one pace

3

Never been so cranky at my garmin before…. it wasn’t picking up distance/pace right on the track tonight, so I asked the assistant coach for my training group to time my last 800 and it was 3:57!!! I never ever run in the 8:00/mi range, much less sub 8, and there was NO PROOF!!! So flipping sad.

Track workout tonight: 6x800 with 200m jog in between. Starting at comfortably hard, building up to 90% effort. Garmin says I avg’d 9:44 pace, but it was definitely faster than that!

I haven’t been doing track work regularly for the past two months or so but it felt so good to get out and work out some stress! I ran hard but I feel a million times better now than I did before I went. It’s like magic!

anonymous asked:

QUICK! Give us a solemate au where 2p Italy is trying to force s/o to become there solemate (even though it doesn't work that way) {use whatever au you want} [take your time, no rush]

(I’m doing the tattoo one where you and your sm have matching ones)

Luciano paces the length of the room, leaving you to stew in your growing terror and anxiety. He stops his march and turns to you, kneeling to your level.  Keeping an unmoving, burning glare directly into your eyes, he reaches around you and unties one of your hands, jerking it towards him. He sneers down at your wrist, scoffing at it, the mark fate had cursed you with. When Luciano was younger, he’d often daydream of finding his soulmate, the most perfect being he’d ever met that was all for him. But he gave up on that thought the moment he was introduced to you. You were everything his soulmate was supposed to be, and you weren’t his. It wasn’t fair. He gently brushes his fingertips over the pattern, sighing he glances up at you.

“Bella, we’re going to have to remove this somehow. . “ he whispers while getting to his feet. He pulls down your gag and envelops your lips in a kiss, brushing his tongue across them a few times. He finally backs away, moving to a table, and fiddling some of the tools.

“Luciano?” You plead, “You know this isn’t the way things are supposed to be I-I’m sure there’s someone out there much better suited for you than I, and there’s someone waiting for me, as well, we don’t want to keep them waiting, do we? This isn’t how things are supposed to be, please let me go?” You finish, cowering at his gradually intensifying glare.

“Fuck ‘how things are supposed to be’ I love you god fucking dammit, and no one will take you from me!” Luciano places his hands over his forehead, rubbing his temples and returning his attention to the table. “So I have a few ways thought up that we can get rid of that horrid blemish on your arm” he begins, wheeling the table in front of you, “We could burn it off, we could cut it out, we could just take the whole thing off at the elbow?” he suggests, a malicious glint in his eye as he gestures at the length of your forearm. 

“No thank you.” You squeak, staring wide-eyed at the table,now seeing the instruments that lay on top of it.

“Dearest, you have to choose at least one, or else that thing will stay on there forever” Luciano says, now toying with a blowtorch. 

“Maybe I want it to! I don’t want it to lose it, I have to find my soulmate” Luciano only chuckles.

“How about I go ahead and help you, Bella.” He smiles widely at you, then points to himself, “Your soulmate is right here.” 

“Luci please don’t do this.” You beg, tucking your arm under yourself in futile hope of discouraging the madman.

“Well, since you are obviously not going to choose, I will for you.” Luciano completely frees you from the chair, only to drag you over to an operating table, which wasn’t really an operating table. He binds you onto it, thick leather straps constricted every joint. Tears form in the corners of your eyes as Luciano fires up the blowtorch, he rubs the mark with a heavy hand. “I’m not going to miss this thing, what about you?” A small sob rattles your chest, you can feel the heat as Luciano gets to work. The moment the white of the flame actually touches you, you feel like you’re going to die. A scream rips itself from your throat and you thrash as much as you can, you can feel your own skin bubbling and you wished he would’ve just cut the damn thing off. You can’t take it and you black out.

When you wake up again, the surface beneath your body is soft, you can bend your elbows again, but your arm ached, and anytime you dared to move anything that could shift the skin on it, little knives seemed to stab it, you realize you’re in a bed, and that there is a strange warmth next to you. Pulling back the covers, the place where your mark had been is layered under thick bandages, you remember what happened, and a hole opens up in your heart. You can barely remember what it looked like already. So somewhere out there is probably some hopeful, bright young loser who was supposed to be yours, dreaming of the day when they would meet you, but with no way to find them, and with who knows how many miles to cover, the chances of you ever laying eyes on them has dropped to almost zero. The person next to you moves, that person of course being a certain Italian dickwad. 

“I was surprised you passed out so early, you couldn’t take as much pain as I thought you could.” His voice was raspy and tired, his breath tickling your ear. 

