#Massage Boulder CO

[heli0s-writes]

intricate rituals*

a/n: You know how kids pick on each other but it's actually because they like each other? It's like that. 4.7k words. I don't know why this one was so long. I wrote this as a companion piece to slow hands. warnings: fantasizing & masturbation, language, the usual helios sprinkle of angst because Steve. Please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

Judgmental red numbers gleamed from the alarm clock on your beside table. 2:50, it leered like a schoolyard bully, and you could only groan in reply, shoving your pillow over your face and muttering into it a string of unintelligible curse words.

The day stretched too long after you were hit—socked—square in the left orbital. Your skull ached and thrummed, congregating pain at the welt along your brow bone, and beneath all of it, your brain was at once empty and full of insistence.

And although you’d have to be vertical again in about three hours, your nerves were still uneasy, still roiling beneath your skin because adrenaline could be a bitch and a half like that.

You were floating aimlessly in limbo, trying to force-sink into the distance of sleep. Thoughts skated behind the back of your eyes and around your ears, restless fingers twitching beneath blankets. Each time you slipped off, the rug was pulled out beneath your feet and your body jerked awake, leaving your heart racing. Self-sabotage.

You were too tired to attempt a jog, not trusting your sore muscles to maneuver the compound’s wooded perimeter. The best option was the easy route: quick, simple, and only a little offensive. After all, imagination after a certain hour of the night was a dangerous thing but flirting with danger in private was worth it once you could rest after.

Besides, asking Tony for any strange white pill to put you to sleep was perilous at best and fatal at worst, and asking to be gently placed in a sleeper hold by a friend was a one-way ticket to seeing the on-call psychiatrist.

And, anyway, they’d think you were a masochist.

And, well, maybe you were. But that’s not their business.

Maybe you’d like it to be though. Maybe you’d like to see the flutter of interest, the reciprocity, admittance that they were also a little masochistic because who in this line of work isn’t?

Volunteering to get pummeled day in and day out must be diagnosable in the DSM-5 manual. Yeah. At least a few of your teammates are masochistic. You’d bet good money on it.

Bucky, for one. And—oh—wouldn’t his cheekbones look so good bright red? You could cut your palms on those.

Here was the danger with imagination past a certain hour of the night:

Co-ed dormitory style living with a gorgeous cast of characters—all deranged in their own right—but still gorgeous. Lovable despite their many, many flaws. Egregious, maddening flaws.

Some were shared, inhabited by every member like they decided to build homes inside of their neuroses. Martyrdom, obstinacy, the occasional withholding of all worldly pleasures when they thought they deserved deprival—when someone would fuck up unnoticeably on a mission and then self-flagellate inside their mind for days afterwards.

Bucky’s refusal to trust his own instincts sometimes; Tony’s incurable lust for sticking his foot in his mouth like he’s starving for the taste of dirt; Natasha’s quiet, catastrophic need to be useful whether it made her a teammate or an object.

Steve— the basket-case. A whole shitshow marathon of issues all crammed up in his bright blonde head, and it’d get so full it would rush out of him by way of seething rage, reflex reactions, his boot pressed against yours as he’d stare down. His hands curled into boulders, jaw working in slow, powerful movements as clenched and unclenched his teeth.

You couldn’t help but think of it now and again. Imagine him turning all that misplaced anger to good use.

One hand ventured to your thigh, the other crossing over your chest, rubbing up your bicep to your shoulder. There was a knot you couldn’t massage out, that Bucky couldn’t either despite his best efforts. His flesh hand first and then his other hand when he thought a temperature change would help. It whirred by your ear, the plates shifting like bee song.

You could hear yourself hum lightly at the memory. It felt nice—smooth, cool, heavy. The weight of his curled fist as he kneaded, the strength in his fingers he was always holding back, even more so as he worked over the delicate skin near your neck. You didn’t shudder then, but you began to.

He’d probably laugh if you did. Roll his eyes even though he’d be pleased about it.

And excuse you for being like everyone else in the world who’d ever seen Bucky Barnes and his arm in action.

You might just say, shut up, just touch me, and he would. Touch up your neck, thumb propped at the base of your skull, the rest of his fingers around your throat where he’d drum out the beat of an old 40’s song.

And then Steve began emerging from darkness along with a couch, cheek propped on his fist, watching lazily. It was indigo all around him. Just a lamp somewhere in the corner making the side of his pale face warm orange.

Guess three’s not a crowd in your book—

Shut up, Bucky.

His hand was still on your neck, but you’d gotten in his lap, thighs spread until your legs were on the outside of his. He’d lost his shirt and landed on the couch next to Steve, who asked, petulantly, I’m here to watch?

You weren’t sure. You didn’t expect your own half-awake mind trying to reason itself out of a sex fantasy. Not when Bucky was shirtless beneath you, slightly tanned skin displaying a scatter of freckles like the time he ventured to the tropics and came back with a grin lasting almost two weeks.  

But Steve was expecting an answer and the critical eyebrow high on his forehead repeated the question: I’m here to watch?

Apropos of nothing except being 85% shut down, you replied with, you hit me today, and fell forward into Bucky’s arms. It was sullen and Bucky snickered, pressing his nose into the dip between your collarbones, a kiss somewhere nearby.

I didn’t mean to, Steve said cooly, still unamused.

Oh yes he did. Bucky touched you again, the webbing between thumb and forefinger beneath your breast for a second before he tweaked a nipple. Your toes curled slightly, chest jolting upward, and Bucky confirmed, masochist.

Steve perched his elbows on knees, leaning forward. One hand reached out, stroked the tapering edge of your eyebrow down to your cheekbone. His face was sweet, pleased, mischief cutting across his features. He pressed his finger down just a fraction, made your bruise sore with it, and the sweetness in his face glinted sharply.

Okay, he said, what else do you want?

He pressed down again and a handful of Steve’s flashed past as you exhaled. All those glimpses of him in various phases of his life, light-speed. There were suspenders and pressed white shirts too large for him. There was short hair and ballcaps and aviators. The way his shoulders hunched as he made himself invisible in a crowd. Captain suits in bright blue, then dark blue, and finally the deep night of the stealth number, material of tough neoprene and dull and sturdy across his chest. His hair was long flipped out at the ends. His beard grew and then shortened in length.

You couldn’t decide what else.

He was standing and then he was sitting. He leaned back on one elbow, sprawled like a Greek statue on a chaise lounge.

He was behind Bucky, arms coming to rest on either side of his neck, hands hanging limply forward, palm up, as if coaxing you closer, pressing Bucky tight in the middle until he huffed with discomfort.

Guess three is a crowd in your book.

Bucky disappeared and Steve came forward until he was flush against you.

In my dress uniform, really?

He sat with his thighs spread, contemplating your choice of Steve. His hair was slicked back, the high collar of his dress shirt starched and cupping his sharp, gorgeous jaw.

He was a garbled assemblage of an old photo in olive-green military wear. His blue eyes sparkled with attentiveness. He looked down his chest at the ribbons you were sure were incorrect, but they approximated something official. The jacket was starched and crisp, slacks well-pressed and fitted nicely.  

You liked the idea of him young, hopeful, and—smiling.

He placed his hands on your biceps before moving to your waist, stretching his fingers as far as he could to snare you. The fabric of your white button-up crinkled between your body and his. Three top buttons were undone, your breasts spilling out.

Steve’s hair was a mess, like it’d been yanked at fiercely. His mouth was wet and red and he was pawing at your back, rolling his hips upward until your groins met. His voice was rumbling and stuttery, brows together and cheeks rosy.

He stopped moving, only looking up at you with enormous eyes like a dog waiting for a command— which he’d never, ever looked like before. Panting as he caught his breath, he took a labored gasp, pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and asked.

Ma’am?

Oh. God help you.

There he was in all his glory, one foot into martyrdom and the other still in boyhood. Before everything crashed and burned and he was still clumsy with it. Just a bright, beaming thing pleading for  you to notice his light.

He began to fumble, hardly used to his body and so different than how you’ve seen him hurl himself through the air head-fucking-first because he was always ready to die on some hill or another.

He was shy, worrying his gorgeous mouth into a small line as he looked and looked. Over your face, down your neck, your chest, the mismatched set of underclothes you were still dressed in—and he stared at it entranced as if you were some kind of centerfold.

Like he ever would—but your brain was an electrified lump of meat, so dream-Steve could forgive it for irrationality.

But you were still sane enough to feel guilty about it because he was 24, and in a flash of genius engineering, he’d be weary beyond all his days.

Which hurt, which was stupid, which was really killing your whole endeavor.

You couldn’t do it with the thought of him careening into war at 20-something and couldn’t even worse with the thought of him, terrified and alone, the same giant, blue eyes searching the modern world for a sliver of recognition only 7 years later.

So your fingers halted between your legs, letting his nervous, boyish face shimmer away into the back of your mind.

Your eyes opened back up. The clock taunted 3:15, sizzling fuchsia.

You closed your eyes again.

