#lots of ugly rain clouds today

[cosmic-ships]

I need any of my f/o to come and lay on me. Just throw their entire body weight on me and squish me real hard. 😮‍💨

I just want love and affection and to be told nothing that's happening is my fault and that I'll get out of all the bullshit. That I'll survive this and be onto happier things despite it looking so bleek....

[ayanominitrash]

Act Cool, Senpai! (Geto Suguru x reader)

₊˚ ♡

Geto-san falls for his dearest kouhai. Is this the end?

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Sixth Entry. 5th Entry here. Masterlist. AO3

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The days seem to melt together. The dark clouds looming above certainly didn't help.

But you're glad you're on your way back to Jujutsu High's Tokyo Branch. It's been an awful 2 weeks for you, and you can't wait to curl up in your bed in the dorms. Before that though, you have to power through the commute to get there. Your shoulders slump, weighed down by the longing for your bed.

This toddler was a few rows before you, watching you stare out the window. When the feeling of being watched is too much to bear, you turn your head and offer them a small smile.

The kid started crying.

Good grief, you thought.

It was as if the universe was mocking you today. It's like the cosmos is conspiring to make you feel worse than you already are. First, you upset a child, then had to deal with the unpleasant B.O. from your seatmate, and now a drizzle is adding to your gloom.

With a sigh, you lean your head against the window, ignoring how it vibrates from the train's movement.

After the train and a cab ride later, you're entering Jujutsu High's Tokyo Branch, careful not to slip from the wet pavement. With each step, you avoid the deep puddles, though your effort is in vain since you're soaked all the way through, not having brought an umbrella. You ignore the way your damp clothes cling to you in an icky way, trudging onwards with determination to get to the dorms.

And just as the cosmos may have wished it, your day just got a lot worse.

"What on earth are you doing?"

You freeze, then turn your head to be bombarded with an atrocious bundle of white hair and sunglasses, all under a transparent umbrella.

After giving him a curt bow, you continue walking deeper into the campus.

"Where'd ya been? Haven't seen you around here lately."

"It's nice to see you too, Gojo-san." You hear the soles of his shoes hit the ground as he continues to walk behind you.

"Mhmm. Well, I am easy on the eyes, yeah. I don't know if I can say the same for you."

You pick up your pace, hoping for the conversation to end. The only thing you want right now is your bed, and now, a warm bath. You hope not to run into anyone and witness your predicament as a result of the weather. Your attempts were futile when your senpai quickly caught up to you with a few long strides, offering a share of the umbrella over your head.

You look up at the clear umbrella, then flit your eyes at his, "There's no point in that now, is it?"

Gojo-san only shrugs but keeps the part of the umbrella over your head anyway. "Where have ya been? Here I thought you've been eaten by a curse, or took my advice or something."

You lift your nose high up in the air, walking faster, "I've been doing the opposite, but it's none of your business, senpai."

"You're mad? Why are you mad at me? I was actually looking out for you, you know? How ungrateful."

Coming to an abrupt stop, you show him a scowl that'll ache 'till tomorrow, "No, I'm not at all, Gojo-san. What makes you say that?"

"That's an ugly stare you're sporting, kid. You say that but your looks say otherwise."

With a sigh, you pull something out from your shoulder bag, ignoring the rain droplets pouring in when you open it, "I even got this for you, because I know how much you like sweets."

To his surprise, Gojo-san couldn't help but lower the umbrella despite the rain. With his free hand, he accepted the pack of candies you offered. "You sure this for me? You might have confused me for another Senpai."

Your face immediately went red at the implication and embarrassment.

Was I that obvious?

"Oh, yeah? You might be right, should I take it back from you?" You grab hold of one end of the candy pack and pull once, but Gojo yanks it free from your grip immediately. He tucks them under his arm while putting the umbrella back up over both your heads.

"No, no, I think you're all right after all. Besides, don't you think your other senpai might be offended that you'll give him second-hand candies?"

You put air in your left cheek and gave him a sideways glance before walking again.

"What's with the change of heart?"

Another sigh, "Respectfully, senpai, I just want to go back to my room now."

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, making you think that he finally took the hint to leave you alone. But then he said something that made you think that a nerve popped in your brain.

"Wait, did you give me these as a love confession? Were you crushing on me this whole time?"

Dropping all your manners, you decided that you don't care if you're a disrespectful kouhai, "For the love of - there's no way! If you're so confused to receive those from me, then I'll just take it back!"

"Ah - then if it's not that reason, then maybe you're just being nice because I'm your Geto-san's friend, right?" Gojo-san raises the candy pack above his head, making it impossible for you to reach it given how great your height difference was. Also, curse his long damn arms!

"Why are you being so difficult?!"

"I don't know, why are you?"

"I don't even know how Geto-san puts up with you!"

"I don't even know why he puts up with you!"

You stop flailing your arms to glare at him, "What does that mean?"

He shrugs and pulls the umbrella closer to himself, seeming like he's no longer interested in sharing it with you. "Nothing. I just don't get why he's in such a mood lately. It seems like it's got something to do with you though."

You're sure that he doesn't miss the way your cheeks instantly heat up in the way he derisively licks his lips.

"So it's true, something is going on between the two of you! Haibara told me - "

"Why are you the way that you are?!"

You yelled at him and covered your red face as you began sprinting away from him, hoping that your strange senpai wouldn't follow you anymore.

And finally, the cosmos listened to you, because Gojo-san's obnoxious laugh grows smaller as you take your distance from him.

But then, quickly, the universe fooled you as you ran into the last person who you wanted to see you this way; completely drenched in rainwater, and red in the face with your wet hair sticking all over your visage.

"G-Geto-san!"

₊˚ ♡

Geto's heart was beating crazing fast, to the point he swore it could power a whole race car.

How long has it been again, since he last saw your face? Those eyes, and that cute blush you always wear whenever you're around him.

Geto-san's happy to see you, no matter how much of a mess you look right now. And he's sure he looks just as much of a mess too, with his hair down to his shoulders and his creased sweater.

"G-Geto-san!" You yelp, almost slipping on the pavement as you skid to a stop in front of him, now in the shelter of the entrance of the dorms.

