#busing through big finish doctor who | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maatryoshkaa · 4 years

Text

young god | epilogue

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue

word count: 4.4k

description: it’s been five years since the Miroh Heights murder cases came to a close — and five long, bittersweet years since you’d caught a glimpse of Han Jisung. Things in Miroh Heights have changed drastically since then — but when Felix sets you up on another blind date in an attempt to help you move on from the past, you realise that, once again, you’ve signed up for much more than you bargained for.

masterlist

recommended listening: stray kids - “sunshine”

epilogue.

“See ya, Miss l/n!”

You turned to wave back at the little girl who had called your name, her round eyes visibly bright from the waiting room of your clinic. Seven years old, front teeth just beginning to come in. One of her hands clutched a half-unwrapped lollipop as her mother held onto the other.

The first time you had seen them, the child had been unwilling to speak — bullied relentlessly at school, her mother had informed you through a veil of desperate tears — but now, her laughter filled the warm air, traumas that had once been etched into a too-young face already beginning to heal and fade.

Evening sunshine warmed your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the building’s doors, a light breeze rustling the papers in your hand as you quickly tucked them into your bag. “Five years of graduate school hasn’t made you more organised,” Felix often teased you, and you would smack his shoulder in retaliation.

Five years hadn’t changed your friendship in the slightest, either—and you had to admit you were beyond grateful for that.

As always, the city around you was humming with life: evening rush hour, with people darting here and there, frantically flagging down taxis and catching their buses. Usually, on days like these, you should have been hopping into the first cab home and collapsing like a corpse as soon as you reached your apartment. But today, you remembered with a sigh, was not going to be one of those days.

“Hey, Doctor l/n!”

You whipped your head towards the voice, a smile spreading across your tired features as you saw who it belonged to. In a slightly jaded Mini Cooper—second hand, of course, but worked just like new — Yang Jeongin waved at you from the driver’s seat.

“I’m not a doctor, ‘innie,” you reminded him playfully as he unlocked the passenger door and let you climb in.

“Not a doctor yet,” he corrected you, grinning. “Besides, ‘child therapist’ doesn’t have as much of a ring to it.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing, and waved at another one of your patients as Jeongin started the engine. “You really didn’t have to offer to drive me, you know — the streets are a nightmare during this hour.”

“It’s not that far,” Jeongin protested, “Plus, I barely get to see you now, you’re so busy.” You didn’t have the heart to argue. The kid loved being behind the wheel so much, he made it seem like you were doing him a favour.

You watched Jeongin turn onto the main road, squeezing the car in between a van and a motorcyclist. He really had grown up over the last few years — his hair was darker now, remarkably sharp cheekbones overtaking his once-rounded cherub cheeks — but in some ways, nothing had changed at all. He still had that natural knack of brightening whatever room he stepped in — the Yang Jeongin effect, Hyunjin called it. And his heart was still too big for his own good: you remembered how he had adamantly refused to take the money Jisung kept offering him after the case had finally closed, and when Hyunjin had asked him why, Jeongin had simply replied, “After everything that’s happened, it doesn’t feel like he’s the one who owes me.”

On the other hand, Jeongin had been more than happy to take Prosecutor Kang’s compensation money instead, and had finally visited a car dealership with you and Hyunjin.

The moment he had seen the Mini-Cooper — a beat-up thing from the 90s that you were amazed was still running — the younger boy’s eyes had lit up. “It’s just...it looks like the one our family used to have, before...the incident,” he had explained sheepishly, making you and Hyunjin exchange a look. And so, after a fiery back-and-forth between you and the salesman—not to mention a few sleepless nights at the mechanic’s — the rest was history.

The light turned green, and you spotted a photograph wobbling on the dashboard — a laughing child you recognised immediately as Jeongin. Behind him, a woman with a familiar wide smile had her arms around a man with eyes resembling a fox’s, with none of the slyness. “How’s your dad these days?”

“Mostly stays at home taking care of my mum, but he swears he wouldn’t have it any other way.” Jeongin turned his head to you excitedly, as if a thought just hit him. “She got out of bed a couple days ago, you know? The first time ever since my dad left.”

Your mouth fell open in a surprised smile, and Jeongin continued, “He’s real excited he got to teach me how to drive, too. I think he feels like he missed out on a lot of things, like...walking me home from school. Teaching me how to ride a bike. Graduation.” He shrugged. His words might have sounded sad at first, but you could see the way the lines of Jeongin’s face were more relaxed now, at peace.

“Mind if I make a quick stop?” Jeongin asked abruptly, and you checked your watch before shaking your head lightly.

“I’m still about twenty minutes early. We’ve got plenty of time.”

He turned onto a familiar street, and you rolled down the window as Glow Cafe slowly came into view. It was just as busy as it had ever been — even the cars were stalling by the curb — but Hwang Hyunjin spotted you almost immediately, waving through the glass window. Quickly hopping out, Jeongin popped the trunk open, and you watched him haul two crates of coffee beans into the bustling cafe. The once-famed “delivery boy” of Miroh Heights only really did deliveries for Glow Cafe now, after Hyunjin had offered Jeongin a position as a barista until he graduated—and although he wasn’t the best with his hands (or his memory, for that matter), Hyunjin didn’t mind in the slightest.

“Him being here is more than enough for business. You should see the students flock in here every morning just to catch a glimpse of him.” The former barista snorted. “What’d I tell you? They’re eating him right up.”

They waved at Jeongin now as he jogged obliviously out of the cafe, Hyunjin’s laughs muted by the glass as he threw you a knowing wink. He had graduated himself, two years ago, officially inheriting the business after his grandmother had passed away. Glow Cafe had since come a long way, with Hyunjin always at the forefront of new design ideas and enthusiastically telling you about his plans to expand even more in the future.

“Get this: ‘CEO Hwang, the most eligible bachelor of Miroh Heights,’” Felix held up his hands as if picturing a giant headline, giving his signature wolf whistle as you burst into laughter and Hyunjin kicked the blond man in the shin. “Ow!”

“How did you even get into the press with those cheesy titles?” Hyunjin groaned.

“Not just ‘get into the press’, ‘jinnie,” you reminded him, giggling, “he’s the head journalist now!”

It was true—with his impeccable wit and seamless way with words, it came to nobody’s surprise when Felix maneuvered his way to the top of the local press in a matter of years. The head of the press still loathed him with a biting passion— “I can feel her glares all the way from her office,” Felix retorted — and rumour had it that the two seemed to fire shots at each other all day long. The image of a powder-faced, middle-aged woman bickering with your notoriously insufferable best friend made you laugh, but you also knew deep down that Felix always took his job more seriously than he let on. His eloquent articles had gotten his name out across the city in no time, and so you took comfort in knowing that — no matter how hard the head of the press bared her teeth—nobody could touch Lee Felix now.

Five years, you thought to yourself wistfully, eyes catching a familiar detective’s office as Jeongin drove past. What a trip down memory lane. You’d seldom come by this part of town since then, and seeing the familiar buildings sent a flood of memories and mixed feelings stirring in your chest.

The well-loved Detective Bang, much to the disappointment of adoring students and professors alike, had moved abroad to a bigger city—whether he had been taken by a new precinct, or a new big case, you couldn’t be sure. “Rumour has it he’s doing undercover work now,” Seungmin had mentioned to you once in passing, “We haven’t heard from him in a while, but he’s making a big name for himself out there, that’s for sure.”

The District Nine police station whizzed by you in a blur, and more of the prosecutor’s words rang through your head.

“Meanwhile, the chief of police keeps insisting he’s glad to be rid of him, but we all know he secretly misses Chan.” Seungmin had shaken his head, and you had smiled at the image of the stoic police captain—chief, now—grudgingly sulking over the loss of his best friend.

Jeongin made one last turn, and the narrow buildings opened up into the heart of Miroh Heights—the oldest part of town, where the roller rink, record shop, and the diner were. The sight of Mia’s Diner made you sink down instinctively in the passenger seat, and you couldn’t keep the raw dread out of your voice as you let out a long sigh.

Jeongin gave you sympathetic look. “For someone who’s going on a blind date, you don’t sound too happy.”

“That’s because I’m not, Jeongin. I don’t even know why Felix keeps insisting on these. The last time I agreed to one was—” you broke off before you could finish what you were saying, the unspoken words echoing in your mind. The last time I agreed to one was when I met Jisung.

That’s right—the last official blind date you had been on, you had met Han Jisung — and he had turned your entire world upside down. For years afterwards, you had told yourself that you wouldn’t take that day back for the entire world, but now...now, you weren’t so sure.

After all, how could you be sure of someone you hadn’t heard from in over five years?

The rehabilitation centre didn’t allow letters in or out— you had learned that the hard way after your first letters had been sent directly back to your doorstep. Usually, they had told you, if things went well, patients could start correspondence again after a year or so—but you had gotten absolutely nothing. Not a single word.

Five years—he should have been out by now. He could have been anywhere, doing anything—but he certainly hadn’t remembered to write or even call you.

Had he really forgotten about you?

“Five years is a long time, y/n,” Felix told you gently, after you had adamantly refused the blind date he kept insisting on. “People...change, and maybe he’s—moved on.”

Moved on.

You didn’t know how to tell Felix how much the thought of that hurt more than you were willing to admit, how this was the sole reason why you hadn’t been able to go on a single date for the past five years. You didn’t know how to tell him that Jisung hadn’t left your mind since the moment he had disappeared from your sight, five years ago, in the corridor of that courthouse.

“I’ll be waiting,” Jisung had said. And yet he was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Felix wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“You’re in your mid-twenties now, y/n. Loosen up a little, yeah? You’re allowed to go on dates, for goodness’ sake.”

“I’m hopeless, ‘lix. I’m pretty sure the stray dog on the street has a more interesting love life than me.”

“Maybe,” Felix mused, “I think I saw it running around with a litter of puppies the other da—ow!”

“You okay? You look kind of sick,” Jeongin remarked, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Got everything you need?”

You resisted the urge to laugh. If only Jeongin knew how you had prepared for this date—by mapping out all the ways you were going to end it as quickly as possible. Faking food poisoning? Check. Arrange a time for a friend to call you and pretend an emergency came up? Check— although Hyunjin had had a strange glint in his eyes when he had agreed to it. Worst comes to worst? Pepper spray, check. You let out a slow exhale. “Sure. All set.”

You thanked Jeongin with a hug and hopped out of the car. Just as you began walking towards the diner, you heard him call out behind you.

“Oh, yeah, Felix told me pass on a message — from him to you.” You turned back, and Jeongin gave a boyish grin that was half apologetic, half laughing. “‘Go get ‘em, tiger!’”

You gave an exasperated cry and yanked open the diner door.

━━━━━━━━

You were beginning to wonder if you’d been stood up.

Mia’s Diner was usually busy, bustling with students and townspeople alike, and tonight it truly was: booths packed with couples both old and new, laughter and the smell of food wafting through the warm air as friends and families celebrated the start of summer. The jukebox was on and playing an old disco song you liked but didn’t know the name of, the checkered floor tiles clicking with the sounds of brisk waitresses’ heels and dancing feet.

You didn’t know why Felix had insisted on coming here, of all places, what with the mixed emotions and memories you had tied to it, but you had to admit that the jovial atmosphere of Mia’s Diner on a Friday night never really disappointed. You found yourself relaxing slightly—just slightly, bobbing your head lightly to the music.

“Mia’s Diner?” You repeated incredulously. “Seriously, Felix, do you only know one date location? For the so-called ‘Matchmaker of Miroh Heights’, you’re sure lacking in the variety department.”

“Easy, tiger. Just trust me on this one, okay? You’re gonna owe me one.”

“I’m not—” you began indignantly, but Felix continued.

“Plus, the poor guy in question hasn’t been on a date in years, either. You both need this.”

“Years? Are you setting me up with a hermit?”

“Oh, yeah. A big-time loser, seriously— but don’t tell him I said that. Just — indulge him a bit, okay, y/n? I promise you won’t regret it.”

And so, for the second time, Felix’s schemes and pleading puppy eyes had gotten you here—sitting at an empty booth, waiting for a blind date. He hadn’t even bothered to show you a picture of the man in question. You couldn’t help the smile from slowly slipping from your face as each minute passed, and you nibbled your lip anxiously.

Your date was thirty minutes late.

You peered out the window, at the lights of the town glowing a faint neon against the clear evening skies. Each time a car filled in a parking space, you sat up, craning your neck to see if it was him—before slumping back down in disappointment. Five years, you thought to yourself glumly. Five years, and you still had no luck with dates. Maybe you just had no luck with love, you thought dryly. You imagined Felix laughing later when you told him about it and sighed, a twinge of worry replacing the dread in your gut.

Had something gone wrong?

After turning the waitress away for the eighth time, you fished out your phone from your pocket, tapping on the foreign number Felix had given you. Zero new messages, zero missed calls. At least I can tell Felix I tried, you thought glumly. Maybe I should just call Jeongin again, and ask him to pick me up. And then you could drop by Glow Cafe for a bit, before trudging back to your apartment like a fallen soldier.

Just as you were punching in Jeongin’s name, feeling a sense of guilty relief wash over you, you vaguely registered the diner door swinging open beneath the lively music, and a pair of footsteps trying to shuffle past the dancing couples.

For a split second, you thought you saw a pair of tattered black Converse—laces untied, soles worn—but the mirage disappeared, and was replaced by a pair of dress shoes that eventually came to a stop at your booth. You sighed, fighting back the tears that had suddenly threatened to well in your eyes. Shit. This is not the time to be thinking about him. Why were you still thinking about him? And why on earth had you agreed to this?

You lifted your gaze, trying to muster up a smile, hoping your disappointment didn’t show on your face—

And immediately froze.

“Hello.”

Standing before you, looking almost like an apparition — a golden silhouette against the backdrop of the dim diner — was Han Jisung.

