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bronx-bomber87 · 5 months

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Happy Monday Lovely fandom. Not a ton in these episodes for them. Gonna combine these two. Thank you for idea D ❤️ These are my least fav of the season. Not gonna lie whenever I reach the Simone eps in a rewatch I skip around her stuff LOL Never resonated with me. So it’s funny the first ep is called Simone and I won’t really be covering her much at all. Probably be a shorter one with some crumbs. Let’s get going though shall we?

4x19 Simone/4x20 Enervo

We start off with an actual bang. John and Lucy respond to a suspicious activity call. It's near a power station in Griffith Park. They find a bomb and get out just in time but not before they’re thrown to the ground by the blast. They get thrown pretty damn far and are fairly banged up. It's insane how much damage they took even clearing the building.

Tim shows up to the scene and does a worried husband look I love. Checking in on her by doing a once over once he makes it to them. Does a silent check in as he reports it’ll take 12 hours to fix the damaged power station. The silent check in is everything. Once again it’s the little things I cherish especially in low content episodes. It's subtle but noticeable once you know it's there. Trying to contain his concern with her all banged up. It’s ok love your wifey is fine hehe

I love these two shots for quite a few reasons. One you know I love the tall/smol shots. I wish I could put into words why I love it so very much. It’s just aesthetically pleasing is one of the reasons I suppose. All I know is I’m a sucker for it. Second how in-sync they are in their movements and how they mirror one another in the second one.

Third the lack of personal space. Especially in that first gif. Theme of this season I adore so much. Always that gravitational pull of theirs. Lastly look at them. They’re gorgeous just standing next to one another. Also it is unfair Lucy is covered in dirt and soot and looks amazing still. Not fair haha

Oh right there’s a SL too LOL Not me just gawking at them haha The feds show up because this is a terrorist attack. They ask Nolan and Lucy about what they remember about the bomb. Nolan of course is no help. Smh Lucy is able to describe little better for them. FBI says they’re taking over from here. Grey fights it since John and Lucy were almost killed discovering the bomb. Garza concedes and they’re able to work together on this one.

We rejoin our ship headed towards National Guard Armory. They’ve deduced this guys real target was this. Reason he shut down the power was to gain access inside there. They’re en-route to catch him. They find out he’s already on the move and they’ve gotta catch him. Which leads us to this car chase. First off let’s note Lucy getting to drive in this intense moment. It is more common these days for them. I just love seeing Tim trust her so implicitly nowadays. That this is new normal for them. *heart clutch*

Control freak in him has eased up quite a bit with her at least. Maybe not with anyone else LOL Once again it's the little things to love. The spurts of growth. They make me happy. Anyways dude stole a friggin Humvee so taking him down will not be easy. Nolan says they need to stop this guy. No shit John...What do you think the purpose of this chase is? To have fun at a high speeds in a shop for kicks?

Sometimes the words out of his mouth floor me..and not in a good way. Tim is using his military experience in this moment. (Yum) Explains why that’s not going to be easy. He’s basically encased himself in a mini tank. Their usual pit maneuver isn’t going to work on this guy. Nolan offering up another solution. I adore the silent communication and the look. That automatic instinct to check in with each other. I'll never be over it. I love watching them in the field so very much. Just a well oiled machine. Tim is considering Nolan’s suggestion then checking in with wifey before executing it. Love it.

Tim explains their plan to Nolan while Lucy listens in. Tim advices they both hit the doors. Tells them it has to be at the same time though. To avoid the wheels at all costs. Lucy needing to know the why of course. Asks why they can’t hit the tires? Tim explains they’ll die and be a cautionary tale for future rookies LOL Gotta love Lucy questioning why they can't in the middle of a high speed chase. I'm sure she wasn't expecting that to be his answer ha.

Her comment about her mom cracks me up. Anything to prove to her mother she’s wrong and she is right about being a cop. Her first thought not being she’ll die. No it’ll be about her mother being right about her career choice. Lmao Oh Lucy Chen I love you. Also I relate to this train of thought all too well sadly. I do love her saying they’ll be disgraced together. Be more married please.

Tim doesn’t even fight her on this thought. Lucy basically saying if I’m going down you’re coming with. Tim isn’t fighting her at all. His silence is saying lead the way. They’re in this together and I love that so very much. Being a literal ride or die right now in this moment.

I love me some crumbs in a low content ep. Also only they could banter during a high pressure situation and still get the job done. I love them so much. They are successful but find out the driver isn’t their guy but a decoy. Wah Wah.

They regroup at the station after their chase. Nolan asking Lucy if she got any sleep? She then calls out Tim for getting some. Not only does she call him out but nicknames him 'Sleeping beauty.' Looking directly at him the entire time. Making sure he know she is talking about him and only him. All aboard the flirt train Nolan is an unwilling participant in the matter haha

Such blatant flirty flirts. Tim fires back a sassy reply to her jab. Just openly flirting and doing heart eyes out in the open. Ain’t no thang this season lol Shoots back not to be jealous he was allowed to sleep and she hasn’t. Lucy’s reaction is the best. That fond exasperation they’ve had all season long. So used to her husband antics at this point but has to let him know she’s annoyed at him. Damnit I love them sfm.

They end up finding his base of operations. Lucy of course breaking the case. Cause she’s brilliant finds a word he’s written down by doing an etching off a wall he used. ‘Enervo’ Garza telling them it means 'To deprive of power.' John asks Tim what the military’s first target is? I love watching Tim flex his military background again. It’s sexy af. Seriously gets me hot and bothered *fans self* Tim and Lucy cracking this case right open. You’re welcome everyone haha That’s it for this one. Low content one since it was meant to launch rookie feds. Next one has even less so this is why we’re combining them.

~~~

Side notes-Non Chenford

I do love when Nyla and Angela work together. Two bad ass woman just doing their jobs like confident BAMFS.

4x20 Enervo.

We find out he’s rented U-Haul’s and it’s going to take out the biggest roads with them. Crippling the city and killing thousands. They can't get a warrant right away to track them so everyone is in on the hunt. As always I love watching them in action in the field. That second gif their cop eyes have been activated. You can see them combing the street together. They’re so in-sync as they search the streets for one of the five U-Haul’s. I could go on and on about how much I love their work dynamic I really could. But I'll stop there ha

The trucks are divided up into states. Cause well that’s U-haul haha if you’ve ever driven one you’d know. Always got graphics or other states on them. One has already exploded unfortunately so they're down to 4 trucks that need to be found. Lucy and Tim spot ‘Florida’ and are in pursuit of it. I love how calm they look. They’re chasing down a bomb and look determined af. Like I said before well oiled machine. The gifs above represent that. They are poetry in motion in the field. What made 5x22 battle scene so epic. Was that on steroids ha

That’s kinda it for them in this one. I can add this last lovely gif of them in the field. Seeing how they move in motion together. It is impressive to see how in-sync they always are. Shared brain thing I love so much. I’m sorry there isn’t more. I mean it’s not my fault but I’m still sorry LOL

We shouldn’t hit this again. Even the light one in S5 is really good and would fill a review well so this will be the last scant ep for them. Probably won’t combine them again ha

~~~

Side notes-non chenford

Smitty reporting in he got ‘Utah’ Grey being ecstatic and saying he took back every negative thing ever said about him. Poor Smitty is all sad ‘You’ve said negative things about me?’ LMAO

Thank you as always for those who like, comment and reblog these reviews. You’re all amazing and I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know. Shall see you all in 4x21 :)

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mi6-cafe · 4 years

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HERE ARE THE DRABBLES FOR WEEK 2!

Ready to READ&VOTE?!

Well, let’s refresh your memory first.

This week our competitors were asked to write exactly 200 angsty words inspired by the phrase: ” to strive, to seek, to find, but not to yield ”

HOW DO YOU VOTE?

Read all the drabbles. (they’re below the line)

Choose three that you like the most.

Fill out this VOTING FORM, telling us your favourites. (You can even leave anonymous feedback for the author).

NOTE: If you are a competitor, you CANNOT vote for your own fic. But please, do vote. :)

The voting period ends at 11:59 PM EST on Sunday night. Results will be posted and anonymous feedback will be emailed on Monday.

Title: Sisyphean Author: Anyawen Warnings: MCD (Major Character Death) Summary: Cause. And effect.

He had refused to give up when the signal was lost. If there were the slightest chance, the smallest trace, he would find and make use of it. He wrestled with technology, fought bureaucracy, and ignored his own limits. Like Orpheus, he followed a trail gone dark and cold to find the hell where his beloved was held. A team already en route for rescue, he activated a camera. Like Orpheus, his love was lost as he laid eyes on him. An indicator light on the camera blinked to life, betraying their surveillance, and they gained visuals only to watch his agent's execution. Unlike Orpheus when he lost his Eurydice, he did not fall prey to despair. He would not betray his lover's memory or dishonor his sacrifice by pining away. He channeled his grief into ingenuity, political savvy, fierce protectiveness, and an icy, vengeful fury. He focused on the interests of the country for which his lover had given his life, and the other agents who continued to risk everything in that same service. He would do everything in his power to keep them safe and bring them home. Gods have mercy on any who tried to stop him.

Title: Savvy Author: stormofsharpthings Warnings: no Archive warnings apply Summary: Bond is missing...

He couldn’t find James.

He’d often had to remind the newer techs that the double-oh agents might play dumb to get out of filing reports but the nature of their job these days required them to be almost as computer-savvy as Q Branch themselves. And Bond was more skilled than most, though he kept it quiet. So an unaccustomed panic threatened to overwhelm him the longer James was missing.

There was no trace despite hours of desperate searching through surveillance footage. He’d even hacked into dashboard-camera databases online. Bond had walked into that bloody meeting and all electronics had gone dark.

“If he were dead, there’d be a body!” he’d shouted at M. Other agents were out looking, but there was no evidence at the location. If Bond had been abducted, there was no rescue possible yet. Q refused to think of torture.

James would leave a sign...somehow...somewhere...if he could.

In frantic desperation, Q started checking logs of internet-connected devices. A smart bulb in an industrial warehouse was reporting an intermittent error, probably from faulty wiring, but Q mapped the errors and times from the online log and found a rough pattern: long long short long. Morse code for Q.

Title: Blind Author: SouffleGirl91 Warnings: None. Summary: He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see.

He needed to find them, but he couldn’t see.

Fear. A fist, seizing his heart. Squeezing his chest until all he could feel was sheer panic. Struggling to breathe.

A hundred scenarios ran through his mind, a warning of what might happen if he failed. Cyber attacks going unprevented. Terrorist attacks unthwarted. Agents dead. All because of him.

Because the Quartermaster wasn’t at his post.

He needed to find them. The Quartermaster needed to return to his post.

But he couldn’t see.

Where were they? All the intel said they would be here. They must be here. They had to be.

What if they weren’t?

How would he explain?

What would he say when M asked him why the Quartermaster was missing?

There was no other option, he had to find them. He couldn’t give up.

But he couldn’t see.

Blindly, he reached out, feeling around. His fingers brushed over the debris of a life interrupted. He recoiled as his hand came into contact with a pool of liquid. Still warm.

Oh, God!

More urgently now, he sought, knocking things aside. There wasn't enough time!

There!

Q put on his glasses, finally ready to face the day.

Title: Tennyson Author: sorion Warnings: - Summary: Bond loves more easily than he would like to.

‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

"What utter nonsense," Bond said, drink in hand. It wasn't his first. Nor his second.

If he could travel back in time, he'd choose not to love. Every time.

Love brought him nothing but betrayal and pain. How could loving and losing be better than never loving in the first place? He wouldn't be blind to the inevitable betrayal (and death) without love.

Today's reason for the drinks was that time travel didn't exist, and Bond had once more been confronted with the frustrating fact that he couldn't not love, time and again. Much as he would have liked to.

"Just how drunk are you?" someone asked, sidling up to his solitary spot at the bar.

'Not drunk enough to purge you from my system,' Bond thought. Despite his best efforts and iron will, he made the mistake of lifting his head, meeting questioning but undemanding eyes.

Reflected in those eyes, he found the truth that love was as much his constant companion as death. Neither weakness nor enemy, but the backbone of his very nature.

"Perhaps... 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world."

Title: Hunger Author: sunaddicted Warnings: canon typical violence, toxic relationships Summary: the truth hurts more than a bullet wound He pursed his lips, eyes contemplating the ruin spread out at his feet: his life, his career, his dreams - everything lay shattered on the ground, all of his hard work and his striving aspirations turned to dust. "Hungry - you were always hungry for more than you can chew, clever boy" Q pursed his lips, refusing to look at the other - stubbornly staring out at the moors, fog slowly raising from the earth like poisonous vapours "It's your fault, Raoul" "Shut up" "It wasn't the plan!" "¡Callate!" Suddenly there was the cold circle of a gun's barrel pressed in the middle of his forehead - so icy that it almost burned against his skin. Q swallowed, tightening his hands in fists that would do nothing to protect him from a bullet straight to the brain "She doesn't give a shit about you, she never has" Raoul sneered "And you do?" "Yes, I do" Raoul laughed, derisive and cruel: it hurt more than a bullet ever would but Q wasn't giving up on him - he wasn't sure he could; yielding under pressure and escaping just wasn't an option, they were together for life, inextricably bound together. No matter how deadly Raoul's love was.

Title: Lost and Found Author: Ksania / starrboned Warnings: implied canon-typical violence Summary: James made a promise he couldn't keep.

James finds him kneeling in the ruins, a dark silhouette against the fiery sky.

His sword makes a quiet "slink!" as he unsheathes it, flaring in the dying light. The blade's pale as it kisses Q's neck.

"Hello, James," Q says. "I hoped it would be you who'd find me."

Waves clash beneath them, salt heavy in the air.

"Nothing to say?" Q asks. "You always were a man of few words."

"They're coming," James breathes, watching as Q rises to his feet, turning.

His eyes are bloodshot, face pale. Black cloak hanging from skinny shoulders. A shadow of the man who held James's heart.

"James." Q cracks a smile. "You promised."

Once upon a time, when they were a Queen's mage and her knight.

James grips his sword, knuckles white.

He lets the blade drop. "I'm not killing you."

"You must." Q takes a step closer. "You know what she'll do -"

Footsteps approach. James pulls Q into his arms.

"Then we both die!" Q hisses, clutching at his cloak. "And everything was for naught!"

"So be it," James smiles, kissing him. "We both knew it was going to end this way."

Q sighs. "They're here."

James raises his sword.

Title: Adamant Author: IrishWitch58 (captain-magicalkitty) Warning: Effects of violence Summary: Q ponders the similarities between himself and 007

The monitors beeped steadily, monotonously. Q hated the sound that screamed the fallibility of his systems, that made him face the ways in which he couldn't keep his agents safe. He shifted in the chair, the same he had occupied for the past 10 hours. He was connected to his branch, overseeing ongoing activities but that mattered less than the silent battered figure in the hospital bed. James had once again both succeeded and failed in that spectacular fashion that made him the best MI6 had. The mission goal had been accomplished but the medical evac had been a skin of the teeth exercise. More damage done, more scars. Bond's resume was written clearly on his body, scars upon scars marring the skin Q valued more than his own. Q acknowledged that his technological efforts could only do so much. It was the indomitable spirit of the man that was at issue. His nature was to push beyond the known and see for himself and to never give in to circumstance. In his own way, Q was the same, which was why he would sit and wait and plan how to avoid the next disaster, as unyielding as any agent.

Title: The End Author: Venstar Warnings: angst(?) Summary: farewells.

It was all coming to a close with this next mission. It was a death trap. Once he went in, there was no coming out.

“Duty calls, I must go.”

“That's bollocks.”

007 smiled down at Q and brushed a finger across his chin and down his jaw. “This will be your first resurrection to witness, won’t it? Every story has an ending.”

“There’s only one 007 in my books.”

007 laughed at the jokes Q valiantly made with effort.

Q’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed into a straight line. “I’ll find a way to get you back.”

“Seek and you will not find me,” Bond whispered, “It will be a new 007 when you finally yield to the inevitable.”

“Never!”

“So they replace me and they will replace you.”

Q shook his head. “We could leave. Would that be so terrible?”

007 looked at Q with pity in his eyes. “That would be treasonous.”

“It’s not like you’ve never skipped town before!” Q blurted out, his cheeks red.

“I am no traitor.”

“No, you’re a loyal dog. Now I understand why M kept that hideous thing on her table.” Q spat his words at 007’s feet.

“Goodbye, Q.”

Title: Never Yielding Author: iambid (flantastic) Warnings: None Summary: James is bullish, Q just wants him to stop.

Q waited for him outside M’s office.

“What the hell, Bond?”

James didn’t miss a step as he carried on down the corridor forcing Q to trot to keep up with him.

“James! Talk to me!” He pleaded.

James stopped abruptly and whirled around.

“About what? What exactly would you like to talk about?”

“This!” Q responded hotly, gesturing. “Why are you going back out into the field?”

“Because they need me.” James snapped.

“But I thought…”

“What exactly? That a gunshot wound would put me out of action permanently? That I would want to spend the rest of my days hanging around your house like some kind of rescue dog? I have a job to do, Quartermaster.”

He went to turn but Q grabbed his wrist.

“What about us?” Q asked quietly.

“There is no us.” James said and then, when he saw the hurt in Q’s eyes, he added; “It was a dream. Thank you for taking me in and taking care of me, but it can’t continue.” He looked down at Q’s hand, still resting on his wrist, and regretfully shook it off. “People like me don’t deserve people like you,” he said sadly before walking away.

#10

Title: ghost Author: azure7539 Warnings: none Summary: Question and answer.

What went wrong?

By the time he arrives, there’s nothing of value left. He takes in the sight of the cramped room—one bare mattress in the corner, energy bar wrappings pushed into a pile, empty water bottles strewn around the floor—and stops at the coffee table. The near humid scent of cigarettes lingers in the air, unseen but winds like spidery gossamer, spooling from the crushed fags in that full ashtray next to an abandoned laptop.

His eye twitches.

Barely gone but not within chasing distance, his mind grudgingly concludes, and he sits down on the cracked tiles with a grunt. Despite the Caribbean sun flaring outside an unrelenting spot of heat as it pierced in through the windows, the place sustains a perpetual coolness that settles on his shoulders a phantom weight.

Really, he should worry more about potential booby traps in the laptop, but the thought doesn’t even stir his apprehension, and he opens it anyway.

The words he finds on the screen seize his breath before flickering back into an empty void.

His earpiece crackles to life with a hissing fit. “Status report.”

“He’s gone,” Bond growls, shutting the device with a harsh click.

/I went wrong./

#11

Title: The Perfect Gift Author: Shush_MummyWriting Warnings: None Summary: "to strive, to seek, to find, but not to yield."

The moment he saw her, he knew she was perfect.

Madelaine was not just beautiful, but brave, smart and had a backbone of steel. Knowing her background, she was the ideal partner for an old warhorse like James Bond.

Q felt the tiny flame that had been nurtured by every bit of banter, every special look sent his way, every promise extracted, compounded by every risk he had taken for Bond, flicker and die.

When he returned to his favourite workstation in the bowels of Q Branch, the information he had requested from the Archives had already arrived. Q had followed Bond’s career even before their first official meeting and as he looked over the old blueprints, he realised this would be the perfect farewell gift for Bond.

Besides, it would make an excellent project for the Garage minions. With a little creative accounting, sketches already flowing from his fingers to his screen, he would pour every ounce of his brilliance into the DB5 and it would be ready when Bond got back.

Then Q would be able put all those inconvenient feelings behind him and say good-bye to James Bond, with a smile, like the friend that he was.

#12

Title: 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world Author: scarytheory Warnings: mention of character death, depression Summary: James's got his happily ever after with Madeleine. Still – he's struggling every day.

...you should know-

James wakes up from a nightmare, panicking, trying to catch his breath. Madeleine is used to it by now. She just whispers ‘you're safe, you're home’, still half-asleep. But he gets up and pours himself some whisky because he doesn't know what home means anymore.

Everything is blurred. Maybe he made the wrong choice. Even though she's here, and he loves her.

