#it’s a layer of water sandwiched between soap that makes up the walls

[raceispunk]

Saltatio Pluvialis

There’s a strong wind outside. It batters the windows, making them shake in their frames. The house is old, and it’s just me and Shel inside. Jericho stretches at the end of my bed, kneading his paws into my blankets, softly purring as the pale light from the overcast sky casts a glow on his white fur.

I think it will rain later.

I shift on my bed, the fabric of my bedspread scratching my bare knees as I slide off, onto the woven rug on the floor. Jericho makes a sound of protest and follows lethargically after me, bounding off the bed with the grace and energy inherent to cats. He trots after me as I leave the room, crossing the hall into the kitchen.

It’s darker here because the window is sandwiched between the cupboards, obscuring the thin illumination from outside. The walls are painted a pale blue that has seen fresher days. I think it was built in the seventies, and no part of the house has ever been remodeled. It’s still, in the kitchen. Dust hangs in the air, and a kind of static grayness fills the room. It smells like the lavender soap that lies by the sink. The silence is calming.

Jericho rubs against my legs as I take a chipped, water-stained glass from the cupboard, and fill it in the sink. I dig through the drawer beside me, finding the packet I was searching for and tearing it open, dumping the contents into the glass and watching the orange powder drift through the water, suspended above the white tiles of the kitchen floor, from my perspective. I stir it, leaning back against the old linoleum counters and watching the empty living room.

Over the television hangs a boat oar, carved from a dark wood. Probably mass-produced, not anything special. My grandfather used to work on fishing boats when we lived closer to the coast. I was just a little kid at the time, and now only full of half-hazed memories of rocking boats, splashing waves, and bright yellow boots in sea-soaked grass.

To the right of the oar, the bookshelf stands vigil, faithfully bearing its treasure. I look at the glass in my hands to see the powder fully dissolved, tinting the drink a watery orange. Setting the cup on the battered kitchen table, I go to the bookshelf instead. A whole row is taken up by the green, leather-bound tomes, a collection of classics put together by a far away university scholar, from the kind of place I will never see the inside of. The spines are numbered, gold lettering pressed into the pristine leather. The green books are one of the only things in the house that have always been in good condition, if you don’t count the layer of dust on the tops of the pages.

I slide my fingers across the spines, feeling the grooves of the titles until I stop and select one at random. It leaves a track in the dust on the shelf.

I tuck the book under my arm and return to the kitchen, picking up the glass of orange water and carrying both items with me to Shel’s room. Her door is open, as it usually is, and I enter with a light tap on the hollow wood to herald my arrival. She looks at me, brown eyes shining, from her position in bed. I smile, and bring her the drink. When she sits up to take it, I move the blankets around her waist, then sit down on her mattress.

“I brought a book,” I say. My voice seems too loud for the silence of the day. Despite the noise of the wind outside, the house feels so still that I feel that I should be stepping lightly and speaking in a whisper. Shel can’t hear very well, so I don’t whisper.

She grins, and reaches out a shaky hand to point at it, now sitting cover-up in my lap. Her slim finger traces the title with more reverence than I have ever had.

“Book.”

“Want me to read?” I ask.

She nods, and I take her glass, setting it on her mirrored vanity. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass, backlit by her bedroom window, which makes my dark hair glow white around the edges. When I turn back to Shel she’s pointing out the window, clutching the book to her chest.

“Yes, it’s windy out.”

She shakes her head, gestures between her and me, and the book, and then points outside.

“Read outside?”

Shel nods, sliding her legs slowly out of the covers until they hang above the carpeted floor. I go to help her, taking the book and setting it beside her empty glass, getting her chair from the corner of the room. I wheel it in front of the bed and lift her into it by scooping her up, arm under her legs, and behind her back. As soon as she’s set down she bats my hands away, taking hold of the rims of the wheels and pushing herself forward slowly on the carpet. I pick up the book and follow after her.

Shel leads us out of the house, onto the porch where the wind whips our hair and slams the screen door shut. I wonder if maybe there will be a tornado. There’s still no rain, but the sky is stained dark with blueish thunder clouds in the distance.

“Rain clouds,” I say, directing her gaze to the clouds. “They’re called ‘cumulonimbus’, I think.”

“Cool,” she says, in her odd voice that speaks of a false start. I smile.

“Want to be on the grass?”

“Yes.” The word is said with a hard, hissing ‘s’, as is her way. She nods along with her words.

We go down the porch ramp to the patchy grass. I help her out of her chair, and we sit down. The wind is calmer on the ground, but not much. I prepare the book, laying it flat on my lap. Shel places her hand on my leg, leaning over me to see the first page.

It’s a map, in black and white ink and intense detail. It outlines a region; I’m not sure of where it is. It’s labeled in Latin. One spot reads ‘Circus Agonalis’, and another marks a road as ‘Via dei Fori Imperiali’. Shel stops me from turning the page by placing her hand over the book, bending over my lap to peer closely at the tiny buildings illustrated on the thick paper. She puts her finger on a road and traces it until its end, then turns onto the next path and does the same, making routes from one landmark to another. She stops abruptly, turning from the book to search through the grass beside us. I watch her hands as they comb the short plants until she snatches up a small stone. She holds it up to her mouth and blows, removing a clod of dirt and sending soil skittering across the pages of the book, then places it carefully on a road and begins moving it like a toy car. She’s making vrooming noises, too quietly to hear over the wind, but I can feel the vibrations in her chest where she leans against me.

She hands me the pebble, and I drive it obediently around on the map under her watchful eye. When we’ve both steered the rock to her satisfaction, she throws it out into the yard. The wind makes it fly far to the left.

Shel lifts her hand, releasing the page. The harsh wind blows the book open. Its pages whip by, windmilling with a fluttering sound. Shel laughs as I struggle to keep the book open, choosing a spot in the middle to hold down. The wind is blowing her hair back, away from her face. Framed by the white sky and the green hills beyond the house, she looks like a painting.