You had to blink several times to realise you weren’t hallucinating again. He looked...different, and yet in some ways, he looked entirely the same: his hair was shorter, but tousled as it had always been, cheeks flushed and breathless as if—as if he’d been running through a storm.

You felt your body moving before any intelligible thoughts could form in your head, pulling you forwards like a magnet until you were standing face-to-face, your shaky eyes darting across his features, not daring to believe what you were seeing.

All of a sudden, the glint in Hyunjin and Jeongin’s eyes made sense, Felix’s words replaying in your head as overwhelmed tears began welling in your eyes without warning.

“The poor guy in question hasn’t been on a date in years, either.”

“A big-time loser, seriously — but don’t tell him I said that. Just — indulge him a bit, okay, y/n? I promise you won’t regret it.”

“Y-you—are such a dork,” you stammered out, one hand weakly hitting Jisung’s chest as you felt the tears finally spill down your face. “Han Jisung, you are such a d—”

Your words were cut off when Jisung pulled you into his arms, his head falling to rest in the crook of your neck. Your shoulders shook with muffled sobs as you buried your face in his chest, memorising everything about this feeling, not wanting to take a single second for granted, memorising everything about him. Jisung no longer carried with him that scent of gasoline and fire — instead, he smelled faintly of lemongrass, and a hint of warm, fresh laundry.

“I missed you,” you finally whispered hoarsely, “I just—missed you, so much.”

He chuckled in your ear, the low, familiar hum stirring faint, faraway memories in your head, and you gripped onto his shirt harder, as if he would disappear completely if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

Jisung had found you in the crowded diner before you had seen him — just like the first time he had met you. And just like the first time, he had felt his breath hitch in his throat, hands hesitating on the door, wondering if he should turn back instead. He had watched you bob your head gently to the music, a small, tentative smile on your face.

You looked good — no, amazing. Different, and yet entirely the same. Kind, worried eyes catching him completely off guard, like the flash of a camera.

Just as bright.

Just as brilliant.

The truth was, there hadn’t been a single day where he hadn’t thought of you — of your voice, your touch, your laugh. Jisung had asked Felix for help the moment he had gotten released, but what he hadn’t forseen was your reaction.

“She won’t go on a blind date, mate,” Felix had informed him exasperatedly, “Took weeks of convincing. Good news, though — she finally caved. You sneaky, hopeless romantic bastard.”

She might have forgotten me, Jisung had thought. And even if you hadn’t, you might not even welcome the sight of him—after all, he hadn’t been in touch since he had left, all those years ago. But in the end, the inexplicable pull in his chest had grown unbearable, and he found himself walking towards you, wading through the crowd, feeling the ache in his heart softening with each step he took. All the way back to you.

You pulled away slowly, vision blurry as Jisung lifted a hand to cup your face, never taking eyes off yours. He had grown in the time you had been apart—he was taller, his once-lean frame stronger—and, most of all, there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured softly, and you laughed in disbelief, “I think you’re my blind date.”

“How—w-why—”

“I told you I wanted to do this all over again, didn’t I? And I promised that I would try to do it right this time.” Jisung smiled apologetically, wiping your tear stained cheeks with his thumb. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

You shook your head, eyes widening when you saw what he had been carefully clutching in his other hand: a small bouquet of sunflowers, their golden yellow petals as tousled as Jisung’s own blond locks.

“Apparently they symbolise new beginnings,” Jisung said, pulling a stray petal from your hair and chuckling, “Keeping promises. Eternal happiness. That kind of thing.”

“Why didn’t you write?” You whispered, as Jisung tucked the bouquet into your hands.

“I wanted to...to heal. In every sense of the word. I didn’t want to show you, until I...knew I was really better. Believe me, I wanted to.” Jisung’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if he were fighting back tears. “I wanted to, so, so badly.”

You shook your head, mumbling something about how much of a stubborn idiot he was, and Jisung’s laugh made a hesitant smile tug at your lips. As if sensing the lightening atmosphere, the waitress had promptly appeared behind Jisung and meekly cleared her throat, setting down the menu. Jisung turned back to look at you, his grin growing playful.

“I hope you’re hungry?”

The diner seemed to come back to you all at once in a flood of senses, the music and murmur of restaurant goers sending a pleasant hum through your veins as you and Jisung sat down. The night went by in a warm blur, Jisung telling you about his life at the institute, the unlikely friends he had made, the dreams he hadn’t realised he had.

“I’m going to go back to school,” he admitted, one hand rubbing the back of his neck shyly. “I’ll be a bit behind, but...I want to study something I actually like this time.”

You had told him about how you had been working in a child therapy ward ever since you had graduated, about all the children you had met and loved and cared for. As you talked about them, you saw a wistful look in Jisung’s eyes, and a thought crossed your mind. “Have you heard anything from—from Minho?”

He gave a small smile, but shook his head. “Rarely. It hasn’t been long since he was released, but he said he was planning on going abroad. Doing some travelling. I think...he’ll reach out when he’s ready.” He then added, as an afterthought, “And if he doesn’t, I wouldn’t blame him.”

The sad simplicity of Jisung’s words stirred a strange feeling you couldn’t quite place in your chest, and your mind flashed back to the cold-eyed coroner and his stiff smiles; then, to the raw pain that had cracked through his strained features the last time you had caught a glimpse of him. Maybe you would meet again one day, or maybe that truly would be the last you ever heard of him.

Healing of the mind, you knew, was a strange process—one that always took much longer than you would expect. There were always scars that reopened along the way, old hidden wounds that surfaced right when you least expected them. There would always be answers you might never find, you mused sadly, closure you might never get.

But sometimes, you thought as you listened to Jisung talk, memorizing the feeling of his fingers interlaced with yours, sometimes we can only hope to hold onto what we already have.

The end of the night drew closer, and when Jisung and you had stepped outside the diner, the city was swimming in the dark ochre of the setting sun. Eventually, the two of you ended up back in the wide garden behind the hospital, your laughs and giddy conversation slowly hushing into softer murmurs. In the distance, the rush of cars on the main road grew sparser, the windows of the buildings around you flickering to life one by one like young stars. Here, though, as you rested your head on Jisung’s shoulder beneath a willow tree, the world seemed to stand still, and all was quiet.

You heard Jisung yelp suddenly and looked down to see a familiar dog pattering around your feet—a stray, with scraggly fur like an overgrown teddy bear that had been through the wash one too many times. It immediately pounced onto Jisung, beginning to lick your boyfriend’s face like no tomorrow.

“Oof! Hey there, old buddy.”

You laughed, scooping the dog off—only after it had gotten a few slobbery licks in—and shivered slightly as a cool night wind swept past you. Noticing, Jisung shrugged off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders as you raised a teasing eyebrow at the cliche move.

“It looks good on you,” Jisung insisted, and you laughed incredulously.

“Your jacket?” You asked, ruffling the dog’s ears as it curled up at your feet.

At that, Jisung looked back up at you—seeing the faint outline of your smile in the dark, your eyes sparkling as you looked back at him expectantly, obliviously—and in that moment, Jisung wondered what he had ever done to deserve someone as perfect as you.

After a beat, he replied, “Happiness. Happy looks good on you, love.”

Your mouth parted in surprise—both at his words, and at the unexpected name—and Jisung took the chance to lean in and kiss you, pressing his soft lips to yours. Gently, at first — carefully, but as you began to kiss him back, you felt Jisung slowly relax. You kissed him the way you had wanted to for so long, feeling the years of distance, of heartache, of endless waiting finally unravel beneath your lips. His hands reached up to gingerly cup your face, pulling you closer into him as if he never intended to let go.

Happy looks good on you, too, Han Jisung, you wanted to say once you pulled away, forehead still lightly pressed to his. And you deserve it, more than anything. You watched Jisung’s features come back into focus beneath the dim moonlight. His gaze was fixed on yours, filled with nothing but pure adoration, and you felt a sudden surge of warmth coursing through your chest.

I love you, you wanted to tell him, more than you could ever know — but something in the warm yet playful look in Jisung’s eyes told you that he was already thinking the exact same thing.

So you just smiled, and leaned in to kiss him again.

YOUNG GOD | END

ryu says: to you — yes, you, who has reached the end of this series! this epilogue is my way of saying a big thank you to those who stayed along for the entire wild ride that was young god. thank you for loving the characters, the world of miroh heights, and of course, the story! there are easter eggs and full-circle moments all throughout this epilogue, so i hope you enjoy and have fun finding them all ^^

disclaimer: in my opinion, all epilogues are open to interpretation: i’ve left some characters’ stories untold, some loose ends untied for this exact reason. miroh heights’ story has finally come to a close here, but what happens to the characters from this moment on continues in the reader’s mind now.

all that cheesy, pretentious stuff aside, i hope to see you in the next story!

859 notes · View notes

starseedpatriot · 2 years

Text

"I'm a military guy. Ask Franz, I told him the day Russian troops "invaded" Ukraine, that the Op had already been Completed: White Hat Russian, US, European and Ukrainian Special Forces did the deed while the troops were still massing at the border.

Proof: THE FIRST THING RUSSIA DID AT THE BEGINNING OF THE "INVASION" WAS TO BLOW UP ALL THE BIOLABS

No waves of Anthrax or Ebola etc outbreaks? No photos of actual bodies piled up--so desperate for dead bodies they stage endless "newscasts" featuring comedy like "wounded" actress "mothers" with rubber tummies and rows of "body bags" who were all wiggling, sneezing, scratching their noses and pulling the bags back up over their heads.

So: The labs were all SANITIZED and EVACUATED BEFORE BEING BOMBED, yes? (BIG job, difficult, dangerous, requiring extremely well-trained technicians.) NOBODY IN THEIR RIGHT MIND blows up a bioweapon lab, without securing all the pathogens first. Logic, (un)Common Sense and Sun Tzu.

The screeching is too-well scripted guys, the Players are hitting their Cues like the guy with the wand conducting Beethoven's Ninth.

Why the "invasion?" To protect the peeps from the freaks of course, and to mop up the freaks and their weaponry, defuse bombs and land mines, finish gathering evidence, freeing thousands of children from "labs," bringing everyone food and stuff..

Are people dying? Yup. By far, mostly freaks, you have ample proof of this also: Reporters breathlessly amping out the Holocaust News, with mildly curious Ukrainian pedestrians cruising past in the background going about their business. How many vids, the city buses are still running.

Hint: Russia gets on the bullhorns, telling the local people to stay inside whenever they make a move: How many cellphone vids have you seen of things blowing up in the distance, FILMED THROUGH UNBROKEN WINDOWS.

You are watching theater, writ large.

Whatever Happens Next, it's time for us to push back from our screens, get even better at reading between the lines, go through the talking points in our heads so we are ready for all the breathless questions all the idiot Normies in our families and circles of influence will have for us, like, "I just had my third heart attack, what do I do my doctor just sent me home to die!"

...and ten thousand other questions you tried to tell them the answers to years or decades ago.

If you were paying attention, the prayer has been for years--since way back when Covid fizzled, failing to fill the hospitals--the freaks were in a white-hot panic to roll another bioweapon...and instead, we got Omicron. The White Hats inoculated the entire planet against Covid by rolling Omicron. Hats off to the White Hats guys, or we would have been up to our infected eyeballs in bubonic plague if the freaks had anything to say about it.

Still praying that prayer, that the Russkies and all the other White Hats stay real frosty keeping on top of this, with over 300 biolabs (that we know of) frothing in a panic to avoid their Nuremberg Debut, working to concoct a pathogen to kill us all. Instead we're seeing a huge Pfizer campus entirely emptied, without a word in the media. How, Who, could put that many locals out of jobs, empty the buildings etc, without a vid, a whisper of it happening? 😎

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe: Thou Shalt Not Let Your Own Team Play You.

Enjoy the Show!"

9 notes · View notes

montyrakusen · 4 years

Photo

Voices in the Wind, the Northern Isles of Shetland Part 3

I awoke one morning in someone else’s flat and I couldn’t remember how I got there. My friend, fellow art student, Ceri Herington Pritchard https://ceripritchard.com/ decided we should go on an adventure.

"Let's go north" I said, and we did. We decided on Shetland, as it was as far north as we could think of going in the UK. It was October and cold, wintery, and Ceri let all the camping gas escape in Aberdeen before we had even got on the ferry. We didn’t have outdoor clothes like we have today. Ceri had a greatcoat and I had a tank driver's jacket, probably from the Korean war, that I’d stolen from the Combined Cadet Force at school.

When we arrived in Lerwick we headed north striding out as fast as we could. They were building the Sullom Voe oil terminal and the flat barren wind-swept landscape was dotted with ex red London double decker buses ferrying workers to the construction site, the destination windows read, Moorgate, Archway, Liverpool Street Station and so forth. We walked in a huge cavernous world of clouds coming from Greenland rising in the west and falling in the east with the sun shining through, highlighting the ceiling of our world and at sunset looked like God had appeared. I fell in a bog then it rained and there was freezing fog then I fell in a bog again.

On the 5th of November we were probably two of Europe’s most northerly campers, at the most northerly point of Shetland, a place where giants fought over the love of a mermaid, near the remote island of Muckle Flugga. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muckle_Flugga

Miserable, with teeth chattering and wet feet, I wore all the clothes I possessed and had to get up at 3am to crack the ice off my tent. On another night because of a storm we slept in a cement store hut and upon waking covered in dust looked like ghosts. One night, camped on a windy beach we were kept awake by boulders rolling in the surf. It was always spine chillingly cold and was only relieved by whisky in friendly pubs that felt like someones front room and there was usually a fidler. These experiences only gave me a love for this beautiful and remote place in the middle of the North Sea.