The numbers shifted, rearranged until they were two curved lines and Steve’s mouth was there, hovering over yours, and he’d grown up some—you could see it in the pallid sheen of his skin, the creases in his face that were less from age and more from suffering. He waited, saying nothing.

There was supposed to be a lot you could do here. All manners of debauched acts to imagine— involving rope and whip and raking your nails down his back until your name burned in his throat, his considerable figure reduced to a tremble as he ached for you.

But you couldn’t, because suddenly the agony of not being able to sleep pivoted into a strange, new turn of events. From wanting to touch yourself to wanting nothing more than jumping into a lake to erase the turmoil his big, blue eyes roused in you, you struggled on a little longer, peeking around his haloed head of blonde, faint light behind him like a corona.

No? He drew one eyebrow up toward his hairline, his full pink lips quirking into a smirk. Not doing it for you? Why’s that?

You put a hand over his mouth, but dream logic was in no mood to be silenced, and Steve’s voice crept up in your ears anyway. No matter how much you wanted to shut him down, to push him away, he remained.

The truth, soldier. He tipped his head and looked at you past long, dark lashes. Give it to me straight.

-

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was gravelly.

You rubbed your eyes, wincing. 4 A.M. approached while you were still caught in a loop in bed—drifting, then jerking awake, nauseated with each new scenario.

Finally, it had been enough. You couldn’t force a thing that wouldn’t arrive, and so you trudged to the training room with your water bottle and forgot shoes along the way.

“Just need to get my mind off things,” you replied, and swatted weakly at a punching bag.

Steve was still wrapping his knuckles because he would always have more foresight than you do and watched you from the corner of his eye. You tapped at the leather, jabbing one-two, one-two, until it began to sway marginally wider, the link chain holding the bag rattling like windchimes.

You wished he wasn’t in the gym. You could feel him in the corner of your mind, a presence that sensed you as much as you sensed it, that weighed heavily, waiting.

“You’ll split them open.”

You jumped in surprise and then it only took a few steps before he was in front of you, hand outstretched with the wrap.

“I’m fine,” you protested, but his mouth was a thin straight line that didn’t need to emit any words. He’d just nag until you gave up. Then he’d throw you onto the wrestling mat and call it a lesson.

Maybe you were cranky.

“I can do it myself,” you attempted, but he ignored it steadfastly, focused on pulling your fingers apart.

“Sure, you could.”

You shifted your weight, “You think I’d fuck it up or something.”

“I think you’d do it clumsy. Think it’d be a rush job.”

He secured the loop onto your thumb before tugging it over the back of your wrist. You watched his fingers, wrapped up skillfully, as they turned and twisted around yours. For all his calluses, he was handling you delicately, and it was all too strange.

Sweat beaded along his brow, his pink cheeks from an earlier warm-up were settling the longer he stood still. He wasn’t making eye contact even as you ducked to find his gaze. It felt like part of an apology.

Nothing passed but his breath and yours, both awkwardly out of their regular tempo. You knew why you were being so weird, but couldn’t guess a damn what reason he would have.

Suddenly, he said, “If I pulled my punches in practice, it would skew your perception in the field.”

You deliberated this information, and the way he offered it up. Like he was bringing you a precious relic you’d be grateful to receive. What an honor. The stinging aftermath of his bones against your bones.

“So this,” you tilted your face forward, showing him where his forearm landed this morning and the pulp of your skin that ice, for fifteen minutes after, did nothing for, “This is a favor?”

He frowned, something complicated skittering across his face.

After a minute, which was quite a long time for Steve to meditate when you were obviously baiting him, he said, “It’s a warning. Enemies won’t go easy on you. I can’t either, even if I wanted to. It’s my job to make sure you’re prepared for whatever is coming next. It’s my job to bring you back home.”

“That’s nice—"

He cut you off, firm. “That’s the truth.”

The truth.

You felt it with your entire chest as Steve stood there, attention fixed upon your hand, his own circling your wrist and palm and then between the sensitive webbing of your fingers with diligence.

A lock of hair fell over his forehead, obscured one eye, and when he looked up behind it in wait of your reply with that open, honest expression, you gulped.

The truth, he asked in your dream— that he seemed to be wanting now wordlessly. That you’d been punching down every morning and night because it was so simple, and excruciating.

The truth was, you were stupid for him. And just stupid, in general, because you could never tell him. Because he was Steven Grant Rogers, for fuck’s sake. He was stunning and tortured and you wanted to die sometimes, just looking at him because you didn’t know how else to express it.

Because there wasn’t a world where you could step up to Steve, stare down the magnum opus of his monumental hero’s journey and feel like you could be a contender for a single, sad crumb of his attention. 

And yet you could never quite help yourself.

The truth:

Sometimes you’d do it to get his hands on you—to motivate him, to have him spare a single glance your way. Screw up the training exercise just so he’d spend an extra hour beating the drill into you.

Because outside of your private quarters and battered-tired imagination, when would he ever?

Because short of begging him to touch you, when would he ever?

The baiting. The backtalk. Challenging him at every turn. You were a spiraling addict, grabbing any high within your reach.

Hell, you were just as deranged as the rest of them. DSM-5, eat your heart out.

He dropped your hands, finished, and brought his thumb up to your temple where the welt throbbed under his pulse. “There,” he said. Almost silent, almost like you imagined it.

Then between one heartbeat and the next, his lips parted, bottom one pulled in almost imperceptibly— and— fuck, you didn’t understand a damn thing.

You made a noise like a fish out of water and he rubbed the back of his broad neck, craning his sight to the high ceiling. When he turned back down, he was soft at his edges, the tired years on his face placated.

“I know what you’re doing. You don’t think I know?”

You were nearly sure you were still in bed, and the fantasy was turning on its head, coming up absurdist and you were ready, nowpleasegod, to wake up.

“Pickin’ fights in alleyways since I could throw a punch. Why’d you think so?”

You sputtered, because you’re a ham-fisted, sleep-deprived, single-minded moron, “Because you’re a glutton for punishment?”

Steve snorted. “Like you are?”

You could feel the burn of agony twist its way up your neck, the way fact exposes itself when there’s no other cowardly avenue to run down. He watched, his sea-glass eyes stormy and insistent, and the lights of the compound gym were like stage spotlights now, white, and localized.

You found interest in your feet, because you were still missing shoes, and Steve followed the path and saw your toes curled up tight like hiding themselves.

“Jesus,” he huffed with dismay.

“I was tired. Am. Still tired.”

 “Go back to sleep.”

“I tried. Why do you think I’m here? Have you ever seen me here?” You swept your arm out toward the abundance of equipment that have not yet been acquainted with even your shadow.

“Now that you mention it,” he replied.

“Not once—my god, Rogers, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Hey,” he said, because you were doing that horrible, compulsive, nervous-tic conflict thing again, and this time he put his hand on your shoulder and it was warm.

Your skin crooned his name.

“What. Are you doing.” Your throat was bone dry.

He stepped closer—not a dream, he was real, he was there, he was breathing your hair and touching your shoulder—and he dipped his head down, in wait.

“Oh,” your mouth decided sentences were beyond its means. “O-oh.”

“That a yes? Or no.” He moved to step away, his serious expression fluttering into embarrassment, and then guilt, and then you were doing an aerobatic move between a hop and a hurdle to reach for his face.

Teeth clicked, and you winced. He didn’t seem to mind, only stabilizing you with one hand on your neck and the other at your hip. His lips were full, hot, like there was a pulse in his mouth that was trying to overcome yours. He towered, not just in height, but—you couldn’t describe it. Your head was swirling, dizzy.

“You haven’t had any water today,” he murmured—and what kind of psycho would say that during a kiss.

“Do you mind?” you grabbed at his hair, “I’m trying to—” You kissed him some more, your brain a fluttering, ecstatic mess. You shivered when he licked your tongue, fisted his collar when he made a huff—a moan—and then he was gone, a faint hiss between his teeth and his eyes burning darkly.

You wanted to fall down to the gym floor, take him tumbling with you, hands impatient and wild as you felt for each other. Up t-shirts and down waistbands, tongues sloppy and missing each other, leaving lines of spit along chins and necks.

It felt silly—stupid, reckless, fantastic—but it was damn good. Like two kids figuring out their bodies for the first time. So natural and luxurious that you could literally fall forward into him, let him do everything. Strip you naked in the damn gym, fold you in half atop some mats, over a bench, leave marks down your spine and up your throat. Curl himself so deep you could feel him in your mind for days after—you wanted it all.

He was laughing a little bit, the creases of his eyes lit with joy as he weaved left and right, getting all the right angles to mouth at you with. He pawed and squeezed and sighed as he touched you, feeling every inch. He was excited, and it kind of killed you to know—made your belly swelter and clench with pride.

You rolled your hips lazily into his, and he backed up until he found a bench to sit down on, pulling you by the hand, the wrap yanking open and unspooling onto the floor.

“This okay?” He asked.

You made a low, pained sound.

“Hey,” he said, and you blinked at how concerned he was. He steadied your shoulders, his long fingers comforting and heavy. “You okay?”