But he's still thinking about that phone call. It's been six months, and he can't stop thinking about it.

“Q died. I thought you should know.”

Wrong home.

More whisky.

And more nightmares.

There is a weird inner ache that James can't even name; he is too afraid to do so. A little bit of it belongs to Madeleine because they can't be happy together; it will never be enough. It's also about Q because James failed him. He knew and he left anyway, left everything that could have been.

But mostly it's about James himself. Because he's so tired and scared to go back and fight again. But in the end, he knows that he will do what he always does.

Not yield.

Not yet.

Even though the whisky is burning in his throat.

#13

Title: Unyielding Author: AtoTheBean Warnings: None Summary: Q will hate that fucking poem for the rest of his life...

“You’re going to lose him.”

“I’m not,” Bond grunts over the comms.

“Repositioning 006 to intercept,” Q replies, signaling to R.

He looks back at the screen to find Bond has stolen a motorbike.

“007, stand down. The plaza’s too crowded.”

“All the more reason to stay with the bomb.”

Q sighs, switching screens to an aerial view. Bond’s so stubborn since his return.

Though, not at first. At first he was accommodating… practically deferential…. And Q was unyielding in his anger. It’s taken months to find their rapport... for Q to acknowledge they still make a good team, ignoring the dull ache of what else he wishes they might be.

“Approaching the bridge.”

“I see you,” Q says, refocusing.

“Good place to douse a bomb...”

“But how would…” Cold dread fills Q. 007 is still fast, but even he acknowledges his reaction times have slowed...

The motor revs. “'We're not now that strength which in old days—’.”

“James Bond, don’t you dare quote Tennyson at me!”

Q watches Bond grab the mark—

“JAMES!”

—and hurl them both off the bridge. He hears the rush of wind, a splash, and then static.

The water-muffled explosion on the screen is silent.

#14

Title: The Balad of Sir Bond Author: ladymars Warnings: Implied Major Character Death Summary: A prince seeks for his knight.

Lady Moneypenny, from her kneel and still wearing her tattered armor, presented a scrap of burnt fabric to her prince. "This is all we found of him, Your Highness." Cold ice ran through the prince's veins. His breath left him. "No, that can't be..." "I saw him go into that cave myself," the knight interrupted, her voice tight, "I told him we should return, call for reinforcements, but he pushed inside." "Stubborn bastard..." Sir Bond had escaped from dire situations, deadly situations, returned to life with a smirk, a swagger, and the head of their enemy in hand (never his sword, of course, always losing and breaking those), but from a man-eating monster? Of course he's stupid enough to jump in without hesitation. Something pushed the prince up from his throne and to his feet. He staggered as if grief had possessed him and moved his limbs like the automatons he assembled, a yearning pulling him forward. "I'll find him. He's out there. I'll search the ends of the world for him." Moneypenny paled. "But sir—" "No!" His voice did not sound like his own, strangled and high. "He's out there!" A fury flickered in his eyes. "I'll never yield."

Thank you all for writing these wonderful drabbles!

Thank you all for voting and making this properly fun!

Here is the post announcing the winners.

#LDWS #angst #signal boost #writing competition #james bond fanfiction #last drabble writer standing #drabble

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anne-lister-adventures · 4 years

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Monday, 24 February 1840

5 1/4

2 3/4

Got up immediately on Gross’s calling us – We had nicely arranged our beds last night against the walls – Not long before A-[Ann] got up meaning up all night – I tried to bear it out – Impossible, so bit, no sleeping – Thought of Jackson who told us to put our beds on the floor in the middle of the room – Did so, and tho’ A-[Ann] says she soon followed my example I was asleep before she had moved her bed next to my mine – I had given all my things a good shake – She had caught 5 white fleas on her night cap –

All packed and ready in an hour at 6 1/4 – Then wrote the above and breakfast – Reaumur 11 1/2º on the on the window seat of one of the 4 windows in our nice little room – Larger than last night, and about 5 x 4 yards - no! 14 1/2 x 10 1/2 ft.[feet] and 8 ft.[feet] high – windows frames 4 ft.[feet] 2 in.[inches] x 2 ft.[feet] 5 in.[inches] and our 2 doors 6 ft.[feet] x 2 ft.[feet] 6 1/2 in.[inches] – Reaumur -10º dehors at 7 10/’’ a.m. –

Off at 7 1/2 – At 8 1/4 Tchudo village with neat largeish looking church and handsome clocher adjoining so as to form the great West entrance into the church – The clocher at Bolgari close adjoining to the sort of lofty porch by which one entered (West) the church – We have latterly had churches of one square domed part and a sort of aisle up to it, and porch or clocher entrance – We seem to have our 5 domed churches at Kazan – The people Tatar? At Tetiuschy and here (Tarchany) – At Tchudo piles of longish fir logs laid up under sheds – What for? For Government Magazines (said George having inquired of the Jemptschik (driver) –

Small snow driving about from about 8 a.m. snow in the night, apparently a good deal – About 9? Another village and on the high plain (apparently chiefly stubble ground) flight of birds about the size of pigeons sea-gull grey and white – Pretty looking birds – Like small seagulls – A magpie or 2 now and then – No magpies at Moscow, nor any since till 4 or 5 at Sviask – The little bee-swarm traps everywhere – A 7 or 8 in.[inches] diameter fir-branch about 20 in.[inches] long hollowed out and covered over the top like a little mill – Hung up against the house-end – Or against a high gate-post, or something high – I like travelling in Russia – I like its steppes, - Its vastness – The advantages, the luxuries of polished life are never beyond reach, yet in the intervals there is a wild freedom from the tyranny the gene of civilization that pleases me – A governed freedom where law is order and order law, and each man fears his God and honours his Sovereign and lives in good fellowship with his neighbour even amid the various peuplades de la Russie – Pretty well wooded today – Copied this out at Tarchany waiting for horses till now 12 5/’’ p.m. –

Written out at Simbirsk Tuesday 25 February

Interminable high plain covered with tops standing up above the snow, of Absinthe? such as we saw dried at the Vodki Fabrique at Liskovo? Occasionally picturesque little villages and wind mills – Now (9 3/4) three with 6 sails and one with 4 – At 9 50/’’ large village and handsome stone (probably brick covered over) white church with its clocher joining up to it and forming great West entrance into the church –

In 5 minutes thro’ the village and cross little frozen river? Tarchany at 11 5/’’ poorish little Tartar village – Poor little Station House with ox gut instead of glass windows – But 2 rooms – One for the family &c. (sick animals or what not) and the little room with oven-stove in it that we were in the people coming in to look at us as if we were some strange animals such as they had not seen the like before – The windows (of the gut of cattle) did not shew any joining and yet the glazings, the sheets of darkish brownish shrivelly gut? must have about 2 ft.[feet] by 18 to 20 in.[inches]? In many Isbas, cottages (as we came along vide p.[page] 36.) we had seen the windows done in little squary panes glazed with this gut, tho’ the gut is generally in one piece large enough to glaze the whole opening – While waiting at Tarchany wrote out journal and on going away bought 10 eggs (boiled by George’s mistake) -/20 and ten unboiled -/40 the people Tartars with small dark eyes, and a sharpish looking countenance and dark complexion quite different from Russians –

Off at 12 20/’’ with very poor cattle fed the moment before setting off – The 1st time we have been so badly horsed but the Tartars do not keep their horses so well as the Russians – Virshka (pronounced Vēērshkah) at 3 as I supposed on driving into the village – Good church and clocher seen in the distance – But no! We had turn out of our a little to the left into this village to see if we could get horses – None to be had – I did not know this till 3 1/4, when George came to say we had 9 versts to go and these horses could not take us – The Courier beat our near horse and then our driver – The man cried or whined, and said he could not get horses on – True they were 3 sorry animals, and our servants had not better – I said they must go au pas (foots-pace) – They must take us – We should arrive sometime at Virshka where they said at the last village we were sure to get horses –

At 3 55/’’ copse forest of oak and lime and a few hazels – The young lime twigs red – Query, were not any red willows on the Volga islands from Nijni, Limes? Lime-bushes? Still snowing, small snow – At 4 5/’’ fair and the sun out, and we crawl on – At 5 7/’’ Virshka at last – Poor little Morduan village – 20 or more men and boys and as many women and girls about us in a few minutes – Quite a throng, all trying to get a peep at us – Quite different looking people from our sharp countenanced Tartars of Tarchany more Fin-like – Broader faces, and stupider looking – Morduans – The Shubes of the Tartars more jacket like than those of the Russians, and the dress of these Morduans in shape like that of the Tartars but generally of a dark brown coarse woollen cloth rather than sheepskin –

Much ado to get horses – What did we come here for? Not the great route – Should have 5 horses each Kibitka but only 8 to be had – A-[Ann] and I did not get out of our Kibitka – Left he Courier to fight it out among them as he best could – Thought we were off at 6 1/4 – But they had given us 5 horses and a boy on the 2 leaders and we stopped to take off one of our horses and give it to the servants so that each Kibitka had 4 horses, or we should have left the servants behind – They could not have kept pace with us – This yoking 4 horses abreast and leaving our boy that was to have driven our pair of leaders, took 20 minutes so that it was 6 35/’’ before we were really en route again – This is worse said George than the Tartars; but they keep their horses better so that we shall get on faster –

We had one verst to go from the village before getting to the Volga, and then the rest of our road lay on the frozen river – Too dark to see anything – How unlucky we are in this respect – We had hurried in the morning to reach Simbirsk by daylight – in vain – I slumbered till we had gone 12 versts – Then got out for a moment went behind the servants kibitka and did job first time of so managing could not alight the last stage –

Then slept the rest of the way, and alighted at Simbirsk at 11 1/4 – But we had surely been 1/2 hour hunting for lodgings – The town had been burnt said George – Difficult to find a lodging – However at 11 1/4 good comfortable 3 room apartment the servants being somewhere – Tea things and Semovar all very nicely and quickly brought up, and sat down to tea about 12 – Had Domna – read a little - ∴[therefore] late in bed –

View of Simbirsk. (Image source)

Undressed, and had our sheets, a luxury we owe to the prévoyance of La Charmante Princesse – Driving small snow almost all the day till about 4 (vide line 3 from bottom last p.[page]) and soon after then had the snow shaken off our Chalats and bags &c. and A-[Ann] feeling it cold had the door on my side shut – That on her side shut all day – A[Ann] queerish and impatient so shut my door and no more of her

versts

7 1/2 to 11 5/’’ Tatiuschi to Tarchany . 30 12 20/’’ to 5 7/’’ T-[Tarchany] to Virshka (pron[ounce]d Veershkah) 25 6 35/’’ to 11 1/4 V-[Virshka] to Simbirsk (4 h[or]ses each Kibit[k]a) 30

Route from Bolgar to Simbirsk (todays Ulyanovsk).

[in the margin of the page:] Bee-swarm traps

[in the margin of the page:] ox-gut windows p.[page] 36

[in the margin of the page:] Simbirsk

Page References: SH:7/ML/E/24/0023 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0024

#anne lister code breaker #anne lister #ann walker #moscow to baku 1840

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thisdiscontentedwinter · 5 years

Text

Bad Blood - Chapter 20

You can read it on AO3 or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here.

___________

On Friday at around ten a.m., after a night spent in yet another rat-infested bolthole, Peter takes Laura and Derek to the John’s house. John has been working late, and is still asleep when Peter cases the place to make sure nobody is watching it, and then lets them in through the back door.

“Shower’s upstairs on the left,” he says, pointing.

Laura gives him the side-eye, but not for long. Her misgivings are slim indeed in the face of the promise of hot water.

Peter hums as he loads their laundry into John’s washer. Derek leans awkwardly in the doorway and watches him.

“Are we allowed to do this?” he asks when he catches Peter’s look.

“We’re not not allowed,” Peter decides at last.

Both the kids are showered and the laundry is on the spin cycle by the time John treads downstairs wiping sleep from his eyes.

“I need better home security,” is all he says when he takes in the three Hales at his kitchen table. “Is the coffee on?”

Peter winks and slides him a cup.

It’s… it’s temporary, this weird teasing thing between them. It’s the same game Laura and Derek played with their bickering about chocolate and hair dryers. It’s a forced distraction. There’s no foundation to it, Peter thinks, and there never will be unless he can deliver John’s son to him, safe and sound. If he can do that, if they can kill the Argents and save the people they want to save, maybe there will be something there to build on. At the moment it’s a crutch, and Peter knows both he and John can use one of those.

John sips his coffee and eyes them critically. “Did any of you sleep last night?”

“On and off,” Peter says, although it was more off than on. Being in an unfamiliar place made it hard enough to settle. Being in an unfamiliar place with the threat of hunters hanging over their heads? Well, the less said about that, the better.

“The sofa in the living room pulls out,” John says. “If you want to catch a few hours. And there’s a spare room upstairs.”

Peter looks to Laura.

She’s still for a moment, and then she nods.

Good. She’s read John’s heartbeat. She’s got the measure of him now. She knows he’s an ally, and possibly even a friend. Peter only wishes that he’d seen it years earlier. He knows John was right—there was nothing the Hales could have done to help him get Stiles back before now—but at least he wouldn’t have had to drink alone.

“Are you working today?” Peter asks.

“A late,” John says. “Starting at four, unless I get called in before.”

Peter pauses at that. He hasn’t asked John directly about the official investigation into Scott McCall’s death, but the murder of the teenager in the woods has been on the front page of the local newspaper every day since it happened, and Peter wonders how John intends to handle it. Or perhaps he intends to just ignore the speculation until some other lurid crime takes its place in the local headlines, and most people just forget all about Scott McCall.

John can hardly arrest the Argents for murder, can he?

As if they’d let that happen anyway.

John jolts as his phone buzzes. “Speak of the devil.” He takes it out of his pocket and quints at the screen. “No. It’s from Chris.”

Peter tenses.

“Gerard has brought in six mercenaries,” John says, reading from the screen. “The hunt is scheduled for Monday night.” His mouth turns down. “The warehouses on Elm.”

He sets his phone on the table.

“They know where we’ve been hiding?” Laura asks, her eyes flashing red.

“Process of elimination, probably,” John says. “It’s not a big town, and that Camaro you drive is pretty damn distinctive.”

Derek’s brows tug together worriedly.

“Okay,” Peter says. “We knew it was coming. Nothing’s changed. That’s six unknown hunters, plus Gerard and Kate, plus Chris—who hopefully won’t shoot—plus Stiles, who probably will if Chris won’t get him out of the way before then.”

“Three against ten,” Derek mutters.

“Four,” John says. “And I know a few tricks still.”

“So does Deaton,” Peter says. “He’s bound to have something up his sleeve to balance out the odds. We can do this.”

Laura and Derek don’t look convinced.

“We’re the Hale pack,” Peter tells them fiercely. “We’ve got this.”

***

They don’t have this.

John’s phone rings a few hours later, and he answers it. His expression tightens as he listens.

“I’ll be right there,” he says, and ends the call. “That was the station. I’ve got deputies responding to reports of shots fired at Gerard Argent’s house.”

Shit.

Peter feels the colour drain from his face.

They don’t have this.

***

The wail of the siren pierces Peter’s nerves all the way to Gerard’s house.

There are already two police cruisers in the driveway when John pulls up.

The front door of the house is open, and Peter follows John inside.

There’s a deputy kneeling on the steps leading upstairs. He’s kneeling over someone fallen there, and the steps are slick with blood. Peter sees a massive smear of it along the wall, as though whoever has been shot was trying to get upstairs, a bloody hand out for balance, when they fell.

There’s a firearm lying at the bottom of the stairs.

“Parrish,” John says. “What have we got?”

“Two gunshot victims,” the deputy says, twisting around slightly to look down at them. His gaze lands on Peter and his brow furrows, but if he doesn’t know what the hell Peter is doing here he also doesn’t ask. “We’ve got a male victim here, and a female in the kitchen. Don’t know yet if we’re looking for a perp, or if it’s one of our victims.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Nobody in the house,” Parrish says. “Our only witnesses are the neighbours who called it in, and they didn’t see much. There are guns all over the scene, sir. A hell of an arsenal in the basement too.”

Peter cranes his head to see.

It’s Chris Argent lying on the stairs. Peter can hear a faint tachy heartbeart, but the man’s eyes are closed and his face has a sickly greyish pallor.

“You’ve cleared the house?”

“Yes, sir,” Parrish says. “And we’ve got EMTs en route.”

John leaves Parrish and Chris on the stairs and walks toward the back of the house. Peter follows.

The scene in the kitchen is much the same. There’s blood everywhere, and a body on the floor. Peter can hear the sounds of wet, laboured breathing.

There’s a female deputy kneeling over the body on the floor. She’s applying pressure to a wound. Her blue gloves are stained with blood.

“Sheriff,” the deputy says. “We need the EMTs.”

“They’re on their way,” John says. “Go and help Parrish. I’ll take over here.”

The deputy obeys.

John crouches down beside Kate Argent. He reaches into a pouch on his belt and pulls on a pair of gloves. Doesn’t press his hands to the wound in her chest. Just crouches there and stares down at her, as her eyes weakly try to regain their focus.

Peter growls softly, approvingly.

“Hello, Kate,” John says softly. “Where’s my son?”

She sucks in another wet breath. Blood bubbles out of her mouth on the exhale.

“You came into my house, and you took my boy,” John says. He’s almost whispering, and he sounds more dangerous now than at any time Peter has known him. “Where is he?”

Kate makes a small sound, her mouth twisting into an ugly smile.

“I suppose you can’t talk,” John says. “I suppose that even if you could, it’d be a fucking lie. You’re dying, Kate. You’re done.”

Kate’s eyes narrow, and her mouth moves as she slurs out the word: “Traitor.”

“Maybe so,” John says, “but at least I’m not a murderer.” Then he hums thoughtfully. “Well, up until now.”

He puts his gloved hand over Kate’s mouth and nose.

Holds it there.

Peter glances behind them to make sure the deputies are keeping busy with Chris.

In the distance, he can hear more sirens. Ambulances.

He looks back at John. He’s a million miles away from the man Peter flirted with earlier today, and Peter thinks: Yes. Peter is a left hand, but John? John is fucking avenging angel.

Kate grunts weakly, and her legs thrash. She raises a hand and clenches her curling fingers around John’s wrist in an attempt to pull him away.

John doesn’t even flinch.

By the time the paramedics arrive, Kate is dead, and the sheriff of Beacon Hills is crouching over her, shaking his head as he tries uselessly to perform CPR.

***

The Preserve is beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight. Peter has always thought so. The light filters down through the trees at the edge of the parking lot, leaving dappled glowing spots on the ground. Inside, where the trees thicken, the Preserve will be cool and damp, and Peter’s skin itches with the urge to transform and run on four feet.

He squints down at the screen of Chris Argent’s phone as he hears the Camaro rumbling nearer. Of course Chris Argent is the sort of father who tracks his daughter’s phone through his. How useful.

Allison Argent’s phone is a few miles away, and it hasn’t moved in an hour. Peter’s too much of a pessimist to believe that means that Allison and Stiles haven’t moved in an hour. Most likely they’ve ditched the phone. But it gives them a starting point to catch their scent.

He walks over to the Camaro as it pulls up and Laura and Derek climb out.

“Kate’s dead,” he says.

Derek closes his eyes briefly. A breath shudders through him. When he opens his eyes again, a faint, cautious smile is playing around his mouth.

“Chris isn’t,” Peter says. “Yet. The neighbours saw two teenagers running from the house, and shortly after that the shooting stopped and Gerard’s SUV left as well.”

“Do we know what happened?” Laura asks.

“Seems like Kate and Chris had an argument,” Peter says. “Chris appears to have won. But there’s no sign of Gerard, and Stiles and Allison have bolted.” He holds up Chris’s phone to display the map. Allison’s phone is a pulsing blue dot in the middle of the green space of the Preserve. “Allison’s phone is here. Let’s go and see if we can bring the little Argents home, shall we?”

They head into the Preserve.