I look to the green volume and begin reading at the top of the page.

“‘I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds have riv’d’ —riv’d, that’s a funny word. The notes say it means ‘split’.” I begin again. “‘riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen the ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, to be exalted with the threatening clouds: but never till tonight, never till now, did I go through a tempest dropping fire’.”

In the distance, thunder breaks the sky.

“‘Either there is a civil strife in heaven, or else the world, too insolent with the gods, incenses them to send destruction.’”

Shel pokes me until I stop reading, and look up. Lightening plays in the water-streaked sky above the fields, followed by crashes of thunder. Criss-crossed by irrigation canals, the golden wheat ripples in the gale, and beyond that, the cattle from Gulley Ranch roam across the hills. On the other side of the gravel driveway, I hear the sheep bleating their distress from the barn. The exposed skin on my legs and arms is cold, but Shel stares up at the sky, grinning.

Slowly, rain begins dripping from the heavens. It dots the pages of the book with little circles of water, and patters on the wind-stirred dirt. Shel throws her arms up.

“Rain!” she crows. I grin, closing the book and setting it on the grass beside me. The rain begins pouring harder, and I stand. The sound of the water all around fills my ears. The cool drops land on my cheeks, in my hair. They run down my arms and the back of my neck. I tip my head back as the thunder rolls.

Shel takes my hand, tugging. I turn to her, holding both of her hands, and help her stand. Her legs are shaky, and she wobbles, but she stays up. The sky is like a massive dome over us, meeting the bright hills in the distance with a swirl of gray, and the smearing texture of the rain. Lightning flashes above us.

I lead Shel, and slowly we turn, our faces turned to the sky. Twirling, without shoes, in the wet grass. The ground pools with water around our feet, and the hem of Shel’s dress hits my knees.

The rain streams down our faces, and we laugh in time with the thunder.

••The End••

[oldguardhc]

Old Guard hc #107

Every time Nicky washes dishes, he ends up blowing bubbles. He’s got a perfect water to dish soap ratio. His bubbles last at least a minute and they get freaking huge. The biggest bubble he’s ever blown using just his hands was the size of a beach ball. He excitedly held it in his hands and called everyone into the kitchen to look! Look! It’s huge!! After Andy got over her realization that this is why Nicky always takes so long to wash dishes, she was impressed. Joe took a picture of Nicky and his bubble and it’s one of the purest photos in his camera roll.

[wienerbarnes]

Old Friend

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,333

Warnings: nothing this time! warm feelings

A/N: ok so I have an idea but it'd kind of be a bigger plot point for this universe so I'm gonna try and do some head cannons to fill in some gaps before writing the next big part! feel free to send in any ideas! ill write em if they strike the inspo :)

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Bucky! You’re finally back!”

Your body jumped into his arms with excitement, happiness and joy radiating off of your body immediately causing a toothy smile to grow on his face. He caught you in his arms, wrapping both around your waist and lifting up off the ground, your arms curling around his neck.

“Sorry, I was longer than expected.” Bucky says, slowly letting you down back on your feet.

What was supposed to be a week long investigation in London turn into seven weeks as a string of human trafficking crimes were tied to more and more people, forcing him and Sam to extend their stay.

Bucky enters your apartment and makes his way to one of your cabinets, taking out two placemats, a set of plates, and silverware as he watches you make your way back to the stove. Regardless of the fact that he’s been away for a while, the two of you seem to fall back into rhythm as though nothing’s changed.

“I found this easy tomato soup recipe so I made it with some grilled cheese sandwiches,” You explain, slowly stirring the red liquid in the pot. You don’t turn around but Bucky can hear the proud smile in your voice. “I even remembered to wash my hands this time,”

“I missed you.” He says suddenly, seemingly not being able to hold himself back. You pause your stirring and look over your shoulder back at him, “I missed you, too, Bucky.” A wide smile spreading across your face.

Something changed in him the last seven weeks.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you. At first it was worry; constantly wondering if you were safe, if you had gotten yourself into any complicated situations without him around to help you. Everytime Sam’s phone would ring, a part of him was terrified that it was a phone call to inform him that you had been found and were being transported back to prison. You don’t have a phone or any other means of communication, so it was hard for him to constantly be worrying without any way of checking in on you.

Soon, the worry was replaced with longing. He began to miss your different colored hair, always changing it up for appearance, but also you making him guess what color you were going next before not telling him anyway. He missed the way you were always coloring your nails, changing out your earrings everyday with something new and colorful, the way you would tell him awful jokes he’d heard a thousand times before, jokes that would make blush and cringe, the way you’d tell him stories from your past; the fact that you trust him enough to do so in the first place.

Everything he saw in London reminded him of you in some way. Everything he saw, he wished you were there with him to share it with. He couldn’t wait to tell you about the people, the buildings, the food; he could only imagine the way you’d fake an accent to see how long you could get away with it around locals or the way you’d tease about how “they’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you, I did a thing!” You snap him out of his thoughts with the placement of the soup bowl and two sandwiches on the table in front of him. He sits down and his eyes widen as you pull down your pants.

He doesn’t have time to be distracted with your lime green cheeky underwear because he’s distracted by the large outline of a tattoo running down your leg.

There’s no shading or color, only black lines that outline countless flowers and leaves, lines filling in the spaces in between. The tattoo spans from the top of your thigh, disappearing in between your inner thighs and trailing down to your ankle. You twist your leg in a bit to show how it wraps around, and you're completely unaware of the look on Bucky’s face. He never knew he had a thing for tattoos until now.

He closes his eyes while you're not looking, trying to calm the heat he can feel against his neck and ears.

“How did- How did you even do that?” He asks, glancing up at the smile on your face as you stare down at your own leg.

“Okay, so- I found this cool tattoo shop, right? And I go in and they tell me that I need an ID and money, both of which I obviously don’t have, so I left. And then,” You pause to shove your tomato-soaked cheese sandwich into your mouth, red liquid dripping from the corners of your mouth, barely making it onto the plate and dirtying the cloth underneath.