You yawned, and when you looked at him again, he was confused. And he was standing.

You couldn’t keep up. You looked down dumbly at your empty hands. He was just there.

Oh, gods.

Steve was standing—at the punching bag, not sitting on a bench with you between his thighs. And the wrap that had unspooled from your left hand was limply hanging from your right, the necessary supplies in a bag next to your foot.

You went ice cold.

You wobbled and caught yourself, because you were standing in the middle of the gym idly, realizing that you’d spent the last 10 minutes losing yourself in a fever dream about Steve.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” you said too quickly, recoiling when he side-stepped from his position to head toward you. Your knees trembled, the place between your thighs warm and clenching madly on nothing.

“You don’t look okay.”

“You’re… worried about me?”

Steve narrowed his eyes and said “yes”, like you were stupid. But then he breathed soft, and looked so much like that fantasy you’d conjured up a few seconds ago, that you turned and made ready to bolt.

He caught your wrist.

“I need to—” he began firmly. “You need to listen--”

But you didn’t. You licked your lips because he was so close and you were insane with want for him, and he stopped dead in his tracks for a split second, eyes tracking your mouth and the short, puffs of air that your chest was pushing out without you meaning it to. Just quick huffs as you bit down on your lip to make yourself quiet and small and unseen.

Steve swallowed. He said something almost silent and it sounded like sorry before he leaned forward and caught your mouth with his.

He sighed into it. Breathed into it. He placed one hand on the small of your back and pressed your entire body to him, and you moaned like he tore it out of you.

And this time, it was real. The two of you scrambled for each other, heaving and loud.

He took you to the floor, only took another few impatient, hotheaded licks of his tongue and then he was inside of your shirt, his mouth sucking round, wet brands up between your breasts.

You bucked up to get closer, and he sank down, licking and sucking and all ten of his fingers dug into your hips and waist.

“Shit,” he said.

“Uggnnn,” you replied eloquently before your better judgement pivoted and decided to swipe at reason. “What’s—“

“You make me fucking crazy.” Steve rushed out.

“Fair,” you gasped when he began rolling his hips against yours. “Feeling’s mutual—oh, what are you doing--”

He only answered with more of it, and harder, up and down, his forehead pressed to yours—his entire body, really, pressed like he wanted to swallow you whole.

It went on for eternity, it felt like, the two of you messy and starved, every second of contact a half-fight, half-resignation. Between the rushing blood in your head and the high-pitched ringing of excitement, there was a relief, like your skin was singing finally, oh god, finally.

Steve, above you, was smiling—was happy—almost as if he felt the same.

-

“Next time just say something,” you said, when you could finally breathe again.

“Like what?” He wiped his forehead. You did that to him.

You sputtered, the taste of his tongue still in your mouth, “Like—just don’t hit me so hard. And don’t say you have to.”

He opted to say nothing instead, only rolling his eyes, and you found the perfect opportunity to continue pestering. “Do you ever pull your punches? Could you maybe try?”

He only grinned with that wet, red mouth, and his eyes flicked down to you like a challenge. “I hold myself back more often than you think.”

“Name one time you held back from anything.”

His lips pressed together, a smile squirting out of the corners as he looked at his bare feet, toes flexed against the mat. His lashes were fluttering as he pondered, looking so shy and mischievous all at once.

“Just now.”

“Now?”

Beneath your collarbone, the bruise Steve sucked into your skin stung with embarrassment. The sound you made when he did it should be burned out from all memory. You had to beg him to stop, you could have cried.

“I had it all wrong. I thought you might have liked getting bossed around in bed, but you’re a sadist, Rogers.”

“No, no. You can boss me around.” He paused, “Maybe. You can try, go ahead.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, try.” And if you were to look up the definition of shit-eating, annoying, and contrary-bastard-even-more-so-than-yourself, you’d find his smug as sin picture.

“I need to go to sleep— team captain, my ass. Don’t you care about my well-being, Rogers? What even is your refractory period?”

“Don’t have one.”

Your brain was a watery 7-11 slushie, and instead of saying anything comprehensible back, you only babbled.

Just then, the gym doors slid open and both of you were on your feet like someone had been shooting them.

Natasha looked you up and down. From the crumpled bedclothes to the unruly hair and then to your mouth, which was slightly open and catching your breath. She narrowed her eyes, glanced over to where Steve stood leaned on the wall, shuffling his feet in an attempt to sort out his sweatpants.

She made to remark something else but then Bucky sidled up wearing nothing but basketball shorts and grey socks.

“It’s ass o’clock,” he complained loudly. “Why are any of you awake. Never mind, Steve you’re a degenerate. You wake up at 4. I was having a great dream, then Nat drags me up, then you’re already here? You fucking animals.”

“Hm, a dream?” Nat drawled, “Anyone I know?”

She flicked his chin already knowing entirely too fucking much.

“Can’t remember the details,” Bucky turned to you offhandedly before recognition lit in his eyes. “Oh,” he chirped, leering. “I remember now.” He wolf whistled, muttered, “Hello nurse,” and rubbed his palms together like he was warming them up.

You backed up, covering as much of your body as possible with two hands, and bumped your ass into Steve, dick-first, who cleared his throat loudly.

Nat only cackled.

[uccboulderco]

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Apply heat or ice

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To sum up

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[centurypainting-nc]

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Spa treatments are designed to nurture the mind and body through the use of ritualistic methods and healthy products in a calming environment. The Spa at Ballantyne provides a sensory experience to soothe the senses and enhance wellness. Choose from a selection of spa services including massage, facial, body treatments, manicures, pedicures and hair salon services. Explore indigenous treatments like the Carolina Lavender Spa Collection, day spa packages, overnight spa packages and fitness experiences. Enjoy spa dining, pools, steamroom, saunas, whirlpools and lounges to complete your spa destination experience.

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[massage-therapy-boulder-co]

Massage Therapy Boulder CO

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[hoe4hotchner]

Old man problems

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: Kissing, grumpy man Hotch and his sore body, they’re gonna do the frickle frackle in the lower half of the fic. I love cum and it’s described very deliciously in this fic.

Requested by @wheelsupkels​ -> Can you possibly write an imagine where Hotch pulls his back on a case, and the fem'reader offers to help him work it out in a friendly way because she was once a licensed massage therapist? Aaron of course is hesitant but gives in and allows it. But it gets heated

With your coffee in hand, you sat in the car, waiting for the jet to land. Aaron was coming back home today after what had sounded like one of the nastiest and most brutal cases he had ever seen. You couldn’t help but wonder what exactly their unsub did to his victims, but on the other hand, you really didn’t want to know.

You could hear the roaring sound of the jet engine passing over you, watching as the plane got lower and lower until the pilot touched it down on the runway. You knew it would still be a few minutes, at least, before they were let out and could go home.

The trunk clicked open and you heard the sound of a bag being thrown into it before it was shut again. Aaron was usually quick to get inside the car when you picked him up, eager to go home, and spent as much time with you as he could before the next case swept him away. Which was why you were kind of worried when more than a minute passed by and he still hadn’t gotten in yet.

When he finally pulled the door open, he entered the vehicle with an audibly low groan. He sounded annoyed, almost as if the case was getting on his nerves as if he weren’t able to put it behind him.

“Are you okay?” You couldn’t help but ask, almost refusing to drive back home before he had answered your question. Your voice sounded frail, shy even, it was not like you to be drawn back from conversations like that. And Hotch surely noticed.

He couldn’t help but profile you, even when he didn’t want to. It was a switch in his brain that he seemed to never be able to turn off when he wanted it to. It was a curse rather than a blessing.

“I’m fine.” He just grumbled, trying to assure you, to ease your nerves, but his attempt was to no avail. You wouldn’t let it rest.

“Clearly, you’re not. Tell me, Aaron. I want to help, at least if there’s something I can do about it.” You turned fully in your seat, facing him, wanting to see his face, the emotions he likely wouldn’t show.

“I’m fine, (Y/N). Honestly. I pulled my back taking down the unsub. And the landing was a little harder than expected, with turbulence and wind on the ground, whatever the pilot said.” He tried to explain. It felt like a boulder had been lifted from your chest, feeling like you could finally exhale and calm down.

“Why didn’t you just say. You know I can help you with that.” You were always willing to help not only him, but his friends too, even though you’d gone out of that line of work years ago. The technique was still there, and it surely wasn’t going anywhere any time soon if you had a say in the matter.

“I don’t want you to get hurt too. It would be wrong if me to exploit you for your skills, just to help me.”

“Aaron, it’s my injury, and I want to help you. Now, when we get home I want you to go take a nice hot shower, none of those cold nasty ones that you like so much. It’ll help loosen up your muscles and make this a lot easier and less painful for you.” You gave his thigh a few pats before starting the car and driving off.

“Okay.” He ended up agreeing, knowing that he would never get out of it in the end, you’d just end up pestering him about his pain until it eventually got too painful for him to handle and he’d have to ask you anyways.

