she was right all along, she should never have agreed to this. She was already sick of the “beanie twins”. 

Hugh had been rattling on about how the movie needed a sex scene or at least a sexy scene and went on to say that Sophia had some sort of block. Iman felt that both Ewan and Hugh, however innocently, were exploiting their acting roles to gain real life experience, and there was no way in hell, she was going to kiss either of them.  Her kiss would make them immortal and Iman knew their souls needed more lifetimes to grow. Plus, she liked the script the way it was- underwritten and open for interpretation. Her character is symbolic of the side of their dad they didn’t get to meet-  spiritual, graceful, embodied. It was a soulful choice not to show any nudity or sex, one that could lead Americans to try to use whats left of their iPhone stolen imaginations.

                Meanwhile Michael Cain, who was supposed to play the dead father, is staring at the beautiful Victorian tapestry hanging behind her. “It’s like it’s right out of the Cloister’s.” Michael says under his breath. Michael is sweet, Iman thinks as she watches him stare at the tapestry with wonder, his mouth agape, and a lil warm milk spilling out of his left eye. Iman and him have known each other for years and he always reminded her of her husband: his fierce devotion to his craft, his rigorous intellectuality that does a bad job hiding an animalistic sexuality. Both men contained so much and no one can handle a man like that besides a mystical siren like Iman. 

Hugh and Ewan’s chatter dies as their drinks empty. “If I were to be honest with myself…” Hugh begins. “Better later than never…” Michael Cain interrupts without cracking a smile,  a dryness a la Maggie Smith. In fact, fuck, this was Maggie Smith. No one had realized. Hugh winks at Michael/ Maggie and continues. “ I don’t think were going to be filming any time soon, folks. I think we are being held hostage a bit by Miss Coppola.” Ewan stares off with a thinking face like no one has  ever had a deeper thought before. “That is interesting to think about. There is some kind of bratty assumption that all this will fade away soon enough. And we’ll be back on set. But what if it’s not for another year or so?”  Ewan is really getting worked up “What if we live here for the rest of our lives!!” His eyes are big and dazzling, it’s like he’s thinking of the most ideal outcome for the rest of his life.

               Suddenly, Sophia joins them at the table. “There they are, my little hunchbacks!” This is what Sophia affectionately calls her actors, the origin is unknown. Sophia has a strange new confidence around her. Usually, when she walked into places, she would feel like a Nat Sherman cigarette, like only some select tall New Yorkers in the back would still appreciate her. “Hello, love! Someone slept well.” Maggie Smith as Michael Caine chirped. Even when Maggie-Michael said something sweet, it still felt like someone was aggressively tickling your ribcage. 

          “I have news.” Sophia sits down, and smiled large and toothy, a stark contrast to her usual chic, despondent stare,  a look only afforded  to artists born with trust funds. “We’re not making the movie.” Hugh taps the table. “Well, I believe I won that bet.” Ewan’s jaw drops, destroyed. “You mean we cant live here together forever?” He runs his hands through his hair, petrified. Iman is quiet, which can mean many different things and all things at once, she is eternally the glory of God, a forgotten pyramid at the bottom of the ocean that if unearthed would explode us into 5D ascension. 

 “We are making a better movie! A super hero movie!!” Sophia exclaims. Sophia gets up close in the faces of her cast, pitching them on her new idea. “It’ll be a real heroes journey- good guys versus evil! Fun CGI! Sexy starlets and fun on trend jokes!” She turns to Michael Maggie, her mouth inches away from their milky eye, and says- “And much much more!” Sophia climbs up on the table now. “The adults will love it, as well as the little ones!” She does an Irish jig and starts spinning around and then poses with her arms up as though at the end of a musical.  It was not fun to watch.  Iman cuts her off-“I don’t trust what is happening.This is not reality. This is delusion. A karmic spell.” The power of Iman’s words blows the power out of the Chateau, pipes burst, the fire alarm goes off, and Joel Madden of Good Charlotte in room 304 stops jerking off for a second. Sophia is still catching her breath from her presentation, her sweating, arms stretched to the ceiling. She gulps as her eyes meet Iman’s. “Why don’t you just write from my character’s point of view?” Iman says as softly as she can without causing chaos.   Sophia freezes. Her whole body calcifies and turns to ice, then crumbles onto the table. Ewan and Hugh watch in absolute horror as Iman drops some of the ice into her water. She knows she shouldn’t have said yes to this project and looks on lovingly at Michael/ Maggie who has dozed off. 

[thatesqcrush]

Mr. In Between, Ch. 6

Rafael Barba x Reader. Rafael Barba x Olivia Benson. Prompt inspired by @sweetsummertime99: “I was watching friends and it was the episode where Ross writes the pro/con list for Rachel and Emily. I’d like to see if someone would write the same kind of scenario not with a waitress but other attributes. Rafael Barba x Female Reader where Rafael writes the list and the reader finds it. Possibly comparing to Olivia?”

CW: some angst

AN: the conclusion.

Tags: @madpanda75 @ottosuricato @delia26 @dreila03 @sass-and-suspenders @glimmerglittergirl @melsquared79 @mommakat32 @garturbo @southern-magnolia a @niyashell @tropes-and-tales @imjustreallynosy @whyissvuruiningmylovelife @sweetsummertime99 @evee87 @kscarlett1 @scarletsoldierrr @red @cesarofangirl78 - anyone else just ask.

****

“You promised me the world and I fell for it. You replaced me - us - so easily. Like it was easy. Made me think I deserved it. I saw the signs and ignored them. I had rose colored glasses on. I am over the moon that we are together again. But how do I know this isn’t going to happen again? I know it was just a stupid list but it feels like so much more.”

You looked at Rafael, your eyes filled with tears. You swallowed the hard lump that formed in your throat and shifted your seat, adjusting the pillow that you were sitting against.

“You two are in the thick of healing. It’s going to take time to rebuild the trust that has been broken. And that is what we are going to work on in these sessions. Rafael, it sounds like that Y/N is saying your actions and words were bombastic. How does that make you feel?”

Rafael looked at your therapist, Jillian, who had thought it was a good idea to have Rafael to come to some of your sessions. He rubbed his face, unsure as to what to even say. The usually sharp-tongued, loquacious prosecutor found himself at a loss for words.