#steter senior #sterek #bad blood #discontentedwinter #my fics

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dork-knight-stephanie · 5 years

Text

Born on a Monday

[A drabble written a while back that I was actually quite proud of, decided to share it]

How? How was this happening to her? Why now ?

Of course she was the only one on hand when Solomon Grundy decided to start causing chaos.

Bats was out, big bad Justice League business, above her pay grade. Robin and Red Robin we're doing some Titans thing. Thanks for the invite, boys. Nightwing had more than enough on his plate in Bludhaven, and Black Bat was off being a total badass somewhere else. Probably involving stabbing Shiva.

That left her.

Little ol’ Stephanie Brown.

She talked a lot of shit, and often backed it up. She fought a lot of things she probably shouldn’t have, but this call out genuinely made her worried.

She didn’t really have the luxury to think about that though, because she was already en route.

“Now you have to stay focused, Steph. If he gets his hands on you you're-”

“Yeah, I’m as dead as he is. I know, O. Stop reminding me. It doesn’t help. We both know you’d rather it be anyone but me out here for this but we drew a shitty hand tonight… now please. Let me focus.”

She scowled, her hands gripping at the handlebars of the Ricochet, resenting how much she sounded like Him just then, but the sentiment remained.

She needed to be fast. Smart.

Gritting her teeth, Stephanie caught sight of the wreckage of what was East End. Grundy had hit it like a hurricane. She felt sick to her stomach.

“Oracle, are there GCPD in the area?"

The clicking of a rapid search came over the comms, then her response,

“Yes, but they’re pinned down in the library, trying to help keep people safe. They can’t help you.”

Steph normally didn’t tut. That was normally a Damian thing. She tutted.

“I wanted them to get people out, so I don’t have to worry about that too. Tell them to start evacuating on my signal…”

“Wait, what will the signal be?”

“They’ll know it when they see it…”

She mutters, and floors it, heading for the Gotham Library.

She could hear him, roaring, tearing up street lamps.

Oh god she hoped this worked.

Lining up the hulking, grey frame on the sidewalk, she pressed a few buttons on her console, then released her grip on the handle bars.

‘NOW EXITING THE RICOCHET. GOODBYE.’

Batgirl was launched out the top of the vehicle, as it continued at top speed, slamming into the back of Grundy, spinning away, sparking on the asphalt.

“RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

Turning to find what hit him, he spotted the blonde bat, making a three point landing from her hasty ejection, her eyes on Solomon. The comms crackle.

“That was your signal?”

“Part of it… yep..”

She mutters, then throws one of her electro-rangs at Grundy, finding her mark as it sunk easily into his rotting flesh, jolting him. Normally, it would have dropped a person, like being hit with a taser, but all it seemed to do was make him mad.

Good.

She took off at a dead sprint, across the plaza, away from the library.

Behind her she heard him start after her, along with the dragging and scraping of something heavy.

“RRAGGH!”

Whatever it was, he just threw it at her. She couldn’t risk glancing back.

Taking out her grappling gun, aimed, fired, and started towards a building across the plaza.

The Ricochet crashed down on the line as she was mid-take off, Grundy's long range depth perception either terrible, or much better than she expected, cutting her off hard, jerking her heavily into her bike, knocking the wind out of her sails, only just managing to roll aside, to not be pinned beneath it as they both bounced to the ground.

“You’ve got his attention. Now what?”

Oracle asked, somewhat wearily, as Steph groaned slightly, rolling away, trying to regain momentum, feeling the heavy footfalls as he closed in.

“That was the signal… they better be moving…”

She pushed herself up off the ground, and started towards the nearest inclosed building.

“They are… but who is going get you out of there when this goes south?”

She vaulted though the window, feeling fingers brushing her cape, twisting and slamming the pane shut on the offending arm, taking a minute to look around her surroundings.

A tiny, ten seater coffee shop.

Yeah, no. Last stand worthy this was not.

“GRUNDY SMASH BAT!”

Gotta move…

Steph scrambled over the counter and out the back door, to the horrendous sound of the front of the building being bulldozed by the revenant, trying to make good on his word. The back of the coffee shop lead to an alleyway, feeding down between the back of office buildings, with trash, dumpsters, fire escapes, and back entrances, and locked gates. basically a bullpen. Or a dead end, if played wrong.

“Steph! I’ve got Nightwing flying in to help you out, if you can just hold out until he gets there.”

“Sure, because I was just taking it easy this whole time….”

She would have rolled her eyes, but she was too busy using them to scope out the alleyway, looking for ways in which to maybe get an upper hand, maybe only come away mauled, only maimed, not murdered.

The only real answer she kept rolling back around to were the fire escapes, and dumpsters. She’d have to plan on the fly.

Keep Grundy in this alley, with her, until Dick got here. No big deal. Then the two of them could die together.

No, that kind of thought was gonna help. She fiddled with a set of buttons, the remote call for Ricochet, on her belt as she ran to the middle of the alleyway, hoping it still worked, turning to face the advancing Grundy, drawing her collapsible bo staff.

“Alright, Brain Dead Fred, come get some!”

Taking up a defensive stance, the Batgirl waited as Solomon Grundy barreled down on her. She knew hitting him would only wear her out. It would be best with energy conservation in mind. Especially since her vehicle in scuffed and thrown around armor seemed like it wasn’t capable of coming to her rescue.

That was fine. Better to know now then if she needed it.

With Grundy swinging wildly at her, trying to swat her like an annoying gnat, she circled around him, ducking, dodging and weaving like her life depended on it. Because frankly, it did.

She propelled herself from the ground onto a dumpster using the staff as a pole vault, taking a running leap across the chained shut lid at the fire escape ten feet away.

“STOP RUNNING!”

Instead of swinging for her, Grundy knocked grabbed the fire escape, and pulled, leaving half the metalwork hanging loose, and another five feet away.

“Stop being so slow then, Rotbrains.”

Skidding to a stop, dangerously close to his grasp, she tried to reposition, ready to begin her defensive dance again, starting to wonder how far out Nightwing could be now.

Unfortunately, Grundy may have been dead, but he wasn’t as stupid as Steph has hoped. He started circling her now too.

Once they had switched sides in the alleyway, without breaking eye contact with her, he dragged the dumpster that was just used as a launch pad into the middle of the thoroughfare, cutting her directional movement in half, unless she vaulted again. While theoretically not a problem, it wasn’t a whole lot of distance between them for her to have her back to him comfortably.

“Shit….”

She hisses, taking a half step back, running a quick inventory on what she had on her. Some smoke pellets, bo staff, magna-rangs, goopa-rangs, shock-rangs. She ditched her grapple before when she ate a face full of pavement before, which, was undoubtedly going to leave a mark.

“BYE BYE BATGIRL….”

Not likely. Not today.

Shifting her weight she got low, ready to start moving one way or the other.

It was a standoff, between the walking dead, and a dead man walking. Which was which? Who knew.

Grundy lunged.

Steph went to the left, slipping under his arm. She was fast. She was faster. She was thro-no.

She had a cape. And now Grundy had her cape.

Before she could reach up to hit the safety release on the cape, she had been jerked backwards, off her feet, and straight into the brick wall, like a ragdoll.

Everything went white, as she lost all her air.

Sinking down the wall, as the ringing started fading from her ears, her realised she could hear laughter. Grundy was laughing at her.

Struggling to push herself up, Stephanie let out a weak gurgle, then shook her head, trying again. Her mouth tasted like metal.

Ok, new plan. Getting up wasn’t going to happen. C’mon Steph. Think.

Grundy was looming over her now, a crooked grin on his stinking face, she looked up at him, up. Up. The fire escape. Hanging loose, rockng from the force of her hitting the wall.

“SQUASH LIKE A BUG!”

Both fists, poised readys to slam down on her almost immobile body, Steph flung all her batarangs skyward with a yelp of pain, falling to her side.

“MISSED GRUNDY!”

She coughed slightly, blood splattering the concrete before her.

“Wasn’t aiming for Grundy….”

DEETDEETDEET GOOOOOP! KERRRKRACKKK!

That was her queue. She rolled away, under the dumpster, as the force of the good dozen specialised batarang pods explosively discharged, knocking the precarious mass of metal loose, falling onto Grundy.

Stephanie wasn’t sure if she could hear the hum of a jet overhead, or if she was imagining hearing Oracle yelling at her to stay awake.

But everything went black.

#stephanie brown #batgirl #batfam #spoiler #robin #roleplay #drabble #rp #dcrp #dc #batfamily #solomon grundy #oracle #Barbara gordon

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taetortotss · 6 years

Text

catch me → jeon jungkook (spiderman!guk au)

catch me → jeon jungkook (spiderman!guk au) chapter one he was your peter parker and you were his mary jane.

(or this has just been in my drafts for a year and a half and watching infinity war inspired this)

hi pls give me constructive feedback heh (i really dont know which direction this fic will head)

it’s pretty cliche and dry now but i promise it’ll get better!!

updates: usually every monday lol!

for my other works: masterlist <333

“Move aside, nerd,” jock and baseball captain Jung Hoseok pushes past the school nerd and presumed “nobody” Jeon Jungkook, which causes Jungkook to trip and drop his belongings. A collective snicker was heard from the jock and his group of jock friends before they continue walking away.

Jungkook sighs as he tries to collect himself and collect his books. He hated feeling helpless against the popular kids, or people that felt superior over others.

Especially since he is the friendly neighbourhood’s Spider-Man.

Or “Spider-Guk”, as his best friend Kim Taehyung regarded him as.

Of course, very, very, very few people know about his actual identity. Taehyung knew, his aunt knew, his mentor and “idol” Iron Man knew. He even ‘fought’ Captain America once.

Now, Jungkook would very much want to brag about his experiences with the Avengers and the other superheroes, but he can’t. He would gladly share about his adventures and climb up the social tree in school, but he just can’t. The risks are too huge. Which was sad. It would expose his identity to antagonists and would cause a lot of damage to him and those he loves dear.

He does keep a private video diary which Mr Stark has made him swear not to show anyone. Okay, maybe he has shown it to Taehyung but what Iron Man doesn’t know won’t kill him, right?

So, as Jungkook pathetically picks up his books, subconsciously in a dream world where he isn’t just a “nerd” or a “nobody” in school, the corner of his eye catches something. Or should I say, someone.

Walking into class, arms linked with Park Jimin, the co-captain of the dance club in school, was Y/L/N Y/N.

The apple of his eye. Jungkook’s eye-candy.

His crush, basically.

When he sees you, his mind immediately switches into a mess where nothing makes sense. And when he sees you unlink your arms with Jimin and start walking towards him, his heart starts palpitating. Why is she walking towards me? Why is she walking? Why is she?

“Hey, are you okay?” you knelt down to help him pick up the remaining papers scattered on the floor and handed it to him.

Not to be cliche, but Jungkook was sure your hand grazed his for 0.001 seconds. God, who would’ve pegged Jungkook as such a hopeless romantic?

“Y..yeah, I’m fine,” Jungkook managed out a small smile, “Just some really unkind jocks that wouldn’t let me live.”

“Oh, that sucks,” you answered, “I do know of some complete assholes in the sports team. Maybe try being firm against them? They only pick at those who look weak.”

If only you knew.

The bell rings, signalling the start of class. That was also a sign for you to stop blabbering and get your ass to class.

“Oh, I have to go, see you around, Jungkook!” you waved at the boy, who was still lovestruck and frozen.

He didn’t even realise that you knew his name. Jungkook was also late for class that day.

---

Every superhero has a man behind the screen and for Spider-guk, it was none other than Kim Taehyung.

“There was a hold up at the bank, and now the culprit’s getting away! The address is…”

“Got it!”

Jungkook shot out a web and swung, not forgetting to take a five second view of the city in a picturesque night setting. He caught sight of the thief, pointed, aimed, and shot.

“Next time, find better ways to get cash, oops, there wouldn’t be a next time because you’re spending ten years in prison!” Jungkook caught sight of the police officers making their way to the scene, which was his cue to leave.

He shot his spider web and was swinging en route to where he left his clothes. Then to the nearest McDonalds. Being a superhero takes a toll on your stomach and the

“Nice job!” Taehyung phrased Jungkook through the earpiece and even though Jungkook couldn’t see Taehyung, he could see Tae’s boxy smile in his head.

“Thanks, hyung! Do you want some McDonalds? I’ll pick some on the way ho-,” Jungkook’s attention was diverted to a flash of bright light that came from this alleyway.

He stopped in his tracks and this curiosity sparked in him. Jungkook knew better than to investigate - God knows what caused that light ; aliens? weapons of mass destruction?

No one was around, which made the atmosphere a lot more ominous and every fibre of Jungkook’s being was telling him to leave and to just satisfy his double cheeseburger and banana milk cravings, but his senses were telling him the opposite. And I bet you can guess what Jungkook decided to do.

He walked towards the light, which was getting brighter by the second. He eventually found the source of the light, wedged in between two bricks on the wall.

“Jungkook? What are you doing?” Taehyung’s voice was laced with doubt and worry, which Spider-guk obviously chose to ignore.

Reaching for the source, which turns out to be a stone, Jungkook and Spider-guk and Taehyung and the machine in the costume didn’t see what was going to happen next.

The moment Jungkook placed a sole finger on the stone,

the stone exploded.

“Jeon Jungkook!”

Dumbass.

Taehyung would’ve told him “I told you so”, if his earpiece didn’t burn in the explosion.

---

You were walking home from a party, after getting ditched by your best friend, Park Jimin, who left you to get some. You sent him a message that you were leaving and asked him to message you back once he was done sinning.

It was quite late, so to get home quicker, you decided to use the shortcut that nobody uses.

So, you were just minding your own business, thinking about school, assignments, what to eat for breakfast the next day, when Jeon Jungkook (from nowhere) came to mind.

He is cute, you got to admit, but there was something about how he is so closed off to the world, how no one knows anything much about the boy. And obviously, his closed off-ness may make him seem vulnerable to jocks and assholes.

If you were to compare him to anyone, it probably would be Kuroko Tetsuya from Kuroko no Basket.

You really were just minding your own thoughts, when you saw a flash of blinding light, and a tiny explosion only moments later.

Without thinking twice, you dashed to the place, thinking that there might be people who got trapped in the explosion.

But there wasn’t anyone there. Except for a guy in a suit that looked a lot like Spider-Man. You nearly screamed out of shock.

And it was Spider-Man, just that his mask wasn’t covering his face. His suit has also undergone some serious damage - there were spots on his suit that has been completely singed.

And under that rubble and burns, was

“Jeon Jungkook?!”

#bts angst #spiderman!jungkook au #bts au #bangtan au #bangtan angst #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts fluff #bts text #bts scenario #bts fic #bangtan fluff #bangtan text #bangtan sonyeondan #bts #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #guk

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i-am-a-closet-fanfic-fiend · 6 years

Text

25 Fics of Christmas ~ Day 10

A/N: So this was supposed to be Monday’s post and it was supposed to be short and fun and then it took on an absolute life of its own. So I apologize for the delay and I hope you enjoy it.

Title Holiday Back Up

Summary: Bucky accompanies you home for Christmas to keep you from hooking up with your asshole ex who your mom still thinks is your perfect match. Neither of you realize that the other one has feelings.

Characters/Pairings: Bucky x Reader, OC’s

Rating: T for language

Warnings: Angst ( more than usual), but it’s still pretty fluffy

Word count: 4858 (it’s a beast)

“You will be home in time for the Christmas party, won’t you, dear?”

You sighed into the phone as you walked away from the training room.

“Yes, mom. I’ll be home in time for the party.”

“Oh good. I know Tom is very excited to see you.” You were about to remind her that you and Tom had barely spoken in five years when there was a loud commotion in the background. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yes. Your father and brother just brought the tree in. I have to go. Text us when you get on the plane. Love you.”

“Love you too,” you muttered after she had already hung up.

Great. Another year of your mother trying to get you back together with your asshole ex. Merry freaking Christmas. As you stormed back into the training room, you tossed your phone in the direction of your bag and headed straight for the punching bag. You ignored the curious glances from your team as you landed blow after blow, bloodying your knuckles in the process.

“You okay there, doll?” he asked from behind you.

“I’m fine, Buck. Leave me alone.”

You knew he wasn’t going to leave you alone, so you weren’t surprised when he rested a hand on your shoulder to stop you.

“You’re staining the canvas. Come on. At least let me tape you up properly.”

His prolonged contact was draining the fight right out of you so with a sigh you let him lead you over to a bench. Grabbing a towel from a nearby cart, he crouched in front of you, cradling your hand in his as he dabbed the blood away. When he pulled a roll of tape from his pocket you shook your head.

“Don’t bother. I think I’m done for today.”

“Do you want to talk about it, doll?” he asked as he looked up at you. He still had one of your hands trapped between his.

“If I say no will you let it drop?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“For now,” he agreed. “But you know I’ll find out eventually. Come on, doll. I’m your best friend. You can talk to me about anything.”

“My mom called,” You sighed and started gathering your stuff.

“Oh, goodie. What did she want?”

He fell in step beside you as you headed back to your room.

“She wanted to make sure that I would be home in time for the holiday party.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were trying to demolish the punching bag.”

“She’s going to spend the entire night trying to get me back together with my ex.”

He made himself comfortable on your couch while you started getting your things together for a shower.

“When did you guys break up? I didn’t know you’d been with anybody.”

“Five years ago Christmas Eve. Long before I joined the team.”

Long before you met Bucky.

“Why is your mom still so hung up on him?”

“Because to her he’s my perfect match. I didn’t have the heart to tell her what he did.”

“What did he do, doll?”

He was watching you carefully, measuring your response.

“He cheated on me throughout our entire relationship.”

“Please tell me you punched him in the face.”

“No, I didn’t. And unfortunately I don’t think I’m as over him as I should be.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because out of the four Christmas parties since we broke up, we’ve hooked up during three of them,” you admitted, feeling ashamed. “Have I mentioned my mom’s eggnog is really strong?”

“Which year didn’t you hook up?” The question seemed to pain him.

“Last year.”

“Then maybe you just needed time. You’re probably over him.”

“I wish that were true. But it was mainly because you were en route to pick me up for a mission during the last Christmas party.”

“Well apparently I have great timing.”

“Well maybe you’ll have to come get me again this year.”

“Or I could just go with you and beat the shit out of this guy,” he offered.

That got your brain whirring.

“Maybe you should.”

“What? Since when do you let anyone fight your battles?”

You shook your head.

“No. No. I don’t need you to beat him up. But you coming home with me isn’t the worst idea.”

“Doll…”

“Think about it, Buck. You have no plans for the holidays and you could keep me company. And save me from myself.”

“I don’t know, y/n.”

“Come on. Please. I’ll love you forever.”

He smirked. “But that’s already true.”

You didn’t dispute the claim.

“Pleeeeaaasse. You get awesome food out of the deal.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll do it. I never could resist a damsel in distress,” he teased.

“I’ll show you a damsel,” you growled playfully as you jumped at him.

He easily caught and pinned you under him on the couch.

“Gotcha.”

“Are you sure about that?”

You locked your knees around his waist and rolled him off the couch. You both landed with a thud and he groaned as you pinned his wrists down and pecked him on each cheek.

“Gotcha.”

“As always,” he smiled and you felt the butterflies in your stomach start cartwheeling.

You immediately hopped to your feet, hoping he didn’t catch your blush. He pushed himself into a sitting position as you headed for the bathroom to the shower.

“Are you just gonna leave me here?” he called as you started up the water.

“You could always join me,” you muttered under your breath before speaking more loudly. “You know where the remotes are. Entertain yourself.”

The next morning Clint flew you and Bucky to the closest airport to your hometown, where you switched over to an SUV sans SHIELD logo.

“So anything I should know going into this week, doll?” Bucky asked, gripping the steering wheel tightly – the way he did when he was nervous about a mission.

“Take your next right,” you instructed before answering his question. “Not really. I’ve told you about them. My family is easier to experience than explain. They will probably ask if we’re dating, but don’t let that throw you. They just aren’t used to seeing me with anyone but Tom.”