Your senpai instinctively reached out, his strong hands wrapping around your arms to steady you. As you regained your balance, you thanked him and gently pulled away.

You can feel his warmth burn through your sleeves where he held you.

Geto-san stares at you for a moment, almost looking as if he saw a ghost before finally uttering your name, "Why are you running in the rain like that?"

You bent at your waist with a quick bow, "I-I just got home from my trip from K-Kyoto. Silly me didn't bring an umbrella. Haha."

"What were you thinking? You need to shower before you catch a cold."

Before he knew it, it was like his hands were on auto-pilot again. They gingerly help themselves on your shoulders as he ushers you deeper into the dorms. You stiffen in his grasp.

"Ah yeah, I'll go do that!" Flustered, you duck out from his grasp and face him with a nervous smile. "Y-yeah, I-I'll go do that, thank you, G-Geto-san."

Geto-san fights the urge to hold you again, longing for your touch since he's been so deprived of it for a long time. He hides his hands behind his back.

"R-right. Forgive me, if I was a bit pushy there."

"Not at all! T-thank you for y-your concern!"

The both of you stare at each other for a while.

He scratches his cheek, "I've tried calling once - "

"- I have to go!"

"Oh? Of course."

Another beat of silence. This time, your senpai watches you with a subtle pained expression as you begin twiddling your thumbs together.

"Right, I guess. . .I should go now?" He finally says.

"Right - wait, I'll a-also go. Now. Okay, bye senpai!". With that, he watches your retreating figure in confusion.

Did he read it all wrong? Was there something that he did?

Geto stands there for a moment, his thoughts plaguing him, making him want to drown in them.

He thought there was something between you two, ever since the exchange back in the Yokohama arena. Have you changed your mind?

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his right shoulder.

"Are you in a better mood now that you've seen her?"

Geto shrugs Satoru's hand off, "Not right now, Satoru."

"Oh, lover's quarrel then! Have some candy to make you feel better."

He flits his eyes to the bag, "Not right now. And where did you even get that?"

Satoru said the candies were a gift from you.

Suddenly, a thought came across Suguru's mind, one that completely shattered his heart.

That must be it. It kind of makes sense, the tension between you and his classmate.

He hangs his head low, exiting the dorms, paying no mind to Satoru's rambling.

The universe must be really conspiring against him today.

₊˚ ♡ - - - - Meanwhile . . .

Shoko smiles from reading something off her phone, "Guess who's finally back. Would you juniors want to throw a welcoming party later?" Haibara clasps his hands together, "Sorry, Ieiri-san! I have to study for the upcoming theoretical exams!" "I don't want to go," Nanami simply says, not even looking at them as he erases the writing off the chalkboard. "You guys have no sense of spirit."

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(❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ reblogs and comments are appreciated//do not repost my work anywhere // I think at this point, this isn't a mini-series anymore. please forgive my slow updates </3 I think I'll squeeze out 1 or 2 more chapters for this and move on to higuruma, naoya, (higurumaxnaoya??) and shoko or shokoyuki?. might post a one-shot soon to see how it goes also jjk manga's ending </3 ***Taglist (i sure fkin hope it works): @dookiemeshibear @pochapo @xiaolangg @strflp @str4wberryspots @yu6mi @swinginmakerclodsuitcase @spaalightts @shadowstar123 @kaeyaviado

[stoutguts]

A Pint of Comfort (💀🧼) PART 1

(first time rlly writing a full length fic like this, so be nice okay?)

Tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, the definition of hurt/comfort, mutual pining (kind of?????/just barely (idk, I'm kind of bad with tropes), lots of crying (and suggestive kissing), Ghost has Astraphobia,—Johnny helps Simon through a PTSD episode, while also finally getting a much needed point across 💖

possible CW/TW for PTSD, flashbacks, Ghost's canon backstory, very subtly implied NSFW at the very end lmao, and implied parental/child ab*se

It’s a stormy Saturday evening, and all seems well.

The quiet swooshing and howling of the wind, the symphony of raindrops pelting down on the streets,—on the roofs of houses. Only interrupted by the occasional low rumbling, with lightning dancing across and lighting up the dark sky.

The only downside is the slightly gloomy and depressing atmosphere. Caused by those nasty gray, dark storm clouds clogging up the sky like a fatty artery.

Rearing their ugly heads.

Soap has always enjoyed weather like this,—in his youth he’d always found it peaceful. He doesn’t know exactly why, but he’s always thought Mother Nature was something behold.

He just takes a minute to watch the rain underneath the shitty awning outside the tavern. Somewhat entranced.

He had met up with Price, Nikolai, Gaz, and Roach for drinks earlier that afternoon. (Having nothing better to do). (After all, he already had visited his sisters and family up in Scotland, and all of them still happened to be on leave,—so why not)? Though he hadn’t drank all that much, as,—according to him,—he “just wasn’t feeling it today”. (In actuality, he was worried about Ghost).

Johnny only having just wrapped up, and parted ways with everyone.

Nik and Price left together, while Kyle and Gary were joined at the hip as they walked out of the bar—as was customary. Usually he would be going home with Simon,—but today he was by himself.

Ghost was gonna tag along and go, but ultimately (and reluctantly) decided against it.

It wasn’t because they were feeling antisocial or that he didn’t want to go, (as that’s typical). (Though then again, Simon had stopped being such a recluse long ago, and it wouldn’t have bailed on them just for that). They were just sick with a 102.9 fever, and some nasty flu-like symptoms.

In fact, Ghost was bummed out about not being able to go.

“Ye need to get sum rest, I dinnae want ye to die on mae here”, Soap says firmly, though half-joking on that last part.

“I’m perfectly aw’righttttt,—seriously,—pleaseee?“, Simon replies deliriously, attempting to sit up in bed. Slurring it’s words, with it’s accent as thick as tar. Though equally exaggerating their tone and voice playfully, to sound exasperated.

*HA-choo!*

“Ye most certainly are naw—Just please,—*sigh*—get sum rest for mae sake…please?”, Johnny pleads, already exhausted, as he lays Ghost back down. Wringing out the washcloth, having dipped it into the bucket of ice water next to their bed, before placing it back over his forehead.