Rafael knew he was culpable for his actions. He took a deep breath before speaking. “Y/N, I know I am responsible for your pain. I know I strung you along. And because you were so... wrapped around my finger... I just easily disregarded your feelings. It was egotistical and irresponsible of me. I truly am sorry.” He reached for your hand and you reached for his in return. Rafael gave your hand a squeeze, with a small smile.

“I know it’s unfair to blame you entirely for my resulting actions,” you replied. “I was reckless.” You felt ashamed. You looked down and away from your therapist and Rafael.

“You were burying your pain in the aftermath,” Jillian replied, as she jotted notes.

Jillian looked at the two of you earnestly. “It’s clear that you two love each other very much. And in order to rebuild trust, you have to own up to your mistakes, which you both have done. You also have to forgive. Y/N, you have said that you forgive Rafael? Is that still true?”

You nodded, replying softly. “It is and I do.” You looked at Rafael, and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Living in the past will not serve either of you well. I want you to focus on the present. Keep your words and actions consistent, Rafael. Y/N’s image of you has been shaken and she is looking for stability wherever she can. Consistency demonstrates that there are reasons to trust you again and also allows you to appear safe to her again,” replied Jillian. She glanced at the clock, seeing that time was nearly up. “Before we end, I want to just want to say, when trust is broken, it can be a long and lengthy repair process and, if you’re committed to it, then you have to be in it for the long haul.”

Rafael nodded, squeezing your hand. “I know and I am more than at the ready to do the work. And I need to work on sitting with my own painful shame.”

***

You and Rafael walked down the sidewalk, hands clasped in one another’s. There was still snow on the ground from the blizzard ten days ago. The city was still alive, with the hustle and bustle of traffic, natives, and tourists alike.

You both paused at the street corner, waiting for the light to change. After a minute, the light changed and as you both walked across, a sign caught your eye.

“Open house - want to go check it out? I’ve been thinking of getting a new place. Plus we can warm up a bit.”

“Sure,” Rafael replied. You both bounded up the stairs of the brownstone. You both turned down the hallway and entered a spacious open concept kitchen with lots of storage and counter space, stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops. You kept walking and found the parlor. Your heeled booties clacked against wide plank floors, the sound echoing. There were built in bookshelves and incredibly high ceilings, that you calculated that were at least 10 feet high. You were charmed by the wood burning fireplace surrounded by white brick.

“Wow,” you half-whispered. “This place is amazing.”

“Can I help you?” the realtor agent came out, a clipboard in hand.

“Hi - we saw the open house sign, so we just came to check it out,” you replied, removing your coat. “This place is something special.”

“It’s all been fully renovated; the hardwood floors are the original floors from when it was built in 1920 - let me show you around.”

At that moment, the agent’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me — feel free to continue looking.”

You and Rafael nodded, and you headed up the stairs to the second floor. You entered the master bedroom and ran your hands against the dado rail.

You shivered, and Rafael embraced you from behind, his head on your shoulders. He rubbed your arms, in an attempt to warm you up.

You turned around to face him, and stared deeply into his seafoam green eyes. “I love you.”

Rafael’s lips twitched into a smile. “No puedo imaginarme cómo hubiera sido mi vida sin ti. Mi amor, mi cielo, mi vida.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss along your neck, sending another shiver down your spine.

Your cheeks flushed. “What does that mean?”

“I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without you. My love, my heaven, my life,” Rafael replied.

You leaned up and pressed a small kiss along his jaw line. You took his hand and began leading him to a door. Can I show you the walk-in closet?”

Rafael’s eyes twinkled. “Really?”

You let go of his hand and began unbuttoning your blouse, walking backwards towards the closet.

“Well, she did say we could look around.” You cocked your brow and bit your lip.

Rafael followed you into the closet and shut the door with a click. Your mouths crashed passionately against each other’s, a mess of tongues and teeth.

***

The two of you bounded out of the apartment; you were giggling like a school girl, your breath creating a cloud in the cold.

“Tu me vuelves loco,” Rafael replied, spinning you so you were back in his embrace.

You ducked your head into his shoulder, humming. “We’re going to be okay right?”

Rafael cupped your face, lifting your chin so that you were looking at him. “Hey. I know we can do this. We love each other too much to let this destroy us.“

“It’s going to be work,” you replied, your eyes moving past his gaze, and watching the busyness of the city continue along.

“I know,” Rafael replied.

“Okay,” you replied. You let out a breath and looked up towards the sky, watching the clouds roll in. It looked like it was going to start snowing again. Rafael pulled you close, and you leaned into his embrace. You were both ready to take on the future, certain that with work, with time, your love for one another would heal and flourish.

FIN

#my fics #my writing #barba and reader #rafael barba and reader #rafael barba fanfic #barba x reader #rafael barba x reader #rafaelbarbaimagine #rafaelbarbafanfic #rafa

[breadkneewrites]

A Valentine’s Day Recipe: Eggs, Slippers, and Air Pollution

“‘Course, kid. Now hurry up. I’ll make some food for you.”

“Oh, no. Sir, you don’t have to do that. You definitely do not have to do that. Please don't do that.”

If he didn't know any better, he'd say Peter didn't want his cooking.

Peter, for reasons he can’t fathom, comes back on Valentine’s Day.

Tony’s thoughts usually revolve around the word ‘fuck,’ a little bit of alcohol, and a whole lot of self-destruction. But, as he steps into the living room at a bright and early eight ol’ clock with a mug of coffee and his Iron Man slippers shuffling across the floor, his only thought is what the fuck?

It’s almost been an entire year since Thanos’s snap dusted half of Earth’s population, and Tony has almost gotten himself right again -- enough to be able to talk freely about Peter and the memories he has with Aunt May. He was doing good.

He doesn’t really know what to do now.

The kid’s standing in his living room and staring at the large assortment Tony picked up from the store yesterday. Flowers, chocolates, wine (the whole nine yards) -- all for Pepper. To, in part, apologize for his behavior the past ten months. And to show how much he loves her. She’s done so much for him, going so far as to gently take a bottle out of his shaky hands as he tried to drink himself to death. He just wants to do something to make up for it. Anything. It’ll never be enough, but he’ll keep on trying until the day he dies.

Tony stands in the doorway of his living room, the coffee mug burning his palm from the way he was carefully holding it. Originally, his plan was to slouch in front of the TV for a few hours until Pepper got back from the office. Things never go to plan for him. So, instead, he stares at Peter and ignores the way the coffee threatens to spill over onto his hand.