“Then, this guy comes out of nowhere from the shop and he says that he’d be happy to tattoo me for free so he can build his portfolio! So, that’s what I did!” You finish explaining.

“Was he like… sterile?”

“Duh, Bucky. What kind of person do you take me for?” You reassure him.

He pushes both thoughts of another guy rubbing on your thighs and the amount of risk that came with pulling that stunt as you both catch up on each other’s lives. He tells you about London, you tell him about the tattoo experience, he tells you about London life, you tell him about your trips to the fresh market and how you’ve been getting better and better at cooking.

He’s washing the dishes while you towel dry them and put them away in your small cupboard when he brings up an idea to you.

“So, I want you to meet a friend of mine.” He suggests to you.

“Bucky, you know I can’t meet any of your friends.” You respond, deflated, after a moment of silence.

“I know what you're thinking, but I promise this guy is as safe as safe can be. I was thinking of taking a drive to visit him tomorrow, and I think you guys would get along well.” He continues soaping up the china in the sink, but doesn’t look at you; he can guess the nervous look on your face as he senses your tension and hears the increased beat of your heart.

“... Are you trying to set me up with this guy?” You ask, offense present in your voice.

A chuckle escapes him, “I think this guy is… a little out of your age range. Look,” He turns off the water as you dry off the last plate. “Do you trust me?”

“With everything.” You say without an ounce of hesitation.

“Then come with me tomorrow.”

After a moment of thought and consideration, you agree.

…

“I didn’t know you had a car!”

“Got it just for you, doll.”

“Is your license even in date? Have you had your vision checked recently, old man?”

He closes the door behind him and makes his way to the passenger side to open the car door for you, “We’ve got a bit of a drive, I figured this was more comfortable than the bike.”

You’ve dressed up today, a pair of shorts that show off your tattoo, with a large long-sleeved t-shirt adorning your frame, a mis-matched jacket and sweatshirt hanging off of your shoulders. He likes that you’ve got a thing for layers, and he’ll never get over the comfort you take in having fun with your appearance.

A two and a half hour drive leads you both to a reserved house, trees and bushes decorating the front of the property and a basic Welcome Home sign hanging from the door.

“Bucky… who do you know that lives all the way out here?” You ask as he parks. As much as she trusts him, she had nightmares about who she would be meeting today. Her biggest fear was Sam or Sharon. As full of love Bucky is, she wasn’t sure his friends would feel the same; they have a large responsibility and clearly value their job and their morals, which would make it hard for them to see her in the same light Bucky sees her in.

“You’ll see, babe. Just relax, c’mon.” Bucky says, turning off the car and opening the door. You can’t help the warmth flooding your face at the pet name and you hope Bucky doesn’t notice enough to tease you about it as he opens your door for you.

Bucky flips through his keys as you both approach the porch and he finally sticks a silver one into the lock, turning it to the left.

“Must know them pretty well to have a spare key.”

“You have no idea,” Bucky mumbles.

“Steve?” Bucky calls out into the house.

“Back here, Buck!” A raspier voice echoes back.

A elderly man steps out from a side hallway. A friendly smile sits on his face, and you return it, not being able to help it at the sight of a nice-looking old man in a sweater and soft looking slacks.

“I’m Steve. It's a pleasure to meet you.” He holds out a hand, and you shake it, replying with your name as well.

“Sweetheart, this is Steve Rogers.” Bucky informs you.

You freeze, smile dropping from your face and hand pausing in Steves.

“Steve… Rogers? The Steve Rogers? Like- Captain America? But… You-You died!” You exclaim.

“I did, didn’t I,” Steve laughs out, releasing your hand. “Have you eaten?” He asks.

“What the fuck?” You ask, seemingly more confused by that question than the fact that Steve Rogers is, 1: Old, and 2: Alive and well living in a beautiful home in the outskirts of New York.

Another laugh sounds from the older man, “Why don’t you have a seat, I’ll make you guys something, I’m sure you’re hungry after the drive.” He trails off, making his way to the kitchen.

“Wow, nice to see you're a chef now. You’ve come a long way from having no taste buds a century ago.” Bucky jokes, a light smile on his face as he makes his way after Steve towards the kitchen island.

This isn’t fucking real right now. Who else is the government hiding? Cobain? Kennedy? How the fuck am I in Captain America’s super nicely furnished-old-timey style-house that’s hidden away in paradise? It’s so different for you to see Bucky so relaxed. He looks incredibly carefree, joking around, teasing with his best friend. It makes you feel warm inside to see him this way, because as much as the two of you get along, it is rare to see him so happy and bubbly.

You glance around the walls, the place definitely embodying the aesthetic of Steve Rogers, with wooden accents to furniture and decor  and copious amounts of pictures everywhere. Him and his wife, pictures of young adults and children, his kids and grand-kids and great-grand-kids you assume, some of Bucky, both old and new, some of Sam and Sharon.

As the three of you talk, Bucky realizes that he didn’t remember the fact that you were dusted in the snap as he was. You were in the prison when it happened, and it was where you returned when everyone was brought back, but it was large news that Steve Rogers sacrificed his life for the world, along with Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, and other heroes. He watches you and Steve interact easily, as though you’ve known each other forever, as he tells you about his time returning the stones, the way he lived when he returned to the forties for good, what it was like seeing life evolve as he already knew it in his mind.

You asked question after question, like a child meeting their favorite celebrity or going on a field trip to their favorite place. You were animated with your questions, exaggerating your thoughts with your hands, all while cursing like a sailor with your vulgar language, all of which Steve loved.

He knew the talking-to he was going to receive from Steve later, he saw it in the look he gave him when he entered the kitchen behind him. He has never brought anyone to see Steve, besides Sam, of course, let alone a girl. This most definitely looks like you and him are in some sort of relationship; this is pretty much the equivalent of meeting the family. Or at least, as much family as he can get away with for now.