“…..Fine…”, Simon grumbles tiredly, finally giving up, (after half an hour of whining and insisting that they’re okay to go). Completely defeated, it turns on it’s side away from Soap, (the wash cloth sliding off his forehead, and now resting on his pillow). Pouting like a child.

“I promise, mo chridhe, ah’ll be back soon. Dinnae get up or annae’thang, just rest", Johnny coos, leaning over to kiss Ghost on the cheek and bury his face in their neck. Slowly moving his hand down his body to cup one side of his waist.

Simon shudders a little at the touch, the smallest, almost inaudible, groan leaving it's throat at fingers digging into their skin.

"Do'ya know when you'll be home exactly? Ya'know…I get lonely...", Ghost says, his vulnerability in that moment hurts Soap, though still (quite literally) refusing to face Johnny. The sultry manner in which they said it too,—made Soap blush profusely…

He pauses for a moment to get his bearings—

“Ah’ll be home as soon as I can, ye know how the boys are…or can be—he (lovingly) rolls his eyes at the thought—Ah’ll be home by 8 or 9 at the latest,—mae thinks”, Johnny answers.—Now feeling like he also kinda doesn’t feel up to it anymore,—but ignores it. As he won’t hear the end of it of neither of them show up.

He then goes to lift off of Simon,—before his partner’s sitting up, and he’s pulled into an abrupt kiss.

It was passionate, and as the pair’s lips part, a small trail of spit remained before breaking off.

“I’ll be waiting for you,—please,—stay safe. I love you”, Ghost says gazing up at him with half-lidded heterochromatic eyes, before moving it’s gaze elsewhere and laying back down.

“Aye, I will. Love ye too”, Soap says with a chuckle, briefly brushing his hand through the tiny blonde hairs of their buzzed head.

Johnny could have sworn he heard him snoring, fast asleep, just before walking out the door.

“Poor thang. Tha’ bug’s really taking a lot out of ‘em”, he thinks to himself as he leaves.

Stay tuned for the other parts! (Breaking this up into parts, as it's kind of a long one).

Part 2 will probably be up by tomorrow!

[lords-of-mayhem]

I love Social Cues by cage the elephant! I know it’s one of their more recently popular songs but I really feel like it didn’t get the love it deserves.

Would you care to elaborate on your country music stance? Where I’m from is like 80% country music so personally I’m pretty tired of it but can’t admit there are lots of great country songs - 🐈‍⬛

I love Cage The Elephant so much and Social Cues is a fantastic song that doesn't get the love it deserves. Have you gotten to see them live? They are fantastic. I've seen them a few times and one of those was actually their tour with Beck for the Night Running album which is what Social Cues came out on.

And I personally love country! I was very fortunate to grow up with a family that played a lot of different genres, everything from country to punk to metal to you name it. (There is also a lot of musicians in my family and one of them is a locally very well-known country musician.) I like country a lot, so it always sucks to see people hate on it. Especially because I know a lot of people only think of the whole "I love God, guns, and hunting" or stadium country when they think of country, but country is so much more and it can be so fun.

I always like shouting out country songs that I think people will listen to and go, "oh! Country can actually be a genre I like."

And some people don't even realize they like country. Dolly Parton? Country. Sweet Caroline? Country. Country Roads Take Me Home? Country. The Devil Went Down To Georgia? Country.

Here are some of my personal favorites when it comes to country that other people might like too.

Bad Moon Rising // Creedence Clearwater Revival

I see a bad moon rising, I see trouble on the way. I see earthquakes and lightning, I see bad times today. Don't go round tonight, well, it's bound to take your life. There's a bad moon on the rise.

I hear hurricanes a-blowing, I know the end is coming soon. I feel rivers overflowing, I hear the voice of rage and ruin. Hope you got your things together.

Hope you are quite prepared to die. Looks like we're in for nasty weather. One eye is taken for an eye.

If Heaven Wasn't So Far Away // Justin Moore

(if you want to see me ugly cry, play this song)

If Heaven wasn't so far away, I'd pack up the kids and go for the day. Introduce them to their grandpa, watch 'em laugh at the way he talks.

I'd find my long lost cousin John, the one we left back in Vietnam. Show him a picture of his daughter now, she's a doctor and he'd be proud.

Then tell him we'd be back in a couple of days. In the rearview mirror, we'd all watch 'em wave. And losing them wouldn't be so hard to take if Heaven wasn't so far away.

I'd hug all three of those girls we lost from the class of '99. I'd find my bird dog Bo and take him hunting one more time. I'd ask Hank why he took those pills back in '53.

And Janis to sing the second verse of "Me and Bobby McGee." Sit on a cloud and visit for a while, it'd do me good just to see them smile.

Blown Away // Carrie Underwood

Daddy was a mean old mister, mama was an angel in the ground. The weatherman called for a twister, she prayed to blown it down. There's not enough rain in Oklahoma to wash the sins out of that house.

There's not enough wind in Oklahoma to rip the nails out of the past. Shatter every window 'til it's all blown away, every brick, every board, every slamming door blown away.

'Til there's nothing left standing, nothing left of yesterday. Every tear-soaked, whiskey memory blown away. She locked herself in the cellar, listening to the screaming of the wind. Some people call it taking shelter, she called it sweet revenge.

Whiskey Lullaby // Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss

(Another crying song)

She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarette, she broke his heart. He spent his whole life trying to forget. We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time.

But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind until the night...He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger, and finally drank away her memory.

Life is short, but this time, it was bigger than the strength he had to get up off his knees. We found him with his face down in the pillow with a note that said, "I'll love her 'til I die."

And when we buried him beneath the willow, the angels sang a whiskey lullaby.

Red Dirt Road // Brooks & Dunn

I was raised off of Rural Route 3 out past where the blacktop ends. We'd walk to church on Sunday morning and race barefoot back to Johnson's fence.

That's where I first saw Mary on that roadside, picking blackberries. That summer, I turned a corner in my soul down that red dirt road. It's where I drank my first beer.

It's where I found Jesus, where I wrecked my first car, I tore it all to pieces. I learned the path to Heaven is full of sinners and believer, learned that happiness on Earth ain't just for high achievers.

Online // Brad Paisley

I work down at the Pizza Pit and I drive an old Hyundai. I'm a sci-fi fanatic, a mild asthmatic, never been to second base. But there's a whole other me that you need to see.