What do you even say to the kid who died in your arms ten months ago? Especially when he is (very, very) suddenly standing in your living room and inspecting the quality of the roses you bought your soon-to-be wife? Tony steps forward, not really knowing what else to do, his slipper sliding across the hardwood floor loudly. It’s then that Peter glances over his shoulder to blink at him.

His eyes are still so, so innocent.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” the kid pipes up, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, and Tony knows he’s going to start trying to explain himself. “I would’ve knocked but, um, F.R.I.D.A.Y. said I could come in, and Pepper wasn’t answering the door and I didn’t know if you would be home so, uh, yeah. I walked in? I didn’t really have a plan. I just… did.” Peter awkwardly lifts a hand in a half-hearted shrug. Was he just planning on standing in the living room until Tony or Pepper came in? His gaze drops to Tony’s slippers, staring at them for a moment, before resettling on his old mentor’s face. “I would’ve called, but I don’t really have a phone anymore?”

What the fuck is he supposed to say?

He starts with the obvious elephant in the room. “How the hell are you alive?” Tony has half a mind to set his chilling coffee on the nearby table. “You died.” Questions are making his head spin as he tries to grapple with the concept that Peter is here. Alive. And is just standing in Tony’s house, chewing on his lower lip anxiously.

“Mr.-- is it Doctor? I still don’t know? Anyway, Mister-Doctor Strange found a way.” When Tony’s stare prompted him to go on, he scrambled to find a way to explain. “He figured out how to use the stone, I think, in his mind? Because he’s connected to it through a spell. I’m probably wrong.” Peter pauses. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve messed up somewhere. Is it even possible to do that?”

“Pete, you died. I watched it happen.” Tony’s pretty sure the wrecked tone in his voice was embarrassing, but he doesn’t really care at this point. Peter fucking Parker just came back from the dead, and the first thing he decided to do was stand in Tony Stark’s living room after ten months. Ten months. “I went to your funeral.”

Peter’s smile droops at that. Rather than responding, he pauses to clear his throat. Then, “is--” he swallows down the tears in his voice, “is Aunt May okay? She’s not hurt, right? Did she--” He cuts off, but the implication is there. Did she turn to dust too?

“I talked to her yesterday.”

“Oh thank god, I was so worried she was one of-- one of them. Those poor people--” Peter wrings his hands, looking anywhere but Tony. He can see grime under the kid’s nails. Briefly, he wonders what the kid had to do to survive.

“He couldn’t figure out how to bring everyone else back,” he says suddenly, keeping his eyes pointedly on the rug under his socked feet. “There was a spell he created. For one-time use.” Questions threaten to break Peter’s story. They bubble in his throat and threaten to spill over, but Tony keeps quiet as he listens. “I was the only one who went through. They all said that I should go because I’m a ‘kid.’” He bends his fingers as he quotes the rest of the team. “They all had messages for me to give you, but I don’t really want to go into them now, sir, if that’s alright.”

“Christ, kid. Of course it’s fucking alright.” Peter blinks at him in surprise at the profanity, but his shoulders drop slightly in relief.

Strange sacrificed himself, along with everyone else, for Peter. They all chose to stay for him. Part of Tony is selfishly glad that is was the kid. So, so selfish. A tiny, rational part of him wishes it was the whole team. Of course he does. They were his family. But if it had to be only one person? He would pick Peter too. Always.

Peter was family too.

Thanks, Strange. I’ll pour you a drink. Hell, I’ll buy a whole beer company and let every barrel drain.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. For everything.” Something in Tony breaks. Months and months of wishing Peter was okay, that he wasn’t dead, or dying, or stuck in some unknown place all alone come rushing to the front of his mind. It takes only a few strides to get across the living room and throws his arms around the kid. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter sobs, “I should’ve listened, I should’ve stayed on the bus and gone to the stupid MOMA, even though I’ve already been there a hundred times--”

“Shut up, kid.” Tony presses his fingers into Peter’s hair. It’s irrational, but he just wants to remind himself it’s not dust. That the strands of brown hair between his fingers is real. Memories of Peter’s hair fading into the sand hide on the inside of his eyelids. “I’m seriously talking to May about grounding you for a least four years.” He pulls away from the kid, but lets his hand rest on his shoulder to look him seriously in the eyes. “No more space adventures, alright?”

Peter gives him a lopsided grin. “Even when they figure out a way for us to live on Mars?”

“Definitely not then. You’re staying right here. We can die with the air pollution.”

“Isn’t that a painful way to die?”

“Probably.”

“How do you know you’ll even live to be that old?”

“Can you just shut up?” He definitely doesn’t want Peter to keep quiet, especially after missing him for ten long months, but he knows the kid wouldn’t shut up. Ever. Even if Tony would very much like him to. There are a lot memories of Tony chucking a tool at the kid to stop him from talking.

“Mr. Stark, I do have, um, one request?” Tony drops his hand to go and retrieve his coffee cup. He sips it, even if it’s ice cold now.

“Shoot.”

“Can I have some clothes?” He guesses that ‘death’ wasn’t really supportive of alternative clothing, because Peter’s still wearing his Spider-Man suit from his fight with Thanos. It’s ripped in several places and extremely, extremely filthy. God, you can’t even see the difference between the black webbing design and dirt. Idly, he wonders where Peter got the clean socks from. “I wouldn’t ask,” he continues, “but I’ve been wearing these clothes for months and they’re really starting to smell.”

“Oh, I definitely could’ve told you that.” The suit smelled like a skunk took a dive into straight tar and vomit and decided to mix a little blood and sweat in with it. Maybe some alcohol too. Tony’s nose took a big hit when he’d hugged Peter. There were even a few tears, but those were definitely because of the smell. Definitely. “Come on.”

Suddenly, “Do you have any more of those slippers?” He swears the kid was laughing behind his back.

“Kid, these slippers are limited edition. Do you really think I don’t own every set?”

“Right. Well, I really like that they light up when they walk.” Tony can hear the smugness dripping from Peter’s voice. Just to mess with him, he makes sure to step hard enough for the tiny blaster noises to activate. It earns him a snort.

Tony flicks on the light to the room he turns into, pausing to take it in.

“I had this set up for you before Thanos and all that shit happened.” He looks around the room for the first time in almost a year.