He’s not going to know what to respond when Steve asks him about you. In regards to anything; whether or not you two are dating, whether or not he’s going to tell Sam or Sharon, what his feelings are for you. Does he have feelings for you?

The rest of the afternoon is spent sharing stories, looking at pictures, and more and he can see how happy you’ve acted since being here. It’s definitely been a change in your routine for the past two years as you’ve really grown into yourself again.

Bucky’s brain doesn’t shut up the entire drive back to your apartment. He thinks about long drives with you every weekend, he thinks about you meeting the other people that are important to him, he thinks about finding a way to get you a new identity, but cringes at the thought of having to call you another name other than your own. He constantly glances at your sleeping body in the passenger seat next to him, facial features soft as you dream, mouth open just a bit where he can hear the softest snores. You’re using his jacket as a pillow as your sock-covered feet are curled beneath you in the seat.

He sits in his car for a few minutes after dropping you off at the door of your apartment, refusing your invitation inside with a made-up excuse about checking on Alpine and needing to change her box and food, even though he’d bet anything that that cat is fast asleep on his pillow.

He takes a deep breath before taking out his phone and selecting a contact from his favorites. It rings twice before he hears a voice on the other end.

“Hey, Sam? You free? I wanna… I wanna talk to you about something.”

[bestwishes86]

Amos Meets Casper

A pair of sea foam colored eyes opened slowly as if the man they belonged to had been sleeping for years. He opened his small mouth and exhaled as he stretched in all directions and became aware of three things at once.

He was free of Calendar’s captivity.

He was not in any pain from her bone saw cutting into portions of him.

He was naked.

Amos knew he should be scared, but as he turned his long form to the left and looked at the gray wall with dints where a foot had kicked in a small bit of it near the base of it. He had no earthly idea where he was. His bearded face furrowed into a frown as he tried to make sense of his circumstances. He remembers Calendar and her small bone saw, the make shift operating room of a warehouse that smelled of age and decay. Her beautiful face contorted into rage as she ranted at him about the God inside of him being meant for her.

Amos sighed, his wish that it had all been a dream having been rejected by life. He sat up, standing he is five foot six with light olive skin in color. A short unkempt beard frames his square jaw and goes up onto his side burns. His round head shaved on top by the doctors at the mental institution, with only a thin layer of fuzz on top. His frown made his long curved light brown eye brows come together and the nostrils of his long curved nose flare. There was nothing remarkable about his long torso and though proportionate still short hairy legs. Or his small feet, there isn’t much to Amos Seague, and yet he is the vessel for the God of Nothing. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and looks around the room and it takes him no time to realize he is a motel room.

The cigarette smoke stains on the closed plastic blinds, or the stains on the ceiling in the corners tell him it isn’t an expensive room. A flat screen hangs precariously from where it should be mounted on the wall in front of him. He looked at it for a moment to realize the chord has been cut, the stump dangles limp in the air above a thin white card table where small brightly wrapped bundles sit in a pile. He breathes in the scent from where he sits and the savory smell of sausage and eggs has him on his feet and shuffling awkwardly over to it.

He freezes, remembering the feeling of the whirring metal saw cutting through skin and muscle and finally bone as she cut off his left leg. He looked down at the leg and saw it was there but there was a clear distinction between the part he had always had and the new limb. The dark hairs of his body all halted in a perfect line he knew went all the way around. Amos felt sick, hungry, shock and a growing sense of apathy for his existence as he took another step toward the table.

He knew the breakfast sandwiches could be poisoned but after having a limb cut off and grown back. Walking out of a burning metal hospital, would poison kill him? Would it be so bad if it did? His stomach didn’t care for the questions or his thoughts as it rumbled and made a loud sound of need. He reached out and grabbed one of the still warm sandwiches and unwrapped it and bit into the fluffy buttery goodness. The taste was better than any breakfast sandwich has a right to be. The biscuit not dry but moist from the generous butter amount the insides had been slathered in. The peppered sausage patty was heaven in meat form on his tongue as he gobbled it down. He didn’t care about crumbs falling into his chest hair as he ate it all. Then another, and two more, as he consumed it the skin on his new leg tingled and burned a little but the sensation didn’t matter in the presence of this feast. After the sixth sandwich he felt more himself. He stopped eating and just stood rubbing his still flat stomach with it’s little roundness and looked around the room.

There wasn’t much to it, two duffle bags he didn’t know. A pair of jeans and a blue t shirt beside black and white converse that looked worn and dirty tube socks were on the ground in a trail to the door he assumed was the bathroom. Amos walked up to it and pressed one of his large ears to it. He heard the sound of water running and someone walking around the room. For a moment he thought of Calendar but doubted it was her. He was about to knock when he heard the sound of slipping on he assumed tile and a crash of limbs against a wall and a loud shout of the word “SHIT” then a splash.

Amos opened the door to rush in and help whoever it was who had saved him. But froze, there sitting in a old fashioned bathtub looking back at him was a large spotted gray cat. Cat was the first thought that came to his mind as he tried to make sense of the massive creature looking at him miserably, the large eyes blinked at him before the long whiskered mouth grew into a snarl. Amos slammed the door, he cocked his head to the left and tried to make sense of what he had just seen. He ran through mental pictures of every animal he knee and came up “Snow Leopard” but the ears were wrong and the black spots were spots not circular, he opened the door and saw the cat was smacking all soap bubbles and splashing to itself until it felt watched. The large head turns and looked at him before the animal leapt at him, claws outstretched. He slammed the door and ran to the bed and cowered on the right side of it.

Moments later the door opens and Amos peeks over the unmade bed and see’s not a cat but a tall, broad man walking out rubbing at his short wild dark hair with a white towel. The man looked athletic with golden skin and a boyish face with a five o’clock shadow round his thin lipped mouth. A pair of amber eyes locked on to him and a impish smile appeared on his face.