“It’s. .  It’s gone.” You choke, a wave of sadness and loss weighing your body down, you didn’t want to move, you didn’t even feel like you could.

“That’s right my love.” Luciano replies, reaching his own arm over to place his own bandaged wrist next to yours. “It’s ok I did mine too love~ Now there will most likely be some amount of nerve damage, possible loss of control, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact that you and I, darling, we are no longer bound by some stupid horseshit fate that some hippie god up in some cheezy hippie heaven decided would be best for us, we are free, we are meant for each other, and you will never escape me.”

10

The Many Faces of Yuuri Katsuki - Episode 7

And so we make it to the episode that changed everything. There’s a lot I could say but I’ll keep it short by only pointing out a couple things. The first is that even though this is a Yuuri-centric gifset, there ended up being a fairly large Victor presence in this one (the man just creeps into your life and is a permanent fixture before you even notice!). The second is that you’ll notice both times Yuuri charges off the ice to meet Victor, he’s met with a surprise. The natures of both surprises are a bit different though. ;)

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

Bonus because how can we leave out the 4F that changed everything:

Mercury Signs ☿
  • Mercury in Aries: Quick decisions, active & youthful spirit, constant movement of mind, fast paced speech.
  • Mercury in Taurus: Pragmatic thinking, fixed goals, mellow nature, slow paced speech, "one track mind".
  • Mercury in Gemini: Trivia-lover, eclectic & curious, impatient nature, constant the overlapping of ideas.
  • Mercury in Cancer: Long-term memory, emotional lenses, tenacious nature, easily inspired, consistency lover.
  • Mercury in Leo: Dynamic spirit, natural storyteller, fixed in their thoughts, life-loving spirit, loud.
  • Mercury in Virgo: Eternal searching for more, watchful nature, skeptical& nervous mind, common sense lover.
  • Mercury in Libra: Flexible & impartial mind, careful words, composed speech, "people-smart", a negotiator.
  • Mercury in Scorpio: Herectic & probing mind. Curious & critical nature, strong instincts, a born strategist.
  • Mercury in Sagittarius: Philosophical and independent spirit, exaggerated in their words, blunt speech.
  • Mercury in Capricorn: Cautious in their words, fact oriented, a practical mind & an ambitious spirit.
  • Mercury in Aquarius: Expansive genius, inventive & open-minded, sarcastic speech, progressive thoughts.
  • Mercury in Pisces: Daydreamer, Utopian idealist, intuitive spirit, forgetful, subjective in their words.

does any1 else do that thing were ur just like pacing around ur room and u feel giddy and are just thinking about something you rEALLY love and u cant sit still literally are full of so much emotion for this thing that u feel like ur gonna burst

Too bad people didn’t fall in love at the same pace, at the same time, for the same reasons, and too bad those emotions didn’t move simultaneously. But each act of madness moved at its own pace, one not dependent on the pace of anyone else. It wasn’t like tandem skydiving, where you were connected as you fell, where you were forced to fall at the same rate and use the same parachute. Falling in love was a solo act. I knew that, had learned that the hard way. You just jumped and hoped your parachute opened. Sometimes you looked up and saw you were falling by yourself, the object of your desire still on the plane, not interested in jumping, watching you descend into that scary place alone.
—  Eric Jerome Dickey, The Novel Pleasure
fall in love with someone who wants to know your favorite color and just how you like your coffee. Fall in love with someone who loves the way you laugh and would do absolutely anything to hear it. Fall in love with someone who puts their head on your chest just to hear your heart beat. Fall in love with someone who kisses you in public and is proud to show you off to anyone they know. Fall in love with someone who makes you question why you were afraid to fall in love in the first place. Fall in love with someone who would never ever want to hurt you. Fall in love with someone who falls in love with your flaws and thinks you are perfect just the way you are. Fall in love with someone who thinks that you are the ONE they would love to wake up to each day.
—  via @wizdomly
Thranduil’s Talented Tongue - Thranduil x Reader

This Thranduil x Reader fanfic is based on the above imagine by @elven-nicknacks.

And believe me, the king takes his obligations very seriously. So better be prepared for some steamy action with Thranduil’s talented tongue.

I decided to take this one-shot towards a teasing side and include some very light bondage. But admit it, dominant and in control Thrandy is just absolutely irresistible. So I hope you enjoy your time with the King of Smirkwood ;). And I am definitely not sorry for the smut, the queen deserves a loving treatment from her king.