Go check out MySpace. 'Cause online, I'm out in Hollywood. I'm 6'5 and I look damn good. I drive a Maserati, I'm a black belt in karate, and I love a good glass of wine.

It turns girls on that I'm mysterious, I tell them that I don't want nothing serious. I'm so much cooler online. In real life, the only time I've ever even been to LA is when I got the chance with the marching band to play tuba in the Rose Parade.

But online, I live in Malibu. I pose for Calvin Klein, I've been in GQ. I'm single and I'm rich, and I got a set of six pack abs that'd blow your mind. I'm so much cooler online.

Friends In Low Places // Garth Brooks

Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots and ruined your black tie affair. The last one to know, the last one to show, I was the last one you thought you'd see there.

And I saw the surprise and the fear in his eyes when I took his glass of champagne. I toasted you and said, "honey, we may be through, but you'll never hear me complain."

'Cause I got friends in low places where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases my blues away. And I'll be okay. And I'm not big on social graces, think I'll slip on down to the oasis.

I didn't mean to cause a big scene, just give me an hour and then. I'll be as high as that ivory tower that you're living in.

Cover Of The Rolling Stone // Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show

(This one is very special to me because it's my dad's favorite band)

Well, we're big rock singers. We got golden fingers and we're loved everywhere we go. We sing about beauty and we sing about truth at ten thousand dollars a show.

We take all kinds of pills to give us all kinds of thrills, but the thrill we've never known is the thrill that'll get you when you get your picture on the cover of The Rolling Stone.

Wanna see my picture on the cover, wanna buy five copies for my mother. Wanna see my smiling face on the cover of The Rolling Stone. I got a freaky old lady called Cocaine Kitty who embroiders on my jeans.

We got all the friends money can buy, so we never have to be alone. And we keep getting richer, but we can't get our picture on the cover of The Rolling Stone.

Goodbye Earl // The Chicks (TW for domestic abuse, but with a happy ending)

Mary-Anne and Wanda were the best of friends all through their high school days. Both members of the 4-H club, both active in the FFA. After graduation, Mary-Anne went out, looking for a bright new world. Wanda looked all around this town and all she found was Earl.

Well, it wasn't two weeks after she got married that Wanda started getting abused. Well, she finally got the nerve to file for divorce. She let the law take it from there.

But Earl walked right through that restraining order and put her in intensive care. Right away, Mary-Anne flew in from Atlanta on a red-eyed, midnight flight.

She held Wanda's hand and they worked out a plan, and it didn't take 'em long to decide that Earl had die. Goodbye, Earl. Those black-eyed peas, they tasted alright to me! Earl, you feeling weak? Why don't you lay down and sleep?

Nobody // Sylvia

Sitting in a restaurant, she walked by. I seem to recall that certain look in your eye. I said whose that, you said with a smile, "oh it's nobody, nobody."

Maybe that explains the last two weeks. You called me up, dead on your feet. Working late again, I ask "who with?" You said, "nobody, nobody."

Well, your nobody called today. She hung up when I asked her name, I wonder does she think she's being clever? You say nobody's after, the fact is what you say is true. But I can love you like nobody can, even better.

Dooley // The Dillards

Dooley was a good ole man, he lived below the mill. Dooley had two daughters and a forty gallon still. One gal watched the boiler, the other watched the spout, and mama corked the bottles when ole Dooley fetched 'em out.

Dooley was a trader when into town he'd come. Sugar by the bushel and molasses by the ton. I remember very well the day ole Dooley died, the women folk weren't sorry and the men stood 'round and cried.

Now, Dooley's on the mountain. He lies there all alone. They put a jug beside him and a barrel for the stone.

Wagon Wheel // Darius Rucker

Heading down south to the land of the pines, I'm thumbing my way out of North Carolina. Staring up the road and pray to God I see headlights. Made it down the coast in seventeen hours, picking me a bouqet of dogwood flowers.

And I'm a-hoping for Raleigh, I can see my baby tonight. So rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel. Rock me, mama, any way you feel. Hey, mama, rock me.

Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain. Rock me, mama, like a southbound train. Hey, mama, rock me. Running from the cold up in New England, I was born to be a fiddler in an old-time string band. My baby plays the guitar, I pick the banjo now.

Remember When // Alan Jackson

Remember when, I was young and so were you and time stood still. And love was all we knew. You were the first, so was I. Made love and then you cried, remember when?

We lived and learned, life threw curves. There was joy and there was hurt, remember when? We came together, we fell apart, we broke each other's heart. Remember when?

Remember when, thirty seemed so old. Now looking back, it's just a stepping stone to where we are. Where we been, said we'd do it all again. Remember when?

Almost Home // Craig Morgan

He had plastic bags wrapped 'round his shoes, he was covered with the evening news. Had a pair of old wool socks on his hands, bank sign was flashing five below.

It was freezing rain and spitting snow, he was curled up behind some garbage cans. I was afraid that he was dead, I gave him a gentle shake. When he opened up his eyes, I said, "old man, are you okay?"

He said, "I just climbed out of a cottonwood tree. I was running from some honey bees. Drip-drying in the summer breeze after jumping into Calico Creek. I was walking down an old dirt road, past a field of hay that had just been mowed. Man, I wish you'd just left me alone.

'Cause I was almost home." Then he said, "I was just coming round the barn, 'bout the time you grabbed my arm. I was close enough for my old nose to smell fresh cobbler on the stove.

And I saw daddy loading up the truck. Cane poles on the tailgate, bobbers blowing in the wind. Since July of '55, that's as close as I've been."

Dirty Laundry // Carrie Underwood

That lipstick on your collar, well, it ain't my shade of pink and I can tell by the smell of perfume it's like forty dollars too cheap. And there's a little wine stain on the pocket of your white-collar thread.

You drink beer and whiskey, boy. And you know I don't drink red. Now, I'm gonna have to hang you out to dry, dry, dry. Clothespin all your secrets to the line, line, line.

Leave 'em blowing in the wind and say goodbye to you. All those midnight sneaking in. "I'm late again, oh, I'm so sorry." All the Ajax in the world ain't gonna clean your dirty laundry.