“You gonna come over here or stay where you are, makes no difference but jeez I was right, you were hungry.” A soft male voice with a touch of an accent Amos couldn’t place asked. Amos watched the Adonis look at the table with half of the sandwiches eaten.

“Where’s the animal?” Amos asks still frightened. This makes the man chuckle, he drops the towel to the ground and walks to the table and takes one of the remaining sandwiches and unwraps it.

“He’s in the bath, go see. He’s not so bad when you’re not perving on him.” The man said through a mouth full of biscuit.

“I wasn’t…I was just surprised,” Amos said with a start as he rose from the ground and covering his groin walks hesistantly to the door way. He counts to 3 before leaning around the frame and seeing the bathtub empty save for water that had gotten all over the white and black tile ground. Behind him he heard loud laughter and turned to look at the young man who was vibrating with laughter. Amos looked the man from head to toe before covering his eyes at the sight of the larger than his own uncircumcised penis bouncing at the movement of the body that owned it.

“Dumb and shy, oh man The God of Nothing totally made the right choice. I bet Calendar loved that.” The man said before walking over to the mini fridge and pulling two bottles of water from it. He gave one to Amos by pressing it to his cheek and Amos dropped his hands in shock. This brought another roar of laughter from Casper who winks at him before sliding into the bed. Amos opens the bottle and takes a drink watching the long man on the bed. The man stretches and Amos sees the thin pale pink webbing between the man’s thin toes.

“Wait…you’re ….the cat.” Amos stutters and Casper’s laughter is answer enough.

[dancekickboxcardio]

This is not a good sign. I wake up 🛏 and I am heavy and sore and tired 😓 as if I worked out the entire night 🌃. I also have nasal drainage 👃🏾 🤧 and keep on sneezing. I am bundled up on a thick robe 👘 and beanie. I feel sickly 🤒. My room 🚪 has always been cold 🥶 but this morning I made sure the air vents ♨️are open and free from obstructions🚧. I had to sleep 💤 in. I had my alarm ⏰ already set at 800a. I have to consider my physical shape. Last night I already made a decision 🤔 that I was going be off today. Well, had I not I couldn’t go today. A touch of weak immune system that with a long sustained day in and day out consecutive fitness batteries shall without a doubt cause you to be ill and it’s Fall 🍃🍂🍁 germy 🦠 Winter ❄️ too. If you are bound to compromise your bod, you are at the perfect time. I was looking 👓 at the butt kicking 🦵🏾 💪🏾 Veteran’s community exercises. I laugh 😆 at myself in silence because I know I won’t be the strongest person and no one expects me to be. I am intimidating tough in a different way 🤯. I shall be wimpy and that’s ok with me. I believe that we are all in different levels with varied skill sets. As long as we work on where we fall short we are ok. If your mindset is you are ALWAYS the best person and you are not, well YOU have a problem. Whose fall is that. I know it’s more complicated than that but being a person who is exacting and admits faults and working lists well honesty is so much more respected than a façade. Keep it going flimsy whimsy ✨.

I have a list 📝 of things I want to do today.

I already described to my BFF that I was reticent yesterday. I wasn’t my yakky bubbly self and that’s ok. Sometimes a change in your rhythm does it. I explain to to him that inside I was feels Katy Perry. I am still quite funny 😆.

I was up at 600a Sunday. I had pizzas 🍕 my left over pumpkin 🎃 spice fit Americano ☕️ and another full cup to keep me going until it is at least close to nap 😴 time. I organized 🧹 and my study desk is breathable spacey and I thought 💭 of ways to free more of the area for academic 👓🗒🖊 work. I want to securely attach my shelves on the wall and revamp my wall space for inspiration ❤️ and like a reflection on what’s exactly brewing in your brain 🧠. I had a “helper.” He “goes through and checks my filing.” 🗄

So my schedule 🗓 is already changed. I am not foreign to constant differences in short time changing plans. That is my signature ✍🏾. I really build myself to doing that. I am doing Tuesday straight to Saturday and I like that a lot because I get to yoga 🧘🏼‍♀️. I know that for some people it is a status way of life just as Lululemon is. To me, it’s get me in that leisurely pace compared versus 🆚 to a New York ran business speed. I mean the Lululemon brand. Yoga 🙆🏼‍♀️ makes my bod less stiff. I was liking that I had tandem free times. Surely I didn’t execute the day similarly. Saturday I was very on top of things, must do stuff. That has always been my life. One place to go after another. I discovered after decades in college 📚 that it really is momentum. When I was younger I go to the gym 🏃🏼‍♀️ 💪🏾 because I had expendable money 💵 in my pocket like cash 💵 🙄 , that’s what cool 😎 college kids do and really I wanted a full day, something that lives to my vision of how my life should be lived. Now a days, I am not precisely where I want to be and heck I tell people all the time I should be having a nervous breakdown for not meeting what I set myself to do. However you have to keep in mind that my trajectory if not glacial 🏔 is certainly super sonic 🚀. I have to be a full pledge person. I have to know the meanings of our existence and yes you discover it in the times when you pour yourself in books 📖 and writings in the library. You are moved by the scholastic and social excitement 🤓. Yet you have to remember that not everybody lives like that. What do you do when there is nothing that is pressed upon you or when society or anyone like your parents dictates by influence what you have to do. What do you do with yourself? What do you want? How do you make sense of existence 😊?

I had a great time with Dad. He just didn’t drive me around 🚙. We stopped 🛑 by Chipotle because he was hungry 😋. I asked for a burrito 🌯 bowl. He wanted like DiBella’s for the nth factorial time. Don’t get me wrong. I love 💕 their sandwiches 🥪 except there is more than one fast food in the corner. Actually he was asking for Five Guys which I am a big fan of. Caturday 🐈 however I feel like yummy 😋 meat 🥩 on rice 🍚 and veggies 🌽🍅🥬 with cheese 🧀 and sour cream. Mmmmmmmm. I also had a seamless time at Target. He had to exchange his lock 🔒 there too and I had to introduce him to the cash register lady as my Dad. I picked up my gym 🏃🏼‍♀️ 💪🏾 essentials 🛒 and got the perf 🤩 planner journal 📓. We also went to the library where I picked up fictions at random. I stayed away from what I made a mental note over reading the jacket and be like that’s interesting 🧐. I came across Gabriel Marquez Garcia who I am going to check out on the catalog 💻. Shall we request the books in Spanish 😆? You totally should.