“But you guys have been broken up for so long. I don’t get it.”

“Yeah. But we were together for a really long time.”

“How long?”

“Seven years.”

“Wow.”

“Yep. Junior year of high school through college and my first year interning at Stark Industries. I came home early for Christmas and found him in bed with another girl.”

“You deserve so much better, doll.” He reached out to hold your hand and you gladly took it.

“That wasn’t the worst part.”

His eyes darted from the road to your face.

”How is that not the worst part?”

“I went to my high school reunion that holiday and got told by 4 different girls that they had hooked up with him while we were dating.”

“Ouch,” he grimaced.

“I don’t even want to think about how many girls he was with in college.”

“What a loser. He had it all and just threw it all away.”

“He didn’t have it all,” you argued quietly.

He didn’t miss a beat.

“He had you. That’s all that matters.”

You were surprised by the ferocity in his voice, and something about it made you blush.

“Take your next right,” you mumbled as he came to a stop sign.

“Wow. Your family really does love Christmas,” he smiled at the lights outside your house.

“My contribution to the traditions,” you told him proudly.

“Well they’re beautiful,” he looked over to smile at you, but noticed your preoccupation. “Are you okay, doll?”

You were flipping your phone over and over in your hands, staring at the front door.

“Doll?” he spoke softly, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m good. Thanks for coming with me, Buck.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Shall we go meet the family?”

“Let’s do it,” you sighed opening the door.

He grabbed both your duffels from the trunk while you took the bags of presents.

“Knock. Knock. Your favorite daughter’s home!” you called when you walked through your door. “Jakie,” you beamed as you hugged your brother.

“You’re here! And you brought company.”

Bucky shifted your bag to his shoulder and extended his hand.

“I’m James Barnes. You can call me Bucky.”

You clocked the recognition in your brother’s eyes. And you were a bit nervous about how he was going to react. But he just smiled and shook his hand.

“Jake. Nice to meet you. You didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone, y/n.”

“Your sister was kind enough to invite me when my plans fell through.”

“Of course she was.”

He gave you a pointed look, and you knew you were going to be interrogated later.

Your mom rounded the corner speaking on the phone.

“Have to go, Carol. I’ll call you later, y/n just got home.”

Shoving the phone at Jake your mother hugged you tightly.

“Hi mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Who’s your friend?”

She let go of you, appraising Bucky carefully.

“James Barnes, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you. I hope I’m not intruding.”

He gave her his most charming smile and your stomach flipped. Jake elbowed you in the ribs with a smirk. You glared. Bucky’s manners did the trick because you could see your mother’s approval replacing her suspicion.

“Of course not. Any friend of y/n’s,” she waved her hand in lieu of completing the adage. “It’s lovely to have you here. You must be tired from your flight.”

“I was just about to get him settled in the guest room. And then I’ll be down to help get ready for the party.”

“Take your time. Everything’s under control. Besides Tom said he’d stop by and help out.”

“Of course he did,” you grumbled. “C’mon, Buck. I’ll show you your room.”

He nodded and followed you up the stairs.

“You are very charming, Sarge,” you admitted as you climbed to the second floor.

“You say that like you’re surprised.”

You shrugged. “I just rarely see it.”

“Just because you fell for me naturally….” He trailed off and you could feel your cheeks burning.

Luckily, you’d made it to the guest room.

“So, this is you. I’m right next door, and we’ll have to share a bathroom. Sorry.”

“Not like we haven’t done it before, doll. Remember that cabin in Canada?”

“You mean shack,” you corrected him with a giggle. “And yes, I do. That was a long week.”

“That was one hell of a first mission for us as partners.”

“It certainly made the rest of them easier. I should go help my mom. Take your time and settle in. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Despite your insistence that he rest, Bucky simply freshened up and followed you back downstairs. You found your mom in the kitchen dusting cookies with powdered sugar.

“Anything we can do to help, mom?”

“Those sugar cookies could use a little extra frosting.”

“We’re on it.”

You settled yourself at the kitchen island with the bowl of frosting and a plate of cookies between the two of you and got to work.

“So how long have you two been an item?”

The butter knife you had been using clattered to the counter and you choked on the cookie you had just bit into. Bucky was immediately on his feet patting you on the back and offering you a drink of water.

“Are you okay, doll?” he asked, rubbing your back soothingly as you continued to cough a little.

“I’m good. Thanks, Bucky.”

You smiled up at him and he squeezed your shoulders before picking the knife up and rinsing it in the sink. When you both had settled again your mother changed the subject.

“So, ‘Bucky’ that’s an interesting nickname.”

“Yes ma’am. A childhood one. My middle name is Buchanan.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, what an interesting… oh.” You saw the moment of recognition and Bucky squirmed next to you. You were about to intervene when your mother continued speaking. “You’re Captain America’s best friend. Two good men. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Bucky slumped in relief next to you and you squeezed his knee under the island. You were grateful to your mother.

When the cookies were done, your mother asked Bucky to help move some chairs out of the garage, tasking you with setting up the refreshments table.

You huffed as your fingertips grazed the cinnamon on the top shelf, pushing it just out of your reach.

“Dammit,” you muttered.

You were about to turn around to grab the step stool when a taller body pressed against your back, easily grabbing the spice.

“Thanks, Bu… Tom?”

You stumbled over yourself trying to get away from him.

“Hey, y/n. Long time no see.”

“Ever heard of a doorbell?”

“Your mom said I should just come on in because she’d probably be busy. You look good.”

His eyes raked up and down your body and you resisted the urge to cringe. You silently hoped Bucky would make a surprise appearance.

“I need to go finish setting up the refreshments.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“No. Why don’t you go see what mom needs.”

He stalked towards you trapping you against the counter.

“You know, y/n. I’ve missed you a lot.”

“Don’t, Tom.”

He leaned over you.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to start this again. I’m done with you.”

Your voice wasn’t as strong as you would have liked it to be.

“Don’t be silly. You know you’ll always want me.”

You knew he was about to kiss you. And you knew you should shove him away but you were trapped. Your body refused to listen to your brain. Luckily, Bucky really does have impeccable timing.

“Hey, doll. Your mom wants you to help me set up the den. Apparently only you know how to fit the maximum amount of chairs.”

You and Tom both looked to the dining room doorway, where Bucky had just appeared. You could see the tension in his jaw as he took in your compromising position.

“Who the hell are you?” Tom snapped, and you used the distraction to scurry to Bucky’s side.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said clearly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“You’re the… the… Win… the Winter Soldier,” he stuttered out.

Bucky’s gaze hardened into a glare.

“Yes. I am.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The plates in Bucky’s arm whirred against you as he made a fist.

“He’s with me,” you informed him. “Will you give me a hand with the eggnog before we do the den?”

Bucky’s expression immediately softened.

“Sure thing, doll.”

You handed him the giant punch bowl and grabbed the cinnamon and the reindeer shaker. Tom was shooting daggers at the both of you, but Bucky just offered him a feral grin.

When you were out of earshot you stretched to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“That is what I’m here for. I gotta be honest though, doll. I’m not sure I’m going to make it through the week without punching him in the face.”

“Try for me?” you pleaded, stroking his cheek.

“I’ll try. But I make no promises.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Y/n? Where are you?”

“In the dining room, dad.”

Bucky took a cautionary step back from you and you smirked at him. Your dad came through the swinging door with a grin.

“Hi honey. It’s so good to have you home.”

“Hi, dad.”

You hugged him tightly before gesturing to Bucky.

“Dad, this is Bucky. My teammate.”

He immediately stuck his hand out, formally introducing himself. “James Buchanan Barnes. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Nice to meet you. How was your drive from the airport?”

“Nice and easy. We barely hit any traffic at all.”

“Good. That’s good. Your mom was looking for you. She wants you to change the setting on the outdoor lights so they stay on all night.”

“Oh okay. I was going to help Bucky with the den.”

“I’ll give James a hand. It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.” Your father told you pointedly. “You should probably do the lights and go get ready. Guests start arriving at five.”

“Five? Since when?”

“Since your mother decided to add a sing along portion to the evening.”

You chuckled and shook your head.

“I’m just going to go fix the lights.”

You shot Bucky an apologetic look as your father led him into the den. You owed him big time.

“Bucky?” You called as you put the finishing touches on your make up.

“Yeah, doll?” He appeared in your doorway via the adjoining bathroom.

“Can you help me with this zipper? It’s stuck.”

“Sure thing.”

You lifted your arm so he could reach the offending metal. He struggled for a moment before finally freeing it and pulling it all the way up.

“You look beautiful,” He smiled at your reflection in your full length mirror.

“Why thank you. Not so bad yourself. The waistcoat is a nice touch.”

You finished putting your earring and turned so you could straighten his tie.

“Kind of the style I’m used to.”

“It suits you. Pun intended,” you giggled, brushing some stray lint off his shoulder.

“You’re a nut.”

“And that’s the reason you love me.”

“Among others,” he mumbled, making you blush.

“So what did my father say to you? And how much do you hate me now?”

“I could never hate you, doll. And we just chatted. He asked what my intentions were towards you and how long we had been dating.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him you were a great girl and I had unfortunately not yet worked up the courage to ask you out. However, if and when I did, my intentions would be to court you and love you in every way possible.”

“Bucky, what are you saying?”

“Y/n, I’m not sure how you feel about me, but I’m crazy about you. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, but I kept chickening out. But now… will you be my girl?”

You couldn’t find the words so you just nodded and launched yourself into his arms. He was leaning in for a kiss when there was a soft knock on your door just before Jake opened it and the two of you jumped apart.

“Jake!”

“Sorry. Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you before the party.”

“I’m going to go see if your mom needs any more help. See you downstairs, doll.”

He closed the door behind him and you turned to face your brother.

“Seriously?!”

“Sorry. But how could you not tell me you’re dating the Winter Soldier? That’s so cool.”

“Number one, don’t call him that. It’s a bit of a sore spot.” He nodded understandingly. “And number two, we aren’t dating. Well we weren’t dating. But we are now. But that’s a recent development.”

“How recent?”

“Ten seconds before you opened the door.”

“If you weren’t dating then why’d you bring him? You’ve never brought teammates home before.”

“I brought him to run interference with Tom.”

“So you had Bucky Barnes pretending to be your boyfriend? Badass, sis.”

“Well now he’s not pretending anything. And now that I know Bucky likes me there’s no chance of Tom ruining anything,” you grinned.

“Oh please let me be there when they meet.”

“Too late. Bucky already saved from him once.”

“How did that go?”

“No punches were thrown…”

“For now.”

“For now,” you agreed. “So what do you think of him?”

“You’re happy so I’m happy.”

You smiled at him affectionately.

“Thanks, little bro.”

“Plus he charmed mom and that’s not easy.”

“Speaking of. I should probably go save him from her.”

You slipped on your heels, squeezed him arm, and hurried down the stairs. Bucky looked up at your entrance and the smile he gave you made your heart skip. You felt like you were in a movie, at least until your toe caught on the rug three steps from the bottom. You didn’t have enough distance to flip out of the fall, so you braced for impact. Instead strong arms caught you and gently placed you on the ground.

“You alright, doll?”

“Perfect. That’s two times now.”

“No need to keep score, doll. I’ve always got your back.”

“Quick reflexes, James,” your father complimented him.

“All part of the job, sir.”

“It’s good to know my daughter has someone like you on her side.”

Guests started flooding into the house at five o’clock on the dot, and you spent the first couple of hours or so of the party introducing Bucky to your family and friends. Most of them had the same response, slight surprise and then awkward, polite conversation, at least until Bucky charmed them. All it took was a few minutes with him to see the witty, charismatic sweetheart you were used to. Tom however spent the first two hours glaring at you from afar.

When it was time for the sing-along, your mother sat you down at the piano and had everyone gather round. You were a little embarrassed when you caught Bucky grinning as you ran your fingers up and down the scales. Your musical talents weren’t typically of use in the field so not many people knew about them, but it had been something you shared with Bucky. The two of you would often hide out in the music room playing show tunes.

You started off with the 12 Days of Christmas. It was a long one, but it always got people in the spirit. By the end of the song everyone was bellowing the lyrics in an off key cacophony. You segued into Jingle Bells which was another crowd favorite. After ten or twelve songs, Tom had perched himself on the stool next to you and you ignored him as you finished the playing Winter Wonderland.

“I think it’s time for a break,” your father announced, sensing your fatigue. “We’ll do another round in an hour.”

“You haven’t lost your touch.”

“Why don’t you two do a duet?” Your mother suggested. “Why don’t you sing Baby It’s Cold Outside like you used to.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea, mom.”

“Don’t be a spoil sport, babe,” Tom whispered.

You looked up and saw Bucky’s jaw clench as he spoke to your oldest friends. Clearly he’d heard him.

“My voice isn’t up for it. I think I feel a cold coming on. Excuse me.”

You grabbed two glasses of punch from the table and headed over to Bucky, who sensed you coming and maneuvered so you could easily join the conversation.

“Punch?” you offered.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he responded with an edge in his voice and you knew what he was thinking. After all you wanted to punch Tom too.

You placed your hand on the small of his back, trying to calm him. He responded by immediately wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Conversation with your friends flowed easily and you soon dropped your head against Bucky’s shoulder.

When it was time for the next round of songs, you sent Jake to play and you stayed with Bucky, finding comfort in his low voice as he sang along to the classics. After that, your mother turned on the stereo system and couples took the floor to dance.

You spent a little longer mingling with friends before Bucky coaxed you out onto the dance floor, bopping along to the music somewhat awkwardly.

“You look embarrassed by my sweet moves, doll.”

“Not at all. I’m sure Sam would be proud,” you teased.

When the first slow song came on, Bucky pulled you close. You leaned your head against his chest and swayed. Everything was perfect until part way through the song, you felt his arms stiffen around you. Before you could ask him what was wrong, Tom spoke.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Bucky pulled away but didn’t release you. Tom was attempting to have a staring contest with the Winter Soldier, but he merely gestured to you.

“You’ll have to ask, y/n.”

“Y/n, babe, do you want to dance?”

Saying no to Tom went against your instincts, and Bucky knew that. You glanced at him and he squeezed your hand encouragingly. Taking a deep breath you turned back to your ex and smiled politely.

“No thanks, Tom.”

Bucky beamed as he pulled you close. Tom refused to take no for an answer and tapped Bucky on the shoulder.

“Look, pal. Just because you’re some assassin who she’s too afraid of to say no to doesn’t mean you can take advantage of her like that!” he shouted gaining the attention to the party.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asked, genuinely confused.

“I saw that little look. She was going to say yes and then you scared her out of it.”

Bucky just laughed as you glared at your ex.

“Do I amuse the Winter Soldier? What’s so funny?”

“The fact that you actually think y/n is the least bit intimidated by me. You clearly know nothing about her.”

“I know her better than you think. I know that she can never say no to me. You clearly have her too scared to do anything but your bidding, you monster,” he spat.

The insult hit Bucky hard and you watched as his face fell. You had been seeing red already but in that moment your fist snapped forward without warning and you heard the satisfying crack of his nose breaking.

“He’s not the monster, Tom.”

”You don’t see it. Do you? He’s got his claws in you. You always were so easy to manipulate. I cheated on you for years and you still stayed with me. Though it runs in the family. Hell your mom still wants you to marry me.”

His white shirt was now stained with blood as he stumbled to his feet.

“You what?!” your mother glared at Tom. “You cheated on my daughter and had the gall to show your face in my house. Get out.”

“Mrs. Y/l/n.”

“Get out, Thomas. You are not welcome here.”

“Fine. She’s not worth the trouble anyways.”

“Please everybody, enjoy the rest of the party,” your mother insisted graciously before steering you into the kitchen. “Y/n, sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was ashamed. It had been going on for so long and I didn’t realize until it slapped me in the face. You always told me he was the best thing to ever happen to me.”

“I was so wrong sweetheart. I’m so sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me the truth. And I am so sorry I kept pushing you towards that…” she searched for the right word before finally settling on, “Douchebag.”

You laughed at your prim and proper mother uttering such a term. She looked at you curiously for a moment before joining in your laughter. Bucky, Jake, and your father walked in just then and shared a look of confusion. You simply waved at them in a gesture clearly meaning don’t worry about it. That was when Bucky clocked the blood on your hand and snapped into protective mode.

He rushed over to the sink and wet a wash cloth.

“Bandages and antiseptic are above the microwave,” your dad told him when he figured out what he was doing.

Bucky nodded his appreciation and gathered the necessary items before sitting to your right and gently taking your hand. You had reopened the wounds from the punching bag.

“You know, doll. We talked about unnecessary punching when you’re still injured,” he quipped as he carefully dabbed at your knuckles, just like he’d done the day before.

“That was completely necessary punching.”

You hissed when he applied the antiseptic. Bucky shot you an apologetic look. You were vaguely aware your family had made themselves scarce.

“I’m not saying he didn’t deserve to be punched after what he did to you, but I could have done it for you.”

He finished wrapping the bandage around the gauze and pressed a gentle kiss to the wound.

“I didn’t punch him for me.”

“Then why did you…”

You reached out to cup his face.

“Because no one calls the most important person in my life a monster and gets away with it.”

Just the sound of the word made him cringe and he suddenly couldn’t meet your eyes.

“But I was a monster, for a long time.”

“No. You weren’t. You were used by monsters. There’s a big difference. And as long as I’m in your life, you will not be allowed to forget that at your core you are a good man, Bucky Barnes. A man that I love very much.”

The declaration surprised him and his blue eyes were wide when they met yours.

“I love you too, doll.”

You could feel yourself smile as you leaned in.

“Now, I believe our first kiss was interrupted. So how about we give it another shot?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

A/n: So there you have it. The story that just started writing itself. I hope it was worth the wait lovelies. Thanks for reading!

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lindoig7 · 4 years

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Saturday to Tuesday, 31 October -3 November.

Saturday

Definitely a challenging day’s drive! We started up the Bonang Road, but we have driven it several times recently so our expert navigator looked for some alternative routes. We went into the Young’s Creek area, where we have been before, but went a bit further, only to find the road closed after 10 or 15 clicks. (We tend to call these tracks ‘roads’ but the definition is somewhat fluid – sometimes a better description might be ‘deeply submerged mud-bogging wheel-ruts’.) We explored a few more tracks until we got back onto the tar where we had first engaged our low-ratio 4WD a week or so ago.

A few clicks further on, we detoured from the Bonang Road on to the Old Bonang Road. Oops – it was one scary track, hugging the edge of a cliff into a bottomless valley with rocks and fallen trees slowing our very cautious progress. I don’t handle heights well and I found quite a bit of the day’s drive ‘emotionally challenging’. Throughout the day, we had to drag quite a few fallen trees off the road and steep, wet, muddy, obstacle-strewn tracks seemed to be the order of the day on numerous occasions. We drove quite a few kilometres along the edge of the precipice, but I think we were both feeling that a less stressful drive was to be preferred so we eventually cut back to the bitumen. Interestingly, we saw the 20 km ‘mile-peg’ (distance marker?) from Orbost a kilometre or two after re-joining the main road and we had almost 50 km on the day’s odometer by then.

Onward and upward, we followed the road almost to Goongerah (where there is some open ground) but took the 36-Mile Track, then the Mt Jersey and Monkey Top Roads to the Waratah Flat Road – mostly through burnt forest again. We had attempted quite a few short abortive detours along the way, but we went into the Waratah Flat Camping Area and really encountered some obstacles. We had driven several kilometres past the designated Camping Area with almost nowhere to turn around when we came to a very steep muddy patch with a big log blocking the road and had to reverse quite a long way before we could do a 5-point (or was it a 7-point) turn and escape back to the main track. This is no exaggeration. In the last week or so, we have had to do numerous 9- or 11-point turns with Heather out of the car directing me as to whether I could get another centimetre or two without falling off the cliff or into a ditch. A sign somewhere along the track warning that the road was impassable would save quite a few travellers a lot of angst – and potential disaster!