Nowhere is more than a mile from the sea on Northern Shetland and it is almost tree-less. Small crofts are dotted here and there with flapping, coloured, washing drying on lines, fishing boats far out at sea and the smell of burning peat on the wind. In those days the place was littered with abandoned rusting vehicles and the sides of the roads were covered in empty beer cans with the smiling face of Venetia Stevenson looking up at us https://www.cannyscot.com/SweetheartStout.htm, people built walls from un-returnable beer barrels and crofts lay derelict. Later, I believe, a vicar ordered a ship to take all the scrap away. No matter what the weather there was always some hardy soul out in the landscape, a small moving dot in the distance digging the peat, driving the sheep, rowing a boat. If you listened carefully there were voices on the wind.

I loved this wonderful strange place and began to plan a photo documentary. I first returned and shot it in 35mm colour transparency with the hope of printing it up in Ciba Chrome of which I was a big fan. Unfortunately the processing lab put a scratch through every roll of film and in those days it was impossible to retouch.

Each year I would return, shooting medium format black and white first with Hasselblad and then later Rollie 6006/8 and I gradually built up a collection of images searching for the essence of the place. I became friends with people there, the local doctor from Mid Yell and some people who looked after otters. They recognised me in the pubs.

Some years I walked the islands, some years I took my blue Landrover with its home made stereo and two cassettes that I bought in Aberdeen, The Smiths, Meat is Murder and Elvis Costello, Almost Blue. I drove around in the simmer dim the grey evening light, eventually knowing both albums by heart. The RAF invited me to their mid-summer beach party, it never got dark and in the morning I was dive bombed by bonxsies, mad sea birds, as I staggered around the landscape looking for fresh water. I fell in a bog again.

I was befriended by people who fed me boiled ham and potatoes, plied me with drink and had me shoot shotguns at empty cans thrown in the air. “Just mind the sheep, lad”. Coming out of the most northerly pub at half past eleven at night with the sun still shining in my eyes I stepped onto a Norwegian Trawler and got caught up in a fight. We sat in the mess as they fought round and round on the tables and each time they came past we clutched our drinks to our chests.

The photography project ran out of steam, my life had changed, I was busy at work, until Lizzie encouraged me to finish it and we travelled back there together to see Up Helly Aa, the ceremonial burning of the Viking longship https://www.uphellyaa.org/ and to show my work in progress to Shetland Arts with a view to exhibiting it. We stayed in Mid Yell in the snow with 125mph winds full of ice. Huge squalls blew in from the ocean flying low, dropping ice into the waves. When we were in Lerwick we were guests of the head of the Jarl squad, the viking leader of Up Helly Aa, a tremendous honour.

In the early morning, whilst he slept, we secretly tried on his Viking gear. I always felt welcome there and people were kind. An exhibition was arranged in Lerwick, British Airways helped me fly it up and then it travelled all over Scotland. I was interviewed by a lovely lady with small round John Lennon Spectacles from Radio Shetland, only problem was I could hardly understand a word she said. The exhibition opening was very well attended from islands far and wide, made more impressive by the fact no one could get back home to their islands until the ferries restarted in the morning. I felt proud when they said I had shown their home to them in a different way.

Text edit: John Coombes Encouragement: Liz Rakusen

#shetland #yell #unst #fetlar #voices

1 note · View note

princesssarcastia · 5 years

Text

Cassandra Cillian: Hitter

this is titled “you don’t have to be a ghost here amongst the living” because I was going through a F+TM phase when I started writing it.

remember like, a year and a half ago when I planned out a librarians-leverage fusion (and also a leverage-librarians fusion?) because I do! And I finished the first bit.

here’s 3k of not!fic about how Cassandra Cillian starts down the road to being a legend.

________________________________________________________

my first concrete though when I started daydreaming about this was “oh my god Cassandra is the hitter”

no, really

I blame the apple of discord episode. her analysis of force needed to kick ass and take names and initiate a nuclear meltdown makes her perfect. utterly ruthless, just hiding under a cutesy facade instead of Eliot’s dumb-hick one

with the tumor in her head ticking down, down, down to zero, her self-preservation is pretty low. not necessarily in a death wish way, not yet. but when she fights there’s no holding back, and no fear of what the other person can dole out. what could they possibly do to her that she isn’t already doing to herself? death looks like Cassandra Cillian staring in the mirror.

I’m willing to negotiate about anything else you find here but this. in this house we stan Cassandra as the hitter in the leverage fusion au.

all this begs the question, of course: how does sweet cinnamon roll math geek Cassandra Cillian become a mean lean recently reformed killing machine? and this is where our story begins.

Cassandra Cillian is a teenager who’s just been told she’ll never see the other side of 35. there’s a tumor sitting in her brain sending her senses haywire, giving her visions that break down every aspect of the world around her to the smallest components. math isn’t just like breathing, anymore: it’s her heartbeat. even though its killing her, she can’t help but enjoy it a little. and it’s not just math. everything around her is worth noticing, studying, learning. the doctors are calling it hyper-vigilance, like her new fascination with her surroundings is just a way to channel all her rage and grief into something she can control; like since she can't cut her death out of her brain she’s going to make damn sure that nothing else gets to get near her without her consent.

they’re probably right, but she’s not going to admit that. all she knows is that the way her senses are linked to each other and her visions, there’s not a goddamn thing going on around her she doesn’t notice and catalogue immediately.

the next step, of course, is her shitty parents. when they hear the news it’s like Cassandra’s already dead. they take away her trophies, all those shiny pieces of proof that she was worth something, that mom and dad were proud of her sometimes, gone. the pair of them loved their dreams for their daughter more than the person she was, and those dreams had just been crushed. they pull her out of school, because her visions were “a disruption to the other students”

no one needs the crazy dying chick breaking down in the middle of calculus crying with a nosebleed, apparently.

maybe she could have lived with this. maybe, in another life, another world, she could have buried all of her hopes and dreams deep inside herself and forgotten about it, until a man and a woman burst into the hospital looking to save her life (oh, the irony). this is not that world.

instead Cassandra gets furious.

how dare they decide her whole life is over just because this tumor is going to cut it short. how dare they take away everything they said made her special: her grades, her stem fairs, her college applications. no; no, they don’t get to do this.

so she runs away. seventeen years old and in the wind. fine. if they won’t help her live her life, she’ll do it on her own.

she lands in Boston eventually. crossing state lines helps confuse jurisdiction over her missing persons case, if her parents even decide to file a police report. hiding in a larger city decreases her odds of being found, because cities are big places. easy to get lost in, to find a job in, and everyone seems to have a rule about asking questions.

where in Boston, you might ask, does Cassandra end up staying? where does she work?

well, funny story, actually

She ends up working at John McRory’s Place

god this is so long I'm sorry

it turns out mob bars don’t ask too many questions about why a just-18 young woman with no emergency contact needs a job. Cassandra just gives them her bright, fake smile and says she's applying for classes at the local college and means to pay her own way. they respect her secrets and her work ethic, and voila! a job busing tables and occasionally manning the bar when the owner has special customers to see to in the back room

her bright red hair and Irish heritage don’t hurt, either

it’s not an Ivy League school, nothing like what she imagined her future would be a year ago, but it’s something, which is more than she’d be getting at home. all it took was a request for records from her old high school, some placement exams to confirm her genius level intellect, and the college was giving her a spot in their line of incoming freshmen.

even with merit scholarships, tuition is a bitch to pay for. it gets worse once she has another attack and needs some of her funds to go to the hospital bills, and the drugs the doctors there prescribe her.

Cassandra expects her boss to kick up a fuss at all that time missed, but he waves her off with a kind smile and says she can take all the time she needs to get back on her feet, because he’s never had someone so smart working for him before (she helps out with the accounts for the bar, sometimes)

one night after she starts back to work, it’s late, and the bar is empty of everyone except the Irish. they’ve taken over the pub and the territory surrounding it. Cassandra is cleaning up, closing down the unused tables and being as unnoticeable as she can

because let’s face it, she is not stupid. by now, she knows exactly what’s going on here. and maybe before it would have bothered her more, maybe her principles and respect for the rules would have had her out the door. but she needs this job so she can continue her classes and pay rent on the space above the bar (which she’s getting at a discounted rate), and pay for her pills and the occasional overnight in the hospital. besides, the owner is kind, even if his friends aren’t quite so nice, and his little girl is adorable.

anyway. the Irish are here, letting off steam and worried, because their “accountant” just got put in jail. everyone in the Family is prepared to play patsy, but losing an enforcer is nothing compared to losing the guy who keeps track of their money, their lifeblood. those people aren't a dime a dozen, and pretty soon the Irish won’t have two nickels to rub together if they don't find someone new fast.

and cassandra just. pauses. just for a moment. glances up to meet old McRory’s eyes behind the bar, just for a minute. because.... she could do that. Cassandra started balancing her father’s accounts for him when she was twelve, and they were hardly middle class: the Cillian’s had money in savings, but also tied up in investments and stock, and assets, too. but that was nothing to her mind. she could do it in her sleep near the end. hell, she’s been helping John with the bar’s funds for two months now, and not all of their revenue was clean , but she kept her mouth shut then and made the numbers work.

John wasn’t exactly a member of the Family, but he was a, a Friend of the Family. so when she nods at him, I can do it, I need the money, just give me a chance, he casually picks up a glass to clean and mentions that she’s got a head for numbers, if they’re really that desperate

they are.

they take her to Callaghan, and he might be a little charmed by her bubbly smile and her red hair, but what really gets him is the way it takes her thirty minutes to decipher the codes the old accountant used for the ledgers, balance them out, shift funds between businesses and make sure to account for the statistical probability of amounts of cash-paying customers they can make up for car washes, bars, laundry mats, mattress firms, and movie theaters.

that’s how she becomes the numbers guy for the Irish mob.

Cassandra was never going to be Eliot, running away to the military with god in her heart and a flag on her shoulder and becoming disillusioned with doing dirty work for her country. she needed to get slowly pulled into the criminal underworld. I figured Irish mob was a good way as any to start, and what better way to pull her into that then math?

she spends some time doing that. becoming more and more involved. and she’s cute, like a little puppy, so the others like her. enough to maybe give her a few self-defense lessons, because this is a dangerous life she’s leading now.

they go...okay?? taking care of her body is one of the first things the doctors recommended to her when she started getting sick, so she’s already in pretty good shape. It’s just the basics at first; keep your thumb outside your fist, always go for the throat first—Cassandra calculates that three fingers-width above the hollow in a person’s throat would be the best place to strike, because then their voice box gets damaged, too.

None of the lessons ever go much further than that, because these are brawlers who prefer to use a gun to send a message. Sometimes the way they move when they show her something tickles the back of her brain, like there’s more to uncover there, but she can’t figure it out until the first time a brawl breaks out in the bar

Two of their patrons start throwing punches right in front of her and suddenly their movements are all angles: she catalogues their weight and height and how drunk they are and how much force they’re putting behind their swings and just…neatly steps out of the way, perfectly avoiding getting elbowed in the face. This…this has never happened before. But, like everyone always says: there’s math in everything. Even fighting—especially fighting.

When it looks like the two men are going to start breaking chairs, she hesitates for a moment, but…the knee is a hinge joint. Thirty pounds of pressure pushing it the wrong way will snap it; twenty-five will seriously damage the attached ligament. She blinks. Steps up to the closest one.

He’s on the floor before John can make the corner of the bar, screaming his head off, and the other guy is backing away with wide eyes, shocked sober by fear. Cassandra pulls back, letting her right foot settle behind her and point away from them, and balances on the balls of her feet for a moment.

John gives her a startled look, because she’s never done something like that before. Someone calls the guy’s friends to pull him up off the floor and drive him to the hospital

She grabs a rag to wipe up the mess they made of the counter and thinks. Because that felt…good. Really good. Using her hallucinations to dosomething, to affect the real world, gave her a rush of adrenaline and satisfaction. Not just theory, like in her classes, but real application of the way she sees the world.

Like any good academic, she does her research (in her mind, this is ostensibly still for self-defense—just in case something like that bar fight happens again. She ignores the giddy little voice in her head talking about how much fun this will be). Her upper-body strength isn’t great, so something that uses joints and core muscles would be best. Her size is a disadvantage, too: she can’t afford to go to the ground grappling with someone twice her height and weight. She’s not looking to compete in a tournament, and she can’t afford to buy any equipment. The best technique for her will probably be Krav Maga. (For now, the excited voice in her head whispers)

Her search turns up a little studio on the west side of town that teaches Krav Maga to women for self-defense. Perfect. The instructor, Miriam Epstein, was a course instructor for the IDF for twenty years before she immigrated to America and got certification from the KMAA.

Cassandra goes to observe a class before she signs up, and the moment she steps through the door her brain is set alight: everything she sees goes a deep, brilliant hue of scarlet, finding the angles of their feet and arms and their centers of mass based on weight and height; herfoot is seven centimeters too far to the right and that strike would give hermore leverage if she moved three centimeters up from the elbow. She has to stop for a moment to breathe and process all the information her brain displays in front of her.

That becomes the hardest part: not the constant exhaustion, or the bruises everywhere, or her aching muscles, but the overwhelming flow of information about body movements and the correct place to strike.

She is tired, though; working at the bar takes time, if not mental energy, and her classes take both. Add in balancing the ledgers for Callaghan and now these lessons twice a week, and the exercise she does on her own to keep up, and her schedule is completely full.

The Irish start letting Cassandra layer their funds, obscuring where the extra profits in their businesses came from. Turns out she’s pretty good at that, too, though it’s not like it’s hard given they own a bank in Boston. Loans are a great way to integrate funds, and their interest rates are always better than the next three competitors. She tries not to think about the other differences, how the people she’s working for go to collect that debt.

Construction is another great way to hide their funds, and from what Cassandra can tell from watching the stock market (which is considerably more than most people) real estate is on the rise. When she carefully suggests that Callaghan try investing more money in that area, he actually listens to her. Puts her theories and calculations into practice because he trusts her to be right.