To me I ate pretty poorly. Not only did I not eat 🍽 on time I also didn’t partake balanced meals 🥘. I ate tons of carbs. I ate what I wanted. When I ordered 🧾 at Chipotle I should have made it conform to my food plan and not how the restaurant recommended it. I should take note of it next time. I am very steady running 😏 and sometimes you have to teach me to live a little. How severe stringent. Even allowing for some loose time is a mental exercise. Sorry 😐 that’s just how I am although it doesn’t mean I am incapable of natural tendencies and inclination. All I am saying is that I have wired my thinking 🤔 to put up those barriers on things that could throw me off. I know. I am quite the self-manager 👩🏼‍💼 psych grad 🎓. I guess I could say that is the great learning or a curse to you on what my entire undergrad learning imparted in me. I have strength because I actually applied myself. Diet right. I ate what I wanted when I wanted. I ate manageable portions 🍴 but how I eat matters a lot on my performance 👟 , how my day unfolds. It really is relevant ⚠️ administratively. That’s why I had this question after seeing the article of a gym gal dying from eating too much protein 🍖 if 60 grams of protein powder on my two barista ☕️ espresso drinks everyday is safe.

Article:

I consumed so much media over the weekend mostly TV 📺 and radio 📻 and I try to move along from Neruda when all I did mostly was look 👀 up what my little stipend can get me. Planning 📅 can sound stupid but it actually makes plain what you want, how you think 💭 😏, why you decided like that 😏, clears your mental processes and really enables a better decision 🤨 making. Overwhelmed? I so didn’t graduate 👩🏼‍🎓 from Notre Dame college. 😂 Ask not why you graduated but why you chose your major. I was like to BFF “Is this what my life has amounted too? The happiest day so to speak every month 📆 is when my allowance 💵 is disimbursed.” Shake that thing.

🎶 “Shake dat ting miss, Cana, Cana

Shake dat ting miss, Annabella

Shake dat ting yow, Donna Donna

Jodi and Rebecca”

These where the things I watched at Netflix. Some of the stuff on my list have been discontinued 😭.

(1) Season 1 Episode 4:

(2) Season 1 Episode 8:

(3) Season 1 Episode 3:

I wrapped my day with some beauty 🧖🏼‍♀️ ritual although I didn’t cover everything. I need to wax before I start to look 👀 like wolverine.

I dyed my hair. It looks awesome 👏🏾 even if it’s going to get chopped. I decided today bob, a very short layered one. Oooh 😯 more hair accessories: barrettes, headbands and hats 🧢. I showered 🧼 and scrub. Self-care that kind of just fell in place and not ran by hurried minutes on the clock 🕰.

I shaved. I didn’t salt scrub. Laura was like Friday PT you smell good 👃🏾. To me, “Oh, my Victoria’s Secret Pink scrub soap is that fragrant.” My Dove liquid soap ran out while I was in the tub 🛁. I applied some great smelling perfumed lotion 🧴. When shall I get more? 🛍 and I did my nails 💅🏾.

I feel like a whole person. I feel good. I kindled 🔥 myself. I did what are really necessary to have some sense of balance, serenity and harmony. I mean in our minds we see things clearly delineated and this must. But the world 🌍 is a constant chaos like many have said before me, you find that me time whenever you can and stop ✋🏾 expecting a perfect day because you actually make your own money. It’s not handed to you. You are a Neantherdal. Go out there and hunt for survival 😏. I need water 💦.

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Seventeenth Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

First … Second … Third … Fourth … Fifth … Fifth Christmas, Part 2 … Sixth … Seventh … Eighth … Ninth … Tenth … Eleventh … Twelfth … Thirteenth … Fourteenth … Fifteenth … Sixteenth … Seventeenth … Eighteenth … Nineteenth … Twentieth … Twenty-first … Twenty-second … Twenty-third

possbily NSFW depending on your job ...

———————–

Opening up the front door, she had the overwhelming urge to turn around and go back to work. It was freezing inside, meaning Mulder hadn’t turned the heat up for the last two days and all she wanted was to be warm, the snow falling in heavy blankets outside, making her drive long and terrifying at times. Leaving her coat on but stepping out of her snow-caked boots from the unshoveled walk to the door, she headed in the direction of the basement, seeing Mulder’s office chair empty in the back room. Feeling the cold even more as she descended the stairs, her stocking feet were nearly numb by the time they hit the cold concrete floor. She found him assembling more metal shelving, stacks of racks, piles of screws, a level, hammer, tape measure, carefully folded empty cardboard shipping boxes surrounding him.

“Mulder?” When he didn’t react, she said his name a second and third time until he finally turned, giving her a gaunt look of someone thoroughly surprised to hear another human voice. “I just got home.”

He shook his head, confusion dissipating to familiarity, “Scully? I thought you had to work?”

“I did. I’m home again.” Moving forward, she put a hand under his arm, helping him stand, “why aren’t you wearing any shoes? Your feet must be frozen by now.”

Familiarity moved into recognition, his brain registering the cold, the dark of the room, “I wanted to put together the shelves. They got here this morning and I wanted to get the food and stuff stacked and cataloged before you got home.”

Sighing inwardly, she took the tools from his hands and set them down, reaching for his fingers, pulling him towards the steps, “we’ll come down and do them later, all right? We should get upstairs and turn the heat on and see what we can make for dinner. Have you seen all the snow?”

He followed her willingly, blindly, until they reached the top of the stairs, immediately darting to the windows, pulling blinds and drapes closed more than they already were, checking the back door as he passed, lock securely in place. Scully watched with sinking heart, her standard, involuntary response to seeing him like this.