We made a few more forays into the National Park, only to be stopped by huge logs or bogs across the track on every occasion. Several times, we had to back up quite a long way to find a turning place, but apart from it being a little scary at times, it was all a bit of fun and we enjoyed it (once the risk had abated!).

We eventually reached the Raymond Falls parking area where we had been a week or so ago. That was when they were doing aerial shooting of deer and the Falls area was closed, but it was open this time. We decided to do the first part of the walk to the top of the Falls – not so sure about the rest of the walk. But first, Heather had to spreadeagle herself across the carpark. She got out of the car onto a very loose gravelly patch and her feet slid away from under her and she went down in a horrendous heap, scraping her hands and knees and thumping her chest rather painfully. I saw her go down and I was sure she must have broken some bones but after we got her up on her feet again, she sat in the car for a few minutes and cleansed and dressed her wounds and still decided that she wanted to try the walk.

We made it to the top of the Falls – a large area of volcanic rock with a decent area of still water to the side of the main Falls and it was quite beautiful cascading over and between the rocks to the main drop. We looked around and took some photos and videos and Heather decided she would go back to the car, but I decided to try to get to the base of the Falls. A mere 135 steps plus quite a lot of additional rocky declines, but I made it – only to find that I then had to struggle back to the top again. Damn – think ahead!!

It was worth it though. The Falls were the most spectacular we have seen on the trip, not quite what we saw at Niagara last year, but pretty good for Oz. There was another big area of pondage at the base of the Falls and this fed a pretty wild, fast-flowing river - but the vegetation was so thick in the area that I couldn’t see enough to photograph it.

And so to home! Back in the van, we decided on fish and chips for dinner and Heather phoned through our order - to our favourite place in Warragul!!! When we turned up at our favourite place in Orbost, they had no record of our order, so Heather rang Warragul to apologise and had to pay for the order – and then start again in Orbost. A rather expensive dinner as it transpired!

Sunday

It was a beautiful sunny day and we went for a local walk in the morning. Heather had seen a post on Facebook advertising for people to walk 100 km during November as a fundraiser for Oxfam – and we both signed up for it. They suggest people do it in teams of 4, but we have nobody else to walk with so ‘Team Dynamic Duo’ is just us. We have walked more than 100 clicks every month this year so we should be able to do it. We also set a donation target and it has been great to see our friends contributing to that and encouraging us in our challenge.

Our walk today counted as the first bit of our Virtual Trailwalker program. Today is the first day of the challenge and we walked our quota for the day before lunch – just have to keep it up for a month. We walked up the hill towards the opposite end of town and back again via the supermarket so we were a bit loaded up for the last few hundred metres back to the van.

We settled on a plan for our departure from Orbost and booked an initial week at our next stopping point. We have booked one more week here and will then leave Orbost on Friday the 13th – I hope that is not an omen – or if it is, that it is a good omen! We may need to stop over somewhere on the way because I want Jayco in Bairnsdale to have another look at our HWS before we get too far away from places where we might access another service agent. But we will then head for Omeo and on via the Benandra Road to Colac Colac (pronounced Clack Clack) near Corryong in the high country. We will use that as our base to explore a little more around the area and who knows, maybe the New South Wales border may open (just heard that it will probably open on 23rd!) and give us better access to the Murray River and surrounds as well. Once we get there, we will check out the area before making any decision about extending our booking there or heading somewhere west of that corner of the State.

It is interesting that according to the Emergency Victoria website, every single road is closed for at least 100 km around that area. Places like Corryong (indeed the entire north-east corner of the State) are seemingly cut off in every direction – but when we rang the caravan park to make our booking, we were assured that it is ‘business as usual’ and all the roads are open and traffic is flowing through as normal.

The government really is in a mess! So much of east Victoria is closed for no apparent reason and with nobody doing anything to remedy the situation. Parks Victoria announced the reopening of most of their parks more than a week ago, but we haven’t seen any improvement yet. Many roads are blocked by fallen trees and many places have ‘closed’ signs on them after you drive miles and miles to get there – the challenge of positioning a warning sign at the start of these roads is obviously quite beyond them – whether it is the Parks, Roads or Forestry authorities. All their websites have incorrect information on them, usually not updated at any time this year, and this makes it very inconvenient, not to mention life-threatening, for the public who are trying to do the responsible thing, only to be thwarted by incorrect or non-existent information.

I did a 20-minute bird survey after lunch and submitted it on Birdata. The Birds in Backyards program is finished for the year, but I can do somewhat similar surveys right throughout the year. The ones I have been doing on a fairly regular basis around Melbourne for several years require a little more information than the BIBY ones and probably require a little more rigour but they are fun and I will try to do one most days for a while. When we were travelling in the Outback early last year, I submitted about 130 over a few months, but I won’t be doing that again this trip.

Monday

Something of a repeat of yesterday! Another great sunny day and a local walk to the other end of town, via a different route and through the Sensory Garden – but we didn’t need to go to the Supermarket today. I got an interesting phone call en route, from Toyota in Melbourne. It transpires that our service book was accidentally swapped with someone else’s when we had a service done in May - and they wanted me to drop it back in to them again. I told them where we were and that put a different slant on things. And of course, we have had our car serviced again in Bairnsdale since then so now need to get that recorded in our book. I agreed to post the book down to them with the receipt from Bairnsdale so they can put it in our book and post it all back to us at home. Strange things happen – usually when we are well out of town.

We did a few jobs around the van, including a batch of hand washing, and I did another bird survey after lunch. There are quite a few birds around the billabong at the bottom of the caravan park and I love just wandering along the heavily-wooded bank or across the bridge and watching all the wildlife there – including 3 Gippsland Water Dragons today. The birdsong around the Park has been wonderful since we first arrived here, but now that we are getting a few more sunny days, it is spectacular and almost constant. The most common are the Blackbirds and the Grey Shrike-thrushes (both delightfully musical), but there are perhaps another dozen or so birds singing to us regularly – and don’t forget the resident Kookaburras.

Tuesday

Overall, a disappointing and outstandingly frustrating day. We decided to drive a big loop north and east of Cann River. It starts just over 100 km from Orbost (about 30 km up the Monaro Highway from Cann River) and was obviously going to take several hours so we got on the road by about 9am. Arriving at the start of the loop, we found the road closed – Parks Victoria’s misleading information again. Undeterred, we headed off in the opposite direction to attempt a different loop. Thirty of forty kilometres later, this road was closed - Parks Victoria’s misleading information again!!! We tried several more shorter excursions, only to be thwarted on each occasion. Undeterred, we decided to do the Drummer Rainforest walk – alas, closed! Well, a drive up the opposite end of the Beehive Falls Road that was the first closure we had encountered might be some compensation – but after a few more kilometres, it was also closed.

We eventually tried the Wingan Inlet road, 34 fairly rough clicks south of the Princes Highway. We eventually got there and had a look at the lake there before attempting the walk to the beach (the other walks there were closed). After a kilometre or so, we came across a barricade and sign (pointing in the direction from which we had just come) advising that the walk was also closed.

We drove almost 400 km on the day and basically saw nothing – every attempt we made was thwarted by Parks Victoria’s misinformation. Both Parks Victoria and Emergency Victoria will be getting a really big serve from me tomorrow. Both of them have placed the public (including us) in many dangerous situations due to their utter incompetence. Any information either of them have provided in their brochures or on their websites should be treated with the utmost caution – it is so often worse than misleading: it is simply wrong.

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miriamvowen · 4 years

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We have a treat for you today on the blog. Keep reading! The creepy feeling from Agnes Ravatn’s previous book The Bird Tribunal still lingers in my memory. I have high hopes for her new book The Seven Doors and wonder if I will read it in one sitting as I did with her previous book. Agnes is an award winning writer from Norway and it gives me great pleasure to share an extract of her latest psychological thriller The Seven Doors on the blog today:

Monday 19th November

Towards the end of the day she receives a message from Ingeborg. She’s clocking off at 3pm, she writes. Could they take a look at the house on Birkeveien before picking Milja up from nursery?

She glances outside. It’s dry for once, the sun low in the sky. A stroll would do her good.

She hasn’t been there for years, she can’t remember the house number. She calls Mads, but there’s no answer. She searches the street name in her email inbox and finds an email between Mads and their financial advisor she was copied into four years ago. Birkeveien 61.

She pulls up a map on her phone and vaguely remembers visiting Aunt Lena many years ago now, an attractive Bergen lady with a walking frame who lived in a house filled with steep staircases.

Ingeborg is waiting for her outside the hospital building, tall and slim. She waves cheerfully when she catches sight of her mum and walks over to meet her just as an air ambulance lands on the helipad behind her.

How are you doing? Nina asks, but her daughter bats the question away, excited at the prospect of a terraced house in Landås.

Nina had been surprised when Ingeborg chose to pursue medicine like her father; she hadn’t ever felt that her daughter belonged in a job that called for warmth and empathy. All the same, she was pleased that her daughter had chosen such a practical career. What is the point in all of this? she had often wondered as she had watched her own students graduate, only to drift around in ambiguous professions within the culture and education sectors for unforeseeable periods of time.

With the help of the map on her phone, Nina leads the way along Idrettsveien and Gimleveien, past Brann Stadium, until they eventually reach Birkeveien. They pass two nursery schools and one supermarket en route. There’s something uncomfortably earnest about Ingeborg’s manner, she’s prowling like a cat, rosy cheeked, airing every thought that enters her head for all to hear.

Cynical children, Nina thinks to herself, it must be my punishment; I must have been doing something wrong during all my years of parenting. But what?

Here we are, Nina says eventually, stopping in her tracks. She looks from the phone to the house number. Ingeborg lets out a gasp.

And what a house it is too, she whispers.

They’re standing outside a small, ochre-yellow, semi-detached house over three floors, with red roof tiles and a front garden concealed behind a beech hedge, dense with crisp brown leaves.

Fourteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Ingeborg says excitedly, looking up from her watch. And with two nurseries along the way. Mum…

She looks at her mother pleadingly.

It’s ideal, certainly, Nina says.

And I do love the colour, Ingeborg says, her gaze fixed lovingly on the yellow façade.

First, we need to speak to your father, Nina says, lifting a hand to curtail Ingeborg’s excitement.

Ingeborg is already halfway through the gate, and Nina realises that it’s pointless to try to stop her.

A woman’s bicycle with a child’s seat on the back has been left leaning against the wall beside the front door. There’s no sign of a nameplate. The gravel crunches underfoot as if they were wearing horseshoes; Ingeborg scuttles over to the corner of the property to get an idea of what the back garden looks like.

It’s certainly very nice, she says loudly, seeking her mother’s endorsement.

It’s family-friendly, in any case, Nina says, bringing a finger to her lips to hush her daughter’s loud excitement.

There’s a light on upstairs, Ingeborg says, and before Nina can stop her, she’s pressed the doorbell.

But Ingeborg… she says.

What? Ingeborg says, looking somewhat aggressive.

Someone lives here.

Well yes. In our house.

She must be at work, Nina says. It’s only quarter past three.

But I heard something.

I didn’t hear anything, Nina says.

They stand there for a few moments. Nina can tell from the frosty mist surrounding Ingeborg that she is breathing quickly.

We can hardly go barging in unannounced, she says.

Ingeborg leans forwards and presses the doorbell again, holding it for an extra-long time. Nina turns to walk back out onto the street, distancing herself from Ingeborg’s persistence. We’ll call or write, she says. Then we’ll come back in a few days’ time. There’s no great rush, after all.

Her daughter gazes at her beseechingly.

Eirik booked an agent this morning. We’re putting our place on the market as soon as we can, do you know how quickly a colony of silverfish multiplies?

In that same instant, someone tentatively opens the front door.

Ingeborg spins around on the gravel.

A young woman gazes back through the gap in the door. Behind her is a serious-looking little boy, dark-eyed and darkhaired, just like his mother.

I’ve seen you before, Nina thinks to herself as she locks eyes with the woman, but she can’t quite place her.

The woman looks at her unanticipated guests expectantly.

Peekaboo! Ingeborg says, an excited expression on her face as she peers at the boy, who clings to his mother’s burgundy wool jumper.

The woman looks from Ingeborg to Nina and back to Ingeborg again.

Yes? she says.

Ingeborg Wisløff Glaser, she says. We’re the owners of the property.

Ingeborg, Nina whispers.

The woman at the door furrows her brow.

This is my mother, Ingeborg says, nodding in Nina’s direction as her mother takes a step back.

Hi there, she says in as friendly a tone as she can muster. It wasn’t our intention to disturb you, she begins, but she is interrupted by Ingeborg.

Could we have a little look around the house? she asks.

The woman looks at Ingeborg with a puzzled expression.

Oh, Ingeborg says, turning to her mother. She doesn’t speak Norwegian. Excuse us, Ingeborg enunciates emphatically, starting again, we are the landlords.

Yes, the woman says, I understand what you’re saying.

Ingeborg, this is starting to sound like a raid, Nina says under her breath.

Ingeborg gives her mother a confused look before turning back around to face the woman at the door.

I’m a specialist at Haukeland University Hospital, she says smugly, so this area couldn’t be any more perfect for us. We’ve got a little girl, she’s three, she’s going to be a big sister soon actually, so we’re going to need all the play space we can get.

Nina shakes her head inwardly as she observes her daughter with growing discomfort. She might as well be wearing a pith helmet, whip in hand.

The woman stands in the doorway, stiff and silent. The boy whimpers, his mother picks him up and balances him on one hip, he clings to her, burrowing his face in her neck.

You’ll have a few months’ notice, obviously, Ingeborg says impatiently. But before we terminate the contract, I’d love to have a look inside.

If it’s not convenient then we can come back another time, Nina interjects, with what she hopes is a warm, apologetic smile.

It’s not really a good time, the woman in the doorway says.

Just a quick peek? Ingeborg says.

I’m sorry, she says, shaking her head.

How many bedrooms are there, can I ask? Ingeborg says.

The woman thinks about whether she should answer the question or not.

Three, she says eventually, and Ingeborg looks starry-eyed.

Ingeborg, Nina says, then turns to the woman. I’m sorry that we’ve disturbed you like this, she says. We’ll get in touch and arrange another time.

Does it have a fireplace? Ingeborg asks as Nina tugs at her coat sleeve to lead her away. Please, the woman says, comforting her son.

I can assure you, Ingeborg continues imperviously, we really don’t mind if the place is a little untidy.

It is as if the woman surrenders. She hesitates for a moment, then reluctantly steps to one side. Ingeborg makes her way in, unabashed, and follows the woman inside and upstairs without removing her boots.

Nina sighs silently and walks in after them, up the narrow staircase; she recognises the psychedelic, red cyclamen wallpaper. She vaguely remembers having visited once, many years ago, probably when Ingeborg was a baby. Aunt Lena had visited them numerous times, but very rarely returned the invitation.

As they enter the living room she thinks hard about where she might have seen the woman before. The boy is sitting on the floor beside a pirate ship.

It’s like being in a museum, Ingeborg says. How long have you lived here?

Just over three years, the woman replies.

And you’ve never felt the need to change anything? Ingeborg asks, gesturing towards the room. Impressive.

I’m not all that interested in interior design, the woman replies curtly.

Is it alright if I have a little look around? Ingeborg asks, and the woman nods.

Nina stands in the middle of the room, uncertain, while the woman looks down.

I didn’t properly introduce myself downstairs. Nina Wisløff, she says, offering the woman an outstretched hand.

Mari.

Things are silent for a moment as Ingeborg rushes back and forth, flitting from one room to the next with her coat flapping behind her.

Have we met? Nina asks after a short while.

I don’t think so.

She might be a little younger than Ingeborg, but older than most of her students.

No?

The furniture in the living room is just as she remembers it. Old-fashioned, Norwegian armchairs, a teak table, a narrow, threadbare old sofa. The bookshelves belonged to Aunt Lena, but the old encyclopaedias and book-club novels from the 1970s are gone. Nina lets her eyes wander over the spines of the books that now fill the shelves, she sees works of poetry, philosophy, a surprising number of German titles, plus contemporary fiction. Parenting books. A large collection of LPs. A record player has been positioned on a table of its own over by the window.

The young woman’s gaze follows Ingeborg as humming drifts across the room from the corner where the toys are kept.

How old is he? Nina asks.

He just turned three.

A lovely age, Nina says. I have a three-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter myself.

The woman says nothing. Nina stands there smiling, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. It’s an original, untouched since the 1950s. Beside the kitchen table is a Tripp Trapp highchair and an ordinary kitchen chair. On the table is a pile of books, a stack of paper, a laptop, and three small, black notebooks. She’s studying something, Nina thinks.

Ingeborg climbs down from the small attic space.

Do you remember what it says in your contract? she asks. How many months’ notice you’re entitled to?

No, I—

How quickly could you move out, do you think?

The woman looks at her quizzically. We’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands, you see. Maybe we could make a small financial contribution if you managed to pack up in, say— Ingeborg, Nina interrupts sharply.

But, the woman says, we don’t have anywhere … my little boy, Ask, he goes to nursery just along the road, we…

This is a decision for your father and I, not for you, Nina tells her daughter in a tentatively authoritative tone.

But Mum, Ingeborg groans, before turning back to the woman.

Five thousand kroner?

I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you, Nina says. There’s no need for you to see us out.

Ten thousand? Ingeborg says, as her mother nudges her downstairs.

The door slams behind them, and Nina tugs at Ingeborg until they are back out on the pavement.

Goodness, she was odd, Ingeborg says, prising herself free from her mother’s grasp.

She was odd? Nina says. You were like a member of the Gestapo in there, ready to deport her and move in!

It’s just the hormones, Ingeborg says. Nesting. You’ve forgotten what it’s like.

Nina says nothing, seething with shame at her daughter’s behaviour and frantically trying to put her finger on where she has seen the woman before. If she happens to work at the university, it’ll be a catastrophe.

I’ll come back with you to talk to Dad, Ingeborg says. He understands the need for haste.

I’ll be the one to talk to your father, Nina says sharply.

But he doesn’t listen to you, her daughter replies.

Extract provided by Orenda Books. This post is part of a blog tour. Please check out other bloggers reviews/giveaways as part of the tour. The Seven Doors is coming out in paperback on 17 September 2020 and the RRP is £8.99.

A. Ravatn

Read an extract of The Seven Doors by Norway’s Agnes Ravatn #psychological #thriller We have a treat for you today on the blog. Keep reading! The creepy feeling from Agnes Ravatn's previous book…

#BBC Book at Bedtime #Dublin Literary Award #English Pen Translation Award #Fresh Talent #Petrona Award #The Bird tribunal

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bellsblake-archive · 7 years

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the butterfly effect

happy stydia positivity week @hufflepuffkira!! i’ve loved talking to you about stydia this week, and i hope you enjoy this! :D (btw this is kind of a “what might happen if the plot of 6b never happened and everyone was just able to go to college and live their lives” kind of fic)

In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the phenomenon whereby a minute localized change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere. In other words, a tiny cause can create a catastrophic and unpredictable reaction. When Lydia was first learning about chaos theory, one of the articles she read used the example of a butterfly flapping its wings in California and, days later, causing a hurricane in Japan that formed from the smallest air currents produced by its wings.

In the life of Lydia Martin, Stiles Stilinski was the butterfly.

Or: Lydia reflects on all of the tiny causes that led her and Stiles to the place they are today.

word count: 3255 words

Lydia wakes in the tiny bed in Stiles’ dorm, her face pressed against his chest and his arm flung over her body.

Lifting her head slowly, she removes herself from beneath his arm carefully, trying not to disturb him. His arm drops gently to his side, his hand landing right next to his mouth, which is smushed against the fluffy pillow that’s muffling his soft snores. This is a common occurrence, Lydia waking up before Stiles; she’s always been an early riser, while Stiles could probably sleep through an earthquake without even rolling over.

She studies the sharp planes of his face, the way the light coming in from the window paints him in shades of gold. With a light touch, she traces the hollow of his cheek, the shadows under his eyes, the slight upward curve of his nose; he doesn’t even stir.

Three months, she thinks, a little wistfully, as she looks at him. Three months, nine months.