Spider-Man photos are framed along the walls, but that’s the only thing that was centered around the superhero. In an attempt to capture Peter’s simple style, Tony had the room decorated like the typical teenage boy would probably prefer. Dark gray sheets and a black comforter adorn the bed, equipped with a simple bedframe, and the carpet was a calming blue. A desk was shoved against one wall, a computer resting (brand-new, personally built by Tony himself) amongst a bunch of little odds and ends. There’s a flatscreen TV along one wall (with all the latest gaming consoles) and a couch.

Honestly, it was kind of embarrassing that it took him so long to decorate it.

Pepper said it was ‘adorable.’ Which it definitely is not. He just wanted Peter to have somewhere to stay when he and Tony worked on the suit late and had to crash on the couch. There were more than enough rooms in the house anyway. (His mind cruelly reminds him that there are even more unused rooms now, but he elects to ignore it.)

Peter’s schoolbag rests on the desk chair, a silent gift from May. It used to be exciting, but the sight of his bag still hanging around after his death had curdled something in Tony’s stomach (once he’d gotten back on Earth after everything), so he haphazardly tossed it on the chair. He hasn’t been in this room since early April.

“Wow,” Peter says in awe, staring about the room. “You really didn’t have to, Mr. Stark. Like, really didn’t have to.” There’s an argument there for later, and he bets the kid’s going to try and refuse the room for the living room couch. Tony will proudly remind him how much it cost to decorate it, and Peter will awkwardly shuffle into the room to sulk about the money spent on him.

“I had more than enough room. Besides, you’re going to mess up my couch with your drool. Do you know how often I have to clean that up?” Peter has the decency to look sheepish. “Well,” Tony clears his throat awkwardly, “there are clothes in the closet and a bathroom through that door. No, every room has its own tiny bathroom. Your room isn’t special. And no, don’t argue about it. You have to use it. Go ahead and shower, Spider-kid. You need it.” He makes a big show of plugging his nose with his fingers and waving the air around Peter, earning himself a light punch to the shoulder.

“Okay.” Tony ruffles the kid’s hair roughly as he moves to leave the room, not caring in the slightest about the dirtiness of it. He’s just glad the kid is back. Though he knows Peter will probably move back with Aunt May tomorrow, he’s happy that he’s here, even for the night.

“Oh, right. There’s Spider-Man slippers in the closet too.” Peter gives him another wide smile and moves to pull them out. “They make web noises when you walk on them.” He’s totally saying this from memory of the product description and not because he owns a pair.

(They were limited edition.)

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Peter says sincerely, eyes still darkened with the memories of the weird purgatory-state-thing-place he was in for ten months. Hell, Tony doesn’t even know anything about it or if it felt like ten months, a few hours, or even a year. Frankly, he doesn’t want to ask right now.

“‘Course, kid. Now hurry up. I’ll make some food for you.” Peter swallows dramatically as eyes wide with terror.

“Oh, no, sir, you don’t have to do that. You definitely do not have to do that. Please don’t do that.” If he didn’t know any better, he would say Peter didn’t like his cooking.

“How’s an egg omelette sound?”

“No, uh, actually, I’m allergic to eggs.”

“Oh, are you? I thought I saw you eat eggs that morning when Pepper cooked breakfast?”

“Those… those weren’t eggs?”

“Are you sure? I’m, like, a genius and rarely forget things. I’m pretty positive they were eggs.”

“They definitely weren’t eggs.” Tony squints at Peter from across the room.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re lying to me right now. Are you lying to me, kid?”

“I would never lie to you, sir.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.--”

“Is unavailable right now!” Peter stands up quickly, trying to drown out F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice as she answers. “She’s down for a system check!”

“She’s never down for a system check. I do those myself.”

“No, she definitely does them.”

“I literally do those myself--”

“Anyway, I’m going to get a shower, Mr. Stark! See you in a bit!” Peter grabs any clothing he sees from the closet, ripping a shirt off the coat hanger and yanking a pair of jeans from the drawer. He practically bolts into the bathroom, slamming the door shut with a determined click of the lock.

“You forgot underwear!” This only prompts Peter to zip out of the bathroom and grab a random pair of underwear and socks before scurrying back to start the shower. Tony sips from his mug and rolls his eyes, grimacing at the taste of the cold coffee. If Tony Stark had only one skill, it would be his ability to make anybody in his vicinity embarrassed.

When he hears music and (very) off-key singing drift from the bathroom, his heart tightens in his chest. Peter is here, home, and going to be okay.

It’s a long road to recovery, and the kid’s bound to hit a few bumps along the way, probably in nightmares, panic attacks, and severe PTSD, but he’ll be alright. Tony’ll be there every step of the way. For every therapy appointment, every self-destructive moment, every outburst, flinch, and cry.

He’ll make sure of it.

He’s not losing his kid again.

Tony Stark never considered himself to be a father, not even a father figure, but as he listens to Peter sing Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” terribly as he tries to hit every, single line, he knows he could. That he could be a father to Peter Parker. God, he really wants to be.

Though, honestly, the kid’s singing is a bit atrocious. He sets a reminder to call May later and try to explain just exactly how her nephew is alive. But, for now, he focuses on getting something in Peter’s (most likely, completely empty) stomach.

For once, he’s glad Peter takes long showers because he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing as he measures out the ingredients F.R.I.D.A.Y. instructs him to grab and throws them in a bowl and skillet. (It took him at least five minutes to even find the skillet, let alone gather all the ingredients and bowls). It takes him at least forty-five minutes (at least) to conjure up a semi-decent omelette and find a plate to slide it onto. He sets it on the table, rights the napkins and fork, and moves to brew another strong coffee. A little alcohol might’ve found its way into it, but he deserves it after the morning he’s had. I mean, he did meet someone came back from the dead, and that’s gotta count for something, right?

If anyone says he burns Peter’s omelette and has to start from scratch three times, then that’s just an obviously blatant lie.

When Peter comes out of the shower and spies the egg omelette on the plate in the kitchen, he gives Mr. Stark a tight smile and sits down. He’s not going to just refuse a perfectly… good… omelette… yeah, he can’t refuse an omelette if it was made by Tony Stark himself. Like, that’s gotta be bad luck or something, right?

Even if he really, really, really doesn’t want to eat the eggs. How did he even manage to make eggs that badly?

If he becomes nauseated for the next few hours and has to puke once or twice (at the taste, not the overall quality of the eggs, they weren’t spoiled or poisoned), then that’s perfectly fine. Because he’s home, and he’ll take really, really bad eggs over what he went through any day.

They get take-out from an off-the-wall Chinese restaurant down the block and watch terrible Valentine’s Day movies for dinner. 