[the-firebird69]

A lot of people are saying that this is a major drag they were saying what my grand nephew was saying it's not a crime to be really bad at it but it's turned into a crime what they're saying is horrendous they're like 10 people in the past 10 minutes they're saying it's fine right and what you say is I don't care they seem to care and they have to be saying it I don't give a s*** you're exposing stuff I need you to you you suck at it even Max or not good enough at it to be prancing around showing everybody what they can do

Zues

Haha so he's singing the song Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer and the last one is blazo cuz they're drunk and steaming hot and all the sudden junk and it's really not going to do anything just piss people off I'm having a hell of a time laughing at them and I hope I'm right okay you guys make drunk at everything we're going to come and make junk out of you real soon

Hera

We have to print it's very rich any other two idiots are still in the dog area screwing around with her son and getting sick probably they have cancer the most recent update is Trump has stage 3 level 4 and he's proceeding to five in the next couple days and it would be in certain organs and he's been screwing around with her son saying it forever now he's going to die and his son has stage 2 level four and he's saying level nine some doctors disagree and say it's stage 3 level 4 that's why no but that's what they're saying it's cuz he's screwing around with them when they scan. There's a lot of things like that these people are massive losers went ahead today we start to go at him because of their attitude and we don't like it and they're going to pay for it we have a lot of people who hate them including our son but what they're doing here is ridiculous the center of their face up to him they try and block him from eating mess with the sleeping mess with the shower all the time and we're countering it and now we see something we're going to get a lot of help and it's not happening yet so he's trying to impress it doesn't happen and this other idiots and it's not going to work they're at each other they want each other stuff and they're going at it in a few minutes I'm going to feel it they're going to be pulled out of here and everywhere else they are we're sick of them you have a few other things to report one of them is they're very ugly people and mean and say stupid things all the time and they're saying it now but it does look nice out the wind has stopped the rain is stopping the clouds aren't moving and there's a calm breeze in the storm is going and it'll start draining meanwhile there's a new store that might form there's two storms that went North and people have had it with Trump and they've had it with Tommy f it's either you're on our side or you're gone they're saying no it's past that everybody's left is fighting them and probably will eliminate them shortly. Some of them are not doing well and some of them are not coming back Trump and his wife feel they will be able to people are trying to stop them and we think that they'll be back a little bit but not as much as they were here and they're a damn nuisance their little kids and they're demented and it's disgusting they should never let these animals near our son.

Olympus

[nofoxgiven]

I’m having lots of nostalgic thoughts today i can’t quite put into words, at least not in any sort of eloquent way but I need to just ramble to get them out of my head

I miss my childhood home, it wasn’t a normal childhood home, it was my granny’s house (grandma, we call my great grandma, grandma, so confusing family) I spent a lot of time there, every afternoon, every weekend, every summer, it’s the only building that has ever actually felt like “home” to me

It was a weird house, like honestly a lot of slightly older houses in Alaska

It was split level, with a lot of strange additions over the years, the whole back half of the house was an addition, as well as both the side and back decks, but in the back was one particularly hideous room we called the green room, because that’s exactly what it was. It was floor to ceiling green, walls, ceiling, carpet, every piece of furniture, all some shade of deep forest or puke like green

When I was a teen the house burned down, sort of, just the inside. It caught fire and a neighbor noticed and called 911 just in time for them to save the shell of the house but the entire inside had to be gutted and redone

My granny radically changed the layout of the house, she no longer had 5 kids living there so the 6 bedroom house became 4 bedrooms (one of which was practically a damn apartment

But point is the green room was gone from then on. They rebuilt it, and redocorated it, and it held the same function as a media/living room, but it was all marble and white and exactly like something of HGTV

I miss the green room. I miss the hideous comforts of my youth. I miss sitting on that absolutely god awful ugly couch that felt like a cloud and staring outside half the summer waiting for the rain to stop long enough to go outside and play

I miss the castle playhouse my neighbor and childhood best friend had, her dad had built it by hand for her and her sister and I spent so many summers playing weird fantasy land versions of house in our backyards and the little forest like park behind our houses

I miss the overgrown raspberry bushes that started as one small bush each in each our backyards, that by my early teens had spread and taken over half of each of the backyards

My granny was always bitching at my uncle to trim them and one summer he said enough was enough and ripped them out, tossed them over the fence into that forest, and salted the ground where they had been

Nothing ever grew in that spot again, they had to dig it up and replace the dirt and eventually got grass to take I think

By the time I actually moved out the forest was overrun by raspberries, the bushes had looked dead when he tossed them over, but clearly they weren’t.

I like to think that little forest holds memories of everything from my childhood and my aunt and uncles childhood in that house

Maybe those raspberries remember the laughter and tears and the green room. The hundreds of stories we played out, the sounds of squeaky trampolines and barking dogs

Maybe I’m the only one who does

I think I’d like to go pick berries

[harrison-abbott]

Numbers can do funny things with the head.

When you mix in money with numbers they

Can make you mad … digits, spinning, twirling.

You get up all the same. Logging onto the news,

The content doesn’t surprise you any more.

Downstairs. Cup of coffee. The dog is old and

Probably within her last year. She can’t run anymore

And she blinks up at you with her brown eyes.

There was a storm the other day and there’s

Supposed to be another one tomorrow but

Right now there are yellow blocks of light

Veering across the garden. It would be far simpler

To be a dog. No humans to chop you up.

Like the ham and chicken slices in the fridge,

And the funk of dead fish that whacks your nose

The instant you open the door …

Not that you eat dead animals yourself.

It’s not your fridge.

Need to head down to the mall today.

Got to get some foreign currency.

Step out of the house. Lock the front door and

Immediately upwards uplooking there are the inky

Blue clouds of rain … but it’s also 10 degrees

Or so and to you with your national blood this is

Pretty hot. On you walk. Stick on the headphones.

It’s odd how music used to be the 1123214342342%

Get to, go to, vis a vis artistic influence. Whereas

Now there are maybe 100 songs on your phone

And you’ve already heard them each thousands more.

………………………………………………………..

Down the street there are men, outside a van. One of them

Is talking on a phone. Sounds like a serious call.

They’re men from the council (presumably?) who have been

Called in to look at the damage from the recent floods.