Three months of love. Three months of having him by her side and being able to call him her boyfriend when she introduced him to people. Three months of kissing him on the cheek just because she could, and swinging their hands when they walked, and making out in the back seat of his Jeep. Three months spent curled against his side watching cheesy movies, and talking about random things at three in the morning when they were supposed to be asleep, and sleeping in the shirts he’d leave behind in her bedroom (the soft fabric always smelled like him).

And then, a week ago, they’d left on this epic road trip to Washington. Well, it was really just a trip to drop off Stiles at George Washington University before she headed to MIT, but they’d made it as epic as possible. Sightseeing and ridiculous photos and stays in slightly shitty motels that felt a little like home and making out in every state they passed through, from the west coast to the east. It was one of the happiest weeks of Lydia’s life. For once, they weren’t running or fighting. They were just living.

But starting tomorrow, she would be en route to MIT, and Stiles would be here in Washington D.C. and preparing for his start in the pre-FBI program on Monday. They’d be apart for nine months, the length of the school term.

Nine months of separation. Nine months of Skype calls and text messages that would certainly make her face light up with happiness, but would never hold a candle to the feel of his hand in hers or the way he holds her. Nine months of an empty space beside her where he should be. Nine months of counting the days until they’re together again.

She knows she’s strong and capable and can manage to be away from her boyfriend for a little while. But it’s the last thing she wants.

Even before they got together, Stiles was a constant in her life throughout most of high school. She’s going to miss him so much, more than she already misses her friends back in Beacon Hills, because he’s different. She realized that when she was sixteen and kissed him on the floor of the locker room and just knew.

If someone had told her a year before then that one day she’d fall in love with Stiles Stilinski, she would have laughed in their face and carried on with her day.

But there she was, fallen. Here she is, fallen. Still falling, every day.

In the life of Lydia Martin, Stiles Stilinski was the butterfly.

For a long time her life was this incomplete puzzle. Most of the pieces fit together, but there was always one missing piece, one that wouldn’t fit into place no matter how many times she turned it.

Stiles ended up being that missing piece. He was the one who completed the puzzle, who pulled everything together. He was the butterfly who created the hurricane, a hurricane that whirled through her life and made her into someone stronger, someone real.

Sometimes, she wishes she had realized it sooner.

Sometimes, she wonders if their story would be the same, if she had.

(She wouldn’t trade it for the world.)

By the time Lydia reached high school, she had lost herself. She was already hiding the true extent of her intelligence, sacrificed on the altar of popularity. She was falling into the trap of parties full of booze and dancing - because maybe, if she threw the best ones, people would like her. She was dating Jackson, devoting almost her entire life to please him and then letting him turn around and treat her like shit. And she was miserable, more miserable than anyone knew.

All she wanted was for people to like her more than she hated herself.

It didn’t start that way, but that’s where she was when it ended.

She knew she was spiraling out of control, into a life she didn’t want, but she didn’t see a way out of the endless cycle of hate. Jackson made things worse, and every time he verbally abused her, and compared her to other girls, and told her that she wasn’t pretty enough or good enough and threatened to leave her, she wondered, why is this what I want?

And then, she met Stiles.

All of a sudden he stumbled into her life, dragging Scott and their supernatural drama with him, and saved it. He saved her life, in more ways than one.

Even before she knew about the supernatural - before she knew that she was supernatural - Stiles and Scott were always trying to protect her. She never understood it; she hadn’t been friends with them since elementary school, and she mostly ignored their existence for a long time. Stiles, especially, always seemed to be there when she needed encouragement, which was a lot of the time.

Lydia vividly remembers the day she sat in her car sobbing about Jackson and Stiles stood at her window and tried to comfort her. She remembers when Allison set them up to go to the school dance together - god, Allison always knew what was best for Lydia - and Stiles told her she was beautiful when her own shitty boyfriend wouldn’t. And she remembers the fear she felt, the excitement she felt, when he accused her of being the smartest girl he knew, because she wondered how he could be so perceptive when he barely even spoke to her. But someone knew the real her, and that was enough.

She remembers being fully sucked into the supernatural, remembers the hallucinations and delusions she experienced as the occult grappled for a hold on her. Somewhere along the way, she realized Stiles was in love with her.

Of course, Lydia didn’t know what to do about that. She wasn’t convinced that she liked Stiles as more than a friend, and she was already so far gone with Jackson that breaking up with him wasn’t even an option in her mind. She still continued to fool herself into loving him, even after everything.

But she remembers the way Stiles looked at her as he stood in her bedroom, a nasty scratch on his cheekbone and conviction in his eyes. The tremble in his voice as he told her that if she died, he would lose his mind.

He saved her he saved her he saved her

She’d thought about death before. On a particularly bad day, a day when Jackson told her she was a waste of space and she felt like her true self was lost forever and she had been crying in her bedroom for hours, she’d considered swallowing a bottle of pills and ending it. The only reason she hadn’t gone through with it was because she didn’t want her mom to have to find her; they’d already lost her dad.

And now, Stiles was standing in the same bedroom and telling her she had to live.

She never thought about death again - only about running from it. To fill the gap, she thought about Stiles.

Days spent holding her tongue and nights spent between Jackson’s sheets began to fade away, replaced by nights spent sitting in the back seat of Stiles’ Jeep discussing literature, mathematics, psychology, politics, the supernatural, and any other subject they could think of until they were blue in the face. Years spent with a fake smile plastered on her perfectly painted face gave way to genuine bursts of laughter - the first in a long time - that Stiles managed to coax out of her by cracking stupid jokes at two in the morning, when they were both already half delirious.

She remembers long days spent in Stiles’ bedroom while he rearranged the yarn on his detective board, as she liked to call it. She’d lay on his bed and read and offer some occasional input. By the end of the day, they were on the verge of solving the next supernatural mystery. Their minds fit nicely together, she thought.

If Allison was her best friend, Stiles was her platonic soulmate. He understood her in a way that no one else did, and he loved her unconditionally even after she internally decided she didn’t have a romantic interest in him. They fell into something easy, and casual, and special, and real. When she was around him, she didn’t have to put her mask on.

Lydia finally felt like a human being again, not a porcelain doll about to shatter.

As the seasons collapsed into each other, she and Stiles only become closer. And she was happy. For the first time in months, in years, she was so genuinely happy.

When she kissed him to stop his panic attack, she never thought it would mean something to her.

Of course, he meant something to her. He was the first person she had truly been herself with, and he liked who she was in a way Jackson and all of her fake, popular friends never had.

But she’d decided he didn’t mean this to her.

This: the soft press of his lips on hers, the way her entire body broke out in goosebumps when she realized what was happening, the warmth in her chest, the stars in her eyes. He held onto her like a lifeline - and she hoped that was what she was to him, because it was the only way she could ever repay him for being her lifeline, once upon a time.

As she kissed him, she was terrified.

Terrified because she hadn’t been in love since Jackson, who was now long gone. Terrified because last time, being in love had almost ruined her life, even with as forced as that love was. Terrified because even the quiet beginnings of love could be enough to destroy her.

She wasn’t strong enough yet to fall apart all over again.

Her head knew Stiles wouldn’t do that to her. Her head knew Stiles loved her more than his own life.

Her heart said, this is dangerous.

When she pulled away and opened her eyes, he was staring at her with a mixture of shock and awe, an expression she was sure he saw mirrored on her own face. Something was tugging at her, a tiny stirring in her chest. (A butterfly, perhaps, flapping its wings in her rib cage. Ready to cause the catastrophe.)

Dangerous.

She wasn’t ready to give her heart away again, not after she’d spent so long trying to pick up all the pieces that Jackson broke. She decided to hold onto her heart for a little longer, to nurture these stirrings of a feeling, to be rational about all of this before acting.

(Later that day, she found out that she and Stiles shared an emotional tether. If she’s being honest, she wasn’t even surprised.)

One day, she finally let her love for Stiles consume her, until she was going down in flames.

She was laying on her stomach on his bed, bare feet and faded red lipstick and layers of her hair falling out of their pins, wrapping a piece of red string from his detective board around and around her fingers. And she was upset, because she’d had a false banshee premonition that got Stiles in trouble.

When Stiles noticed how upset she was, he walked over from the board and knelt in front of her. He told her not to doubt her abilities, and that he’d go back to school and search all night to prove to her that she was right.

And in that moment, her heart swelled with love for him, and she allowed it to overwhelm her. He was looking into her eyes, wonderstruck, as if she’d hung the moon and painted the constellations in the sky, and she knew that he had to be the one for her. Their lives didn’t intertwine like this for nothing.

Oh, she thought, her hands trembling a little as he carefully unwrapped the red string she’d looped around her fingers. Oh. This is what it feels like.

Like falling. Like flying.

Maybe she was the butterfly now.

For a while, Lydia thought she’d lost him completely.

After Allison died - unexpectedly, horrifically - and Lydia felt the pang of it down in the tunnels, and she held onto Stiles and screamed and screamed until her throat was hoarse, Stiles became distant. Lydia knew he felt responsible for Allison’s death, and she knew that guilt manifested itself in nightmares and panic attacks. She shoved her confusing feelings aside, telling herself she’d deal with them at a later time, and tried to be there for Stiles the way he’d always been there for her. But every time Lydia tried to reach out to him, he seemed to push her farther and farther away.

She spent many a night curled up in bed, hugging a pillow to her chest and sobbing until her eyes burned. She’d lost Allison, and now it looked like her other best friend was lost to her, too.

And then Stiles started dating Malia, and Lydia couldn’t help but wonder why he’d allowed her into his life and not one of his best friends. She buried her feelings deeper and deeper until she thought they’d finally shriveled away. She made her peace with the fact that Stiles wasn’t the same thing to her anymore.

When she was locked in Eichen House, she wasn’t even sure if Stiles would come for her.

But then there he was: her salvation, her destruction, hurricane and hope all wrapped into one body, and she realized she still loved him despite everything. Dimly, as he unhooked her from the bed, she thought, Is this it felt like for you, all those years you loved me and I didn’t love you back?

He saved her, again. He was always saving her.

After Eichen House, Lydia finally regained some of her old friendship with Stiles. A little distant, a little awkward at the start, but soon they were falling back into old habits. She found herself in the back of his Jeep again, but now instead of talking about academics, they were sharing nightmares.

Stiles talked to her about Allison, whose blood wasn’t even on Stiles’ hands, and the chimera boy Donovan, whose blood actually was on his hands. He talked about the way he thought he saw them everywhere, out of the corner of his eye, and about the panic he felt when he did. And she talked to him about Eichen House, about the experiments they tried to perform on her, and he’d listen quietly and hold her and stroke her hair over the scar the Dread Doctors drilled into her head.

It wasn’t as easy as it was before. Back then they were children; now, they were broken, and it took a while before their jagged edges fit together just right. But for Stiles, it was worth the extra effort.

And then Stiles was taken by the Ghost Riders, and she felt like there was some crucial piece of her soul missing and she had no idea what it was. Like someone had taken a knife to her heart and carved out a little piece to keep without her noticing. She’d stand by her locker, waiting for someone to walk her to class who never came. She’d remember loving someone, but when she tried to think of his face, she drew a blank.

A little lost, a little unmoored. Determined to find him and remember him and bring him home.

And when she finally did remember, it was while replaying their story in her mind. Everything came filtering back, piece by piece, but it wasn’t enough. She was searching for the memory that would open the floodgates. She was searching for the butterfly that would cause the hurricane.

She wandered away, led by some inexplicable force to the locker room - significant, although she didn’t know why. And then she saw herself, sitting on the ground beside a boy weighed down by anxiety and fear and guilt and sadness - all of the things she’d been weighed down by before he stumbled into her life - and she saw herself kiss him.

She saw the light dawning on her own face - he saved me, I love him - and then it all came flooding back.

Remember I love you.

In that moment, she knew she was right not to ever give up on him.

When she woke from that hazy dream, she woke with tears in her eyes, sobbing to Scott that she never said it back, and Scott understood because he’d watched them dance around each other for three years. He’d watched his best friend love her for nearly ten. And Lydia was also crying because it was still hard to believe she was that special, so special that Stiles suffered through an unrequited love for her for ten years when loving him for two had almost killed her. It was hard to believe that the lost girl she’d been could be so lucky.

And when she finally reunited with him and kissed him again, and she realized he’d loved her all along, she finally had the good sense to think, to know with all certainty, this is what I want.

When she finally stops reminiscing, she notices that Stiles has woken up and is blinking at her sleepily. “What are you thinking about?” he mumbles.

The corner of her mouth turns up, just a tad, and she leans down to kiss his lips. “You,” she whispers, like a prayer. “Us.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she hums. “And I’m going to miss you so much when we’re at different colleges, but I know we’ll be okay.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “You’ve been so worried about this all week, and now you seem like you’ve made your peace with it. Why?”

She smiles. “Because of the butterfly effect.”

#stydia fanfiction #stydia #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf #stydia fanfic #teen wolf fanfic #stiles stilinski #lydia martin #stiles x lydia #hannah writes #this was gonna be longer but i ran out of time #love ya tho

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willridgard · 4 years

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Norwich pubs, beers and breweries: What’s not to love?

They often say that ‘you do anything for the people and things you love’.

For me. If I had to pick, I’d highlight football, my favourite Chinese takeaway, my girlfriend Poppy, former Ipswich Town striker Shefki Kuqi, and my Mediterranean tortoise named Coco as some of the most valuable things in my life. Not in that order I might add!

Oh. I almost forgot. Cask ale, often known as ‘real ale’ or ‘ale from the hand-pump’, is mostly certainly now in the upper reaches of that adorable list. You see, my taste buds have strayed from the mainstream lagers in the last few years, and cask ale is now known as my ‘new love’ that I seemingly can’t go anywhere without!

Especially on celebratory events like Valentine’s Day. Days full of laughter and fun and days to cherish and remember. Valentine’s Day 2020 was therefore spent trying to please, and spend valuable time with, the people and things that matter the most! OK, I’m not Superman, and didn’t manage to fit everyone / everything in, but I’d say that attending a Beer Festival with more than 60 ales to choose from was the perfect setting for Valentine’s Eve💖!

Of course, I didn’t go on this quest alone. If I had to guess some of Poppy’s ‘priority list’, I’d go for: exploration, visiting new places, sightseeing, culture, food, wine, socialising, travelling, shopping, talking, and Pickled Onion Monster Munch 👾. Hopefully I’d be somewhere in there too!

Norwich was the chosen location for our Valentine’s getaway. Norwich. Home of Colman’s Mustard. Home of The Cathedral. Home of The Canaries: Norwich City FC 🟡🟢. The Canaries. Oh how Ipswich used to beat them regularly and proudly perch as the ‘pride of East Anglia’. But such dreams are now a distant memory for many increasingly-poignant Ipswich fans like myself, and come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to cheer on the Tractor Boys 🚜 in another ‘Old Farm Derby’ again! Such is the current demise and perilous position of the boys in blue and white 🔵⚪.

But, “forget the football for once,” I told Poppy. It was time to explore a beautiful, cultural, vibrant and historic city blessed with an array of fantastic shops, market stalls, and of course pubs and breweries. Our getaway was planned at the very last minute – and Norwich was perfect for our plans and interests. I think the conversation in the car on the way to work on the Monday went something like ‘Shall we do something for Valentine’s Day this year?’ Four days later and we’re living our best life. After all, they often say: ‘Live in the moment’, ‘life is for laughing’, ‘treat yourself’ etc.

Talking of treats. Naturally, a treat = beer. The airport beer. The shower beer. The hotel balcony beer. The kitchen beer while she’s getting ready. The straight to the pub from work beer. The Sunday afternoon beer garden beer. The Friday before Christmas beer. There are so many great beers everywhere. Especially, in Norwich where a plethora of tasty, excellent beers are produced by Norfolk breweries and then sold in great numbers at various watering holes across the city.

One of which, the Georgian Townhouse, was where we were lucky enough to stay. With an excellent choice of boutique bedrooms and luxury apartments, the Georgian Townhouse offers a truly unique retreat in a glorious setting in the heart of the city – and I’d highly recommend it. Boasting a Roberts Revival digital radio 📻, a Smeg fridge and a Nespresso machine ☕ , we were in some kind of hotel heaven when we unpacked our bags. Blimey! Heaven turned into paradise when we saw the size of the humongous bath in the en-suite🛀. I thought about going swimming at one stage 🏊 !

But that’s not it. The fantastic Georgian Townhouse staff even presented us with two local beers from St Andrews Brewhouse – Wensum Ale, a best bitter, and Grocers Ghost Pale Ale (more on those later) – to sample on arrival. And with a small bottle of champagne, and a bunch of freshly picked, roaring red roses that definitely were not bought from Tesco (how did they even get there!?), the scene was set for a cracking couple of days!

And a cracking couple of days were had. Starting with dinner in the restaurant: Delicious roast chicken served with coleslaw, chips and salad. Just what the doctor ordered.

The service was also very good – and after scanning my QR code to record my visit on the CaskFinder App – significant interest in the App generated as some members of staff wanted to become ‘beer experts’ by vowing to learn all of the tasting-notes for the 10,000 beers on show! I opted to wash dinner down with two lovely pints of Woodforde’s Wherry. A beer that has grown on me in recent times, with its delicious citrus aftertaste going down very well indeed.

From here, we took the mutual decision to move onto The Trafford Arms for the Valentine Beer Festival! With Storm Ciara beginning her windy, wet warm up, and the choice of 60+ beers to look forward to, it’s fair to say that Poppy was not the most enthused on the chilly walk through the housing estates en route to The Trafford. In fact, I’d say she was uncharacteristically quiet. Which really is a rarity! But that soon changed as we entered the pub’s welcoming doors. Bingo! Their Cask Marque certificate greeted us at the door. After registering the visit on the CaskFinder App, it soon became apparent that we were to make this public house our home for the next few hours.

Of course, I’d done my research, and found that the Valentine Beer Festival was a popular annual, week-long event. With a huge variety of beers ranging in appearance and ABV%, as well as live music, what’s not to love about it really? So as Poppy sipped on her fruit-filled gin n’ tonic, I tested my taste buds. All while listening to the dulcet tones of The Rum Dogs, who, in their own words, perform ‘funky, folk music with humour and passion’.

If I had to pick a ‘beer of the night’, I’d go for Ampersand’s ‘On the wing’, a hop forward pale session ale brewed with oats and heaps of late Amarillo, Citra, Ekuanot & El Dorado hops. But I wasn’t alone in trying new beers. The pub had a very friendly, absorbing vibe about it, and it was great to see it packed full of drinkers – young, old, male and female – all testing their taste buds and indulging in some beautiful cask ales.

We were sad to leave The Trafford, armed with our packets of Salt & Vinegar crisps to detract our attention away from a strengthening Ciara, but will certainly aim to visit again. I believe the Beer Festival continued to be a hit – and, whisper it quietly, I think beers were being served at £2 a pint towards the end! We’ll definitely be back if that’s the case!

After a well-deserved sleep (this drinking business can be tiring), we went down to breakfast – the most important meal of the day. Apparently! We were not left disappointed. There was plenty of choice: from cereal and fruits to pastries and yoghurts to cooked meals, the menu was expansive – and partnered with excellent customer service. Personally, I opted for a few slices of cantaloupe melon – after demolishing a freshly-cooked Full English that smelt as good as it looked!

This set us up perfectly for the day’s activities, and, as avid believers of living life on the edge, we just immersed ourselves in the beautiful, windy Norwich lanes, streets, and marketplace. We bought a few birthday gifts (happy 23rd to my sister Ellie), and enjoyed our time stumbling across many a hidden gem – including Chef Ron’s Kitchen and Roman’s Juice Bar, who really sold us their appetising pizza slices🍕 and tasty smoothies🥤.