It feels almost as good as tearing that man’s quadriceps tendon. Practical applications, she muses. Sometimes she lets herself wonder how it would feel to take her theories all the way down the rabbit hole

Meanwhile, it only takes her four months to move to P2 in Krav Maga. The average time spent practicing moves for each level is six months; she’s learning 33% faster than that. Her muscles are adjusting better than she expected, and her skin stops bruising as easily, but she suspects she’ll always tire quicker than everyone else.

Miriam pulls her aside after class one day and asks why she hesitates so much when they practice moves on each other. Nothing but the lightest sparring, of course, and nothing dangerous. But Cassandra can’t turn her brain off, and now that she’s starting to learn the more painful moves, she can’t help but see them every time she stands across from someone. (thirteen pounds of pressure at 125 degrees from her back to hyperextend her arm; plant your foot six inches from her spine and pull to dislocate her shoulder; 3,300 newtons of pressure delivered at 1.5 seconds would have a 25% chance of cracking her rib and sending a fragment into her lungs. All this would take less than thirty seconds)

None of this makes it past her lips, but she thinks maybe Miriam can see it in her eyes. We’re moving on to fighting armed opponents next week, she says, maybe you’ll feel more comfortable with that than basic strikes and take-downs. She taps the side of her head in farewell and Cassandra tastes copper and sees the spot on her temple where the cranial bone is weakest; a quick jab with the second knuckle of her index finger extended could put her on the ground. Shaking her head, she dislodges the scarlet diagram and shoves down the curious voice of, but you could do it, you could actually do it.

In another four months she’s at P3, and Callahan is actively seeking out her opinion about investments because she’s been right every time.

Another four months and she’s almost 20 years old. She’s almost gotten her degree in mathematics, somehow, even though she can’t qualify as a full-time student. Part of it is the half-ton of college credit built up during high school, part of it is testing out of a third of their program when they wanted to place her, and the rest is just her ruthless pursuit of academia.

Her attacks don’t become less frequent, or less powerful, but Cassandra still feels better. Maybe it’s because she’s actually living her life on her own, even if it isn’t what she thought it would be; even if what she’s doing is wrong. Because not only is she learning more, but she’s usingit. She’s using her brain to dothings and affecting the world around her instead of just living in it. No matter what happens, no matter how much she changes in the years to come, she’ll treasure that.

Enter Lamia, stage right

See, Dulaque is Damian Moroe; boogeyman and semi-god of the criminal underworld. You can’t spend more than six months involved with dirty money without hearing about the man who bankrolls terrorists and buys countries to launder his money through. He’s a legend, untouchable.

Almost as infamous is his right-hand woman, Lamia. A trained killer with no hint of a past before she showed up as Dulaque’s chief…well, he’s too classy for the word enforcer, and so is she. But if they were anyone else, that’s what she’d be. As it is, just a whisper of her name will send some grown men running to give up whatever she wants in exchange for safe passage.

And see, Dulaque has caught wind of the irish mob’s sudden financial success and wants to know how it’s happening. Take advantage of it if it’s luck, invest in it if it’s skill, and perhaps recruit whatever or whoever is responsible into his own enterprise.

Lamia doesn’t always like to trade on her name, though, so she comes to Boston quietly, and investigates how the Irish are doing so well—not just in the American markets anymore

(Callahan called his friends in the old country and told them about the redheaded accountant with a genius-level intellect who could analyze the stock markets to a T; suddenly Cassandra had a whole lot more to balance than a few local business and investments. Suddenly, she’s the lodestone to an entire financial criminal empire that’s only growing. And that little voice in the back of her head sighs in contentment as her reach extends, her area of effect getting bigger and bigger. Whenever the air in front of her lights up blue and smells like oranges, she smiles a little and hums, because this feels right. Follow the money and see where it leads, all the way down)

It doesn’t take long before she finds John McRory’s place, where a petite little redhead still waits tables and occasionally mans the bar; locks up more often than not, now, because her place is right upstairs.

There are a couple ways she can do this. She can go from the top down, approach Callahan and demand to speak with the girl. She can have her brought directly to Dulaque, where he can make an intimidatingly persuasive offer the girl won’t be able to refuse. Or…

Her eyes are rather striking, in the warm light of the bar.

After Lamia finds Cassandra Cillian, she spends another week watching her, and the girl is interesting. Balancing all that money, layering and incorporating it in three different countries and seven different cities, would be too much for any one person. And yet she seems to slot all that work neatly into her afternoon, after her classes at the local college and before her shift starts at the bar. What really draws her attention, though, is that little studio she visits twice a week for “defense lessons.”

Krav Maga is brutal and straightforward, a beautiful Frankenstein of a martial art that takes the easiest parts of a handful of the others and sharpens them into something dangerous.

Lamia sits in on one of the sessions. The instructor she immediately pegs as former military, that’s a very distinctive stance, but the way the girl holds herself…now that, that’s something to watch out for.

P3 after less than a year of training is impressive, but not unusual enough to matter. What matters is the way the girl locks her eyes onto the instructor while she demonstrates a move, all cold and calculating; the way her gaze flickers over her sparing partner’s feet, hands, arms, shoulders, hips, like she’s finding every angle and weak spot there is to be found.

Finally, Lamia smiles as she hesitates just before moving into action. Oh, that look. Not fear of her opponent; fear of herself. And buried beneath it, a bone-deep desire and curiosity. Ah, she thinks. Gotcha.

Cassandra is smarter than probably everyone Lamia has ever met, so there won’t be any straight-up conning her into what she wants, and that visit to the hospital had been unfortunately enlightening, because threatening probably won’t work either.

Dulaque, she knows, will want the girl’s head for numbers. And he’ll get it. But perhaps if Lamia asks very nicely, he’ll let her keep Cassandra to herself for a little bit and show her what she could really be capable of. A little push, someone to tell her it’s okay to crave that violence, and Lamia can have danger thrumming under her skin right next to those numbers in her brain.

She waits until the class is over, nods to the instructor, and walks up to her. Cassandra squints at her face for a moment, but it isn’t long before a bright and surprisingly genuine smile breaks out. “Hi! You know, you look really familiar.”

Lamia smiles; it’s more of a smirk, really. Lying is a bad idea, so, “I think you work at that bar I was in the other night. What was it…”

“McRory’s?”

“Oh, yes, that’s it. I was kind of surprised to see you here, actually, you don’t really seem the type.”

“Well, knowing how to defend yourself is important!” God, everything about her is bright and bubbly, isn’t it? It begs the question how much of that is real, and how much is a front, a persona.

“Anyway.” Lamia holds out her hand. “Lamia.”

“Cassandra.” The girl takes it, and she makes sure to grip her hand warmly.

“Cassandra,” she rubs her thumb over the back of her hand and curls her lips. When she leans forward, Cassandra does, too. Neither of them lets go. “Have a drink with me.” Not a question, not a demand.

Her eyes focus intently on Lamia’s, something like real happiness lingering around her mouth. “Yes.”

And so it goes.

3 notes · View notes

megalony · 5 years

Text

Love and affection- Part 4

Another part of my new roger x reader x ben series.

@rogertaylorsbitontheside

Enjoy.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6

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

Grabbing the sunglasses that rested on the table in front of him Roger set them on his nose effectively blocking his eyes from his friend's scrutinising gazes so they wouldn't be able to see the tears glistening around his blue orbs. Head turning and resting against the window on his right as he placed his phone down on the table with an air of gentleness about his action though his emotions were anything but. Seeing that Roger wasn't in the mood for continuing their game of scrabble John leaned over, if with an air of precaution before slowly sliding the letters Roger had over to his side so he could continue the game with Freddie. Brian had decided he would take a nap after the last round of scrabble they played. They were currently on one of their tour buses, although it wasn't a very long tour they were doing since they had some time before their new album was about to release they had decided to book a few concerts in the states again. Just for a month to get some practice in before their next big tour when the album was released and hit the charts. Scrabble was an annual thing to happen, it was the main game that passed the time for them all and needless to say Freddie and Roger were champions at the game.

Brian, however, was good at getting longer and more sophisticated words and during their last game the guitarist had created such a long word that landed over a triple letter space and two double letters he had beaten everyone by far. Gaining over one hundred points with that single word, and in his haste and anger, Roger had flipped the board. The drummer only calming down and agreeing to play again once Brian stated he wouldn't play. Roger couldn't help but get petty when it came to things like this, scrabble was the thing he was good at other than his music and he loved playing but when Brian just came along and completely thrashed him like that he couldn't stay calm. No way was he playing another game with Brian if he was going to do that trick again, at least not today anyway and so the guitarist dropped out, the game wasn't as important or as fun to him as it was the others anyway. But right now Roger couldn't continue to play without bursting into fits of tears. They had been on the road for a few hours now and he had been away from home for little over a month meaning the long stretch of the tour was over, just another two and a half weeks and he would be home. Right when his emotions seemed to sink (Y/N) had sent a text to ask if it was alright to ring him soon and Roger crumbled. He missed both his partners so much and he wasn't used to being without them. They were usually always able to come out to tour with him or at least come for the second half if not and he loved when they tagged along. Both John and Brian's wives had their children to stay behind and look after but Roger Ben and (Y/N) didn't have that kind of commitment meaning it was easier for Roger's partners to come with them. This time however was different. It was too much of a risk for Ben to take the eleven hour flight back to LA to then go straight on the road to get to the first hotel of many. It would be unwise when he wasn't yet use to the new medication, and he would have to go to the doctors to be perscribed inhibitors or beta-blockers to keep his heart going and under control. They would take time to get use to and they weren't simply ones he could take on the flight and then be done with them. To make Ben start out a new course of treatment to then have to get use to them and stop after two months wasn't kind nor was it such a good idea. To go without medication for his heart was too risky as well with the turbulence they were sure to encounter. What made Roger feel worse was that he was currently missing Ben's hospital appointment and so far he had been to all of them with (Y/N), both of them there for moral support and to help calm him down. Now he wasn't. Hearing the sudden blaring tune of radio ga ga Roger looked down through the tinted glasses, seeing (Y/N)'s ID lighting up the screen making his heart jump. Picking up the phone Roger gently nudged John with his arm to let him out of the seat, shuffling out before heading down to the back of the bus to be out of earshot of the others. This was the phone call he had been waiting for all morning, to find out what the doctor had said about Ben. The last doctor's appointment told them that Ben didn't seem to have the complication of not being able to swallow, the technical term was dysphagia and they were fairly certain he didn't have this. Being told they would check on his next appointment too just to make sure it wasn't developing and they were also checking his heart today with an ECG which would take a few hours. Meaning they were sitting in a room doing nothing but waiting much like Roger was doing now. Curling her legs underneath her on the sofa (Y/N) smiled to herself when Roger's voice flooded her ear making a feeling of calmness and relief surge through her veins. Thankful to finally hear his voice after just over two days with simply text messages due to how busy they both were. "How'd it go today?" Roger asked, pushing the glasses up just above his nose so he could rub at his tired eyes that were close to allowing the tears to fall at hearing her voice. "The ECG took about four hours all in all, they can normally take twenty four hours but since he had no pains or problems before hand they cut it down thankfully. His heart slowed about twice but nothing troubling, he doesn't need any new meds." Four hours seemed nothing compared to twenty four hours. That was the typical time if they were monitoring someone's heart when there had been problems but they needed to do a routine check just to make sure the medication he was currently on wasn't causing any problems or that nothing else had happened. Thankful there was no damage, and the little slows in tempo weren't serious as Ben didn't even feel anything. It had still been hard to sit for four hours and simply watch Ben or read a magazine to pass the time though. "What about his throat?" (Y/N) wasn't sure if Roger meant his swallowing or the muscles that had been playing up a little since his choking incident and so decided to talk about both just to be sure. "They don't think he has it but he still isn't certain. His muscle in his neck might be the next one weaken, he's not doing so well right now." Ripping the glasses from his nose Roger launched them with little effort into the chair in front of him. Tipping his head back against the seat as the tears broke the damn and started trickling down his face. He needed to be there, he needed to be home to comfort his boyfriend and girlfriend who were clearly hurt. "Can you put him on?" Roger pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to stop it from quivering as a sob was welling up in his throat that he couldn't seem to swallow. "I'll see if he's still awake or not." Releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding in Roger felt his face fall as he drifted his eyes down to his watch. His mind quickly working out what time it was back home since there was a time difference, home being a few hours ahead of what it was where he was right now. Working out the time Roger frowned, why was Ben sleeping when it was only just six in the evening back home? The medication he was on was helping the overwhelming feeling of sleepiness and the long hours he slept for. "It's six in the bloody evening." Roger muttered into the phone, hands rubbing at the tears drenching his face but it did nothing as more simply fell to replace the smudged ones. "We got in ten minutes ago and he just went to bed. They put us in a room for the ECG and they got it ready, within half an hour he fell asleep in the bed they had to wake him to say it was done. He was at work all day yesterday it must have taken a lot out of him he's done nothing but sleep for about three weeks and then gone right back to long hours all day." The medication was still taking time to control the tiredness that Ben had been feeling for weeks on end. After their trip to LA Ben had gone back to work and that meant long hours through the day or maybe sometimes even into the night. To go from sleeping all day for the two weeks they wer in LA and even before then to have to be awake for most of the day took everything out of the actor. When told to lay on a comfy bed in the hospital for four hours Ben couldn't help but fall asleep, his body overwhelmed from the schedule he'd had for the movie he was nearly finished up with. He could only just manage to stay awake long enough to listen to the results and then get to the car. As soon as they came home he headed to their shared bedroom and stripped down to go to sleep. Sitting on her side of the bed (Y/N) gently ran her free hand through Ben's hair, ruffling it slightly as he turned his head to look up at her through hooded eyes. Close to sleep but not quite there yet. His body was screaming for sleep but he couldn't seem to manage it due to the nap he'd has during the ECG, it was beginning to feel like he had too much sleep yet still craved more. Handing him the phone (Y/N) pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before leaving the room. "Hey babe, how's it going?" Ben questioned, not being able to stop a yawn passing through his lips as he turned around slightly. Laying in the middle of the bed with his head resting on the covers on his left side as not to aggrivate the right side of his jaw. It hadn't been too bad all things considered and he didn't want to push his luck and add too much pressure to it right now. "We're on the road at the minute, should be arriving in an hour or so. Brian has been officially disqualified from scrabble." A smile appeared on Ben's face, the longing to be on tour weakening slightly at the sound of Roger's voice. It had hurt them all to know that they couldn't go on tour together and it had crushed Ben to know that he was the reason they couldn't go. He was the reason Roger was on his own on the tour and they were all seperated. "Did he beat you in a game?" Ben guessed, earning a huff in response and a mumble that he couldn't quite work out showing him that he was right in his assumptions. "You feeling alright, you don't sound too good." "Bit sick, I think I slept too much again." The downsides to getting too much sleep meant that there was less hours in the day to eat and more hours Ben spent going without food. Sometimes he thought he'd just have a nap, just to close his eyes that were burning from being awake for a few hours, and when he'd wake it would be hours later instead of a few minutes. This made him feel sick for skipping meals without meaning to, knowing right now he should go and get something to eat but being burrowed into the covers was too comfy to leave. "I'd say get some sleep but I think you need food instead babe, go get something to eat and I'll talk to you both later." It was clear in his tone that Roger didn't want to end the conversation there but he also didn't want to continue talking to Ben if he was feeling ill and the longer he was on the phone the worse it was going to make him feel. Staying in bed like he clearly was would only make him more tired and less likely to get something to eat. "But I... I miss you." They had only just started talking, though the feeling of sleep was taking over his system Ben was feeling more awake and wanted to stay on the phone for hours. He didn't want to hang up and dwell on the emtpy feeling floating around the apartment that just wasn't the same without the drummer walking about throwing the odd curse word as he went. There was no sound of singing floating through the air as he wandered through each room in the apartment or the sound of his drums clashing from the music room. He wasn't yelling at them both to speak up when he was somewhere else in the apartment because he couldn't work out what was being said. "I miss you both so fucking much it hurts but you need to eat something. It's what, six there right now? We'll arrive at the new venue in an hour, so I'll call at about... ten when we've got everything set up and talk to you both for a bit then. Think you can stay awake 'til then?" Tears continued to silently flood Roger's face as he took to lying on his back over the seats, knees bent up as he rested a hand over his eyes trying to calm down enough to speak clearly. He hated this, to be away from the two people he loved most and having to play concerts he knew they weren't listening to or in the crowd watching. Roger found that he was able to play that little bit better when his partners were watching and cheering him on. "I'll be awake." Ben responded almost immediately, eagerness in his tone at the thought of talking to Roger again, knowing that would put his mind at ease and allow him to sleep better. "I'm headin' for something to eat now, I love you." Managing to muster the energy needed to push himself up from the comfort of the nest he had made in the covers Ben rubbed his free hand to his neck, knowing it was time he got an ice pack. "I love you too, so much."

#roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #ben hardy #roger x ben x reader #ben hardy imagine #queen band

24 notes · View notes

manicwordsfleeing · 5 years

Text

A Jumbled Drive pt 5

I get car sick when I’m not driving. To be honest, this was the real reason I refused to come on this road trip in the first place.

It’s also how I managed to save everyone’s lives.

(I’m changing how I link the previous parts)

Parts 1| 2| 3| 4|

Ok. Let’s get one thing straight, this road trip isn’t some measly one week drive. It stretches over an entire month. Why? I’ll tell you why.

Rend is more than a superhuman, she’s also a pop star. She has concerts along the way to the ceremony we are supposed to be escorting her too, so instead of the one week drive it’s an entire month. Why didn’t I know this? Because I set up my electrical devices to block any and all pop star related news.

I don’t care about who did what with Jay-Z or what tour is going where. Those things don’t greatly impact my life, so it’s trash. Unfortunately, the system I set up works so well that I had no idea Rend was a pop star until she asked Conner to sing with her tomorrow tonight at her concert.

Yes, I’m that disconnected from society and yes, I know that Conner has a nice voice.

“B-man, what’s wrong with your face?” Tunani, who suddenly decided to grace me with her unwanted presence, asked.

“Ugh.” I grunted.

“You don’t look so good, want some candy?” She shoved her blue candy filled hands close to my face.

I know this leprechaun did not just say I looked bad and offered me candy in the same breath. Since when do those two things go together?

I just glared at her.

She shriveled under my glare, slowly withdrawing her hands. “Sorry, I just thought you’d like some candy. You always give me some when I feel bad...”

Great, I feel like a monster now. I sighed and plucked one blue candy piece from her hands, unwrapping it and popping it into my mouth.

Blueberry.

Tunani instantly brightened, pressing a quick kiss onto my cheek she skipped away. I didn’t have the heart to tell her blue dye makes me break out.

After another hour and a half of driving and me almost throwing up. I told the driver to pull over because I was going to throw up. I couldn’t go to the restroom cause Conner was making out with someone in there. I pounded on the door but Conner ignored me, the bus driver also ignored me until I threatened to throw up on him.

My threat succeeded. The driver phoned the other bus drivers and they all pulled off into the back of a huge gas station. Bucket’s or something like that, it was nice and really big.

Everyone piled off the buses and went inside the mega gas station, including the drivers. Of course we went straight to the bathrooms and let me tell you, they were nice! They had deer horns and beautiful pictures hanging on the walls, the tile was clean and the stalls weren’t small! They also didn’t have a huge gap between the door and the floor, it was a small sanctuary with toilets. Right when I entered stall an explosion rocked the building, and three more followed. I slammed back out and ran outside, to see the buses in flames. The building went on lock down and the gas pumps were shut down. Everyone rushed into the bathrooms while me and some Heroes rushed to put out the flames.

By the time the police and bomb squad arrived, everything was out. The fire was out, I was covered in soot, and my lungs hurt. On top of that, I wasn’t acknowledged one bit for saving everyone. Next time I’ll just keep my vomit to myself.

We couldn’t leave the town, since the buses were under investigation and everyone was a suspect. One by one, we were all taken into a small room and interviewed. After the twenty-somethingith person it was my turn. I was led into a concrete room with a metal table and two chairs. I was directed to sit in the chair facing the ‘mirror’. A tall black man in a suit came in a few seconds later and sat across from me, he was quite handsome and had my full attention. If you know what I mean.

“So, Mr... Black. Where were you when the bomb went off?”

“In the bathroom, they’re quite nice.”

He nodded and grinned, “Yep! That they are. So, did you see anyone or anything out of the ordinary that day?”

I thought for a few seconds then shook my head. The man leaned forward, “Does Miss. Rend have any enemies? Anyone that would target her?”

I nodded, he looked surprised, “She’s a celebrity.”

“Ah yes,” the man agreed, “That’s true.” He planted his hands on the table and stood up. He stared into my eyes, all traces of emotion gone.

“Mr. Black. I’m sure I don’t need to emphasize the fact that withholding information during an investigation is against the law.”

I slightly nodded, not breaking eye contact.

“You’re free to go.” He motioned towards the door.

I stood and walked to the door, coughing lightly.

“Oh, and Officer Duige will take you to get checked out. That cough doesn’t sound good.”

I exit the room, almost running into Tunani being escorted in. I ignored her excited waving, instead i turned and shot the interrogator a pitying look before heading to look for Officer Duige. Along the way I passed Rend taking to a guy, must be the chief or something. She had a drink sitting next to her, it was pink. Probably lemonade, and me being me swiped the drink and chugged it down before setting it down on the nearest table I passed.

I found Officer Duige, he was your typical over weight, bald, white, unattractive cop. He drove me over to the hospital and stayed with me when I walked in, I guess I wasn’t off the hook yet. I sat on a bed surrounded by a curtain and waited about thirty minutes for the doctor to come.

A female doctor pushed through the curtain. “Hmm... Black?”

I nodded.

“Okay... So you inhaled some smoke I see, I need to listen to your lungs. Is your shirt thick?”

I nodded.

“Then you need to pull it up in the back so I can clearly hear your lungs when you breathe.”

That didn’t sound good, I had body armed on and I hated it when people saw how skinny I was. Slowly I unzipped my suit, making direct eye contact with the Officer until he stepped out. I quickly finished unzipping and undid my armor enough to expose my back. The doctor walked around to my back and stopped, sucking in a deep breath.

I turned and looked at her, eyebrows raised.

She was even more alarmed when I turned around. “Sir... ma’am.. whichever. Do you.. usually get nosebleeds?”

“What?” I gave her a weird look and tried to stand. It then occurred to me that I couldn’t feel my legs, everything faded to black as the floor rushed up to meet me.

Poison, such a annoyance.

@prettylittledemonbitch @littlekitten327 @hugo-vinther @idreamonpaper @lilamina @everblazefoxfirekeeper @editedandwrittenbyhannah

#fangwolf #fang #theblack #my writing #writerblr #finally im done!#Part 5!

14 notes · View notes

sakurasangcl · 6 years

Text

Lightning (part one)

Summary: With newly discovered powers, you’re not only a hazard to yourself, but to the public too.

Word Count: 2.6k

Pairing: Reader, Peter, Tony

Warnings: attempted suicide, divorced parents (idk if this is a warning or not, but hey, you never know), verbally abusive father (the reader describes it as “quasi abusive”)

Notes: Some of this is based off of my experience in high school, but is not at all true (obviously). And yes, this is part one of a series. *winks*

Changing from secondary school into high school was no big deal. You were a smart kid and knew how to go about it. You’d keep a low profile, be quiet, learn quickly. You’d fly from class to class, never lingering in the hallways. You seemed impatient and fidgety, and perhaps that was true. In your free time at school, you’re nose was always in a book. You knew it was an extremely antisocial behavior, but reading was an escape. An escape from the hell that was reality. And it worked… for a time.

It was one particular afternoon that really got to you. Since you changed school districts after moving to a new apartment across town into Queens, you didn’t have any friends. You’d sit alone on the bus, or even chance walking home if you felt like it.

It was a Friday that should’ve been like any other Friday. Except, it wasn’t. This was the first weekend that you had to go with your father. Your quasi abusive father. He never laid a finger on you, but you could just tell that he hated you. Your younger brother and older siblings were his pride and joy. One was becoming a doctor, the other an engineer. Your brother was showing promising athletic capabilities. But you, you were nothing special. Sure, you were incredibly smart and could write the equivalent of a novel about the Battle of Gettysburg, but he wasn’t interested in history or reading. No- only changing the world.

Your last class was Geometry, and the teacher had a nasty habit of holding you over the bell. You scribbled triangles and degrees on your notes, but nothing seemed to process in your mind. It was a foreign language to you-but much worse. As the bell shrieked, your teacher shouted your homework.

“The homework starts on page 54, and I want you to do 1 to 50 but only the odds!”

“Twenty five problems? Really?” you mutter under your breath.

You heard someone snigger nearby, “What, the nerd can’t handle it?”

You ignored the nasty comment as you rushed out of the room, hoping to make it quickly to the bus. Instead, Russell Meyers blocked your way.

“You’re doing my math for me, nerd,” He states, dropping his binder and pencil into your arms.

“No I’m not!” You reply, shoving the items back in his arms.

“You are, or that ugly face of yours will get even uglier,” Russell threatens.

“I didn’t know you were talking about yourself!” you scoffed, feigning shock.

“I’m not, you fool! I’m talking about you!” he growls, throwing his books at you.

Maybe it was that you were done with school for the day, really wanted to be gone, or were just really nervous, but you were not expecting what happened next. “I’m not doing your homework, you unintelligent oaf.”

“What’s that?”

“I said no.”

“No, you called me an oaf.”

“An unintelligent oaf, actually,” you correct, as his face reddened to the shade of a tomato.

As a child with extreme anger issues, Russell did what was only logical to him-punching you square in the face.

“What a perfect day to wear white,” you sarcastically comment about the bright red blood as you run to the bathroom.

You take out a ton of paper towels, and hold your nose to stop the bleeding. You bend over to help it clot faster, but to no avail. You must have broken your nose.

You silently cursed at Russell, hoping he’d rue the day he met you. And rue the day he would.

Except today it was you who would be ruing the day. You ran outside, still trying to stop the bleeding but also to make it to the bus. Just as you made your way outside, the buses were pulling out of the parking lot.

“Great. Just what I needed.”

With a very audible sigh, you began your long trek home.

Not once did a stranger offer you help for your nose, ask what happened, or why there was blood on your shirt. Not even any of the police officers that you passed- five, precisely.

Once you got home, you had thirty minutes to get ready to go with your dad and to fix your nose.

“MOM?” you shout, hoping to get her help to fix your nose. “MOM!” Of course, she wasn’t home. Instead, your brother came out of his room and looked at you quizzically.

“What happened to you?” he questions.

“I got punched in the face.”

“Nice! Did you hit ‘em back?”

“No, I fell.”

“Aww man…” he mumbles, retreating back into his room.

Alone with your younger sibling, you go into the room that you shared with your sisters and backed a small bag for the weekend. Once you were done, you went to the bathroom to clean yourself up with only ten minutes to spare.

What you saw was bad. Your face was caked in dried blood, and your nose and lower left eye swelling black. You gently touched the inflamed area and squeaked in pain. Your nose was definitely broken.

With warm, soapy water you washed away the blood, revealing a cut under the bruise. At the same time, your mother came home, now only with five minutes left.

“Oh honey, what happened!” she exclaims, examining your nose.

“I got punched,” You state as though it was the most obvious thing ever.

“I figured that much, but why?” she inquires further, taking out her first aid kid.

“I wouldn’t do this kid’s homework.”