They have access to the drains, and the sewage tunnels,

Underlying the neighbourhood and the woods behind the

Houses. And nobody quite knows what to do about it,

Because the flood have destroyed the upper road up at the

End of the street and the river has lopped off into three

Streams instead of one and the waterflow has therefore

Increased by that much … Jeepers – none know how to act.

………………………………………………………..

But, you can’t control the rain either. And all you do is

Guiltily walk on. It’s sunny at the moment, right? The winds

Aren’t here yet and they’ll sure be raging by the morrow.

…………………………………………………………..

You used to make this walk when you were a kid and you’re

Totally familiar with the scenery.

There’s the council estate.

This south side of Edinburgh.

An estate built in the 1950s.

Seventy going on eight year old buildings.

They always look the same

Be it in rain or sun or snow or hail, spring

Or winter, thunderstorm or heatwave:

The houses always have that same

Hue to them. That’s what you felt

When you were a boy and what you see

Now.

Maybe it says a lot about you that you’re still

Here instead of somewhere else.

Going down through the houses you pass

That mammoth tree which is definitely

Way older than everything else.

It’s a total beast of a tree, 200 years at least.

… … Then unto the fields. They simmer in

Simmering grass, a wash of emerald against

The fake blue of the Scottish sky.

Where kids can play their football dreams.

Where fathers can annex their soccer fantasies.

… Along the bumpy awkward hill of the field

You come across a half-pretty young woman

Pushing a pram. It makes you think for perhaps

Thirty seconds that that’s what folks of your

Age should already have done: started a family.

What is it that you’re doing, exactly? Who knows.

… After the fields you get to the mall.

This bizarre black building that was built in the

1980s. Architecture as bizarre as haircuts and movies

And music, back then … but it’s still hulking now,

And alive, and when you go inside there are

This century’s shops all brimming with logos.

Inside, there is commerce and the West: and everything

That the West conveniently ignores, and outside the building

There is an ugly building, and international war,

And just about every awful thing you could think of.

But when you go into the public toilet half way

Unto the mall, the MEN’S, there’s a pop track on

The speakers above you. A gruff man is taking a piss

At the end urinal. He’s far enough for you to take one

As well. No toilet fright. After he’s gone you zip

Up and look at yourself briefly in the mirror.

Your face is still a bit fucked up from the acne from

Previous weeks. Blotchy red marks on the cheeks.

[Folk like yo-self shouldnae be gettin spots!]

But this is temporary and you quit the toilet.

And head along to the supermarket. Past the security

Gates which you always fret will ring off whenever you

Pass them. Nothing happens though and then you’re

In front of a plastic window of a little hub with an old

Woman manning the currency exchange bit.

She’s nice. You wish you could be nice.

It takes a while for the safe to be unlocked.

It’s bizarre to think of a team of men wearing balaclavas

Storming into this supermarket and robbing all of this

Physical cash. … Surely it would be fairly easy to shoot

Through the glass … or, just kick the door down,

And pilfer all of the contents out of the case. But,

That kind of thing doesn’t happen any more except

When you’re sitting in the cinema, wanting to enjoy

The blockbuster.

There’s the money. Thank you, madam.

You head back out the supermarket.

Back into the car park with the tentative warmth;

The clouds in gnarlier purple now.

This is the land where you grew up and despite everything

You feel like you have been a part of the history.

Let’s go home now.

You put in the headphones.

Knowing that you’ll know all of the lyrics already.

It’s all right to simply sing along.

[odedmusic]

My heart is broken. into pieces. i am choking up, and my tears fall like hard rain from stained clouds. I am disappointed, devastated, and deeply hurt. This is my friend, my buddy, my teammate, my neighbor, my inherited son. This is Tomer, a delightfully positive, genuinely kind person, incredibly bright, supremely hardworking and talented! We last saw each other, as usual, on the volleyball court, prancing, jumping, laughing, and said our typical goodbyes with a cheer and a hug, each getting into his car, and driving home. Often, as was the case sometime a week before last, we meet up moments later on the road, one car after another waiting for the traffic light to turn green, to enter our neighborhood. i remember with my fingers giving him a sign of a heart, to which in the rear view mirror he did the same. And then he turned and entered the underground parking lot. It was a few days later, on the following Saturday, in the early morning, that this wretched ugly indescribable war began, and Hamas attacked, that i immediately followed his whereabouts in WhatsApp: 'last seen Saturday at 3:13AM', and as each day passed it remained the same. I was hoping, all who knew him were hoping he would be 'active' and we would be reassured. Each day was a new hope, a possibility, until today, when the terrible news surfaced. Tomer was killed in the South of Israel. All who knew him are gravely saddened. Needless to say, words cannot express this sorrow, nothing at the moment can comfort this pain. His incredible smile, affection, comradery, and insurmountable affinity for life will forever be embedded in my memory, and will remain with me until i myself am no more.

[halfwayanywhere]

Wind River High Route Day 5: The weather has been a little nuts. We wake up to cloudy skies and a light rain. Our route today is meant to go over Photo Pass and then Europe Peak; it doesn't seem like the best idea given the current conditions. Fortunately, there are actually two Wind River High Routes. The route we've followed until now has been the "Skurka Route”. The alternative, the "Dixon/Adventure Alan Route” stays a bit lower for this section and meets up with the Skurka Route immediately following Europe Peak. The route ends up being incredibly scenic - as I've come to expect most things to be in the Wind River Range (but again, don't come, it's ugly) - and we're pleased with our decision to forgo the peak as the clouds remain into and through the afternoon. We cross Hay Pass and drop to Golden Lakes as the clouds begin to rumble. After this lake basin, we climb a series of three increasingly higher passes - all above treeline. I advocate for waiting to see how these clouds shake out while @simajohnr casts his lot with "let's just keep hiking" A brief argument ensues before Zeus makes the decision for us. The sky opens up with a fury of lightning, hail, and thunder. It takes us a while to find somewhere flat to pitch our tents and by the time the storm abates, it's too late in the day to justify going any further. Despite a lot of grumbling, @simajohnr concedes that sleeping now with an early alarm tomorrow morning makes sense. We go to sleep in the rain for the fifth night in a row. Fortunately, temperatures aren't terribly cold and we're able to stay warm(ish) in spite of our now-damp collection of clothing and gear. See you at 3:00, Appa. Distance: 18.19 mi / 29.27 km Elevation gain: 3,238 ft / 987 m #windriverhighroute #wrhr

[mafamilleinc]

Now the fall season is coming on its way as we prepare for the new season. I have been in the mood for pumpkin lately. Do any of you enjoy pumpkin? I hope so because now the crop is in season for our desire to consume for the next few months. Here’s an site to share all kinds of recipes involving pumpkin.