After eyeing up quirky rugs, lampshades, and other home essentials, we then fell upon FREE ping pong and table football inside Castle Quarter. Which was an absolute game-changer! Unfortunately, the table tennis was so popular that we didn’t have the patience to wait, so Poppy’s interest and undenied passion for ‘the beautiful game’ intensified even further when she challenged me to an encounter of table football. And, after a comically entertaining match, which saw the Ipswich Town Blues defeat a Norwich team, playing in their red away kit, 10-5, I fully expect our game to be shown first on Match of the Day this weekend. Shefki Kuqi top scored (there’s only one f in Shefki) with eight of Ipswich’s 10 goals. If only these dreams became a reality…

In all seriousness, both facilities are well-maintained and are cracking ideas. In a world being domineered by iPhones and other such technological advances, they offer a great opportunity for family members and friends to enjoy one another’s company – and with a competitive element thrown in too. Hey, I won lunch! Wake me up, I’m dreaming again… Talking of lunch, once our match, which included full-match commentary, much to the amusement of several passers-by, reached its conclusion, the quest for good food and drink was on. In my book, the clock striking 1pm means only one thing: beer time! As we all know, shopping can be tiring and can work up an appetite so it was imperative we found a place that could satisfy our bodies and minds.

Step forward, St Andrews Brewhouse! It’s easy to see why this brewery-turned-pub is regarded as one of the best food and drink establishments in Norwich. Home to their very own microbrewery, which produce some amazing beers, St Andrews Brewhouse is a real favourite among Norwich folk with their popular restaurant, bar area, and functions room nearly always fully populated.

See it for yourself here:

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In my opinion, one of the best things about pubs is the range of people they attract. People-watching is also a proven, favourite past-time of the human race! The guy sitting by the window at St Andrews Brewhouse with just a book and a beer for company looked like he was having a great time. As did the three suitcase-carrying friends hungry for a good meal after landing from their holidays. Of course, Poppy and I were probably seen by others as ‘the Valentines’ – enjoying one another’s company, alongside the superb Macaroni Cheese and two pints of lovely Wensum Ale – a best bitter with a sweet, malty and fruity finish. Spot on.

And, as we made our way out, hand-in-hand, looking for the next stop in our exciting jaunt, Poppy declared that ‘the St Andrews Brewhouse is one of the best pubs I’ve been in; I loved it’. And I’d have to agree. Good food. Good beer. Good times. It’s simply a must-visit! Add it to your Norwich bucket list!

It was then by complete accident, that after crossing the bridge on St Georges Street, that we found the Playhouse Bar! Again, Miss Brown wasn’t overly keen when I suggested that we gave it a look as ‘it’s different’. But, again, her opinion quickly changed when we set foot inside! The adjectives quirky, funky, and mesmerising are ones I’d used to describe a unique bar setting and atmosphere! Playhouse Bar’s ceiling is a colourful collection of artworks portraying a city scape.

The project was started in 2011 by members of bar staff, many of whom are former art students. Art was probably my worst subject at school, but I had a serious case of ‘ceilingopolis’! We couldn’t help but stare at the ceiling – and managed to find The Olympic Stadium, an IKEA and Jurassic Park – to name but a few places of interest on top of us. It’s certainly very interesting and worth a visit. The sucker fish was entertaining too. I wonder what he’s seen – and forgotten – in his lifetime. In all honesty, we could’ve stayed people and ceiling-watching for hours…

It was at the Ribs of Beef where our journey ended – obviously after taking some selfies and photo-bombing one another first.

I opted to try a trio of tasty local beers to round up – and was not left disappointed with some fruitful tasting beers from Lacons, Wolf and Moon Gazer Ales cleansing the palette perfectly. Norfolk is the home of these fine breweries – and it was fantastic to see each of the pubs I visited support local breweries.

That’s the thing. Norwich really is a community of beers, breweries, and pubs. Partnerships between all will certainly heighten in May, when the 10th Norwich City of Ale Festival officially opens. An 11-day celebration of some of Norwich’s finest pubs, and the region’s excellent brewers, City of Ale 2020 promises to be packed with Ale Trails and fun events to keep consumers entertained. I really can’t wait for it to begin! Thursday, May 21 to Sunday, May 31. Save the dates! Plan the action! Come and see what Norwich has to offer.

With a handful of the 45 pubs involved in City of Ale also being Cask Marque accredited, they appear on the CaskFinder App’s ‘World’s Biggest Ale Trail’. May 2020 seems the perfect time to tick off a few pubs yet to visit and a few beers yet to try! The never-ending, full-of-fun, beer adventure just keeps continuing…

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racingtoaredlight · 5 years

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RTARL’s NFL Week 3 Extravapalooza

How many NFL-related headlines to you have to mentally scroll through before you get to one that actually inspires excitement about the on-field product? Between the rash of injuries to key players on good teams, the terrible officiating, Antonio Brown, and the blowouts/inept performances, this season isn’t exactly off to an auspicious start. It’s entirely possible, probable even, that every season starts like this. Does it just seem worse to me because I’m following the sport in general more closely than I have in years, or that the team I root for is involved in the scummiest story of them all? Maybe! My point is, I’m desperately in need of a high-level orgy of on-field competence in order to justify my continuing to give this terrible enterprise any of my attention.

As always, betting lines are brought to you by our friends at Vegas Insider, and my picks are in bold.

Onto the games!

Last week’s record: 10-5 (I’m as shocked by this as you are)

Season record: 16-13-1

Baltimore Ravens at Kansas City Chiefs (-5.5)

You know all that whining I did in that opening paragraph (don’t answer this, I know damn well you didn’t read it)? THIS is the game that I’m praying makes it all go away. Patrick Mahomes is basically a cyborg programmed to throw the bloody hell out of a football, and Lamar Jackson is the most exciting dual-threat since Michael Vick. GIMME. The one minor fly in the ointment is that the weather isn’t supposed to be very good for this one, so the ceiling for offensive fireworks might be lowered. That said, I’m expecting to be very, very entertained.

Denver Broncos at Green Bay Packers (-7)

I originally had the Pack here, but again the meteorologists have influenced my pick. It evidently rained all night in Green Bay, and it’s supposed to rain all day, as well. We’re in for a muddy slop fest, which I am all for. As an aside, the Packers made me look very dumb last week. I can only surmise that Aaron Rodgers is an RTARL lurker. WHY WON’T YOU CALL YOUR MOTHER, AARON?

Detroit Lions at Philadelphia Eagles (-5.5)

This makes three straight road underdog picks for me. Is that bad? Does this violate some sacred gambling manifesto? Whatever, I irrationally love Matthew Stafford and his marshmallowy face. I say the Lions don’t just cover, THEY WIN OUTRIGHT AND KEEP THE UNDEFEATED SEASON ALIVE!

Also, the Eagles are down DeSean Jackson and likely Alshon Jeffrey. This concludes my actual non-stupid analysis.

Cincinnati Bengals at Buffalo Bills (-6)

The Bills and Josh Allen are my favorite feel-good story of the season so far. I think this game has some sneaky shootout potential, and it trails only the Ravens-Chiefs tilt in my personal Watch ‘Em Up (copyright Starkweather) rankings.

Atlanta Falcons at Indianapolis Colts (-1.5)

The Falcons always seem like they should be so much better than they are. I’d go with my guy Jacoby Brissett to lead the mighty Young Horses to victory here, BUT both T.Y. Hilton and Marlon Mack are banged up and may not play. Even if they do, there’s reason to believe they won’t be as effective as they typically are. A compromised offense is no bueno when facing Matt Ryan, Julio Jones and company inside a dome.

Oakland Raiders at Minnesota Vikings (-9)

In my very first NFL Extravapalooza, I boldly proclaimed that the Vikings would be the class of the NFC this season. Rather than accept that it was beyond stupid for me to hitch my wagon to a train being conducted by Kurt Cousins, I’m going to stubbornly refuse to waver while everyone I know can only look on in helpless despair, wondering where it all went wrong for me.

The Raiders best offensive player, RB Josh Jacobs, had an illness that caused him to lose 10 lbs over the past week, and he’s also dealing with a minor groin injury. Yet, he’s still playing in this game. Best of luck, Josh!

New York Jets at New England Patriots (-21)

This spread (and the next one) is fucking absurd for a professional football game. And yet, I’m picking the Patriots to beat it, likely comfortably. Bill Belichick’s psychotic hatred of the Jets means that Tom Brady will still be in the game throwing touchdowns well after the game is totally in hand. This terrifies me every time it happens.

Miami Dolphins at Dallas Cowboys (-22.5)

Honestly, the only reason I’m picking Miami is because I truly want Josh Rosen to have a great game. He’s been boned something fierce to start his career, and this level of organizational malpractice is downright egregious to inflict upon a young man who had the gumption to install a hot tub in his college dorm room. The Cowboys are MUCH better, to say nothing of the fact that they’re actually actively trying to win games, but I think (hope) Miami keeps it within 3 TDs.

New York Giants at Tampa Bay Buccaneers (-6)

From a pure comedy perspective, I think the funniest thing that can happen here is that Daniel Jones is a Ryan Lindley-level abomination and the broadcast cuts to a smug-as-hell looking Eli Manning on the sidelines after every horrific incompletion. Basically, I want him to be so bad that Eli is actually starting games again for the Giants within 4 weeks. I don’t think this will happen, but a man can hope. Fuck you wherever you are, David Tyree.

Carolina Panthers at Arizona Cardinals (-2)

I’ve seen a fair bit of analysis essentially saying that the Panthers might actually be better off with Kyle Allen playing QB instead of a clearly banged-up Cam Newton. What? He had an OK game in his one start, a week 17 win last season against a Saints team that was resting many of its key players. Let’s pump the breaks a bit.

I’m grateful that Calamari appears to be legit, if for no other reason than it’s giving us another top-shelf Larry Fitzgerald season. He deserves some late-career stat-padding to make up for the years of productivity he lost due to playing with literal mummies at QB.

New Orleans Saints at Seattle Seahawks (-4)

I’m glad that Teddy Bridgewater was able to come all the way back from his horrific knee injury to secure another NFL contract. He has not looked good in limited game-action, though. You know who has? Seahawks rookie WR DK Metcalf. He’s been everything I thought the Josh Doctsons and Laquon Treadwells of the world would be when they were drafted.

Houston Texans at Los Angeles Chargers (-3)

Hey now, this game looks pretty good. I really didn’t know who to pick here, so I went with the home team. Watching a Texans game is like a bizarre form of psychological torture, whereby you’re subjected to the sublime joy of DeShaun Watson evading several would-be tacklers en route to running for a 20-yard gain, and Deandre Hopkins making an impossible looking catch over a helpless defensive back, only for those moments to be intercut with borderline snuff-film footage of Watson getting his sternum caved in after a blitzer reaches him completely untouched, or a shot of Bill O’Brien’s chin. What a ride, man.

Pittsburgh Steelers at San Francisco 49ers (-6.5)

Handsome Jimmy is determined to ascend to the “Best Bad QB” throne. This is the game where he’ll make his intentions known to the world. I have very much enjoyed the implosion of the Steelers, but I can’t help but feel a little bad for James Conner and Juju Smith-Schuster. They’re both very talented and likable guys, so I hope they at least get to put up some solid garbage-time stats as Pittsburgh’s season slowly circles the drain.

Sunday Night Game: Los Angeles Rams (-3.5) at Cleveland Browns

Neither of these teams have looked like they’re firing on all cylinders through the first two weeks. The difference is, we know what the Rams look like when they’re rolling-- they’re a Super Bowl team. We don’t really know what a top-end performance looks like from this version of the Browns. What if they aren’t actually all that great? Except for Myles Garrett, he’s totally awesome. I hate to say it because I really do want Cleveland to be good, but this has all the makings of a “get right” game for L.A., and I think it might be a blowout.

Monday Night Game: Chicago Bears (-4) at Washington Football Team

via GIPHY

#NFL #Football #Sports!

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anne-lister-adventures · 4 years

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Monday, 10 March 1840

4 50/’’

11 1/2

All ready at 5 25/’’ then a little breakfast (our own little boiler no pother of Semovar) – Reaumur 7 1/2º on our table – The room coldish – 2 cups of tea and breakfast over in 10 minutes – And from the Kopanowskaia at 6 – A little village - Counted a group of 19 Calmuck tents (Kibitkas) –

Descend upon the Volga – The wood (vide line 12 last p.[page]) was, as today, large old pollard willows on large sandbanks and islands of the Volga – Looking like a forest in the distance and in fact it is willow-forest the trees being often sufficiently thick on the ground to leave little room for anything else, tho’ we found cattle straying among them –

At 7 25/’’ turned up from the river to the land-road – Very fine morning – At the Little gorod of J-[Jenotaiewsk] at 8 35/’’ – The servants Kibitka a few minutes en retard – We had arrived so much sooner than I expected thought going another stage before breakfast – But the next Station said to be such a poor little place where we could not breakfast that determined to breakfast here – The good-looking new (wood) house it seemed belonged to a seigneur – Nothing to be had there –

Set off to another place in the Gorod – Having just walked round the white handsome church at some distance (opposite) our Station – This the Cathedral! Another neat church besides this – This a clocher with 4 style portico – Nave – And the church (all 3 adjoining) a large circle gathered up in 2 retiring steps to the size of the domes, with North and South entrance by 2 style porch and pediment – all the roof metal plates painted green –

The Jenotaiewsk cathedral c. 1910.

One of the nicest neatest little Gorod churches we have seen – 4 or 5 wind mills close to the town (right) on entering, and (left) on entering in a wide sort of 1/2 formed square the cathedral – And not far from this a neat good building for Town’s business, Court House – Nice little villagy town –

We had 3 or 4 minutes walk to chez ‘le seigneiur’ the Maître de Poste a German Russian – Arrived 2 months ago – His wife and daughters at St. P-[Petersburg] the Postmaster at Astrakhan going to Kazan (as Postmaster) and our friend anxious to succeed him at A-[Astrakhan] would not stay here at any price – Nobody to speak to – No parti for his daughters – All Calmuck – The ladies could not read or write and on my mentioning the common waste of manure, he said here they did worse than pile it on the riverside to be washed away – They laid it in the Town – and the smell was offensive in summer –

Emolument 500/- per annum – There might be other revenues but un homme comme il faut could not take them – Better appointments and a good house at Astrakhan for the Postmaster – Trade very bad there now – Nothing but the fishery – Nothing to be had but Moscow things – The Persian trade all goes to Tiflis now – They have a grant of it free of duty for 10 years – Several rich merchants there – And a large new hotel that cost 10000/- 5 storeys High – On the Koura – Kept by an Armenian, Chadinoff – Prince Volkonsky had spoken of it to our host –

Could not tell what we should pay there – But had before recommended a house (no hotel where one can dine at Astrakhan) at A-[Astrakhan] kept by a French whose wife is a German where we should lodge and board (very good table) for a Silver Ruble a day! Nobody no company there (at the house) now – How will this turn out? This was told at 1st when he asked what affaires we had at A-[Astrakhan] and fancied it might be the wife of a Naval Officer (English) who had been 10 years there in the Russian Marine (ship building) and did not wish to engage for another 10, and was afraid of his wife passing him on the road, as she was to join him there – But he should wait for her at Moscow –

Our host had been 6 years prisoner in England – Had surrendered to the English par préférance instead of to the French at Lisbon after the Russian Turkish War (in 1808?) – Prisoner at Portsmouth but had visited Chatham, London &c. &c. apparently on parole – Liked England very much – The Russian prisoners very well treated there – Had been at Tiflis – Lost a nephew 2 months in the Circassian War – Nothing but patience will do with these people –

Must ask at A-[Astrakhan] to have an escort – Dangerous about Kisliar – The couriers never take money that way – Always by Tcherkask and Stavropol – No danger in passing the Kabardas – Always an escort – Recommended us to be there by moonlight – Very fine – As if one was in a hole so surrounded by mountains – The best time for passing is January – The sooner we get there the better or we may be inconvenienced I suppose by the melting the snows – I got no answer I think to my inquire if there were avalanches –

He said we might be 16 or 18 hours on horseback in getting thro’ from one Station to another – Sure we never saw such a road – A Germany colony a few v.[versts] from Tiflis that we ought to see – We should find Germans French and English there and all sorts of Persian things &c. &c. to be got there –

Gave the Courier the address of the people at A-[Astrakhan] and gave him an a letter for the Calmuck Prince and for horses to take there tomorrow – Our carriage Kibitka too heavy – Had best take a light Traineau de Poste but said we must have 3 horses and ourselves and the 2 Russians (Courier and George) could go –

The Prince was in the campaign in France in 1814 – His sister (that Lord Royston saw) married unhappily – Married a Calmuck – The Prince very rich – Would half kill his servants if they took anything – I must not pay anything – He speaks French – Is très comme il faut –

Cannot sleep at Zamianowskaya, so that if we cannot arrive in time at Libajouskaya had best return and sleep a 2d. night at Soroglazinskaya where we shall sleep tonight, the encampent being on 12 v.[versts] from there across the river – The Prince has a good house – Pity we did not arrive in time for the great religious fête 3 weeks ago when he had 80 people staying in his house – Begged I might give the servant of our host and left with himself a 30 Kopek Silver piece – Probably the master not the maid would take it – And I might have given more – Probably a 1/2 Silver Rouble would have been better –

Off at 10 3/4 – Descend immediately upon the Volga till 11 50/’’ then seem to leave it and go along the land-road (the summer road) – Had my door open for some while – Drive over ice – And large sandbanks and islands covered with large old pollarded willows – A Deciatine, said our Maître de Poste (who 1st addressed us in English) = 80 x 30 fathoms of 2 English yards = 4800 yards something less than an acre = 4840 yards – A-[Ann] had slept and I had slept and read which beguiled the slowness of our progress –

2 35/’’ when we reached Kosikinskaya – Little cottage-like log house Station House but we might have had a nice enough little room to ourselves and might have breakfasted as to room quite as comfortably as we did chez ‘le seigneur’ whose Semovar had lost its cheminée (long ∴[therefore] in boiling and we had to get our own cheminée) and there was nobody in the little Gorod to mend it – Our host gets all his provisions from Tamboff 700 v.[versts] off (I think he said 700 v.[versts]) –

At K-[Kosikinskaya] neat little painted broad church – Needle-pointed clocher – Nave – And church part 8tagon[octagon] as well as the clocher – The village small and shabbyish – 2 or 3 Calmuck tents in the courtyard (farm yard) opposite our Station House – The Post stables merely of wattled (wicker) walls, flat roofed and hay piled stackwise on the top – Royston crows in abundance hopping about – Quite tame and with them several magpies – The guide post marks 115 v.[versts] to A-[Astrakhan] Read a great deal this morning –

Schnitzler vol.[volume] 2 on the origin of the Calmucks and Tatars, and vol.[volume] 1 from p.[page] 169 to 217 chapter 6 and then on arriving at the Station at 4, Soroglazinskaya, finding the house full of people – Could not be taken in, drove off with one horse to our present quarters – And en route finished the remaining p.[page] or 2 of chapter 6 and alighted here at 4 20/’’ – One nice enough room – Soon made ourselves comfortable – And went out at 4 40/’’ for an hour to the neat church which A-[Ann] sketched –

Sent off the Courier to the Calmuc Prince with A-‘s[Ann’s] card and mine and compliments and we would be chez lui about 10 tomorrow a.m. – They say here, he has 2 brothers at St. P-[Petersburg] one a Captain in the Grenadier Guard – Has a large village about him, and a school for his people – Some have cottages and some tents (Kibitkas of felt) – The river is close to the village here just below it – And all seems sandy desert around – Bare of snow here and there – But they say there is good pasture land at a little distance – Some Calmuck tents here, one in each of several farm yards – But they say, these people do not stay here, but live in the woods to the westward – Several good wood cottages and houses here – A good, picturesque village in long line above the Volga – All the people very civil in taking off the hats as we pass – Wrote all the above of today till tea at 8 in 1/2 hour –

The village the property of the people – Cossacks – Free – The farm yard full of sheep a mixed breed between Calmuck and not ∴[therefore] some with the short fat tails and some not and some with the long small tail of English sheep – A good sheep will weigh fit for the butcher 2 poods (40 Russian lbs.[pounds] or 36 English lbs.[pounds]+ = 72 English lbs.[pounds]) and sell for 8/- horses from 40/- to 100/- and cows about 40/- - a fat cow = from 8 to 16 poods and the fat animal worth about 7/- or rather more per pood –

Had just written so far at 8 40/’’ p.m. very fine day Reaumur -15º dehors at 6 a.m. and +7 1/2º in our room at 5 1/2 a.m. Had the Courier in – To be chez le Prince at 11 a.m. tomorrow – Had Domna – Undressed – A thorough wash –

1st 1/2+ Volga 6 to 8 35/’’ Kopanowskaya to Jenotaiewsk (Gorod) 30

ditto ditto ditto 10 3/4 to 2 35/’’ J-[Jenotaiewsk] to Kosikinskaya 25 1/2

all on Volga 2 55/’’ to 4 K-[Kosikinskaya] to Soroglazinskaya 24 1/2

Some of Anne’s and Ann’s stops in little towns along the Volga.