It’s the best Valentine’s Day Peter’s ever had.

#irondad #tony stark #peter parker #spiderson #mcu #marvel #valentine's day #irondad fic #fanfiction #tw: there's mentions of alcoholism #and ptsd #but neither are shown #infinity war #iron man #spiderman

[kathleenseiber]

What is quantum entanglement?

Quantum computers, quantum cryptography and quantum (insert name here) are often in the news these days. Articles about them inevitably refer to entanglement, a property of quantum physics that makes all these magical phenomena possible.

Untangling quantum entanglement

Einstein called entanglement “spooky action at a distance,” a name that has stuck and become increasingly popular. Beyond just building better quantum computers, understanding and harnessing entanglement is also useful in other ways.

For example, it can be used to make more accurate measurements of gravitational waves, and to better understand the properties of exotic materials. It also subtly shows up in other places: I have been studying how atoms bumping into each other become entangled, to understand how this affects the accuracy of atomic clocks.

But what is entanglement? Is there some way to understand this “spooky” phenomenon? I will try to explain it by bringing together two notions from physics: conservation laws and quantum superpositions.

Conservation laws

Conservation laws are some of the deepest and most pervasive concepts in all of physics. The law of conservation of energy states that the total amount of energy in an isolated system remains fixed (although it can be converted from electrical energy to mechanical energy to heat, and so on). This law underlies the workings of all of our machines, whether they are steam engines or electric cars. Conservation laws are a kind of accounting statement: you can exchange bits of energy around, but the total amount has to stay the same.

Conservation of momentum (momentum being mass times velocity) is the reason why, when two ice skaters with different masses push off from each other, the lighter one moves away faster than the heavier. This law also underlies the famous dictum that “every action has an equal and opposite reaction.” Conservation of angular momentum is why — going back to ice skaters again — a whirling figure skater can spin faster by drawing her arms closer to her body.

France’s Gabriella Papadakis and Guillaume Cizeron demonstrate the effects of conservation laws during the 2019 ISU European Figure Skating Championships in Belarus. Credit: Shutterstock

These conservation laws have been experimentally verified to work across an extraordinary range of scales in the universe, from black holes in distant galaxies all the way down to the tiniest spinning electrons.

Quantum addition

Picture yourself on a nice hike through the woods. You come to a fork in the trail, but you find yourself struggling to decide whether to go left or right. The path to the left looks dark and gloomy but is reputed to lead to some nice views, while the one to the right looks sunny but steep. You finally decide to go right, wistfully wondering about the road not taken. In a quantum world, you could have chosen both.

For systems described by quantum mechanics (that is, things that are sufficiently well isolated from heat and external disturbances), the rules are more interesting. Like a spinning top, an electron for example can be in a state where it spins clockwise, or in another state where it spins anticlockwise. Unlike a spinning top though, it can also be in a state that is [clockwise spinning] + [anticlockwise spinning].

The states of quantum systems can be added together and subtracted from each other. Mathematically, the rules for combining quantum states can be described in the same way as the rules for adding and subtracting vectors. The word for such a combination of quantum states is a superposition. This is really what is behind strange quantum effects that you may have heard about, such as the double-slit experiment, or particle-wave duality.

PBS Studios: The Double-Slit Experiment.

  Say you decide to force an electron in the [clockwise spinning] + [anticlockwise spinning] superposition state to yield a definite answer. Then the electron randomly ends up either in the [clockwise spinning] state or in the [anticlockwise spinning] state. The odds of one outcome versus the other are easy to calculate (with a good physics book at hand). The intrinsic randomness of this process may bother you if your worldview requires the universe to behave in a completely predictable way, but…c’est la (experimentally tested) vie.

Conservation laws and quantum mechanics

Let’s put these two ideas together now, and apply the law of conservation of energy to a pair of quantum particles.

Imagine a pair of quantum particles (say atoms) that start off with a total of 100 units of energy. You and your friend separate the pair, taking one each. You find that yours has 40 units of energy. Using the law of conservation of energy, you deduce that the one your friend has must have 60 units of energy. As soon as you know the energy of your atom, you immediately also know the energy of your friend’s atom. You would know this even if your friend never revealed any information to you. And you would know this even if your friend was off on the other side of the galaxy at the time you measured the energy of your atom. Nothing spooky about it (once you realise this is just correlation, not causation).

But the quantum states of a pair of atoms can be more interesting. The energy of the pair can be partitioned in many possible ways (consistent with energy conservation, of course). The combined state of the pair of atoms can be in a superposition, for example:

[your atom: 60 units; friend’s atom: 40 units] + [your atom: 70 units; friend’s atom: 30 units].

This is an entangled state of the two atoms. Neither your atom, nor your friend’s, has a definite energy in this superposition. Nevertheless, the properties of the two atoms are correlated because of conservation of energy: their energies always add up to 100 units.

For example, if you measure your atom and find it in a state with 70 units of energy, you can be certain that your friend’s atom has 30 units of energy. You would know this even if your friend never revealed any information to you. And thanks to energy conservation, you would know this even if your friend was off on the other side of the galaxy.

Nothing spooky about it.

By Amar Vutha, Assistant Professor of Physics, University of Toronto

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related Reading: Quantum physics for the terminally confused

What is quantum entanglement? published first on https://triviaqaweb.weebly.com/

[lh-moth]

Hidden

A Storm Hawks fan fiction.

Summary: After being defeated by the Storm Hawks again, the Dark Ace considers the current the situation upon returning to Cyclonia. Set in an AU where the Dark Ace isn’t really a villain. (around 1500 words; warnings for minor injuries)

Thanks to @vera-sterne for editing this. Though she hasn't actually seen the show, so any mistakes in those details are my own.

One thing I liked in Storm Hawks was how a lot of their victories in the early episodes made sense, but there were still times I found myself wondering if the villains - especially the Dark Ace - were really trying. One moment in particular led me to speculating on the idea that he was purposefully throwing the battle and, well, here we are. I’m sure other people have explored this concept before; I hope my take is at least somewhat entertaining.

Originally, this story was meant to be longer, with more backstory, but the AU sort of took on a life of its own. Hopefully, I’ll be able to fill in some of the missing details in the future. For now, this is more of an introduction to premise.

I may also be taking some liberties with the show’s canon. A lot of my perceptions about the universe were created within the first twenty episodes, and I there was a lot I wasn’t impressed by in the second season. So, while I really enjoy the show, I am putting my own spin on certain details. Sorry in advance for the discrepancies.