Aaron did as you’d ordered him to and took a hot shower. He hated everything about it. His skin felt clammy and gross, he was sweating and the whole bathroom felt like he had just entered a rainforest. There was a reason why he stuck to short cold showers.

He placed himself face down on the bed like you’d instructed him to. Only he was wearing a t-shirt after explicitly having been told to only wear his boxers.

“Honey, no. Get that off.” You grinned, grabbing at the hem of the shirt and slowly starting to pull it up and off of him. Once you had the soft fabric in your hands you couldn’t help but make the very rational decision of changing your own shirt out for his worn, faded shirt from college. You loved how it fell on your frame, feeling like you were being engulfed in his arms.

You straddled his lower back, making sure to put as little pressure on it as possible.

“Do you always sit on your clients like this?” You could hear the smile in his voice, muffled by the pillow he had sunken his head into.

“Only the ones that I like.” You giggled, placing your hands on either side of his waist. Your thumbs instantly dug into his muscles, slowly rubbing calculated circles, the pressure getting harder and harder as you felt his muscles loosen up more and more with each circle.

You let your hands travel further up his back, repeating the movement, circle, harder, circle, harder until you were satisfied and felt that you could move on to the next spot.

When you found the problem area, you felt the tight cluster under your palm and as soon as you dug into it, kneading the tender area, Aaron groaned out in pain. You heard a few bubbles in his spine pop, wondering if he had ever cracked his back before since only more seemed to pop as you worked the knot.

It felt like an eternity had passed when you finished with the knot. Aaron had relaxed completely under you, his body lax against the sheets. You moved your hands to his shoulders, gently kneading the spots between his shoulder blades. Aaron hummed in pleasure, making sounds of approval as you continued the movements over his back.

“There you go. All done.” You rolled over on the bed, letting him get up from the spot. Aaron pushed himself against the headboard, sighing in relief as he felt all the pain leaving his body.

“Come here you.” He pulled you into his lap, pulling you close to his chest as he caged you in by his arms. “Thanks” He kissed you. Instinctively, your hands went to his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as you deepened the kiss.

Aaron’s tongue pushed past your lips, massaging your muscle. You moaned against his lips, his starting to roll against his crotch. You could feel his cock starting to stiffen against you, the bulge angled just right to tease you from your own movements.

Grabbing a hold of your hair he pulled you back, falling over until your head hit the sheets and he was on top. It was now his turn to roll against you.

“See what you do to me?” He grunted, feeling his balls tighten at the thought of your tight core swallowing him. Aaron took your hands and moved them over your head, holding you in place and rendering you immobile. He loved having you like this, all under his control and at his mercy. God, you were a precious thing.

He teased you for a bit longer, getting to hear your desperate whimpers as you begged him to fuck you. It was like a symphony in his ears. You always sounded so sweet while begging.

Aaron positioned your bodies right side up on the bed, your head resting on the pillow he only moments ago had grunted into. With skillful hands, he started undressing you, removing first his shirt from your frame, then your bra, letting your tits escape their prison and present themselves to him as your nipples hardened from the air, brushing over them and the pure lust you were feeling towards him.

He almost couldn’t take it anymore as he yanked your shorts down, pulling your panties with him.

“So darn pretty.” He moaned against your skin, trailing kisses from your hips to your lips. You whined against him, wanting more than what he was giving. You always wanted more, and he always gave it to you.

Aaron stripped himself from his boxers, his cock bouncing up against his stomach. His size always surprised you, always made you believe that you couldn’t take him, even though you’d taken him so many times before.

His tip was red angry and leaking with precum. Salty, delicious cum. His cum. You loved the taste of him, almost wanting to tackle him to the bed and wrap your lips around him, sure to gag as you tried to take all of him, even though you couldn’t, not yet.

Aaron positioned his spongy head against your cunt, slowly pushing in and stretching you out. It felt amazing. The way he filled you up always felt amazing. You fit together like two pieces of a puzzle-like you truly were made for each other.

You moaned out in pleasure as he bottomed out. Feeling his heavy weight inside of you. You wrapped yourself around his body as he started thrusting. Slow, yet hard strokes that send astronomical sparks of pleasure through your nerves. Your nails dug into his skin, sure to leave red marks in the morning.

You could already feel the coil in your belly start to tighten, feeling him brush against your spot with every single calculated thrust. You almost couldn’t help it as you screamed out his name, followed by violent bucks of your hips against his. He knew just how to work you to make you feel the most pleasure.

Aaron soon followed suit, coating your fluttering walls with white ropes of gooey cum. He pulled out of you, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness. Aaron gathered you in his arms, holding you close and pressing featherlight kisses to your cheeks.

“You did so good.” He praised, watching your eyes light up at his words. “Thanks for helping out with my back.”

“I hope you didn’t pull it again.” You smiled, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck. “My grumpy old man.” You mumbled against his skin, pressing a kiss to his jaw as you closed your eyes, ready for the nap you both were about to have before it was time for a shower with your grumpy man.

[k12academics]

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[mamawaffles]

Boulder, CO and Georgia Shooting

I think I just gotta rant cause I’m sooooo tired of shootings and people defending guns more than American lives. HUMAN LIVES. Having grown up in CO, this isn’t the first shooting in that state that I’ve been close to or am aware of. Nor this decade. Nor the 21st century. Columbine was an ENORMOUS deal when it happened back in April 20th, 1999. And now shootings have been so fucking prevalent and consistent and its terrifying. And the odd massacre outside of gun related issues, like the Boston bombing. It’s heartbreaking that I have lost track of which tragedy has happened where and when. And not just in CO or this year, but for at LEAST a decade. Yet people are so gun-ho on defending guns. Yes, guns don’t shoot themselves. Yes, its not JUST white people. But like that doesn’t matter when at least multiple people have been affected by a white supremacist with a gun. And that has been the case of a majority of these shootings. We CAN have better gun control. Many other countries due and rarely do those countries face gun-crazed massacres at such a revolting rate. But we, the people, have to sacrifice lives and their families livelihoods, so white man can keep all their “rights” and be made the “superior species”. And I know gun control won’t fix everything, but we HAVE to start somewhere and that’s easily the biggest thing that can be changed to limit these cases. Along promoting and making resources for mental health more accessible and stopping certain dangerous rhetorics of other races, sexes, etc. As for the Georgia shootings, I don’t care what the shooter says, his actions were laced with racism and dangerous stereotypes, no matter what he proclaims. And while I don’t intend to speak for the Asian experience within America, I can empathize being an immigrant Mexican and knowing how people try to “put you in your place” and label with harmful stereotypes. The victims just wanted to do their job or get a massage, and go home at the end of the day. They weren’t seducing anyone. An after hate crimes have risen against Asian-Americans/Asians due to Trumps dangerous rhetoric for “causing” COVID-19 and a year of police killing innocent black lives and their violent response for the Black Lives Matter protest, I’m so over giving the white folk, who love guns and believe they can do no wrong cause they feel that they are owed everything and everyone else is beneath them, the benefit of the doubt. They have taken advantage of the American institution for their whole lives, much like the history other white folk in America, for too long and that should no longer be the case. They are not the exception to the rules. To the rule of law. Like I said, this is a rant. This isn’t going to fix anything. I may not have the resources to donate at the moment, but I will continue to speak up against dangerous mentalities. It’s the least I can do. I encourage other people to do the same. No more “but if you get to know him/her/them, you’ll know they are a good person” excuse. Educate people. Let them change, but don’t excuse shitty behavior. I’m tired, pissed, and probably a whole list of emotions I can’t think of at the moment. Be kind to each other and I recommend this video. 20 mins to try to be a little bit extra aware. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYEf8K7cEtQ

[wizardofrozz]

Prompt 21: Graveyard

Dean Winchester, Castiel, Sam Winchester, Jack Kline

Word Count: 1,933

Warnings: mention of death (brief description), swearing

Dean flopped back onto the dingy motel bed, bouncing for a little long from the worn-out springs. Sam and Cas lounged at the tiny table near the window, files and papers spread out around them as they discussed the case. Three people, all co-workers, turned up dead in the last week, nearly boiled alive; Dean guessed witches, but Sam and Cas disagree.

           “Dean,” Jack chirped, lowering himself onto the edge of the other bed.

           “What’s up, kiddo?” Jack glanced across the room, his eyes lingering on Sam and Cas for a second before moving back down to Dean.

           “Can I sleep with you tonight?” he whispered, fidgeting the zipper on his jacket. Usually, Dean would moan and groan about anyone wanting to share a bed with him but come on; it’s Jack.

           “The couch uncomfortable?” Dean snorted, tipping his head back more to get a better look at Jack. He nodded, his cheeks turning a slight pink color as he avoided the green eyes boring into him. “I guess,” Dean sighed dramatically, smiling at him.

           “Thank you!” Jack bounced in place, smiling warmly at Dean before hopping to his feet to hurry towards Cas.

           “Kids,” Dean mumbled to himself, his lips twitching up into a half-smile.