You can also find this one-shot on AO3.

Length: 3.986 words

Disclaimer:
I do not own Thranduil (unfortunately), nor any of the other characters from Tolkien’s Middle-earth. I do not make any money with this, this is purely for entertainment.

Thranduil’s Talented Tongue

With an exasperated sigh you slammed the door shut behind you, the wood creaking dangerously on its hinges. You were fuming and in a bad temper. „Ah! Those endless meetings!“ you grumbled to yourself, cursing under your breath as you fought to unfasten your cloak. „They drag on forever. Can they not spare the king for one evening?“

You stomped towards the bed and kicked off your slippers seeing with satisfaction as they bounced off the bedpost. „Why do I need to do without him and go to bed alone? They are all just boring officials with boring reports about boring things.“ 

You flung your cloak into the furthermost corner of the room and threw yourself onto the soft bed, enjoying the springy feeling as you bounced up and down softly with the momentum of your body’s motions. A naughty smile dawned on your face as you were reminded of all the other times the bed had bounced and shaken vigorously those countless times when Thranduil had made love to you there. He was such a passionate lover, tireless and ever striving to please you, his queen. You loved his playfulness and the fact that you could instil in him such desire that he would eventually cast away his self-restraint and do all those unspeakable things to you, his kisses burning on your skin, their imprint remaining on your body as a delicious memory. Just thinking about what he did to you sent flashes of heat through your body and you could feel your core begging to be caressed by his hands as they wandered all over your body just to find the spot that longed to be touched the most.

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There’s an undeniable crime problem in Los Santos, an affluent city rife with thieves and bandits of all pedigrees, which isn’t in itself all that strange. What’s odd is the incredibly high number of unsolved crimes, of acts no one claims, ones that the LSPD can’t even begin to lay blame for. Even when committed in broad daylight, even when the police arrive on the scene in the middle of a heist, no one manages to catch more than unclear glimpses of the culprits, no bullets hit their marks, and when all is said and done there is somehow never any reliable evidence. No camera ever manages to catch a thing, no trap is ever successful, and never has a single witness managed a coherent report, like somehow none of them ever pay enough attention. Like somehow what they’ve seen can never be put into words.

Throw a stone and you’ll hit a crook in Los Santos, from thugs to conmen to masked killers they all call the city home, all know their place, yet somehow the balance of powers never really makes sense. Like something is missing, like everyone’s fighting to be second best while the title of top dog goes empty. Not that the reluctance to take charge is all that surprising, considering the way any crew which starts to grow big enough to extend their hold over the city is cut down. Driven out or found murdered, often laying in the remains of what was clearly a vicious shoot-out, though the killers are never found. Like vigilantes, only not nearly so altruistic; the spoils belonging to the defeated gangs are always taken, and only reappear at the scene of yet another unclaimed crime.



There’s a crew in Los Santos, so ingrained in the essence of the city itself no one seems to remember how things were before they arrived. The Fake AH Crew; legends in some circles, monsters in others, both consummate enigmas and borderline celebrities, the crew with the world at their feet. The main six players of the inner circle aren’t odd, exactly, each criminals of great renown but still holding pretty standard goals, greedy and bloodthirsty and perhaps more loyal than most but still acting well within their given standard of normalcy. They aren’t unusual, really, but these days they do have their little quirks.

As the leader Geoff has always had to present himself as reasonably level-headed, controlled outside the occasional snaps of frightful anger, a little overbearing in his need to dictate every plan maybe, but what criminal kingpin isn’t? What’s odd is the new fear kept behind closed doors, Geoff second-guessing his own ideas to a degree that is wholly out of character, running over plans again and again, pulling them apart and looking for flaws, debriefing even after successful missions when everyone else just wants to celebrate, unconsciously pressing his hand to his heart like reassurance that it’s still beating.

Jack drives like she’s made a deal with the devil, like every vehicle is just an extension of her being, inherent ability paired with unmatchable knowledge of every backroad and alley in the city. What’s odd is the nightmarish daydreams she gets sometimes, when she looks back at her latest baby and sees flickers of crunched metal and shattered glass, the phantom scent of spilled gasoline and the unmissable click-whoosh of catching flame.

For all his quick temper and flippant attitude Michael can be utterly pedantic about checking and rechecking the timers on bombs, which honestly isn’t an awful trait in the resident explosives guy. What’s odd is the way Michael gets angry about it sometimes, storms about the penthouse yanking out every last alarm clock, the way he swears he can still hear something ticking with furious intention, like the last seconds of a countdown.