Hidden

Wheels bounced as they contacted the hangar floor while the wings of the air skimmer shuddered, the battered mechanism refusing to retract correctly. Gritting his teeth, the Dark Ace forcefully twisted the manual gear. The metal protested loudly, but the wings folded back. If they didn’t sit flat against the body, if the rough treatment most likely increased the damage, at least the vehicle came to a halt normally, allowing him to step off instead of having to jump.

He was the Dark Ace, after all. He had a reputation to maintain and didn’t need to suffer the indignity of being forced into a controlled crash. Bad enough to come limping back after losing to a ragtag group of teenagers.

Or so the Talons saw it. In truth, the Storm Hawks were a team of skilled pilots who routinely showed a surprising level of resourcefulness. They certainly lived up to the name of the predecessors, would someday perhaps even surpass them. In the meantime, they were unintentionally aided by Snipe’s incompetence, Repton’s bumbling underlings, and Ravess’ showy over-confidence. Even with the Storm Hawks’ relative inexperience, it was easy to take advantage of such obvious flaws. A fact which Ace was grateful for. Each of those defeats helped to mask his own and allowed him to be more forgiving in battle.

His skimmer secured in its usual alcove, the Dark Ace grabbed the arm of a passing worker. “See to the repairs of my skimmer. Have it ready by nightfall.”

The Cyclonian snapped to attention, automatically uttering a “Yes, sir!” even as her mind contemplated the difficulty of the task. The timeframe he gave would be a tight one, but should be possible with some quick work. He tried not to make his demands too unreasonable. The power balance in Cyclonia was precarious enough, and punishing people for failing impossible orders only bred dissent.

The silence stretched into a awkward pause until the Dark Ace glowered. “Well,” he hissed, “get on with it.”

The woman paled, practically squeaking out her “Sir!” as she hurried away.

Resisting the desire to roll his eyes, the Dark Ace strode across the deck and out of the hangar. Suppressing his limp was painful, but he refused to show any ill-effects from the recent battle. Being unassailable was an important part of the image he created. While his reputation was enough to keep most Talons in their place, there was the occasional ambitious one, always on the lookout for any opportunity.

Thankfully, the Cyclonians in the corridor were more interested in avoiding him. His air of fury, along with the fast-spreading news of his most recent defeat, allowed him to reach his quarters without being accosted by any petty problems.

The door slid closed behind him, a faint hum indicating the lock engaged. For the first time since his men dug him from the rocks, Ace allowed himself a grimace of pain. He immediately set about removing his armour. Despite his cautious movements, he couldn’t stop a hiss of pain as he loosened his knee guard. Pulling off the shoulder piece was even more painful. Wincing as the last piece was removed, he began peeling off the dirt-encrusted clothing as well, revealing an array of bruises forming down his left side. His fingers traced over the injuries, gently probing the worst areas. While the bruises would remain painful for some time, nothing was torn or broken. Overall, it was better than what he had feared.

Turning his attention to the armour, Ace again found the damage to be superficial. He would look closer later, but aside from a few dents and deep scoring, it seemed fine. It was the kind of damage he could repair himself. For the time being, he could use his secondary set. The pieces weren’t as solid and the fit wasn’t as close, but it would do for a few days.

Storing the damaged armour properly, he glanced at the timepiece on the shelves. There was still time before Cyclonis would expect his report. Not long enough to bathe properly, but he could clean up a little. Ace limped to the sink. The lukewarm water was a welcome feeling, washing the dirt and grime from his face and shoulders.

A sharp bolt of pain caught him off-guard as he straightened. He glanced at the clock again. Treating the bruises would delay him, but the the modicum of relief would be worth weathering Cyclonis’ irritation.

Going to the cabinets along the wall, he opened the bottom one and removed the small heating frame. The design was basic, with a setting for crystals in the base and an adjustable insert for pots and bowls. Ace pulled out the box beside it. Inside, there was an assortment of cooking crystals. Needing nothing more than a warming glow, he selected one of the smallest ones. With the crystal secured, he left the element to heat.

Bandages, a small bowl, and a jar of base salve were also retrieved from the cabinets and set beside the frame. Another shelf held a small collection of carefully labelled bottles filled with various colours of powdered crystal. His hand lingered over the nearly full bottle of paralysing crystal, useful for the numbing effects. He passed over it, though, instead taking the cooling crystal. It was tempting to numb the pain, but he couldn’t afford the loss of mobility, no matter how slight it would be.

That was the price of not having someone trustworthy at his back. In a broader view, it was also one of the weaknesses of Cyclonia’s Talons. The internal strife and unreliable nature of the pilots made them easy prey for a well-coordinated team. Especially one like the Storm Hawks. In all the time he’d observed the Sky Knights – whether from within or without – Ace had rarely seen such cohesion in a squadron. The level of trust between them was admirable. Even in Ace’s squad–

He cut off that line of thinking, focusing his attention on his current task.

Using a flat wooden spoon, he scooped out a portion of salve into the bowl and placed it into the insert. The jar was getting low again; he’d have to replenish his supply next time he had a quiet moment.

Of course, quiet was in short supply these days. Cyclonia was constantly on the move as Cyclonis tested her and her enemies’ power. Each confrontation was like an experiment to see which tactics worked, and Cyclonis applied what she learned to her next strategy. Even her losses were turned to an advantage.

Ace frowned as he slowly stirred the salve. He never imagined Cyclonis would move so soon. Maintaining an empire was challenging enough without starting a war. But Cyclonis’ youth didn’t impede her sharp mind, a fact which kept Ace from moving against her more overtly. After everything sacrificed to get him to this position, he couldn’t risk losing it without a high guarantee of success.

It was why he relied so heavily on the Storm Hawks to upset Cyclonis’ plans, and the bitter irony of that was not lost on him.

Seeing the salve had loosened to the correct consistency, Ace removed the bowl and deactivated the cooking crystal. He opened the bottle of powder and carefully measured the small amount he would need. It flared brightly as he poured it into the bowl, the heat activating the cooling properties. Ace folded the powdered crystal in, distributing it evenly. The glow slowly faded. The mixture stiffened to a paste-like thickness. Gathering some on his fingers, Ace gingerly applied it to his knee. The welcome cooling sensation reminded him how lucky he was his injuries weren’t any worse.