[symbols in the margin of the page:] + 𐐥

[in the margin of the page:] Reaumur -15º at 6 a.m. dehors

[in the margin of the page:] Jenotaiewsk

Page References: SH:7/ML/E/24/0038 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0039 and SH:7/ML/E/0040

#anne lister code breaker #anne lister #ann walker #moscow to baku 1840

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travelswithzsubes · 7 years

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Boston.

It’s strange to sit in the quiet of your own home, the familiar yellow comforter on your bed wrapped around you. The same poster is on your wall that’s been there since college. Everything feels the same, and still, and quiet. That’s strange. It’s strange because you’re lying there, and you realize you just did something that you’ve been looking forward to your entire adult life.

That’s what Boston was for me. The goal that I couldn’t accomplish, the thing that was just perpetually out of reach. I’m overdramatizing it a little bit, but that is how it felt.

It was 2008 when it became a goal. I signed up for the Pittsburgh Marathon in 2009, only to go way too hard and tweak a hamstring during training that still bugs me to this day. I qualified in 2011 at Delaware, but I didn’t get in. I qualified in 2012 at Ocean Drive, but said no and went to China. I got injured. I ran slow times. I doubted if I would get there. I started from scratch, crosstrained, ran a lot, hurt my knee, ran faster, and gutted out the Philly Marathon in 3:01:41. Ten months later I found out I got into the race, tears springing to my eyes as I saw the happy email on my computer.

Fast forward another seven months. I trained better than I thought I had for Philly, and D and I took the bus to Boston, coolers of food in tow, knowing that we’d be part of something amazing but not really sure what that would mean.

My goal was to run a faster than 3 hour marathon for the first time ever. My mom had promised that if I did that, she would try to qualify for next year, and we would run Boston together in 2018.

Pre-race

It was Passover. I decided to keep the holiday. That meant no pasta, no PB&J, none of the carboloading that I’ve always done. It did mean a lot of quinoa, which was a strange thing. That’s where the coolers of food came into play - we brought lots and lots of food with us. More on that later.

The first order of business, though, was going to the expo to pick up my number. For me this was the most emotional part of the entire weekend. Something about handing over my credentials and getting my very own Boston number, and hearing tips from the volunteers on how to run the race and on how it the streets would be packed with wall-to-wall people, all cheering for me and making me feel like a rock star - it was too much for me to handle. It would be a lie to say I didn’t choke up.

Getting that elusive number and T-shirt.

I recovered for the athlete’s capitalistic party that was the pre-race expo. Every running or even athletic product you can imagine - it’s there. People buying half-price shorts, testing out some sort of leg sleeve massage contraption, taking free samples of green and red and brown gels...that is what was going on. We stayed for an hour before I started worrying about staying on my feet for too long, but not before we checked out the ubiquitous Boston Marathon jackets that cement people’s status as a legit runner and were given a free poster that listed, in small print, every one of the 30,000 runner’s names that was registered for the race. (I bought a jacket later - with all the people walking around Boston after the race wearing them, their purchase kind of feels like an involuntary part of your marathon registration fee.)

Then it was home for a bowl of quinoa and cheese and tomato sauce and endless tinkering with my gear, wondering what shoes I would wear, and so on. I finally got to bed a little after 10pm. It was on.

The get-up.

Monday Morning

I actually slept pretty well - not long, but deeply. I woke up excited, threw my clothes on, and was out the door quickly, off to Central Station, where I hopped on the train with other clear-bag-toting folks en route to Boston Common, where we would board buses to Hopkinton and the starting line.

The ride to Hopkinton takes an hour. “We’re going to have to run this whole way?” someone said. Indeed, we would.

Course map - 26.2 straight east.

The marathon has a true army of volunteers that don’t seem to leave your side throughout the entire marathon experience. They’re there in Boston Common, repeating the same directions over and over for hours. And they’re certainly there when you get off the bus in Hopkinton, directing you to the large field area, where everyone’s waiting. It’s a typical race starting line with way more stuff than you’re used to, like people whose job it is to write your name on your shoulder, free gels and Gus to eternity, on demand sunscreen, bagels, and a very, very long line for coffee.

Some people brought boxes to lay on and blankets to cover themselves and laid down for a nap - nothing you bring to the starting line can be shipped to the end of the race. Others brought incredibly trashy magazines to read - there’s something to be said for the power of gossip and Justin Bieber to take your mind off the supreme effort you’re about to put forward - while others just sat, staring off into the eternal abyss. Everyone was wearing layers of throwaway clothes, cargo shorts and sweatpants that were far too big and strange fleeces, adding to the bizarro nature of the scene. There was a palpable nervous energy in the air no matter what people were doing.

I got in the short bathroom line once I arrived, ate a banana, bathroom again, sat and stretched, contemplated getting my name written on my shoulder for cheering purposes, decided against it, borrowed someone’s phone. got in a longer bathroom line, got right back in the same bathroom line, ran into an old runner friend from Philly, and munched on the matzah/almond butter/honey I brought to the starting line with me. That last part was certainly a first. (More on that later.)

It was 9:10 at that point - time to walk the 0.7 miles to the starting line. “It’s time,” the Philly friend said. I had told him about my three hour goal. “Just go out and do it.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear.

The Walk

The walk to the starting line is like a funhouse of runner fantasy. Take my picture with my bib number 5,000 times? Don’t mind if I do. Provide countless places to drop off your trash and clothing? Yes. Cheering people, cheering bros, encouraging you to “hydrate” with a morning swing of brownish rum? Mmm-hmm. All along, I was walking with all the very fit and attractive people around me, trying to wrap my head around the fact that this was THE walk to the Boston Marathon starting line.

At the expo, on the way to the start.

There’s an additional area with port-o-potties near the start, which I certainly visited. Some men try to pee against a school right there, and were promptly shooed away (and ticketed?) by a whistleblowing police officer. It was then off to walk to my corral. The national anthem was played, which was less emotional than I expected, followed by a very loud fighter jet flyover timed just right.

I made my way to the corral. Typical runner energy - people hopping, shaking out muscles, and doing things that were probably unnecessary. There’s nothing better to do. The minutes counted down quickly. They announced the elite males, and the Americans got a huge cheer. A TV camera panned over us. We all waved.

And then - the gun. We all heard it go off and a collective yelp emanated. I instinctively gave the stranger next to me a high five and we wished each other good luck. We shuffled toward the starting line, and two minutes later it came into our vision.

The loud crowd, the runners dwarfing me, everything else...if you guessed that I choked up as I crossed that starting line as I set my watch, you are correct.

The Race

Maybe this is the part you’ve been waiting to read. Congratulations on making it this far! You are a true marathon champion for doing so.

Everyone warns you about the first few miles of the race, and I can see why. The first mile is straight downhill. People were passing me, so I tried to maintain the pace that I wanted. I don’t have a GPS watch, so it’s a little tougher to know my exact speed, but I have a decent sense of it.

I was trying to maintain a 6:52/mile pace throughout to get that elusive three hour marathon. I went out too fast at my last marathon in Philly, running the first half in 1:27 before finishing out the second half in 1:34. I was determined to run a more consistent race this time and try to negative split (run a faster time in the second half than in the first half). I’ve never negative split a marathon, and I wanted this to be my first. So I was gunning for a 1:30 first half, and something faster than than over the last 13.1 miles.

The first few miles are actually tough because the road is so crowded with people and it’s tough to run at your pace - there’s always someone in front of you, blocking your way. I ran the first mile at 7:02, which was great - I really didn’t want to go out too fast. People warn you about Boston’s hills throughout, and it’s true - the race is rarely flat, and there are rolling hills the whole way. The big hills - including the famous Heartbreak Hill - begin at Mile 16 in Newton and end with Heartbreak around 20.5. The Newton Hills. How quaint.

It was a hot day, but I usually run well in heat - and on hills. I wasn’t all that worried, but I did notice within the first two miles that it already felt especially hot. I hadn’t done any training in hot weather - I did a 17 miler in the hills of Northwest Connecticut in 7 degree weather - so my body wasn’t quite prepared for it.

I resolved to drink more than usual. I poured water over my head every couple miles and tried to get as much water down as I could at the water stops. The stops do slow you down as people stop in front of you, so that made me a little nervous, but I got to Mile 6 right at my target pace. At that point I felt like I was out for a casual run - I was very optimistic.

Have I mentioned the crowd yet? They’re everywhere - and loud. It’s unreal. There’s a biker bar at Mile 2, and they are out in full force. Amazing signs along the way, too. Framingham at Mile 6 is filled several feet deep with screaming fans, as is Natick, Newton, Wellesley, Ashland and pretty much every other town you pass through.

It was around Mile 7 that I slowed down for the water stop and noticed that I was a bit tired - that I actually felt pretty hot. I was still on pace, but that wasn’t a great sign. Throughout Miles 7-10 I tried to maintain that 6:52, but I was a little behind pace, and I got to Mile 10 20 seconds slower than what I wanted. No matter - I resolved to run easier throughout Miles 10-13. No need to burn myself early - I needed to save myself for the end of the race. A few seconds now probably wouldn’t come back to bite me later. Once I adopted that mindset, I instantly felt better. I can do this, I thought. It was also a boon to see D at Mile 11 in Natick, just totally screaming my name.

The famous Wellesley scream tunnel is right before halfway, and it is as advertised. College students hold signs like “Why do all the cute ones run away?”, “Kiss Me: I’m Competitive,” “Call Me (followed by their actual phone number”, and so on. You can hear the screams from half a mile away. I choked up here, too - the scream tunnel is legendary, and here I was, right in the middle of it. Some people stopped for kisses, as is per tradition. I soldiered on.

Halfway came up soon after that. I hit it in 1:30:16 - close enough to the pace I wanted that I was satisfied. I need a sub-1:30 second half, I told myself. You can do this. Still - I could tell the hills, which never stopped, took a little bite out of me, each and every time.

Mile 14 was more of the same. When I checked my watch after Mile 15, though, I realized I had lost a full 20 seconds off the pace I wanted in that mile alone. I did math frantically in my head, wondering how that could be the case. I didn’t feel like I had slowed down. How was it possible?

And yet it was. It’s not a good sign when you don’t notice that you’re slowing down but your watch tells you that you are. It means your body can’t keep up with the same pace you’ve set already - that it’s physically starting to break down. In other races, you can buckle up and push through that and use your will to maintain your speed, but with 15 miles behind me and another 11 to go (and 11 feels like an eternity at that point), there’s no real doing that for that amount of time.

Mile 16 was pretty much straight down hill into Newton Lower Falls before you start the Newton Hills. I resolved to try and make up time on the downhill before the hills. Downhills aren’t really my strength, but I let my legs go, knowing that it could have a bad effect on my quads later but also knowing that I had to do something to make up the time I had lost.

When I hit the Mile 16 sign I realized I had run it in 6:57 - not fast enough. I needed a 6:45 at the slowest to really give myself a chance. I was really starting to hurt at this point.

The first Newton Hill starts right at that point. As I said - I like hills. Before the race, I created a mantra for myself: “Hills don’t scare me.” Now was the time to put it to the test.

But when I started up the hill, something happened that doesn’t usually happen to me - I just seized up. My left groin just seized and buckled and spasmed, and all of a sudden I felt like I was running in slow-motion, nearly a full minute per mile (or more) slower than I had been for the earlier part of the race. It felt like I could barely make it up the hill. People were passing me left and right, and I instantly felt like the slowest person on the course. (Since everyone in my wave had qualified for Boston, this was by far the fastest caliber marathon I had ever done. EVERYONE is fast. People don’t mess around. It’s humbling, and it’s part of the reason why everyone started passing me.)

I knew in the back of my head that this was the end of my chance to run a three hour race. The margin for doing so was already razor thin by Mile 15, and if I was going to hit the wall this early on it wasn’t possible. I considered the possibility of walking. It hurt really bad in that moment.

But I knew I’d probably see Sarah soon after that, which helped me keep going after the top of the hill. I also passed someone I had seen in the Barkleys Marathons doc, legendary ultra runner (at least in my eyes) John Fegyveresi. He was spectating. I was so shocked to see him that all I could do was unintelligibly point at him and yell “hey!” as I ran past. But he waved and returned the greeting, somehow. (Which led to this Twitter interaction.)

I did see Sarah right around 17, and I was able to get out a full “How’s it going?” If I still felt like I had a shot at three hours, I would have chugged on by, barely stopping, but I knew it was probably out the door at this point.

From then on, every step just hurt. The next hill came and I zombie-ran up it. It helped to unexpectedly see Marvin from RVRR, taking my picture. “Go Zach!” But it was all I could do to keep my legs moving at that point. The miles started to pass very, very slowly. My calves were spasming, and both sides of my groin were as well. My shoulders hurt. My forearm was spasming, as well, which makes no sense.

So I wonder what exactly had gone wrong with my body. What exactly had caused it to revolt against itself? I had trained for distance, but I didn’t do a ton of miles (for fear of injury), and I wasn’t at a tip-top fitness level, but I had thought my training leading into the race had been good. I had cut out alcohol and dessert for the two months leading up to race day as well. It was hot - that wasn’t helping, I was sure, even though I had stopped at water stops.

But I think the spasming was indicative of a lack of nutrition. I may be wrong, but I think I just hadn’t had enough electrolytes/salts to keep myself moving efficiently, especially in this heat. And when I thought back to the matzah breakfast (instead of the typical PB&J I eat with bread), the quinoa dinner (instead of pasta with cheese), and just the general Passover food throughout the week, I started to wonder...

So that I think was the biggest reason I was hurting in the very specific way I was - in combination with the other factors.

It was a little sad to realize that I wouldn’t achieve my goal. It kind of hurt too much to be sad, though. Also, I was here, running Boston. I couldn’t let it go to waste, and so I started noticing the crowd more, trying to actually absorb its energy and feed it to my arms and legs.

Mile 19. Mile 20. The famous Heartbreak Hill came, and I shuffled up it. I honestly don’t have a real sense of how hard it was since I wasn’t running like I normally do. I was just trying to drag my body to the top. And I did, and I knew the next five miles would be mostly downhill.

The top of Heartbreak, high-fiving what I’m sure was a screaming spectator.

They’re not entirely downhill, though. There are some upticks that you feel. I was really just trying to hang on at this point - I had started running a 10 minute mile. Running that pace isn’t typically aerobically difficult for me, but my legs could barely sustain it.

I saw RVRR’s Lauren right after 21, which helped. Any cheer helps. And then I resolved, right around Boston College and Cleveland Circle, to give as many high-fives to the screaming fans as possible. (A solid, unbreakable wall of adoring, loud fans had begun in Newton and didn’t let up for the rest of the race.)

The crowd was unbelievable. Words can’t describe how important they were in getting me through the race. I’ve never experienced anything like it. Actually, bros are some of the best people to pass. They’re drunk and loud and give powerful high-fives. It’s the best. (Giving high-fives to children is the best too.)

So as most of my wave continued to pass me, and not run directly along the crowd, I broke the mold. I ran right alongside the crowd and had everyone pretty much to myself. And I gave high-fives to everyone who offered their hand. People were cheering for me personally. When the crowd was a little more subdued, I egged them on. “Come on!” I yelled, gesturing with my hands. They responded enthusiastically.

I stopped three times to stretch especially spasming muscles, but I never walked. Maybe that’s a little dumb and macho, but it feels like a point of pride.

Around Mile 24 I caught a big wave of cheer and sped up for about a 1/4 mile. After that, I realized my body just didn’t have it to do that. So I stopped again, stretched, and then shuffled along. The big famous Boston Citgo sign came into view, and I knew we were approaching Fenway Park.

Citgo - finally attained!

We finally got there and to Mile 25, and I saw the baseball game there was still going on. Finally, I thought. I could smell the finish line, and that was wonderful.

Still, a tinge of sadness accompanied that thought. Soon the Boston Marathon would be over, and that would be the end of the race that I had dreamed about for years. I tried to hang on to the moment as long as I could.

I knew I’d probably see D and Danny at Mile 25.5 or so, near the Mass Ave crossing. And there they were, above me, screaming my name. It felt good. I had given my last few high fives before then - security kept us far away from the crowd at that point. That was fine. I was soaking in the love, and the love was certainly there.

I stopped under the Mass Ave bridge one more time to stretch an aching hamstring and then was back up one of the final hills. By that time my watch read something like 3:23. Earlier, I had thought to myself that it would be nice to crack 3:30. But I saw that I probably wouldn’t. And I didn’t care, because no one else did.

I made the famous right on Hereford Street, and I knew the equally famous left on Boylston was coming up. I did it, and there was a long straight away to the finish. The large finish line display was in the distance.

I put my head down and tried to bask in the glory, trying to alternately get myself to the finish line but make the moment last as long as possible.

And then, all of a sudden, there it was. Right in front of me, as others passed. I raised my arms, more to have the race photographer capture the moment than for any feeling of triumph. I didn’t feel like I’d triumphed over those particular 26.2 miles. It was a painful slog with thousands of your best friends cheering for you.

But it was the end of a chapter in my life, and so I raised them high.

The end.

Post-Race

There’s a very long walk through an endless supply of helpful angels. One of them wrapped a heat blanket around my shoulders; another placed a finisher’s medal around my neck. “Do you need chips? Apples? Gatorade? Vanilla Powerful Muscle Building Hero Energy Drink? Water?” The rock star feeling that you have throughout doesn’t end at the finish line.

More than a few people asked me if I needed a wheelchair. I was walking, but very, very gingerly. Somehow, my legs felt just moderately better than they had after the Philly Marathon, when my calves were stuck in a hellfire, but still - everything hurt. It certainly would have been nice to have one, but I refused because if I sat down, I wasn’t sure if my legs would allow me to get up at this point, and also because of pure, irrational machismo. It’s true.

But I kept walking, eventually making my way to the Family Meeting Area, where D would meet me. I called her twice from different people’s cell phones as she walked two miles and made her way through long security lines. She is the official champion of the day.

And as the sky darkened and the wind picked up and it wasn’t hot anymore, how was this possible? and I drank my power drink and talked to a guy who casually mentioned that his wife had finished ninth in Boston 30 years ago, D showed up. I wrapped my heat blanket around me one last time as I prepared to put on warm clothes.

And we walked to Back Bay Station, where I got a free subway ride. “Congratulations,” every single person said. We got off the subway. “Congratulations. Congratulations.” I passed a flower shop. “Here’s a free rose - for all finishers,” they said. I felt happy and light and sore and champion-like.

My finishing time was 3:32:13. I slowed to 11 minute miles by the end. But as I type this one week later, I’m over that. I’ll just remember the long procession, and the cheering, and I’ll wrap my blue Boston Marathon jacket around me and finger my medal as a tangible reminder of all of that.

I don’t know if I’ll get back to Boston. If I do, I hope it’s with my mom. But what matters now is this is the first time in my life I truly achieved a long-term personal goal I had been working toward for a very, very long time. I’ve made lists, I’ve made incremental process toward others, but some have just died on the vine. I’m not sure what that means for the future, other than the fact that I want to build a house of my own one day, with my hands.

Let’s add that one to the list next - and happily check Boston off.

Cherry blossoms and a finisher’s jacket I haven’t taken off since I got it.

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