Dean woke up violently, cowering away from the ice cubes attached to the end of Jack’s legs. He flopped onto his back, huffing as he stared at the ceiling before rolling his head to look at the overgrown kid. Jack was curled up on his side, facing away from Dean, snoring softly, and Dean smiled at his back, shaking his head before glancing towards the window.

Bright blue eyes were watching him, and even when he met Cas’ gaze, they didn’t falter. Cas’ lips twitched up in a brief smile before he turned to look out the window again. Dean sighed, shifting to lay on his side, watching the angel from over their son’s shoulder; Cas had draped his trench coat and suit coat over the chair opposite him, leaving him looking almost naked.

Dean’s eyelids grew heavy as he continued to watch Cas until the angel suddenly shifted, and he opened his eyes more. Cas seemed to finally relax, slouching down in his chair, crossing his arms, and spreading his legs with a sigh; Dean’s eyes traveled over Cas’ legs, making it to his thigh before he realized what he was doing. He slammed his eyes shut, making a wounded sound in the back of his throat, and refused to open them again when he heard Cas shift in his seat.

Dean barely contained the urge to beat his face off Baby’s steering wheel as he watched the officer’s face contort at whatever Jack just said.

           “He’s learning, Dean,” Sam mumbled from the passenger’s seat, flipping through a police file.

           “Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled, slumping back in his seat. Dean snorted loudly when Cas’ head dropped forward as soon as the officer turned their back, and Jack was practically vibrating with excitement next to him. Cas clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder, steering him towards Baby, smiling and nodding at whatever Jack was saying.

           “Anything?” Sam asked as the two angels slid into the backseat.

           “I think we’re dealing with a vengeful spirit,” Cas sighed, pulling the door shut behind him.

           “Yeah?” Dean shifted in his seat, straining to look over his shoulder.

           “A woman, Sandra Boulder, was friends with the victims but perished in an automobile accident after finding out her husband had an affair,” Cas started, leaning his head against the seat and closing his eyes.

           “What’s that have to do with the case?” Dean grunted, massaging between his eyes.

           “The victims knew of the affair,” Cas supplied, his voice dropping lower like he was drifting off to sleep.

           “Ah, so vengeful spirit then,” Sam cut in, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. Dean looked in the rearview mirror, his eyes lingering on Cas’ face, watching the tense lines of his face smooth out; he debated on asking him what was going on, but he decided against it, not wanting to get Jack and Sam all worked up over nothing.

           “To the graveyard,” Dean sighed, twisting the key, humming happily when Baby roared to life.

Finding the grave was the easy part, but Dean had the fleeting thought, I’m too old for this shit, while sweat rolled down his back as he tossed another shovelful of dirt out of the grave. Cas had stripped down to just his white shirt again and was steadily digging opposite Dean; he tried to keep his focus on the dirt under his feet and not the way Cas’ muscles moved under the thin fabric.

           “Wanna switch?” Sam cut in, making Dean jump.

           “Yes, please,” Dean sighed, tossing the shovel out before hoisting himself up and out of the hole. Cas gently set the shovel off to the side and climbed out too, brushing the dirt off his hands while he glanced around; Dean watched him go rigid and spin around, obviously looking for something. “Cas, what’s up?”

           “Sam,” Cas started, turning his eyes on the younger Winchester. “Where’s Jack?”

           “He’s…” Sam trailed off when Jack wasn’t where he expected. “He was right there.” Sam pointed at the empty space next to Sandra’s headstone, earning an exasperated look from the angel.

           “Great,” Dean sighed, scrubbing a dirty hand over his face. “Start diggin’, Gigantor. Cas and I will find the kid.” Cas made a point of shooting Sam one more dirty look before he let Dean drag him away; the pair walked side by side, their arms brushing as they scanned the cemetery for any sign of Jack.

           “I told him not to wander off,” Cas grumbled, glaring out at the rows of headstones. Dean huffed, cursing Sam for putting him in the situation but stayed quiet, letting Cas bitch until his heart’s content. They wandered through rows and rows of graves with no sign of Jack, and by that point, Dean was starting to get worried, and Cas was on the verge of throttling Sam.

           “Don’t cry.” Dean’s head snapped up when he heard the faint whisper of Jack’s voice nearby; he squinted, just barely making out Jack’s yellow jacket off in the distance. Dean grabbed Cas by the collar, forcing a startled sound out of the angel as he pulled him towards their son. Cas started to unwind once he caught sight of Jack sitting cross-legged on the ground; he opened his mouth to call out, but Dean cut him off, slapping a hand over his mouth and yanking Cas back against his chest.

           “Hold on,” Dean whispered against the angel’s ear. Cas shivered but relaxed against Dean, tilting his head slightly as he watched Jack talking with his hands; the little girl standing in front of Jack giggled, her image flickering slightly.

           “Dean,” Cas mumbled against the hunter’s hand.

           “Oh,” Dean squeaked, dropping his hand and taking a step away from Cas.

           “Jack,” Cas called softly, staying still, not wanting to scare the girl. Jack’s head wiped around, and he smiled at the pair before turning his attention back to the little girl who looked more scared than she did a few seconds again.

           “It’s okay,” Jack assured. “They’re my dads; they won’t hurt you.”

           “Hi, sweetheart,” Dean greeted gently, smiling as he shuffled closer. He glanced over at Cas, who was smiling too, following Dean’s footsteps; Dean managed to get to Jack’s side without her disappearing, but she definitely looked ready to bolt. “I don’t want to hurt you, honey.”

           “I want my mommy,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her thin frame.

           “I know,” Dean hummed, getting down on one knee, using Jack’s shoulder to keep himself steady. Cas slowly lowered himself to the ground, sitting similar to Jack, keeping his eyes on the girl.

           “Can we help you?” Cas asked, his face softening.

           “She’s still here because her mom doesn’t really know what happened to her,” Jack supplied, glancing between Cas and Dean.

           “What happened?” Cas probed, squinting at Jack.

           “It was my step-dad,” the girl mumbled, keeping her eyes everted.

           “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Dean pressed, smiling softly at her. She seemed hesitant and shuffled back a few steps, and Dean lifted his hands, bringing his other knee under him to sit back on his heels. “I just want to tell your mom what happened, so you don’t have to stay here anymore.”

           “Promise?”

           “Pinky promise,” Cas cut in. Dean did a double-take, blinking a few times at the angel who met his eyes and shrugged.

           “Aria Holmes,” she whispered, looking up to meet Dean’s eyes.

           “Hi, Aria. I’m Dean and this” -he reached around Jack, grabbing Cas’ shoulder and jostling him lightly- “is Cas. We’ll go visit your mom tomorrow, okay?”

           “Okay,” Aria hummed, her arms loosening from around her stomach.

           “We have to go now, but we promise everything will be okay,” Dean assured, smiling at her.

           “Okay,” Aria sighed, dropping her head. Her image flickered a few times before she disappeared completely.

           “Let’s go help Sam finish up,” Cas sighed, climbing to his feet again. It took both Cas and Jack to get Dean off the ground, but in the end, he didn’t complain because it was worth it.

           “Don’t wander off like that again,” Dean scolded, throwing an arm around Jack’s shoulders and pulling him close.

           “Okay,” Jack hummed, not looking the slightest bit sorry.

The door swung open, relieving a blotchy-faced woman that had to be Aria’s mother based on the hair color and facial structure.

           “Mrs. Holmes?” Cas asked, beating Dean to it.

           “Yes?”

           “We’re here about your daughter, Aria,” Dean sighed.

           “Mommy?” Mrs. Holmes froze, her eyes bugging out before she slowly turned to face the pale image of her daughter at the bottom of the stairs behind her.

           “Oh god,” Mrs. Holmes cried, folding in on herself.

           “This is why we’re here, ma’am,” Cas cut in, resting a tentative hand on her shoulder.

           “Aria needed you to know what happened to her,” Jack spoke up. Dean flinched but rolled with it, smiling when Mrs. Holmes gave them a questioning look. Dean, Cas, and Jack stood in the doorway with their backs turned, letting the mother and daughter have a moment. Eventually, Jack nodded, turning around again; Mrs. Holmes was on her knees in front of Aria, sobbing into her hands while Aria stared down at her with a sad frown.

           “Aria,” Jack called, stepping around Dean and Cas. “You’re free now.”

           “She’ll be at peace?” Mrs. Holmes croaked, staring up at the three men behind her.

           “Yes,” Cas answered, giving her a half-smile.

           “I love you, mommy,” Aria whispered, her face lighting up with a beautiful smile.

           “I love you too, baby.” Aria’s small frame started to glow, the light building until Dean and Mrs. Holmes had to look away or risk eye damage. They stood in silence for a few minutes before Dean helped Mrs. Holmes to her living room while Cas and Jack went to wait by Baby. Dean appeared 10 minutes later, stopping in front of where Cas and Jack were leaning and letting out a long exhale.