And it was mostly luck, rather than any skill on his part. He wouldn’t be injured at all if not for simple pilot error. Most of the blame fell on a young Talon who couldn’t control his skimmer after taking minimal damage from that sharpshooter, Finn. With a better reaction time, he could’ve avoided smashing into the porous rock face directly above Ace’s flight path. The ensuing cascade still should’ve been easy to avoid, had Aerrow not been directly behind him. Pulling out into a roll – Ace’s best option – would have trapped the other pilot, so he tried a dive instead.

In hindsight, it was a foolish decision. If not for a serendipitous overhang, he would’ve lost his skimmer completely. He needed to overcome this ridiculous desire to protect the boy. Aerrow was a more than capable pilot, Ace knew. If he wasn’t Quarl’s son…

Ace unrolled a length of bandage, placing a layer over the salve. He kept it loose enough to avoid impeding his movement and flat enough to pass unnoticed beneath his armour. While most weren’t observant enough to realise the significance, he worried about Cyclonis’ reaction. The Storm Hawks were already a thorn in her side. He didn’t want to give her a reason to reevaluate how great a threat they posed. The situation could become…complicated.

Tying off the bandage on his shoulder, Ace hurriedly moved to dress. It galled him to leave his supplies in disarray, but he already wasted too much time here. He paused before leaving, checking his appearance in the small mirror by the sink. The armour effectively obscured the bandages and, most importantly, it wasn’t apparent that he had rushed. He was the Dark Ace, after all. Image was important. He met his reflection’s gaze with a smirk that came far too naturally these days.

Satisfied, he stepped from his quarters, and only narrowly avoided crashing into a nervous-looking Talon. The Dark Ace roughly pushed the startled man aside, glaring. The Talon had the good sense to bow in salute and otherwise remain silent as the Dark Ace passed by him.

Clearly Cyclonis’ patience had run out if she was sending men to fetch him. He forced himself to lengthen his stride, ignoring the fresh surge of pain from his knee. It would be best not to keep her waiting any longer.

#storm hawks #fan fiction #the dark ace #storm hawks: ucd au #moth writes

[thestoryofme13]

Rabbit Hole

Warnings: self-doubt, negative self-think, anxiety, uselessness, blood

Concept: Virgil reads Tumblr has an existential crisis

Virgil is scrolling down Tumblr because someone had to maintain Thomas’ page now that he was on a “school schedule.” He was looking through the Sanders Sides tag, these fans were so dedicated and talented. He was just about to put the phone when he saw a gif of him from the nostalgia video, of him trying to reassure Thomas that he has no reason to feel bad. Apparently, this user had decided that this was extremely out of character for Virgil, that he seemed weaker somehow and not quite himself. This theory intrigues him so he reads the replies, from there he sees more examples of his “out of character behavior.” Was it possible they had a point, was he losing his touch? Was it possible that he wasn’t the same person? The room was spinning, he needed help. He pocketed his phone, not realizing what time it was, and crawled to Logan’s room. He didn’t bother knocking, he wasn’t even sure he could, so he pushed the handle down without getting up from the ground. Logan was a light sleeper so the minute the door handle moved he sat up and turned on the light, surprised to see a figure crawling across his floor. Logan looked at the clock and groaned, it was 2 a.m., “Virge, what’s up?” Logan hid the annoyance in his voice well because he knew Virgil wouldn’t be here unless it was an emergency. Virgil had made his way to Logan’s bed and sat by his feet, he needed something to hold onto to bring himself back. Logan knew this and set his hand on the anxious traits’ shoulder, Virgil placed his hand over Logan’s and began to focus on his breathing. His mind was still racing but eventually he found his voice, he handed his phone to Logan, “Who am I,” he managed to squeak out. Logan’s heart broke at the sight of Virgil so torn up, he took the phone to inspect what exactly could’ve caused this reaction. His heart must have stopped for a split second when he saw the thread Virgil was referring to, could he lie to the side and tell him to forget. He shook his head and cursed inwardly, it was illogical to lie, he was bound to find out eventually. Logan sighed, “I was hoping to you would never ask.” Virgil began to panic, were the theories right, was it possible that he was not himself? His head was spinning and he felt like collapsing and hiding until everything settled. Logan sensed this, he took Virgil’s hand in his own to try and keep him grounded, “It’ll be easier for me to show you.” With that, they walked out of Logan’s room.

Virgil felt like he was having an out of body experience, somehow his legs knew to follow Logan and allowed him to put weight on them. Virgil’s mind was still clouded but he realized exactly where they were going, he stopped and pulled Logan to a halt as well nearly causing the logical side to fall, “Lo, why are we going to the dark part? You aren’t trying to get rid of me are you?” Virgil’s voice was shaking as the last sentence was spoken, Logan turned to meet the terrified gaze of the anxious side, “I would never get rid of you Virge. You help even Thomas out, I cannot be the only source of realistic thinking. Thomas needs you, nay I need you, you keep me sane. It’s not too much further.” With a reassuring smile the Logical side pulled Virgil down the hallway, they passed a room Virgil knew too well. The nightmare room is where he had originally been formed, sometimes he was forced to visit that room in his own dreams, but if it meant Thomas and the others weren’t forced to endure it then he would happily go to that room every night for the rest of his life to protect the others. They had finally reached the end of the hallway, Virgil looked in front of him to find a mirror, “Lo, did you really just drag me down this hallway to see….” His voice broke, he realized that Logan’s reflection wasn’t there, it was only him, except not really the jackets and hair were different but in theory, it was him. Virgil couldn’t bear to stop staring, without breaking eye contact with the “mirror” he spoke, “Lo, why does he look like me? What is this?” Logan forced Virgil to look at him by gently turning his head, “That is you, well to an extent that you are both you. This is the heightened, overbearing, threatening part of your person, for lack of a better word the villain.” Virgil flinched at the word villain, “How…did he...uhhh…I get like that?” Virgil wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer or that his heart could handle it. Logan looked away, he seemed almost sad, “Well Patton and Roman had decided that you held too much power over Thomas. They blamed you for any dream left unfollowed or the lack of familial ties. Over the course of a couple of months with help from a book Roman found, they created a serum to separate you. Basically, the part behind this mirror is the strength and meanness you once carried.” Virgil fell to the floor, this was all too much, he was practically screaming, “Logan how could you let them do this to me! I was trying to be better! I thought they had accepted me, I thought you all had!” Logan kneeled down, “I have accepted you! I had nothing to do with this, you have to believe me. They believed what they were doing was best for Thomas.” Logan attempted to put a comforting hand on the hurting side, but he recoiled at the touch. Virgil looked up and glared at the logical side through gritted teeth he said, “Well can you fix it?” Logan flinched at the seething words, “I have been trying to fix it since I found out.”  Virgil seemed to calm down slightly by these words, then he started to panic did he actually want this fixed? Logan noticed the change in breathing and waited for Virgil to regain his ability to speak. After a couple of minutes of focusing on breathing and digging his nails into his palms he spoke, “Lo, what happens if we stay separated?” Logan thought about this for a minute, “I’m honestly not sure. Are you rethinking wanted to be reunited?” Virgil nodded, “What if this is what’s best for Thomas? Now he’s allowed to listen and follow his dreams without as much protest from me.” Logan shook his head, “That’s not always a good thing. He needs you at your best to keep him in line. I can only be the taskmaster for so long, the other two can be quite the handful. I need you to be your whole self.” Virgil gets up and returns to looking in the “mirror.” This feral half of him looked so hurt, he remembered that. Those days when he hated himself more than anything in life, where he felt useless, where he felt hopeless, unloved, and unwanted. He punched the glass which only caused feral Virgil to shriek and growl. Virgil’s hand was bleeding now, but at this point, he didn’t care. He thought he was happy but after this betrayal, maybe it was all a lie. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be happy, they took away the parts that made him who he was if that was so then this feral version was who he was and a further reminder that he wasn’t allowed to be happy. The only person he could count on was himself.