“That’s not right! I’m going to talk to the school, and his mother. What is this delinquent’s name?”

“It doesn’t matter. His mother wouldn’t care, and neither would the school. It would just make it worse for me.” You explaining, wincing as she patched up your nose.

“Oh honey, I am so sorry!” Your mother exclaims, kissing you lightly on your uninjured cheek.

The sound of barking and the ringing of the doorbell got your mother up. “I’ll go explain to your father, you finish getting yourself ready.”

“No, it’s no use. He’d congratulate the guy who punched me.” You admit, grabbing your mother’s hand to stop her.

You rushed yourself to get the rest of your cloths, and quickly went down with your father, keeping your head low.

“You should’ve just done the kid’s homework. Your sisters would have done that.” You father says, the disgust clear in his voice.

You say nothing, as his reply would be worse than anything.

“Or you could have fought him back. Your brother would have done that. You ran away like the coward you truly are.” He adds as an afterthought.

You don’t know if it was being punched, your dad, or a mixture of everything, but you found yourself on the top of his seven story apartment building, looking down. You were holding a piece of paper that you scribbled three words on- I’m not sorry.

Clenching the paper tightly in your fist, and you step onto the edge of the roof. You look around the city-your city- and sigh.

“This is it. The end.” you assure yourself.

After a deep breath, you hear the door to the roof open, and know it’s now or never. You glance over your shoulder to see your brother and say, “I love you. This is not your fault. Just let me go.” Then leap forward onto nothing. You heard screams and sirens. All you could see was blurred, and all you could smell was tacos.

You only partially remember being transferred into the ambulance, and the ride to the hospital.

You kind of remember blurred faces leaning over you, checking your pulse and heart rate. They put one of those masks to help you breath over you face. You wanted to take it off.

You remember being stuck with an iv at the hospital, so you wouldn’t die and could be given medicine since you couldn’t (but also wouldn’t) take it orally.

You also remember the doctor explaining a new type of experimental drug that could help speed up your healing time.

You remember seeing the arrangement of your bones from your x ray on the wall next to you, and how almost every bone in your body was broken.

You remember the days and hours ticking by.

You remember your two sisters coming to visit you, both of them wondering why you’d ever do such a terrible thing.

You remember them whispering how much they love you to your motionless and numb body.

You remember being carted down to get your second x ray a week and a half later, and seeing the results through drugged eyes. The smaller bones had healed, and you were almost done mending.

You got sent home that day with your mother. As a nurse, she was trusted to take care of you-and the heavy medications you were on. But rather than staying with you, she had to work overtime to get money for all the procedures.

You remember the doctor from before coming home to check on you and helping out. His beard was oddly shaped, but you couldn’t remember how. You swore you’d seen him before somewhere.

You remember your brother watching the doctor with awe, and that he would actually listen to him.

You also remember a red and blue blur looking at you through your window, both at the hospital and at home.

You remember the comfort from the strange blur, though you couldn’t explain why.

You couldn’t remember when you starting having a tutor, but his name was Mr. Brown. He was a chill dude, and you think you must have had him as a substitute teacher before. He was a very smart man, and optimistically assured you that you would be back in school in no time. Of course, you’d rather just be home schooled the entire time and never have to go back to that dreadful place.

Of course, you could only take so much boredom. Even Mr. Brown could tell two weeks in that you were over halfway caught up with over two months worth of missed classes.

“Miss y/n, did you ever find school paced too slowly for you?” he inquires one evening while grading your papers.

You shrug solemnly. “Yeah, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.”

“Well, on the bright side you’ll be caught up soon if you actually try from here on out.”

Of course, try was not something you wanted to do until your anxiety spoke up and pointed out that continually failing everything you missed would bring down your GPA. So you were soon back in school after four months of absence. Your casts were all off, and you were walking by yourself. By all accounts, it was a miracle. You should have taken about six months to heal, not hardly four.

You got to school early your first day back. All of the teachers were extremely attentive to you, and wanted to give you ample time to adjust again. They were being overly nice, and avoiding the fact that the last time they saw you was the day you attempted suicide.

Your first class was history, and it was with your favorite teacher. You made your way through the labyrinth of a school to his class, and was the first one there. “Morning Mr. Smith,” you say, sitting down in your front seat.

“It’s good to have you back, y/n. How are you doing today?” He asks you, being earnest unlike the rest of the people you’d run into.

“I’m nervous, to be honest.”

“You’ll be fine!” he assures you.

That couldn’t have been further from the truth.

History ended up being fine, as Mr. Smith went in full detail of the Battle for Chattanooga, specifically the one on Lookout Mountain. English was stressful, since you were behind on the reading, but your teacher was understanding. When it was time for lunch, you had bitten off almost all of your nails. You were not looking forward to sitting by yourself or worse-being bothered by people wanting to know why.

You gathered your lunch from your locker, and slowly made your way to lunch. By the time you got there, most people were already sitting down, paying you no mind. With your luck, all tables were full. One was mostly empty, except for two boys. One of them, with brown hair and dark brown eyes, smiled at you.

They both gave off the nerdy vibe so you thought you’d give them half of a chance.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” you manage to ask over the fear rising in your stomach.

They both stared at you blankly.

“That’s a yes,” a girl laughs, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table near the wall.

The larger one elbowed the one who had shyly smiled before, and he nods. “Yes, please do! I’m Peter and this is my friend Ned.”

“I’m y/n,” you mumble, quickly eating your food.

“Well it’s nice to meet you!” Peter says, smiling again.

“You wanna eat any faster?” Ned jokes.

You shrug, but begin to eat a bit slower. You wanted to appear more “lady like,” but you roll your eyes at the thought.

Then you pause mid bite of yogurt and your eyes widen as Russell makes his way over. Before you could even leave the cafeteria, he was in front of you, blocking your way out.

“Do you know what we had to endure because of your episode of attempted suicide?” he grumbles, clearly irritated.

You shrug, not wanting to provoke him.

“We had to sit in this shitty assembly while they went on and on about the warning sides of suicide. All because of you. We aren’t even supposed to talk to you, because you’re ‘fragile’ and ‘damaged.’ Well, I just think you are a selfish bastard.” Russell blurts.

“Sorry,” you say, your voice as monotone as your emotions.

“Is that really all you have to say for yourself, you little bitch?”

You look down at the linoleum floor, not saying anything.

“You pathetic little-” he began, throwing a fist right at your face again.

This time, you were ready for it. In not even a blink of the eye, you were behind him and out the door. You moved literally over twenty feet in not even a second. You look back, only seeing Russell dumbfounded and his friends confused. Deciding that it was best not to wait any longer, you race off to the girl’s bathroom to wait for your next class. You step forward, and the next thing you knew, you were in front of the bathroom door- which was at least 40 feet away.

You open the door, beginning to hyperventilate. Your heart begins to race, your body begins to shake, and your breaths become short gasps for air. You feel bile in your mouth as you try not to throw up, and the salty tears as they made it to your lips.

Then you hear your name being called on the speakers, which does not help. You rummage through your purse and take your inhaler, then splash cold water on your face to help you calm down. You gently pat your face dry with a paper towel and blow your nose. You make sure you look as presentable as possible.

Peaking out of the bathroom, you look to see if the hallways were empty. They were.

You then sped walked to the front office, where the last person you ever expected to see was waiting for you.

Tony Stark, also known as Iron Man.

tagging: @ruined-by-destiel @teamfreewill-imagine (if either of you don’t want to be tagged just lmk)

want to be tagged? send me an ask and you’re name will be here for part 2!

#marvel #spiderman #iron man #peter x reader #tony x reader #peter parker x reader #marvel fic #marvel fanfic #marvel au #julia writes #julia's writing #homecoming fic #spiderman fic #spiderman fanfic #avengers fic #avengers fanfic

89 notes · View notes

fangirlinglikeabus · 8 months

Text

'year forty-five' how long do time lords have to spend in school???

#i know they have longer lives than humans but this is absurd #busing through big finish doctor who

21 notes · View notes

imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years

Note

Hello! Can we have more of the story where Claire goes through the stones to the future? Future Forward, I think is the title. Thanks!

True to his word, Ray had held a position open for Claire in his mid-town Inverness apothecary. Jenny had organised for her to work on days when she was on shift at the hospital so that they could ride into town together and then Jamie would collect her in the evenings. The buses through to Beauly were bad enough, but with her back still healing, none of the Fraser’s wanted to risk leaving her to wander the highland streets looking for the tiny public service only to be sat, at rush hour, cramped on the winding journey.

“You don’t have to do this,” she had protested three weeks in, “I can find my own way here, I’m capable you know.”

“Aye,” Jenny returned, a humorous glint in her eye, “we ken it well, Claire. But why waste time and money wi’ us around to help. Dinna look a gift horse in the mouth, lass. Just accept it. Now, go!”

The small bell over the door jingled, its high pitched ding echoing through the small shop as Claire made her way to the counter. As always, Raymond was hiding in the basement, cleaning and sorting his various array of out-of-time oddments. Collecting her duster she set to work ensuring that everything saleable and above ground was polished and free of dust for the morning rush.

Inverness wasn’t a bustling town, it was big enough to keep the local community entertained and since the end of the war people had been visiting in their hundreds to get away from the detritus left behind in the big cities in the wake of the bombings. Jamie had brought Claire up to date with the current happenings, showing her images and videos (something altogether new for her to observe). Claire had sat, awestruck as the moving pictures had illuminated the screen on the tiny television set that sat in the lounge of Lallybroch.

Awe had turned to wonder and onto horror as the sight of huge cylindrical objects dropped through the sky, their shadows casting dark marks on the earth as they fell. The explosions had left imprints on her retinas and she shook off the memories as she spruced up the shop ready for opening.

“Is that you Claire?” Ray called, pulling himself up from the basement and onto the shop floor, shaking the cobwebs and dirt from his shoulders and hair as he waddled towards her. The basement featured one of the lowest ceilings Claire had ever seen, and even Ray, who was incredibly short in stature, had to hunch to walk down there and it always left its mark on him when he came back upstairs again.

“Yes, it’s me,” she smiled, waving shyly as Ray blinked in her general direction, his eyes growing accustomed to the light once more. “I’m just…”

“Cleaning, aye, I see.” He laughed as he spoke, leaning one withered hand against the small countertop and clicking his back into shape once more.

Blushing, Claire dipped her head and continued on with her chores. She was a hard worker and even though she’d had trouble mastering some of the newer feats of technological *genius*, Ray had been patient and kind in teaching her the ways of the modern world. Claire hadn’t brought up the reason for her innocence on the matter and Raymond hadn’t asked, for which she’d been grateful. The fact that Jamie probably knew where she had come from and Jenny had definitely guessed was enough for Claire at this particular moment in time. She had a nice family unit to confide in should she need without having to put up with any strange glances.

Not that she ventured far from Lallybroch or the apothecary of course.

The day passed at a steady pace, customers coming and going at an even rate as Claire pottered about serving them and helping Ray to reorganise the back of the store. Most were lovely old ladies who liked the scent of old things and the chatter of someone a little different from the doctors and nurses in the local surgery.

One specific woman had really taken to Claire, bringing her cakes and talking about all manner of strange things over tea. Mrs Graham had that twinkle in her eye that people over fifty often get when viewing their younger relatives and Claire had sort of become an additional to her tiny family. She would occasionally see her granddaughter, Fiona, meandering about the shop and on those days, Mrs Graham wouldn’t stay for long.

But today she was alone. Close to closing time she popped her head around the door with a large smile plastered across her face. “Ach, good, Claire,” she began sauntering inside and pulling a stood up on the customer side of the counter, “I saw a wee tale in the newspaper the other day and I dinna ken why, but it made me mindful of ye...being new here. So, I thought why no’ pop by and tell it to ye before ye finish.”

Nodding, Claire leaned under the counter to flick the little kettle on before settling herself to hear Mrs Graham’s story.

Jamie tapped his finger against the wheel in time with the music as he waited for Claire to appear from Ray’s shop. She was usually so prompt, but today she seemed to be taking her time. Not that Jamie minded, he felt more at ease collecting her. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t trust her to make her way home safely, but there was an unconscious pull that both he, Jenny and Ian felt towards Claire. Something that festered beneath their skins at the thought of her being out of their sight. It was a strange sensation and he knew that it definitely irked Claire, who was getting more and more antsy in her new life.

Maybe this was one of those stubborn moments, Jamie thought as he re-tuned the radio to something more palatable. As the distinct sound of Classic FM tunefully flowed from the speakers, Claire appeared, her coat pulled tightly across her chest.

“Are ye alright, lass?” He asked as she climbed into the large jeep. She seemed off-colour, her shoulders hunched and her mouth downturned. It wasn’t exactly that she was frowning, she just seemed...off.

“Yes, fine thank you.” She returned, her voice low as she clicked her seatbelt into place and buried her gloved fingers between her tensed thighs.

“Good day?” He asked, trying to pull some conversation from her.

“It was busy, but good, yes.”

The rest of the journey home was travelled in silence. Jamie kept stealing surreptitious glances at Claire as he drove them both home but he left her alone. If she was determined to be quiet and pensive, then he knew enough about women to leave her be. If she wanted to talk, she would...given time.

As they pulled into Lallybroch, down the winding drive, Claire turned to Jamie, her knees brushing against Jamie’s hand where it lay on the gearstick. “Can you stop here, I’d like to walk the rest of the way if you don’t mind.”

Pursing his lips, Jamie pulled over, letting the engine idle as he waited for an explanation. When nothing came, he watched as she pushed the door open, hopped down and turned, pushing the curls out of her face as her fingers gripped the rustic metal tightly.

“I just need some time to think, I’ll see you back at the house. I promise.”

And with that she shut the door, slid her hands into the pockets of her coat and began walking down the narrow drive. Jamie, perplexed, threw the jeep back into gear and set off home, watching in his rearview mirror until she disappeared. Something was definitely bothering her. Jamie knew from the dip of her chin as she’d plodded aimlessly along the gravel track.