He may be happier in a no-holds-barred fist-fight but nobody could say Jeremy isn’t good with a gun, an excellent shot with just about any weapon he can get his hands on. What’s odd is the little burst of panic he gets right after firefights, patting down his own chest, checking again and again like he can’t quite believe he wasn’t hit.

Ryan isn’t wracked by guilt, doesn’t regret what he does the way some might; he’s a killer and he owns it, he chose it, and it truly doesn’t bother him. What’s odd is the way he still can’t sleep, can’t close his eyes some nights when the darkness squeezes close and he feels so cold, like the depths of the ocean are pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs.

In terms of his own safety Gavin is as reckless as they come, all slapdash impulses and delighted disregard, chasing amusement at any cost when it’s only his own neck on the line. What’s odd is that sometimes Gavin walks around with a parachute strapped to his back and no intention of flying that day, utterly overzealous precaution without any real explanation as to why, like some part of him is always terrified that he’s going to fall.

Maybe the Fake’s know, on their worst days, that something isn’t quite right, something about them has gone awry, but the concern never lingers in the face of their unmatched success. Because a crew’s a crew, right? Maybe they’re a little luckier than most, maybe they’ve been unstoppable for so long it feels like no one else is really trying, like they are the merciless gods of their city. Maybe they catch themselves drifting sometimes, losing time or memories or thoughts or scars. Maybe they all know something is not quite right, a distant siren in the back of their minds begging them to pay attention, but surely it doesn’t mean anything.

You can romanticise it all you want, call them the scariest, the most dangerous, devastatingly talented in all the worst ways, but at the end of the day all humans are flawed and all crews will fall. Whether or not falling is enough to shake them from their throne is, however, a completely different issue. If a crew dies in the woods (the city, the sky, the sea), and nobody is brave enough to tell them, did it even happen? 



There’s an empty penthouse in Los Santos, one that cannot be sold, one no one likes to talk about, not really. What has been said is that the door sticks sometimes, cannot be opened no matter how much force is applied. What has been said is that things move around all on their own, new stains reveal themselves and furniture appears and disappears like someone’s been squatting, but the dust is too thick for anyone to have visited. What’s been said makes shivers run down spines, hair stand on edge, gives rise to furtive glances and shared discomfort, an unspoken agreement never to return.

Maybe this alone wouldn’t be such a problem, maybe owning the most prestigious penthouse in a city overrun by wealth would be enough to attract some sceptic, but there is of course the matter of the previous owners. The most despicable, untouchable, indelible criminal gang the city had ever seen. Has ever seen, even this long after their passing. They died, at some point. No one quite remembers when, or how, no one really seems to talk about them anymore, not beyond wild stories of their antics, amazing heists and unspeakable terrors fading off into silence, like they did in the end. How bizarre it is that the crime levels didn’t actually drop even after they were gone.



There’s something deeply wrong in Los Santos, something strange and unsettling, like a catastrophic event has knocked the whole city just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. It’s in the way the LSPD have cabinet upon cabinet of unsolved crimes that never manage to make their way into reports, years of unacceptably unpunished offences that would bring the might of a federal investigation if only they were disclosed. In the way a startling amount of those offences resemble crimes from days long past, copycat plans following acts of a crew long buried, new targets hit with the same old flare, methods and motives impressively in-character down to the smallest details.

There are secrets in Los Santos. Things no one knows, things everyone knows, an awful, impossible, inescapable reality they’ve all been trapped within. It’s in the way unease builds and dissipates without cresting, citizens never quite recognising their own discomfort, never fully acknowledging the oddity of acting without reason, of crossing the street or averting their eyes, of taking the long way home simply because that one corner just didn’t feel right. In the way the city is beset by sudden inexplicable explosions, the way gunfire rattles without a source, the way empty streets echo with chilling laughter like the ghost of a memory, the phantom chill of a nightmare, the ceaseless loop of those who will not be laid to rest.

First Meeting

Originally posted by acebarduil

Originally posted by leepace71

READ:

Bold and Italicized= Khuzdul

Italicized= Elvish

Also this could be a very, in the future, spin off of this but like it could also be read as a oneshot. Whatever floats your boat.

MASTER LIST 

You shrug out the elf’s grip. You could walk on your own. You watch the elves in the front and all of them have fiery hair or brown hair and it’s obvious that the one leading the group is of a different race of elves. You’ve heard that the Prince and King were of the Sindarin race but you did not think it to be true.

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