Tags: @fandomsandanythingelse

#angst #myfics #sanders sides #tw blood #tw negative thoughts #tw anxiety #tw self doubt #tw uselessness

[zetsubone]

Execution Time: The End of an Evil Genius [Èmó Lóng]

Not needing chains to escort him to the stage of his demise, Lóng all but dances from the carriage. His gold anklets provide a pleasant accompaniment to the sound of a wistful hummed melody that seems to echo and become louder as the train slows to a stop and the door opens, Lóng’s figure disappears from view. 

Chapter 1: The Unattainable

The screens mounted around the carriage flicker to life, the static fades to a high definition live feed of Lóng in a room the children would all recognise as the very first execution. As expected, Lóng stands in the centre of the stage with a single spotlight pointed at him. 

Though unlike Koda, Lóng has all of his limbs and thus begins to dance to the upbeat jazzy song despite his obviously differing taste in music.

Mechanical arms shoot out of the ceiling and ground, metal clamps snapping at his arms and legs. Only ever managing to latch onto thin air as Lóng dances past each arm.

「You know, for something that I programmed you'd think that it would be able to catch me」

A brief grin flashes on the screen as Lóng spins past and onto the next location.

Chapter 2: The Game

With his ponytail draped over his left eye in some childish mockery of the girl who once stood in this place, Lóng struggles against the rope that binds him, each movement he makes appearing laborious and painful. Cydai comes into the booth and Lóng perks up and waves, the rope falling around his feet after his nails tear through the frail material. Snagging the giant Vocaloid plush on his way out, Lóng grabs Cydai’s hand and runs to the next area.

Chapter 3: The Crisis

Lóng sits down in the dressing room like the royalty he believes himself to be, allowing the mechanical arms to serve him.

 They behave much more than they did for our favourite pink haired support girl, giving Lóng a transformations into classmates. Each outfit gets a firm look of distaste from Cydai when Lóng poses. Finally growing bored, the arms droop and restore his original outfit for him to move to the next room in.

Chapter 4: The Waltz

The spotlight once again dramatically switches on the reveal Lóng standing centre stage, his cloak draped around his elbows to reveal his bare torso to the fake audience.

「I must say, Zun really must have had no shame. Even I feel quite disgusted.」

Lóng pulls his cloak back on and puts a hand to his chin in thought. A lightbulb moment hits him and Lóng grabs Cydai’s hand once again, but this time to waltz.

In response to Cydai’s rage, Lóng smiles even more brightly. Only to be punched in the face when the music dies and Lóng leans Cydai back in the most cinematic ending to a waltz.

Chapter 5: The Chase

After bursting through the wall and into the new room, Lóng dusts himself off. The CRT, the timer, the soon to be thrown bottles. His eyes seem dull as he approaches the door, the same old puzzles, no more entertaining than the last. Even after his many years of life perhaps one of his only regrets was being unable to find a challenge worthy of him.

Lóng kicks the door open after a number of tries, expecting to see the hanging body of the girl he’d killed just for the locksmith boy’s execution. Instead, perched on a simple stool, leaning against the tree is the corpse of a once bright and beautiful young woman, now reduced to a lifeless pale corpse. For a moment, Lóng falters, a profound sadness washing over him. That one moment proves to be fatal as a bottle flies out of the room left behind him and strikes him in the exact middle of the back of his head. He stumbles forward and crashes at the black haired corpse’s feet, before he can gather himself, the synthetic grass gives way much like a trapdoor, sending Lóng and Zhihao’s body into a dark pit of slides, spikes, and trapdoors. 

His judgement, impaired by the prior injury, slow his movements, rendering him almost unable to dodge the traps and dangers this new level held. But all good things must come to an end, as Lóng is impaled by a spike that tears straight through his chest. The retraction of which causes blood to spray in numerous directions. The floor beneath him gives way one final time, prolonging their descent into the ground. 

Using the last of his strength, Lóng reaches out to the falling corpse of his bride and smiles. If he couldn't bring her back to him in this world, he would simply have to go to hers. There was nothing he could have wanted more.

Chapter 6: The End

Drenched in his own blood, Lóng -or Xiuying perhaps- delicately holds the corpse of Zhihao in his arms. Despite being impaled by a spike, his grip on her body remains firm, never again will she leave his embrace. Their free fall seems to last for minutes, hours, days. Time is but a distant concept now, as death has finally knocked on his door. His consciousness begins to fade from blood loss, but not fast enough for him to die before slamming into a coffin, shattering what little bones were still intact.

As the lid slams shut, Lóng smiles and pulls Zhihao close once again. But that's not all, the screen displays a digital clock. Counting down to.. something.

An ear splitting explosion rattles the trial carriage. How close was that? The screens have turned to static once again but.. something is loading??

#zetsubone #trial end #execution #emo long #chapter 6: lost one's weeping #endgame #the last gif is awful im so sorry my number of frames was capped