           “Jack,” Dean hummed. Jack looked up at him, his face softening when Dean cupped the back of his head, staring into his eyes for a few seconds before pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m really proud of you, kid.” Dean blindly reached for Cas, tugging him in too when his hand brushed the angel’s trench coat; Jack smiled against Dean’s shoulder, relaxing into him and Cas.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@marvelfansworld​ 

[uccboulderco]

Chiropractor - A Suitable Pain Relief Therapy Expert for Neck Pain

The neck is an integral part of the human body and is prone to a lot of movement throughout the day and night. As such, any sprain or pain can make life immensely uncomfortable. Such neck pain in Lafayette CO also impedes regular body movement. This problem may limit the range of work you can do in daily life. If you suffer from this issue, then you ought to visit a chiropractor.

Why a chiropractor is ideal for relief from neck pain?

A chiropractor plays a crucial role in providing neck pain relief through various treatment methods. Let us look at some ways in which a chiropractor can assist.

1) Correct Diagnosis

A chiropractor will begin by conducting a comprehensive assessment to understand the root cause of your neck pain. They will review your medical history and scrutinize your specific case. They may also order diagnostic tests if necessary. This helps the upper cervical chiropractor in Superior CO identify the underlying issues. As a result, the expert gets to develop an effective treatment plan.

2) Manual Adjustments

Chiropractors are known for applying controlled force to the joints in the neck. Such targeted action goes a long way in improving alignment and mobility. You feel immense relief when they realign the spine. You can alleviate pressure on the nerves with this action. It also reduces inflammation and relieves tension in the neck muscles.

3) Soft Tissue Therapy

In addition to spinal adjustments, the upper cervical chiropractor in Superior CO often incorporates soft tissue therapy to alleviate neck pain. This may involve techniques such as massage. These therapies target tight muscles and knots in the neck area. This helps to release tension and enhance flexibility.

Such targeted action by the expert chiropractor helps in tangible relief from neck pain in Lafayette CO.

To know more about Best Chiropractor Boulder please visit our website: uppercervicalboulder.com

[jacoborley-blog]

Optimal Wellness

Address

4710 Table Mesa

Boulder, CO 80305

 Phone

720-213-6495

 Website URL

http://www.optimalfunctionwellness.com/

 Keywords

Sports Massage Therapist

 Descriptions

Life’s too short to live in pain, and we’re passionate about getting you back to 100% without the use of drugs or surgery. With the use of Massage Therapy and Mobility Therapy, we’ll create a personalized treatment plan for you to ensure joint health and full range of motion, proper muscle activation and longevity.

 Business email

Jacob@optimalfunctionwellness.com

 Owner name

Jacob Corley

 YouTube video

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kBfPfWRF0S8

[sophrosynebodyworks-blog]

Welcome to Sophrosyne Bodyworks, your number one choice for wellness programs in Boulder, CO and the surrounding area! Sophrosyne Bodyworks began in 2014 in Boulder, CO, founded by Kristen Argus. Kristen has always had a deep interest in holistic health, self-led healing, and helping others. She turned these passions into a career in 2012 when she began her Massage Therapy education. In December 2015, Kristen began her formal education in Clinical Herbalism and Holistic Nutrition. She continues to immerse and educate herself in holistic health education. As a holistic medicine practitioner, Kristen's vision is to help support and educate each client in feeling their absolute best. Whether you are in physical pain, seeking healing from an auto-immune disease, or just need support in preventative maintenance, she is here to guide you. If you would like to learn more about any of the services we offer, please contact Sophrosyne Bodyworks today!

[ultramaga]

'Antiracism' is racist. It paints attacks on Asians as hatecrimes by whites no matter what, it ignores that the vast majority have been by black people for decades now, to the point of creating the meme of the Rooftop Korean.

And now the kids of those men are buying weapons to protect themselves from blm.

Recently a man who saw himself as a sex addict killed a variety of people at a massage parlour. Most were Asian.

Leftists gleefully announced this was further proof of the need to purge whiteness from the face of the Earth.

It didn't matter that there was no history presented of racism, that he killed whites, that he said clearly that he hated sex workers not Asians.

"Intent no longer matters", said Leftists, " it is a hatecrime when we say it is".

Last I heard, that's how they'll prosecute him. Whiteness is the enemy, and if that means being flexible with the truth, well, so be it. They are willing to sacrifice all our lives in the name of Utopia.

Recently a syrian muslim man who hated white people killed a ten white people at Boulder. He hated Trump, posted pro Isis and leftist material on social media, and acted right after Biden bombed the country of his birth.

Leftists gleefully announced this was further proof of the need to purge whiteness from the face of the Earth.

Syrians who do bad things are white, but Jesus was Arabic, because he was good, and saying he was Jewish is racist!

Reality is infinitely flexible to the internationalist. You start at the conclusion and pin whatever you want to the start, and if anyone points it out, you call them Nazi and encourage Antifa to smash their faces.

This doesn't help Asians. It certainly doesn't help black people, to be told that trying to succeed on merit us hopeless, that hard work and study is whiteness, that wealth and prosperity must be looted from those with it because it cannot be earned.

The top earners world wide are Asians, because they have strong family values,they value education and hard work, and are willing to sacrifice for the eventual success of the next generation.

We are constantly told by feminists that whites hate Asians, that we built institutions to persecute them.

Well, I guess we are just incredibly incompetent, because I just keep seeing white institutions rewarding Asians.

I mean, where is all the institutional racism we keep hearing about?

How come the whites handing out prizes haven't remembered to oppress Asians?

Did they just lose the memo somewhere? "Oh damn - I gave a hundred thousand dollars to an Asian man again today, bugger, I keep forgetting?!!"

 “Asian people shouldn’t be in the Black market.”

According to Leftists, its not hatecrime if the perp is black or Arabic, or the victim is white. Hatecrime only exists if it somehow hurts white people.

Well, I think the discrimination hurts Asians, because it takes away the tools they need to defend themselves.

They need to understand intersectionalists are their enemy, endlessly inciting racial hatred and envy.

They need to understand that Leftists demand they be stripped of the right of self defense, so they will be helpless as BLM mobs loot and burn across generations of bitter struggle and sacrifice by Asians.

White people are telling you to arm and train and build alliances, fight back against those who threaten your children, don't accept victimhood.

The Antiracists ... tell you whitey is to blame, that you can't be trusted with guns, that all cops are bastards, that you just have to bow and grovel before their mobs.

Who hates you, and who would fight alongside you?

A final note. The CCP has announced it will be invading Taiwan within five years. It might take ten years, it might take twenty, but at some point they will land on the soil of the United States.

They have committed genocide against the Tibetan people, and are crushing the Uighurs.

What do you think they will do to you if you can't fight back?

As you all may know, I am an Asian American, and the rise in anti-Asian hate crimes in the US is tragic and terrifying. A few years ago, my mother and I had unprovoked, racist threats spat at us while we were simply grocery shopping. They didn’t care who we were as people- they just reduced us to our race. I want this space to be positive and encouraging for everyone, and that’s not possible unless I make this space clearly anti-racist. I hope this comic is a hopeful reminder that we’re all able to make the world a better place together! I can’t stop anything alone, but together, we can make a more caring society that welcomes and protects people of all races. 

[lasvegashauling]

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Recliner

A recliner is an armchair or sofa that reclines when the occupant lowers the chair's back and raises its front. It has a backrest that can be tilted back, and often a footrest that may be extended by means of a lever on the side of the chair, or may extend automatically when the back is reclined. A recliner is also known as a reclining chair, lounger and an armchair. Modern recliners often feature an adjustable headrest, lumbar support and an independent footstool that adjusts with the weight and angle of the user's legs to maximize comfort. Additional features include heat, massage and vibration. Some models are wheelchair accessible. Recliners can also accommodate a near supine position for sleeping, and are common in airplanes and trains, as well as in homes. A riser armchair or lift chair includes a standing-up system, for elderly and people with limited mobility.

Recliner History

Around 1850, the French introduced a reclining camp bed that could serve as a chair, a bed and a chaise longue. It was portable and featured padded arm rests and a steel frame. In the late 1800s, many designs were found for motion chairs that were made of wood with a padded seat and back. Designs from France and America included a document or book holder. The first reclining chair was reportedly owned by Napoleon III. Knabush and Shoemaker, two American cousins, are credited with gaining a patent on a wooden recliner. The design was the same wooden bench recliner found in other designs. Issued in 1928, the patent led to the founding of La-Z-Boy. In 1930, Knabush and Shoemaker patented an upholstered model with a mechanical movement.

in 1959, Daniel F. Caldemeyer patented a recliner as owner of National Furniture Mfg. Co based in Evansville, Indiana.[9] His name was based on the fact that he developed his chair based on the science of kinetics that he used while serving in the US Air Force. His design was used by NASA for the seats in Projects Mercury, Gemini and Apollo.

His chairs were used in the ready room for these missions and can be seen in the movie Apollo 13. The Secret Service bought 50 of them for President Lyndon Baines Johnson as a Christmas gift. A Life magazine photo of President Johnson, post gall bladder surgery, has the President lifting his shirt and showing his scar while sitting in one of these chairs. The Presidential Seal was embossed on these chairs with one currently in the Smithsonian Institution and another at the Lyndon Baines Johnson Library and Museum. With over 300 patents, Caldemeyer added the foot lift rest, heated seating and massage features to this chair and had the patent for the first entertainment center.