While he made the rounds of the house, she padded to the thermostat and turned it up to 75, quaking at the cold of the 50 it was registering at the moment. Coming up behind her, he hugged her around the waist, “sorry I forgot about the heat. I forget things when you’re not here.”

Too tired and too sad to bring up, once again, the walk, the dishes, the unprepared meals she’d left in the freezer for him to make, she leaned her head against his shoulder, trying to absorb any ounce of heat he might be giving off. Not finding any, she slipped from his grasp to look at him, “are you hungry?”

“I think so.” Knowing he screwed up yet again, he kissed her cheek, “let me make dinner and you can go take a bath and warm up. I’m sorry I forgot about the heat. I just got caught up in everything downstairs.”

With a deeper sigh, she gave him an exhausted smile, “I would love just some soup and maybe grilled cheese sandwiches?”

“They’ll be ready when you get back down here.” Turning her, he scooted her towards the steps, “enjoy.”

&&&&&&&&

Sinking into the tub, she made it almost two minutes before crying, the tears overflowing without her consent, joining the steam and condensation on her cheeks. She did it quietly, sobbing too much effort, choosing to remain silent while she broke. So intent on not calling attention to herself, she didn’t hear Mulder open the bathroom door, slipping inside with half a sandwich and an apologetic look.

It wasn’t until he intentionally shuffled and sniffed lightly that she noticed him. For a brief, angry moment, she wanted to scream at him to leave her alone, to let her be, to fix himself before he came in to ask if she was okay. Then, she saw him, taking in her demeanor, her snotty-nose, her red eyes and she fell apart again, this time not caring if he heard her, if he believed it was his fault, if he knew just how close she was to the end of her rope.

Putting the paper plate with the sandwich on the closed toilet seat, he pulled off his shirt, shimmied from his pants and without a word, climbed into the tub with her, pushing the water nearly to the top as he settled at her feet, knees folded under him, scooting gently between her legs until he was wedged against her ass holding her in place and her thighs vee’d over his. Leaning forward, he took the washcloth from the hanger and soaping it up, began running the smooth bubbles over her, starting from her collarbones and moving across shoulders, down arms, across to belly, up her ribs, under the soft swell of her breasts, over her nipples, down her breastbone. Into and back out of belly button, he moved the cloth down her thighs, past her knees, over shin, ankle and sole, back up outside of leg, slipping over hips, moving to her center, cupping, rubbing gently.

Her eyes were shut by now, stupid, involuntary responses being what they were and Mulder knowing her better than she did herself, he let the cloth drift away, using his hands to rinse her, moving one handful of water at a time over her, rinsing as he slipped palm along skin. Once she was thoroughly bubble free, he shifted his hand lower once again, thumb running over clit, providing her unique pressure, the amount that made her suck in breath over teeth, through tightened lips, rolled tongue to make her lungs rise, pushing her breasts fully out of the water. Sliding his other hand under the water as well, he swam one finger, then two, slowly into her, taking his time, her time, their time, to begin moving.

She felt him growing hard against her but she didn’t mention and he didn’t ask, knowing this was her moment and speeding up slightly, water splashed over the sides of the tub, rhythmic puddles forming, her small hands gripping the rounded edges of the porcelain tub, grasping for a handhold as her muscles began tightening, her thighs gripping his hand, her eyes closed as she bucked against him, coming around him, whimpering for him to go harder, faster even as she fell back to Earth, her unremarkable house, her bathtub, herself.

Complying as best he could, she came a second time, louder and angry, the stream of unintelligible words flowing from her, her head snapping back into the tile wall with a thud that made him stop suddenly, concern removing his fingers, his body from the tub, standing to lean over her, hands on her shoulders, “Scully? Are you okay?”

Batting his hands away, she stood, ignoring her instant headache, soapy water streaming from her, as she took his hand, “come on.”

Soon, she was hanging onto the headboard as if her life depended on it, Mulder behind her, answering her calls for more with everything he had, the wood support banging against the wall, bed springs emitting a grating high-pitch squeak, knees sticking to soaked sheets, hands looking for purchase against her hips only to have her push back against him so hard, he lost his precarious hold.

Finally, he came just as she did, her muscles pulling everything from him until he finally, finally had to stop, fear of passing out pausing him moments before Scully unclenched her fingers from the battered headboard and collapsed on her side, leaving Mulder hanging for a second before he settled back on his heels, breathing hard.

Meeting her gaze, green eyes locked to blue, he gave her a serious look, “what was that?”

“Us, Mulder. That was us.”

“We don’t usually do angry sex, Scully.”

She blinked at him slowly, collecting her wits and feeling the throbbing more and more at the back of her skull, “that wasn’t angry sex, Mulder. That was me … letting it go.”

Knowing not to push it, knowing he needed a light spin to keep things from spiraling downward, he gave her his best leer, “well, next time, maybe let it go a little less so you can avoid a concussion.”

And she gave him a smile that melted his heart and froze his insides.

He’d missed something along the way.

He just didn’t know what.

&&&&&&&&&&&

But by time they were dried, dressed and eating their now re-heated soup and fresh sandwiches, Scully was curled beside him, settled deep in the couch, wool socks warming and blankets heavy on their laps, “when do you want to decorate for Christmas. I know it’s still a few weeks but I have tomorrow and Saturday off so maybe we can do it one of those days?”

She felt back to normal, back to Scully, and he relaxed beside her, the air around them soft and uncharged, warm and sweet. Kissing the top of her head, “tomorrow will be good. Right after I shovel the walk and driveway and finish the laundry.”

Feeling almost ashamed at her earlier actions, she offered her last bite of sandwich to him, “how about I deal with in here and you deal with trash and outside and we’ll bring everything from the attic after lunch?”

Taking her offered food, “Sounds like a plan, Stan.”

“You’ve got to stop confusing me with Stan.”