Sighing, he locked the car in the garage and made his way back into the house. Making himself something to eat, he waited in the kitchen, watching through the window as Claire approached slowly. As she came through the front door she didn’t seek him out, or call out to see where he was. Instead, Claire simply sloped off to bed and closed the door.

Shaking his head, Jamie tried to forget Claire’s increased melancholia as he prepared some tea for himself, Jenny and Ian. Jenny would be home in a few hours, after she’d fetched Ian from the small Inverness airport maybe Claire would confide in her. Until then, he would busy himself with a ham and leek pie.

Curling under her duvet, Claire tried to block out the muted sounds of Jamie below. It wasn’t hard with Mrs Graham’s haunting *fable* running in loops through her head.

She knew, she must have, had been Claire’s first thought. Why else would a story about fairies and standing stones have made the old woman think of her? But as time had gone on it became obvious that Mrs Graham had only thought Claire naive, new to Inverness she probably wouldn’t have grown up around the myths and legends that were prevalent in the highlands. Little did she know that Claire herself had been privy to the very earliest versions of most of these chronicles.

Now though, she was a part of one. A true walking legend...just like the loch ness monster.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to quell the rising panic. It would do her no good to reduce herself to that, she needed to remain calm and clear-headed. She didn’t want to worry Jamie anymore than necessary though she knew that he was intrigued by her strange behaviour. Thankfully he’d been polite enough not to ask.

Her stomach rumbled at the scent wafting up the stairs, but she was too despondent to drag herself downstairs to eat. Instead Claire rubbed her empty belly and curled her knees up to her chest in the hopes that she’d fall asleep and forget the worry that was building beneath her chest.

It was fully dark when she opened her eyes again, the full light of the moon shining in through her open curtains as Claire pushed herself vertical, letting the sheets fall from her shoulders as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. Letting her stomach guide her, Claire crept downstairs, being careful on the steps she knew creaked as she went in search of something to eat. Hopefully there was something edible left in the fridge. One of the benefits of finding herself in the 20th century was, certainly, the food. No longer did she have to suffer with a meagre diet cooked on a temperamental open fire. Finally, after eating she felt satisfied and full.

Searching the shelves, Claire managed to find some left over pie and instead of heating up the oven to cook it through once more, she simply grabbed a fork and dug in.

“We missed ye at the dinner table,” Jenny chirped from the doorway.

Claire jumped a little, the fork hanging from her mouth as she turned to look at the eldest Fraser who was stood with her arms across her chest. She knew there was no escaping it. She would have to tell Jenny what was bothering her if she wanted to eat the rest of her cold tea in peace.

“I’m sorry, I just needed a nap.”

Jenny quirked a manicured brow, her hazel eyes not leaving Claire’s. It wasn’t a hard gaze though, there was some manner of compassion there. Being the matriarch of the family, Jenny knew how to be firm without being harsh and it was clear that this occasion required tenderness. “Claire,” she said, the use of her name in that motherly tone sending Claire’s stomach churning.

“A customer, one of Ray’s regulars, she said something to me today.”

“Aye,” Jenny whispered, dropping her arms as she pulled up a chair and sat next to Claire. Placing her hand over Claire’s where it lay limp on the table, she offered her as much warmth as she could through touch alone.

“She was just trying to be friendly, immerse me in the culture of the town, I think.”

“But?”

“But she mentioned tales of the fairy hill, of its siren call,” Claire took a deep breath, concentrating on the shallow pounding of her heart as she tried to tell the story without breaking down into jagged sobs. “She said we always go back, that we never stay. Do you think--”

“No,” Jenny interjected, knowing what Claire was thinking now as she stared unseeing through the large kitchen window into the inky blackness. “No I don’t. Those fables are fanciful and dreamy. They’re no’ to be believed. Plus,” she added with exceptional certainty, “they’re told by folk who know nothing of the power of those stones, ken?”

Claire nodded, swallowing back the bile that had risen along her throat. She trusted Jenny, she had faith that she wouldn’t try to quash her fears using half truths. If Jenny thought that it was likely or possible, then she would tell Claire without worrying too much of the consequences. Of the many things Janet Fraser was, she was not dishonest.

“So you don’t think they’ll call me back, then? That I’ll somehow be destined to go h-home without choice?”

“Nay, Claire, I dinna. They might call to ye should you be near to them, you spoke yerself of their influence over you the first time. But I dinna think you’ll be pulled to them from any great distance. You are here wi’ us now, far away from the stones. Away from those who hurt ye. That’s what yer scared of, aye?” She asked, her eyes glinting with unshed tears as she gripped Claire’s hand tightly for just a moment. Jenny’s warm fingers twitched against Claire’s in a kindly way.

“Yes,” Claire sighed, nodding as she spoke. “I’m scared I’ll be forced to go back there. That I’ll be sent back to die.”

“You won’t,” Jamie spoke, his strong words penetrating the dark from where he now stood by the open door, his face serious as he stepped into the kitchen and stood next to Jenny. “We won’t let that happen, Claire. Jenny is right. Ye willna be pulled there from here, that’s certainly true.”

“Thank you, Jenny, Jamie,” Claire whispered, her lip trembling at the tour-de-force of the Fraser’s devotion to her health and happiness, the emotion of it hitting her square in the chest.

“But, Claire,” Jamie added, a slight smile tugging at his mouth as he continued, “please dinna think you have to suffer in silence. I hated seeing you so sullen earlier. You can talk to us, either o’ us.”

Claire nodded, unable to speak to show her appreciation. She had wanted to discuss it with Jamie, but the shock of the story twinned with the realisation that she might have to face Captain Randall again had her in such a state that she wouldn’t have been able to offload without having a full on breakdown in the car on the way home and she didn’t want to feel trapped in a small vehicle should that happen.

Jamie noted the slight panicked look appear on Claire’s face. Tearing his eyes away from hers for a moment, he allowed her some personal space before coughing and holding out his hand to her. “It’s alright, Claire, truly,” he murmured, coaxing her upwards with his outstretched fingers, “let me take ye back to bed.”

“I n-need to clear this up first,” Claire replied, indicating to the mess she’d made with the remaining pie.

“Dinna fash about that,” Jenny scoffed, collecting the glass bowl from between Claire’s hands before she had time to take it herself. “I’ll sort this out, ye just get yerself some rest.”

Doing as she was told, Claire took Jamie’s hand and followed him towards the stairs. Turning briefly, she smiled softly at Jenny, her eyes twinkling in the night light. “Thank you, Jenny, again,” she said, her tone relaxed now as Jamie kept hold of her right hand, “for everything.”

“Yer welcome, Claire,” she said as Claire and Jamie disappeared off out of the kitchen, “anytime...sister.”

Softly opening the door to her room, Jamie led Claire inside before pulling her into a gentle hug. He didn’t want her to feel any pressure to return the physical affection but he needed something to show her that she had support of any kind should she need it and words didn’t see appropriate at this particular moment.

“I was so scared, Jamie,” Claire whispered against his pajama covered chest. His t-shirt smelt faintly of cherry blossoms and aftershave and she basked in the scent of him as she burrowed deeper against him. For such a large man, he was so comforting and careful that she couldn’t help but be soothed by him. “I thought...Oh God,” she gasped, gritting her teeth together as she let the sobs consume her, finally, “I thought it meant I would have to go back. I can’t...I c-can’t face that again, not now,” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut as Jamie began to rock her back and forth.

Keeping his arms rested across the tops of her shoulders, Jamie made sure she was safely tucked against his chest as he swayed. “I wish I’d known ye were so torn up, lass,” he muttered in return, “I wouldna have let ye come up here alone and sit on this all night if I had.”

“I’m s-sorry,” she hiccuped, pulling away a little, her gaze focused intently on the fibres of Jamie’s sleep shirt in an attempt not to look up at his aqua blue eyes. He was captivating. Braw and bonnie as well as sensitive and caring. And something about him drew Claire in, like a moth to a flame. It would have been easy to get attached to a man like Jamie, but Claire knew that she shouldn’t allow herself to become enamoured with him...just yet.

Licking her lips, Claire drew away, wiping her eyes with her sleeve as she shook off the dread and anxiety. Convinced that she was safe, she could at least sleep the rest of the night and wake up fresh in the morning. Tampering the feelings of growing warmth towards Jamie, she smiled shyly up at him, avoiding eye contact no longer as he reached out to dry her face of the few remaining streaks of tears that lay on her damp cheeks.

“No need for sorry, Claire,” he returned, his pupils dilating in the dim glow of the small lamp that lay illuminated on Claire’s bedside table.

“Goodnight then, Jamie,” she whispered, her voice shaky and low as her heart picked up pace. An uncontrollable and insatiable desire sprung up inside her as she said the words and it was only then that she realised that she didn’t actually want him to leave.

But it wasn’t proper for him to stay.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Jamie replied, leaning forward to kiss her forehead before heading for the door. He hovered for just a moment, his back to her as his hand lay over the brass doorknob. Just for a second it looked like he too might not want to leave.

But then sense came back to him and he pulled open the door. Taking one last look over his shoulder, Jamie smiled tentatively in return as he began closing the wooden door behind him. “Sleep well, mo chridhe, dream sweet dreams.”

As the door shut, Claire breathed out a huge breath, her lungs throbbing painfully as she pushed out as much of the oxygen she could before taking a cleansing, fresh breath in. “Sleep well, too, Jamie,” she sighed, sliding into bed and pulling the quilt up once more. “I hope I dream of you…”

#Fast Forward #southerngal16 #;Mod MBD #ask #jamie x claire #Claire falls through the stones

209 notes · View notes

montyrakusen · 4 years

Photo

Voices in the Wind, the Northern Isles of Shetland Part 2

Text edit: John Coombes Encouragement: Liz Rakusen

#shetland #yell #unst #fetlar #voices

1 note · View note

byoungernj · 4 years

Text

California International Marathon 2019

It’s taken me awhile to sit down and write about CIM 19, mostly because life went on and the urge never got strong enough for me to write. But what can I say. I had the best build up ever and the week of the race, my anxiety got the best of me and my gut. So as I sit at home in the age of quarantine, drinking a way to hoppy for me beer, I’ll try to recall this past fall.

Coming off of Chicago I was in a rough place. It was dark and miserable and I want to hug my counselor because she changed me for the better. In the spring, my body decided to check out and after months of doctors appointments and low, controlled mileage I discovered I was struggling through chronic fatigue syndrome. My legs hurt so bad simply laying down, I loathed the thought of getting out of bed. It lasted into the summer. I ran the Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta on July 4th for fun. I suited up in my Oiselle gear and poured sweat through the hilly streets, crossing Georgia off my list of states to run a road race in. After a few days off I started to build back up in prep for my CIM build up. One day, I don’t remember which one, I realized my legs had stopped aching. Runs were starting to feel normal again and running became enjoyable.

I had chosen CIM again because I wanted my next attempt at breaking 3 to be something I got excited for. The buildup to Chicago lacked any sort of emotion other than the f word. It is a decent size marathon, not a pancake of a course, usually great weather, and a fun trip overall. A friend of mine decided to join as well, making for a very fun travel party. It was through this spring and summer that I had begun a new ambition. I was taking prerequisites to go back to school. Having this new goal to work towards helped to keep me motivated outside of my usual run and work combo.

The first month or so of training was just so so. It was still summer in North Carolina and the heat and I are mortal enemies. Craig and I continued with similar workouts to my last CIM build up. The first half of that build up was in the summer heat of New Orleans, so it wasn’t surprising that my early workouts were better than before. But what excited me looking back at my old training journal was that I was putting together more cumulative weeks of quality workouts compared to the last build up. Workouts started to click sooner and I was running faster than I ever had. It was somewhere near the end of the first ⅔ of this training block that I had this overwhelming feeling post workout. For the first time in a very very long time, I was having FUN with training. I wasn’t staying up the night before a workout with anxiety or fear of how it would go. I didn’t dread the thought of getting up and putting in hours of running on Sundays. If a workout wasn’t completely hit out of the park, I was okay. A bad workout has to happen. I need to get it out of my system now so it doesn’t sneak up on race day.

Well the first bad workout happened to come on the day of my half marathon at the Bull City Running Fest. I ran this exact half in prep for my last CIM. It’s ridiculously hilly so keeping race pace on this course will give me an extra boost for the rolling hills of Sacramento. Well this year was a wee bit different. It was pouring. Like Forrest Gump big ol’ fat rain. I started to laugh on the start line that I put sunscreen on that morning. The course had changed as well. I found out a few weeks later it was due to a sinkhole a little too close for comfort on the old course. This year’s course had 3 hairpin turns that killed what I considered momentum that day. From the gun my legs wouldn’t move. I hit the first mile which is half uphill but after that I struggled a bit. After the first 8 miles I found myself counting down how many miles were left until I was done. I became frustrated at how it felt we only ran uphill. I would turn a corner, boom uphill. Get to the top, turn another corner, boom steeper uphill. Around 9 miles I checked out. I was so frustrated at how off this day was and that this damn course was terrible. I came in slower than marathon pace but what I was most angry about was where my mind went. It was as if everything I had pushed past this fall was hiding out in Durham.

What made me proud though was that a few days later I decided to give myself another chance. There was a half in Raleigh 2 weeks after Bull City. It was a cold, beautiful day. My legs felt light and free. I started out too fast but the pace felt comfortable. 13 miles later I pressed the pace and finished with a PR and an overall female win. That was the effort I knew I was putting together in my workouts. That was the effort that showed I was in the best shape of my life. It made me want to race CIM already but unfortunately I had to wait another 6 weeks.