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[orbemnews]

Not Your Pre-Pandemic Las Vegas A decade ago, after a rained-out Thanksgiving desert camping trip with our five kids, my wife, Kristin, and I headed to the nearest available lodging, the now-shuttered Hard Rock Casino in Las Vegas. Watching our brood eat their Thanksgiving meal as cigarette smoke and slot-machine clamor wafted over their cheeseburgers, Kristin and I locked eyes with an unspoken message: We ar­­e the world’s worst parents. We have avoided Las Vegas with the kids since then, but an aborted drive to slushy Aspen this April with three of our heirs caused us to pause in Vegas. At the time, the city was just awakening from its Covid slumber, with mandatory masks and limited capacity in most indoor spaces, traffic so light that cars were drag-racing down the normally packed Strip, and a lingering, troubling question over the whole place: Will this reopening really be safe? But extraordinary things have been happening during this slumber, and while we were only going to spend one night there, we had so much fun that we ended up staying four. At first we spent most of our time in the relative safety of the outdoors, but then we started to relax along with the rest of the city, drowning our hands beneath the ubiquitous liquid sanitizer dispensers, masking up and heading indoors. I knew things had shifted in Sin City when, while maneuvering the minivan through some seemingly dicey neighborhood between Downtown and the Strip, I noted on the back alley wall of a hair salon a striking mural depicting the cult outsider artist Henry Darger’s seven Vivian Girl warriors in their trademark yellow dresses. What were the Vivian Girls doing here? Farther along, Vegas’s ghost-town adult stores, shuttered warehouses and other buildings were also sporting increasingly elaborate murals: a blood-squirting horned lizard spanning half a city block; a dog with an impressively slobbering tongue piloting an open cockpit plane; a colorful phoenix and dragon rising like fireworks from an empty parking lot — all producing collective surprised “Wows!” from inside our minivan. Las Vegas, it seems, is emerging from the Covid crisis as a place of spectacle and creativity, especially outside the air-conditioned gambling ghettos of the Strip. Over the next four days we did a lot of walking, crawling, flying and even railroading, all of it away from the casinos. We explored the Arts District, an area that has gone into hyper drive — so much so that we waited 30 minutes to get into my once “secret” Colombian breakfast joint, Makers & Finders — and wandered along Spring Mountain Road, the hub of the city’s Chinatown, rapidly expanding westward. In the midcentury mecca of East Fremont Street, a $350 million investment by the tech titan Tony Hsieh, who died last year, has produced a boulevard of fantastical art installations, restored buildings and a sculptural playground surrounded by stacked shipping containers converted to boutiques and cafes, all guarded by a giant, fire-spewing, steel praying mantis. “Vegas is going through a cultural renaissance,” a former member of the city’s Arts Commission, Brian “Paco” Alvarez, told me in a recent telephone interview. “A lot of the local culture that comes out of a city with two million unusually creative people didn’t stop during the pandemic.” A mysterious, windowless building The most striking newcomer is Area15, which opened in February in a mysterious, airport-hanger-size, windowless building two miles west of the Strip. Imagine an urban Burning Man mall (indeed, many of the sculptures and installations came from the annual arts festival held in northern Nevada), with some dozen tenants providing everything from virtual reality trips to nonvirtual ax throwing, accompanied by Day-Glo color schemes, electronic music, giant interactive art installations and guests flying overhead on seats attached to ceiling rails. Face masks are currently only mandatory in Area15 for self-identified unvaccinated people, though some of the attractions within still require face masks for everyone. Everywhere, we encountered the constant presence of cleaning attendants spraying and wiping surfaces. On the second floor of Area15’s art riot I met an old acquaintance from New York, Chris Wink, one of the co-founders of the joyously weird Blue Man Group, who was bringing his creative magic to Area15 in the form of a “Psychedelic Art House Meets Carnival Funhouse” called Wink World (adult tickets start at $18). Wink World is centered around six rooms with infinity mirror boxes reflecting Slinkys, plasma balls, fan spinners, Hoberman Spheres and ribbons dancing to an ethereal soundtrack of electronic music, rhythmic chanting and heavy breathing. “I worked on these installations for six years in my living room in New York,” Mr. Wink told me. “I was trying to evoke psychedelic experiences without medicine.” My unmedicated children were transfixed, as if these familiar toys frolicking into eternity were totems to their own personal nirvanas. I’ve never seen them stand so still in front of an art exhibit. Lava-filled caves and artificial lawns Omega Mart (adult admissions start at $45, face mask and temperature check mandatory), the biggest attraction in the complex, lines one side of the complex’s atrium and seemed — at first — to provide a banal respite from Area15’s sensory overload. Along the sale aisles I found Nut Free Salted Peanuts, Gut Monkey Ginger Ale and cans of Camels Implied Chicken Sop. My kids, good campers, immediately ducked into a small demonstration tent erected in the back of the store. They never came out again. A hidden entry brought them through the wall and into a world of artificial lawns, lava-filled caves, drab offices, a desert canyon, locker rooms, a secret bar and other divergent spaces often linked by hidden entrances. “Pull every knob and open every closet you see, Dad,” my daughter, Vivian, breathlessly advised as she whizzed by me for the fourth time in this 52,000-square-foot maze. Created by the renowned Santa Fe artist collective Meow Wolf (the name derived from pulling two random words from a hat during their first meeting), Omega Mart is an amalgamation of some 325 artists’ creations tied together by disparate overlapping story lines which one can follow — or not. For a short time, I tracked the story of the takeover of Omega Mart’s corporate headquarters by a hilariously manipulative New Agey daughter, and then got sidelined into the tale of a teen herbalist leading a rebellion to something else. I have no idea what I experienced other than that Brian Eno composed the music to one of the installations. None of my kids could explain what they experienced either, other than something mind-expanding. If it wasn’t for dinner, we might still be in there. Feasting in Chinatown Dinner! The choices are dizzying and there are now 10 Michelin-starred restaurants in the city. We weren’t going to any of them. Leaving Area15, even the distant lights of the Strip seemed relatively calming. But we were driving the opposite direction, to Chinatown. A decade ago, Chinatown was mainly a small enclave of restaurants and shops behind an ornate red gate overlooking a strip mall called Chinatown Plaza, catering to Vegas’s growing wave of Asian immigrants. Chinatown has now expanded to the far reaches of Spring Mountain Road, a desert Hong Kong of neon signs in Mandarin, Japanese, Vietnamese and Korean, advertising restaurants, coffee houses, foot-massage salons and lots of stuff I couldn’t read. Our goal was an unlikely corner of a strip mall, where hides, in the Jones family’s collective opinion, the best Japanese restaurant in North America, Raku. Step behind an understated white backlit sign and you enter an aged wood interior of an intimate restaurant that you might find off a Kyoto alley. We slid into the family-style tables behind the main dining room and commenced to feast. There’s a $100 tasting menu if you are feeling adult, but my tribe ordered cream-like tofu with dried fish, foie gras skewers and a dozen other items. Chinatown became our go-to-spot for snacks and boba tea between adventures. A favorite spot became Pho 90, a low-key Vietnamese cafe with outstanding noodle dishes and exquisitely layered banh mi sandwiches for picnics in the wild. Beyond the city Las Vegas’s expanding grid abruptly surrenders to the desert, which might be the most overlooked part of Vegas family vacations. Red Rock Canyon, 17 miles west of the Strip, is like walking into a Road Runner cartoon with a Technicolor ballet of clashing tectonic formations. We grabbed our admittedly reluctant brood on a 2.4-mile, round-trip hike on the Keystone Thrust Trail through a series of gullies until we emerged above epic white limestone cliffs jutting through the ocher-colored mountains. Here we had our Vietnamese picnic overlooking the monolithic casinos in the distance. Our last night’s excursion into nature didn’t take any persuasion: Half an hour’s drive south to Boulder City, a company called Rail Explorers has set up rail bike tours on the abandoned tracks leading to the Hoover Dam construction site. We booked a sunset tour (from $85 to $150 for a tandem quad bike). After some quick instruction, we, along with three dozen other visitors, climbed into an 800-pound, four-person Korean-made bike rig and, giving the group ahead of us a three-minute head start for some space, started peddling. Our route was along four miles of desert track gently sloping into a narrowing canyon pass. As we effortlessly peddled at 10 miles per hour, we noticed that the spikes holding down the railroad ties were often crooked or missing. “I bet these were all driven in by hand,” my teenage son, Cody, a history buff, noted. In the enveloping dusk, we glimpsed shadows moving along the sagebrush: bighorn sheep, goats and other critters emerging for their nocturnal wanderings. But the most surreal sight was at the end of the ride, where a giant backlit sign for a truck stop casino appeared over a desert butte — Vegas was beckoning us back, but now we welcomed the summons. Here we were, peddling into the sunset, feeling more athletic, cool and (gasp!) enlightened than when we first rolled into Vegas four days ago. Oh what good parents we were! “The moniker of ‘Sin City’ is totally wrong,” Mr. Alvarez told me, “if you know where to look.” Source link Orbem News #Las #prepandemic #Vegas

[uccboulderco]

Home-Made Remedies For Neck Pain

A stiff neck can dismantle your daily routine and stop you from putting your best foot forward. The neck pain in Boulder, CO clinic suggests you some remedies on how to get over it.