I will leave everyone with this poem from John Greenleaf Whittier to inspire you today…

“Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,

And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,

With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,

While he waited to know that his warning was true,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,

And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,

When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board

The old broken links of affection restored,

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,

Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!”

[bucky-bucket-barnes]

Mmmkay, i would love to see your vision about a domestic bucky. If he moves close to the Wilson's, and starts to meet someone? He is insecure but want to try feeling something new. Maybe he could walk at night because he just woke up after a nightmare and then meet that person, i don't know.

Hope you feeling better today ❤️

smile again

Summary: Having recently moved down to Louisiana, Bucky struggled a bit in the relationship department. It’s not until he met a firecracker of a girl one night that he sees change and trusting yourself can be quit rewarding.

Pairings: domestic!bucky barnes x female!reader

Warnings: some angst, a lot of fluff, and minor swearing

Word Count: 4.2k

~

Bucky shot up from the floor, cold sweat clinging to his forehead, heart pounding inside his ribcage. The nightmares didn’t haunt him like they used to, but when they inevitably returned, they always came with an ugly vengeance. His palms groped around the cool wooden floor, regaining his sense of reality. He had to just assure himself that he was really awake, that this was real.

To his relief, the ringing in his ears subsided and the graphic images faltered. He peered around at the unfamiliar walls, taking in the dark scene of his new living room. A measly coffee table here, a couple of unpacked boxes pushed to the corner there. To Sam’s delight, Bucky packed what little he owned into dusty cardboard boxes and moved down to Louisiana. The thick rain was more than he was accustomed to and he occasionally missed the low humdrum of the city, but it was much more peaceful here. Most nights, anyways.

I deserve this.

The three word phrase echoed through his mind, a monotone mantra to recite in especially trying moments. Sometimes he thought it was useless trying to convince himself. Other nights Bucky was more forgiving. Healing was a tricky thing, it wasn’t a neat linear line or a simple five stages to move through. For Bucky, it was finally acknowledging wounds that had long run dry and patching up what he could. It was letting people in. But damnit was that hard.

Slowly rising, he padded over to his dusty window to study the misty night sky. Even through the foggy glass he could see the moon peeking out from behind the clouds and silhouettes of the trees. Just by looking outside he could see how thick the air was with humidity.

There’s no point in going back to bed now, anyways.

Bucky decided the best course of action would be to go out on a walk, not particularly caring where to. He really did enjoy his new home despite its modest size and rundown disposition, but he needed to get out. If it were up to him, he’d take a break from existing as himself, but escaping the house was the next best thing.

It was late and he decided he would throw on a thin long sleeve shirt. His heated temperature would argue with such an action, but he was still new to town and wasn’t crazy about showing off his arm. He walked aimlessly, following the streetlights to whatever part of town they would take him. His wandering session had brought him to where all the local bars resided, lightly buzzing with music and chatter that could be heard from outside. He spotted a quiet little bench under a street lamp and decided to take residence there for the time being.

Sighing, he sat down and leaned his head back, taking in the muffled sounds of the bars and people inside them nearby.

“That seat taken?”

Bucky’s body slightly jostled awake. He wasn’t asleep, but he was comfortable enough to start drifting off. He turned his attention to the voice. In the yellow light he could make out a figure of a woman standing in front of him, expectantly waiting for an answer.

“No, you’re fine.” He shifted his body to make more room on the small bench. He didn’t plan on staying for much longer anyways. You sat next to him and his nose was immediately hit with a smell of vanilla perfume.

“You don’t look familiar. You new?” You popped a piece of bubblegum into your mouth. As you spoke, he got a soft scent of alcohol and sugar radiating off of you into his nose. It fluttered around him, enveloping him in the smell of sweets and drinks. To his surprise, it was oddly comforting.

“I just moved down here.”

“You’re sober.”

“Yeah,” he responded, confused by the statement.

“You okay?” you gawked, giving him a concerned look.

“I wasn’t in the mood for a drink.”

“No one comes down to a street of bars at 1 in the morning, doesn’t drink, and is doing alright,” you explained to him. “What’s on your mind?”

Bucky was a bit surprised at how bold you were, just asking a random man his problems. It didn’t change your night, why should you care? It was unexpected, but charming to say the least. It was clear that you were tipsy, but your tone still commanded intent and was laced with sympathy.

“Just a bad dream.”

“Must be some intense dreams you got to come all the way out here,” you replied, blowing a quick bubble with your gum before popping it.

“Something like that.”

You looked at him, waiting for something more. Try as he might, it was hard to ignore your gaze. It begged for more answers and he hated the thought of leaving you unsatisfied.

“I’ve let a lot of people down. That’s all.”

He felt silly confessing to you. You were drunk, and probably didn’t actually care to know. The worst part was that he actually liked telling you, even if in vague terms. It was nice to just talk, even if it was just to a drunk girl he just met.

“You haven’t let me down.”

“You don’t know me,” he stated dryly.

You crossed your legs and propped your head into your hands. Staring out into the nightlife of Louisiana you pondered something for a while. Now what’s going on in that head of yours Bucky wondered, studying how your face contorted and shifted as you thought.

“I know you walk to bars to not get drunk when you’re sad. How many other people know that?” you asked after two minutes of quiet thinking.

Bucky continued to admire you for a second longer, trying to figure out a response. It was correct technically, no one else knew that he was here, but still, you didn’t know him. Not in a way that mattered, not really.

“I don’t know you.”

“Y/N. Call me Y/N.” You stuck out your hand proudly and offered him a toothy grin. Laughing slightly at the overly formal gesture, he shook your hand and responded with his own name.

“See, we’re not strangers now.”

“I guess we’re not, Y/N.”