The rest of training continued to go great. So great it began to worry me when I started to taper. Had I not gotten enough bad efforts out of my legs to prevent it from popping up on race day? Workouts were faster, I closed long runs faster than goal pace, I felt strong. But my dear friend anxiety decided to roar back day by day as race day got closer. I became even more of a germaphobe, I wore a mask on the train back from Thanksgiving, I was convinced I was going to get sick so much that when my throat started to feel rough the Wednesday before, I felt the weight of the world come off my shoulders. But it wasn’t a sense of relief, it was the emoji where the girl is shrugging with her hands in the air. Welp, I was sick. But looking back, I don’t think I really was because after the race was over, the throat discomfort was nowhere to be found. The day before the race we ate at one of the restaurants my mom and I had eaten at 2 years prior. I had the same dish I had then as well. But after that meal my stomach felt way too full. When dinner came around, I didn’t have any sense of hunger but I knew I needed to eat for fuel. That night I was tired but my stomach had a different agenda. I spent most of the night in the bathroom. Not urgently but frequently. I usually don’t sleep much the night before but this was by far the least I’ve ever slept.

Come race morning I felt no better. I tried to down my typical morning fuel but was still too full. Also, reflecting back, I was so off my game that morning. I planned like a rookie and almost ruined my friend’s race morning as well. I planned to get to the buses way too late so we stood in line for over a half hour. Once we got out to Fulsom I thought we’d have some time to sit on the bus, as I did last time. I was wrong. After sitting for a little, we ventured out to way to long bathroom lines which prevented me from my normal warm up and me completely panicking trying to drop off my bag and get into my corral near the pacer. I made it but was completely unsettled. I took a few deep breaths but was uncomfortable not having gone through my routine. I looked to my right and saw an old college training partner. A ‘side hug’ helped ease my nerves. The weather was not ideal either. It was humid and overcast. It had rained that night and drizzled a bit during parts of the race.

The gun went off and I settled down. I was tucked in right behind the pacers. One of them was who I had followed 2 years ago, which made me happy. Around 8 miles I started having negative thoughts. Some in the frame of ‘we’re only at 8 miles?!’ others ‘you have so far to go, this is taking forever.’ I fought them off and tried to focus on other things or combat them with positive rebuttals. Around mile 10 my legs started to not feel so great. I was actually a few steps in front of the pace group but tried to keep them in ear shot. I took a mile or so to slow up for them to catch me and for my legs to recover. Around mile 10 my legs started to not feel so great. Again the negative gremlins came into my brain. My response was this is just a rough patch, you’ll be fine, stick with it. But 4 miles later I was still not feeling so hot. I had come through the half realizing I was straining and had 13 miles to go. It became a 1 mile at a time race. The ‘rough patch’ wasn’t going away. It was around mile 14 I knew this wasn’t going to be the day. At mile 16 I fell a few steps behind the group at a water stop and I realized that was it. The group was gone. I kept a pace that allowed me to have them in site for a few more miles.

A small side story. At CIM 2017, I got to see a former college teammate and his twin at the Oiselle afterparty. I hadn’t seen him since college and it was great catching up. He was so proud of his brother and it radiated off of him the entire afternoon. Sadly, a short time after his brother took his own life. I’ve seen him once since then and couldn’t embrace him long or tight enough. The day before this years’ race, he reached out to me that he was there and running in his brother’s honor. After the group was out of site, I saw him on the side of the road talking to someone. I called out his name and he jumped in for a mile with me. We shared a few thoughts of his brother and I struggled to find the right words of how proud his brother is of him and that he was there with him. I made plans to see him after and I grabbed his hand before I told me to go ahead. Had I not been having this type of day, I would have never shared that with him. Silver linings.

Around mile 23 we cross a small bridge. On the bridge was a ‘cheer station’ of women on bikes. In a moment, I noticed their signs said ‘TR Loves You’. I have no clue what TR stood for in this context but TR to me stands for my hometown of Toms River. As I crossed the end of the bridge, there sat a little corgi. The combination of these two little ‘signs’ brought tears to my eyes and smacked me out of my pity party. My legs took off and my watch told me I was back on my original goal marathon pace. I was almost done and got the motivation to finish the best I could. This may not be a sub 3 marathon, but it was going to be a fast time for me. The final half mile of CIM makes a U. This anticipation of the first of two left hand turns lasted forever. Way longer than I remember. Once I reached it I made the last turns, legs burning for the past mile. I crossed in my second fastest marathon time. The friend of mine from the start was at the finish, she had finished a few minutes ahead of me. Neither of us had the day we wanted but not the worst day. Not a Chicago.

Another side story. The friend who had come to run the race with me was chasing a BQ and on a quest to beat her dad’s marathon time. I sat down on the curl just beyond the finish line. No one was bothering me so I realized I could sit there and if she made the time, I would see her. I ended up being told I could not sit there any longer just seconds before I looked up and saw her. She had blown her dad’s time out of the water and was on her way to Boston. I was more excited for her race the entire weekend and I enjoyed the moment at the finish of her achieving her goals.

Looking back that evening, my stomach still unsettled, I was disappointed. The day did not reflect how fit I was. I had gotten ‘sick’ at the wrong time. I gave myself a few days before I decided on my next goal. During the race, after I had fallen off, I had already begun to brainstorm where I would make my next sub 3 attempt. I made myself wait two full weeks after the race before I clicked register on my next marathon. I was finally loving training. I actually was missing training for the first time ever in my life. I set my sights on Grandma’s Marathon in Duluth Minnesota that June. It was a place I’ve never been too, the home of my favorite pro Kara Goucher, and a fast course. I was prepared to train through what would be my last collegiate season as an athletic trainer. I am heading to physical therapy school this coming August so this would be one last celebration of miles.

I look back and realize I was never sick. I was anxious. I learned this when the pandemic took over the United States and the phantom throat discomfort returned the day the reality of the situation really hit me. I had grown so much in my fight against this invisible jerk. Yet it got the better of me yet again race week. Heading into this build up I welcomed the distraction of the baseball season. I thought it would help in occupying my anxiety. But the world had a different plan. Grandma’s is now cancelled. Not postponed, cancelled. More silver linings as I am now sitting at home with an injury that is preventing me from running. I can physically run but it’s extremely painful during and after. For the first time in my adult life, I have time to sit and relax and rest and heal. I’m taking it for what it is. I am signed up for the NYC Marathon in November and am hoping to simply enjoy the day.

Now I am proud of CIM 2019. It was not what I knew I could run but it was my second fastest marathon. If a 3:04:14 is an ‘off-day’ for me, that’s a pretty good thing in my book. Before the race was cancelled I was back to ripping workouts. I was back enjoying running and training. That feeling will come back. Racing will return. And I’ll run CIM again because it is still my favorite marathon. Peace and love Sacramento.

0 notes

skyedill-blog · 7 years

Text

300 things that make me happy (May 11th, 2014)

music that reminds you of something good

coldplay

doctor who

wes anderson

arctic monkeys

watercolors

my grandma’s house

my grandma

cats

dogs

my other grandma

my parents

getting money

my sisters

when my palms aren’t clammy

old photos

blogging

supernatural

cardigans

christmas lights

steel guitar strings

making movies

sleeping in

staying up all night

sunrises

candles

new converse

wifi working

biking

benedict cumberbatch

sherlock holmes

family videos

the vlogbrothers

learning something new

teaching someone something new

calvin & hobbes comic books

ampersands &&&&&

remembering something i forgot

full battery

the fault in our stars

tea

coffee

clean dishes

honey

when my sister thinks im funny

getting better from a cold

colored napkins for parties

bad music that you still like

being the first to wake up

grapefruit soda

passionate political debates without bigotry

equality

hugs

when you get to lick the spoon during baking

coming home

running away

strangers who smile back

when you and one other stranger see something funny and you smirk at each other

little kids that make faces with you

the london underground

winston churchill

colin firth

jarred telling me dumb jokes

the tylers

my cousins

when films are remade from a long time ago and they are really good

when films are remade from a long time ago and they are really bad but you see them anyway

appreciating good art

laughing at stupid pretentiously simple art

67 chevy impalas

oversized jumpers

indoles crew

chapin’s class

finding my old clothes from when i was little

the color green

sun shining through the cracks in the leaves

tia

kepler

my family in denmark

carlsberg beer

meeting strangers on buses and having nice conversations

old english women named sally

maddy because she calls me a dork and makes me laugh

my grandma’s accent

my mom’s accent

bridget’s singing voice

getting to stay up when the little cousins have to go to sleep

the kids table at thanksgiving

bread

coloring

finding out that you got accepted to college at your dream school

spaghetti

rosy cheeks

finger painting

days that my depression lifts a bit and i feel like a normal kid again

the smiths

three hole punching

getting glasses for the first time and its like you found god

old cameras

new cameras

101 dalmatians

new york city

being surrounded in books

when i do homework and dont cry

new music that i cant believe i didnt know about

internet friends

getting mad and just swearing like a sailor because damn it feels good

dean winchester because he taught me about love

sam winchester because he taught me about forgiveness

cas because he taught me about redemption

bobby singer because he taught me that family doesnt end in blood

porch swings

boys

alex turner’s accent and hair

The number 115

triangle banners

the hotel room i stayed in when i was in berlin

trivia

brushing my teeth

morning star farms veggie sausage

during spring when the sun is up by the time i leave for school

lord of the rings and the hobbit

going to the library for class instead

apple products

white linens

top gear uk

james may’s stupid hair

maps

getting confirmation

star gazing

teaching my little cousins about science and the stars

the fact that we are all made of stardust

puns

when you know a word in a different language and you feel really cool for remembering it and connecting it wow im cool

lower case letters

newly vaccuumed carpet

the sound of stapling

muffins

shredding paper

exact change

getting homework done early

mediterranean food

karl pilkington and how much he hates everything

stephen fry quotes

obama

calling my friends nerds

waking up early

plane rides

soft socks

when family brings you home leftovers

when my step dad gives me life lessons

my cat rory. rip.

my dog seeger

les miserables

showtunes

frank sinatra

billie holiday

queen elizabeth II

james bond movies

alfred hitchcock movies

billy wilder movies and how he was a sarcastic butthead

warm paper just off the printer

freshly mowed grass

evolution theories because wow that is so cool and learning how species grew and evolved is insane

colorful kites

museums

tuesdays

old timey christmas music

the thought of moving away from home and doing something new even though its really scary

mac and cheese

when packages come for you in the mail

the feeling i had when i got my drivers license

mr. kato

pirates

when people fall asleep on your shoulder and you suddenly feel that being their pillow is your only purpose

my family in miami

winning board games

when people get their braces off

kick ass lyrics that perfectly make sense

accepting how fragile things are and being better for it

stand up comedians

rainy days that make you feel a little sad and chilly but its good to be sad sometimes

unrealistically tiny things

getting compliments from people you are trying to impress

backing out of plans you didnt really want to fufill

shows without continuity errors

when movies and tv shows say the title of the movie or tv show

colloquialisms

freckles

songs turned acoustic

quirks about people like scars or birthmarks

leonardo dicaprio because like holy crap have you seen that guy act

shakespeare

formatting errors

irony

having a good calendar

a clean house and your mom being proud of you

painting walls

finishing a good tv show or series and having a good cry

books

kissing

oragami

pepper jack cheese

concerts that make you feel like you belong somehow with all these strangers and the lights go down and you all sing

giving a waiter/waitress a good tip

writing lyrics on the back of your hands

feeling like a stupid teenager with loud music and ripped jeans which somehow feels like your own rebellion against nothing

knowing that however old i get i will still be that stupid teenager who eats cold pizza and plays my music a little too loud

listening to people talk

road trips

pranking my step-dad

filling up the gas tank all the way

my aunt tiffany’s house

peaceful people

diplomatic solutions to violent things

pianos

cool light fixtures

film scores

inventiveness

dystopian novels

finishing a long paper

basset hounds

photo booth

clark’s shoes

mayonnaise on wasa with yellow tomatoes and salt and pepper

veggie burgers with fried green tomatoes

nostalgic places

monty python

peter pan

boarding passes

butter

blue skies

overcast

shadow puppets

blanket forts

camping

the smell of mosquito spray

waterfalls

driving through the smoky mountains

bon iver

harry potter

learning about WWI and WWII

good quotes

google because without it i probably wouldnt be graduating high school

when people let me talk/encourage me to keep talking because sometimes im made fun of for talking too much

knowing weird facts about things and getting to tell people

hearing people talk about the things they love

hearing people laugh

trumpets

when people stand up for me or notice when i am being wronged without me telling them

when people remember my name

having a sub for a teacher i dont like

understanding a math concept because it is rare

riding in golf carts

weekends

christmas trees

eurovision

french

plot twists

nice patio furniture

waking up to thunderstorms

witty welcome mats

having the windows down all the way in the car and it's really cold but it feels good to feel something

tom hiddleston

that really nice business man i met on the tube several months ago

booty

getting my hair cut

those really pretty flowers in england

laying in the sunshine on the living room carpet

high waisted shorts

strawberries

pirouettes

lemonade

glitter

the rain song by led zeppelin

those erasers shaped like food

rollercoasters (not too big)

campfire smell

waking up with good hair

conchita’s beard

copenhagen

really juicy pens

horse movies

april ludgate

the sun

the moon

weeping willow trees

acing a test

alpacas

warming your hands on a hot mug

red noses after playing in the snow

watching old movies during a rainstorm

hammocks

baby toes

those pretty lights on northumberland street

mushy peas and chips

wristwatches

scratch & sniff stickers

knowing that even though i will get older and my hair will grow and my skin will wrinkle and scar and this list will be revised… that i will still be me and its okay to change… its okay to run away and make stupid choices and dye all your clothes purple and waste your money and eat cheesecake… its okay because my list will change and so will i and hating what you used to be gets nothing done and neither does hating who you are. things are changing and they wont stop. today these 300 things make me happy and one day they wont but that doenst mean i lost myself. it means i grew. i know that. that makes me happy.

moving on

23 notes · View notes