Quick Fixes for neck pain relief

1. Stretch out

Stretching out your neck can relieve your neck pain symptoms. But moving your neck vigorously or beyond 10 times for 30 seconds is not advised.

2. Ice and heat therapy

Ice and heat therapy ease neck pain and reduce inflammation. Start with ice wrapped in a plastic bag or in an ice pack. Apply it for 15 minutes after every 3-4 hours.

3. Relaxing Massage

A massage facilitates neck movement and can soothe muscle tension. 

4. Chiropractor

If these methods do not yield results, visit the neck pain in Boulder, CO clinic! The expert doctors will counsel you and have tools that can provide you relief from the pain. They will advise you on exercise routines, nutritional guidance and specific techniques to relieve muscles stress. If this does not work, the neck and back pain clinic in Boulder will try manipulative strategies.

Winding it up

Neck pain could be the origin of high stress. So, whatever the cause, we advise you to visit the neck and back pain clinic in Boulder. We will make treat you and provide individualized treatment that works. Don’t wait much; relieve your pain and restore your life to normal; by scheduling an appointment with Upper Cervical Boulder.

[patriotforthekingdom]

...Shall Not Be Infringed

The second amendment to the constitution is phrased in a way that shouldn’t lead to any questions about it. It reads “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.” Shall. Not. Be. Infringed. 

Our founding fathers knew a little bit about tyranny and oppression, and that is why the very first two amendments to the constitution specifically spell out arguably our two most important freedoms…first: our right to free speech and second: our right to bear arms. As the saying goes, “we have the second amendment so we can defend our first amendment.” 

So why is the left constantly trying to question and remove our right to bear arms? Or in other words, why is the left constantly trying to infringe? 

Control. 

It’t that simple. 

If we’ve learned anything over the past year, it’s that politicians on the left (and a large handful on the right) will do whatever it takes to gain even just a little bit more control over you. And they won’t stop there. Once they get that little bit of control, they will keep pushing and pushing just to see how far they can go. You are simply a pawn of their agenda and a statistic ready to be manipulated. 

Under the Obama administration, mass shootings shot up 246.7% higher than previously under the Bush administration (thegatewaypundit.com). They spent those 8 years of shootings, alongside the MSM, laying the groundwork for disarming all Americans. They thought they were in for an easy transition from Obama to Clinton, and could simply finish the job over the next 8 years. Well, as we know, they faced an obstacle to that plan in Donald Trump. 

After 4 years of relatively no media coverage on mass shootings, outside of Las Vegas, Biden is now in… and they are right back at it. 

Last week alone was nonstop MSM coverage of a shooting in Atlanta simply because the timing was right, and it fit the narrative. Don’t get me wrong, this was a horrific act committed by someone who is absolutely insane or possessed, and I have been and will continue to be praying for the families of those who were unfairly taken far too soon. But I will also be praying for the families of the 15 people who were shot the same week in another mass shooting in Chicago that went completely unreported on. Unfortunately this shooting was chalked up to gang violence which we are programmed to think is normal, frequent and unpreventable. 

However, the first shooting was seemingly a perfect fit for the MSM narrative: a white male shoots 8 women, 6 of which happen to be an ethnic minority. The MSM didn’t waste any time pushing this as anti-asian violence and somehow blaming this and any other anti-asian violence on Trump. 

Check out a few of the quotes and headlines…

Apnews.com opening line: “A white gunman was charged Wednesday with killing eight people at three Atlanta-area massage parlors in an attack that sent terror through the Asian American community, which has increasingly been targeted during the coronavirus pandemic.” 

Nytimes.com headline: “8 Dead in Atlanta Spa Shootings, With Fears of Anti-Asian Bias”

Washingtonpost.com quote: “Six Asian women died in the attacks on Tuesday, prompting widespread concern that the killings could be the latest in a surge of hate crimes against Asian Americans.” 

In addition to these and many other MSM outlets covering this story nonstop, many politicians jumped into the conversation as well, including Crooked Hillary herself who tweeted, “I’m sending prayers today to the families of the people killed and those injured in Atlanta’s horrific attacks. The surge in violence against Asian Americans over the last year is a growing crisis. We need action from our leaders and within our communities to stop the hate.” Since the shooting, 4 of her 6 tweets have been pushing the #StopAsianHate narrative. 

Well, how are they going to #StopAsianHate? Control. And how are they going to take control? Disarming Americans. 

The shooter himself claimed that the shooting was not racially motivated, and the FBI, after investigating, determined the same exact thing. Oddly enough, this didn’t make any of the headlines, nor did it stop the MSM from writing about this being a racially motivated shooting. “Ironically,” the senate is due to vote on Joe Biden’s unconstitutional and far left gun control bill that he is persistent on passing. 

Is it making sense now? 

The politicians are trying to take away your freedoms. They don’t care who or what they use to do so. This time it’s guns. They are going to be voting shortly on taking away your guns, so before they do that, they have to remind you that guns are bad and scary. 

Well, Thomas Jefferson knew that the day would come when politicians would try to disarm Americans by convincing them that guns are bad and scary. He had this to say, “The laws that forbid the carrying of arms are laws of such a nature. They disarm only those who are neither inclined nor determined to commit crimes…Such laws make things worse for the assaulted and better for the assailants; they serve rather to encourage than to prevent homicides, for an unarmed man may be attacked with greater confidence than an armed man” (buckeyefirearms.org). 

Strict gun laws don’t stop bad guys from getting guns. They stop the good guys from getting guns to defend themselves and others, leaving everyone in a far more susceptible position. 

What would’ve happened in Atlanta if one of those women shot were carrying a firearm? Could the first victim have defended herself and stopped hers and the other murders from even happening? Possibly. 

In Joe Biden’s America, we shouldn’t have the right to defend ourselves. These women who were murdered should not have had the right to defend themselves. The shooter should have known that he was not going to be able to be stopped until he decided to stop. The shooter should have known that whoever he wanted to shoot would not be able to defend themselves. 

Well, what does the Bible say about gun control? Not-so-surprisingly, nothing. However, the Bible does say that every man was assumed to have a personal sword, the gun-equivalent back in the day. Jesus himself said in Luke 22, “Let the one who has no sword sell his cloak and buy one.” 

So, knowing Jesus supports ownership of weapons for self-defense, what about acts of self-defense? Well, Exodus 22:2 says, “If a thief is caught in the act of breaking into a house and is struck and killed in the process, the person who killed the thief is not guilty of murder.” It continues in verse 3 to say, “But if it happens in daylight, the one who killed the thief is guilty of murder.” This tells us that it is not ok to kill someone simply because they break into your house. Pastor Tom Tell says about this passage, “In the dark, it is impossible to see and know for certain what someone is up to; whether an intruder has come to steal, inflict harm, or to kill, is unknown at the time. In the daylight, things are clearer. We can see if a thief has come just to swipe a loaf of bread through an open window, or if an intruder has come with more violent intentions.” 

Ultimately, the Bible tells us that the right to bear arms is acceptable (if not suggested to do so), and the right to defend yourself is promoted. Deadly force should be the last resort for a christian (and also taught in basic gun training), but if necessary to do so in self-defense, it is permit-able. 

As a christian, the right to bear arms is a freedom granted to us by the Bible. And as an American, the right to bear arms is a freedom granted to us by the Constitution. 

The left is steadfast on removing this right from us, this is not a time to be silent. 

We must build up an army of patriots for the kingdom. 

BONUS BLOG!

I wrote “…Shall Not Be Infringed” (above) before the most recent shooting in Boulder, CO on Monday. I couldn’t post this without addressing a few quick thoughts that came to my mind…

You can see just how quickly the left is moving to infringe on your right to bear arms. They want complete and utter control. 

They want you afraid!

Afraid of guns. 

Afraid of terrorists. 

Afraid of white males. 

Afraid of Trump.

Afraid of conservatives. 

Afraid of anything that they feel is a threat to their control. 

And they are using the MSM propaganda to make you afraid. 

The MSM was eager to blame this shooting on a white male as the yahoo news story says, “a partially clothed white male was seen being led away from the scene.” When in reality, the shooter was identified later as Ahmad al-Issa…a devout, anti-Trump, Muslim. 

Joe Biden also wasted no time using this shooting as a way to blame guns by calling for an “assault weapons ban” and a “ban on high capacity magazines.” Want to know something funny? Colorado already has a high capacity magazine ban. So Joe, did it help? Did that stop the bad guy from getting a gun with a high capacity magazine? 

We as a people need to open our eyes to this madness the left is pushing us into. It is leading us into complete and utter destruction.