&&&&&&&&&

They fell asleep on the couch eventually, after she watched Mulder clearing dishes, peering out windows, commenting on the foot of snow now layered outside before going through his night routine, the routine Scully didn’t comment on and Mulder didn’t skip. Once back beside her, doors having been checked, phones moved, office door firmly closed against things Scully didn’t want to think about, Mulder cuddled her in his arms, “I put in ‘Die Hard’ ‘cause it’s almost Christmas and I know the soft spot you have for Bruce Willis and Alan Rickman.”

Finally, an unobtrusive, uncorrupted, uninhibited laugh emerged from her, “we are very weird people, Mulder.”

“And I love us.”

Hours later, after also watching ‘Die Hard 2’, Scully woke from a sound sleep to the sounds of clinking metal. First response to strange noises was still reaching for her gun but a moment later, her eyes dropping in concession, she stood, stepped into her slippers and moved down the basement steps, stopping at the bottom, “Mulder?”

He was on his last set of shelves, the basement now looking more like a big-box grocery store than anything else. Surveying the stacks of canned goods and gallons of water, the cases of batteries and flashlights and blankets and all other manner of survival gear, she sat down on the last step, waiting a moment until he looked over at her, “did I wake you?”

Pulling her lips just a little tighter over her teeth as she presented him with a small smile, “no. I was just going to the bathroom and heard you. Couldn’t sleep?”

“I just wanted to get these done, then I can put the rest of the supplies and see how much room we have left. See what else we can fit down here.” Not noticing the resignation surrounding her, “gotta be ready, Scully. They’ll come back. They’ll come back and find us and we’ll be on our own and we need to be prepared.”

“They’re not coming back, Mulder.”

He presented things so honestly, so thoughtfully, so clearly that she so wanted to believe, to understand, “the government is still watching us, Scully. They’re still out there, keeping track. I’ve read things that would make you never want to leave the house again. I know you don’t want to hear them but they’re there and I need to get us ready for them. I need to take care of you. I need to keep you safe.”

The sincerity in his words, so earnest and caring that, with a veiled sigh, she stood, approaching him, “would you like some help?”

His eyes lit up, “of course.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Next morning, after spending most of the night assembling and inventorying in the basement, both fell asleep in bed, collapsing on clean sheets after 4am. Scully only woke up when the heavenly scent of Hazelnut coffee hit her nose, eyes slowly opening, bones quietly creaking as she sat up, “you brought me coffee in bed?”

“Yup.” First, he handed the mug to her, then a small gift he pulled from behind his back, “and your first Christmas gift.”

One long sip later, she set the cup down and picked up the box, “I haven’t found yours yet.”

With a shrug, “it’s okay. Two shopping weeks left.”

Feeling much more right with the world, even on four hours sleep, she tore into the paper, finding a silver bulb ornament, black script telling her ‘Don’t Give Up’.

The tears pooled and fell in an instant, dropping on the ornament and giving her away. Mulder immediately tipped her chin up, critical, investigative, inquisitive look abounding, “please, Scully, tell me what’s wrong?”

She could do this. She could do this on her own. She knew he’d never go talk to a stranger, a therapist, someone whom he didn’t know and would never trust with more than his name and possibly his real age. She could get him medications, they could sit and talk things out, she could be his sounding board, he would talk to her about things if she pushed him and he would listen to her if she was convincing enough. They could figure this out together, like they always had and always would.

Reaching up, she cupped his face, thumbs settled in the dent on his chin, pulling him towards her until he finally had to drop to his knees, “will you talk to me? About all those things in your beautiful brain that you never share. I don’t like living like I’m going to have to run again at a moment’s notice, I don’t like feeling like everyone and everything is out to get me. I’ve done the paranoia thing, Mulder and just like the darkness, I don’t want to do it anymore … I can’t do it anymore. I love you so much but I can’t survive if I’m prisoner in my own house.”

His innocent look made her eyes fill, “but I’m doing it for us. Things are going to happen, Scully, terrible things and we need to be ready for them. I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing here, for them to know that we’re preparing. If I leave here, they’ll track me and see that I’m going to the store and they’ll know what I’m buying and they’ll think I’m in contact with the colonists and they’ll come here and they’ll take you again and …”

She stopped him, thumbs moving to lips, “Mulder …”

“Scully. I know what I’m doing and I know what’s going to happen. We’ve been inoculated but no one else has. You’ll see. Next December, you’ll see and then you’ll be grateful for everything I’ve been doing here.”

So convinced of himself that she felt her resolve caving, knowing that what she said next might possibly be the worst possible thing for him but not able to stop, “how about we make a deal? You tell me everything and I mean everything and I will … I will help us get ready.”

Astonishment didn’t begin to describe how he looked, “after Christmas. I’ll tell you everything and then we’ll get going.” Pulling her into a hug, “but first, we need to go set up the tree.”

Knowing she’d follow him anywhere, she slid off the bed, trailing out to the attic access in the hall, “Mulder, one more thing.”

“What?”

“Can you promise me that we will consult on everything for the preparations? No buying things without talking to one another?”

Just happy to have her onboard, “of course. I’ll need you to buy the guns anyways and those are gonna be the biggest things.”

And the darkness fell.

[historic-old-guard-lover]

#it’s a layer of water sandwiched between soap that makes up the walls #the hydrophilic heads of the soap surround the water #it always tries to become a sphere #depending on the size of two bubbles #they’ll either form a flat wall or the smaller one will bulge into the bigger one

Old Guard hc #107

Every time Nicky washes dishes, he ends up blowing bubbles. He’s got a perfect water to dish soap ratio. His bubbles last at least a minute and they get freaking huge. The biggest bubble he’s ever blown using just his hands was the size of a beach ball. He excitedly held it in his hands and called everyone into the kitchen to look! Look! It’s huge!! After Andy got over her realization that this is why Nicky always takes so long to wash dishes, she was impressed. Joe took a picture of Nicky and his bubble and it’s one of the purest photos in his camera roll.