It was embarrassing to admit, but this was probably the most fun Bucky had had since he moved down there. There were the Wilsons of course, but they had family, they had other life problems. It was great to see them, but it was never for too long.

Bucky saw a light flicker in your eyes as he thought quietly. You went to dig through your bag and pull out a pen, missing its cap. Without question, you took his arm and started to scribble down your number.

“Next time you’re sad, call me instead of coming here. I’m much better company,” you winked.

Before Bucky can go to say anything else, a taxi pulled up to where you two sat.

“That’s my ride. Bye, Bucky,” you waved, giving him one last smile for the night before getting situated in the car.

He didn’t know if it was the alcohol messing with your speech, but the way you sang his name made his heart dance inside his chest. You closed the door as he let out a feeble goodbye, head reeling from the pretty girl he just met.

-

Bucky woke up the next morning and stared at his ceiling for a bit. His mind was still buzzing with the thought of the stranger from the previous night. The soft linger of her perfume, the firm grasp she held around his hand. He couldn’t wave that inviting smile out of his thoughts, but he was sure you didn’t even remember his face. Getting up, he grabbed a piece of pen and paper to scribble down your number before he took a shower.

As the cool water ran against his body, he watched the traces of black ink wash down the drain. He debated calling you the entire time he washed his body, going back and forth between absolutely yes and definitely not. Technically, he got your number on the condition that he’d only call when he was sad, but he didn’t want you to view him as only that; helpless and alone.

“Hello?”

Bucky didn’t think that you’d actually pick up. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if you gave him your actual phone number. He didn’t understand why he called, why he had to do it so soon. Alas, he worked up the nerve to punch in the digits and there you were.

“Uh- hi, it’s Bucky, the guy-”

“Well I’ll be damned, how’ve you been? You get any sleep last night?” You talked to him like you had been friends for years, casually catching up with each other. Your voice rang with excitement and true curiosity as you asked. It didn’t bother him that you interrupted, it just meant you were eager to talk.

“Yeah, yeah, I did. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Oh, no problem. I wasn’t going to let the cute guy on the bench suffer alone,” you teased. He could hear the smirk in your voice. He felt his face grow a little warm. He cleared his throat in a fruitless attempt to regain his composure before continuing.

“Oh- uh- thank you,” he blubbered out, shy at the sudden flirtatious advance. In the background, he could hear bustling and movement from your end of the line.

“Is now a bad time?”

“I’m on lunch break. I work at Stella’s, but my shift ends at 5. You can pick me up for dinner then.”

“Oh, that’s- wait what?”

“See you then!” Bucky thought he was going to lose it, he could still hear you grinning ear to ear as you clicked the phone to end the call.

Under normal circumstances, his hands would have gone clammy and he would have gone into panic mode. But, not today. A modest smile sat upon his face as he thought about the prospect of a date. By no means was this what he expected, but he was more than happy to get to talk to someone, someone who really wanted to listen.

I deserve this.

-

Bucky’s mind buzzed as he waited in his car at Stella’s parking lot. You had fifteen more minutes until your shift ended, but he wanted to make sure he was on time. He bounced his leg in anticipation, nervously glancing at the bouquet of flowers he bought for the occasion.

Is this too much? Too old fashioned? Maybe it’s a bit corny. What if she’s allergic to flowers? What if she-

He was jostled out of his aimless thinking by a tapping sound coming from his window. He looked over to see your face, eyes bright with wonder and the same toothy smile that lingered in his memory from the other night. He rolled down his window in response to your knocking.

“Hey, cutie.”

“Hi, Y/N. You’re done early.”

“Slow day,” you explained before making your way to the other side of the car and casually hopping into the passenger side. “Where are we going, Buck?”

He almost went to correct you, to tell you that Buck was reserved for very special persons, but as he looked over, he couldn’t muster the strength. The syllable clicked off your tongue so soothingly, like honey dripping down the side of a tree. It was almost like you were eager to say his name, to feel the way it vibrated in your mouth. He decided he’d let you call him Buck.

Your hair was a bit messy from work, but you managed to find the time to swap your diner uniform for a much more comfortable sundress. It clung to your body in all the right areas and flowed in the most elegant manner.

“Are you always this upfront?” he inquired, still adjusting to your boldness.

Bucky swallowed shyly as you crossed your legs, exposing more of your thigh. They looked smooth, glowing from the heat. You rolled down the window on your side to allow some air into the stuffy car, fanning yourself. Bucky forcefully kept his eyes from your cleavage, only slightly exposed, but still a view to admire. He felt a little guilty thinking about you like that. He didn’t mean to be perverse, he just wanted to know what you were like in your most honest form. What it would be like to trace the lines on your body, to slip that pretty little dress off you and-

“Are you always this nervous around women?” you bluntly asked, noticing his admiring gaze that travelled your body.

“Sorry,” he apologized, looking away, “I haven’t been on a date in a while.” Clearing his throat, he handed you the bundle of flowers situated in his lap. You took it in your hands and gave it a quick sniff. It was a simple bouquet, but sweet nonetheless.

“Who said this was a date?”

He felt his mouth go dry. “Oh, sorry, I just-”

“I’m teasing you,” you giggled. “Start driving, loverboy.” You thought it was cute how easily flustered you made him. Sure, he wasn’t a very expressive man, usually wearing a stoic expression, offering only a slight shift in his facial expressions, but you knew how to rile him up. You were having fun, to say the least.

He let out a small relieved laugh before starting the car back up. He liked the way you joked with him like you were childhood bestfriends. You weren’t two strangers, you were two normal people on a date.

“Can I be honest.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I have no idea where to go, I’m still pretty new here,” he confessed.

“Hmm, I have an idea. You’re going to take a left up here.”

The rest of the ride he followed your instructions without much question. He didn’t know where you were taking him, he just knew he was more than happy to follow. You decided to direct him to the scenic route to your mystery destination. Along the way you pointed out where you scraped your knee while learning to ride a bike. The park where you had your first kiss. The now abandoned coffee place where you had your first break up.

You were an open book to Bucky, indulging him into the crevices of your life. He’d never met someone so telling, so honest in his life. He knew so much about you while still understanding so little. He wondered, maybe did you fall from the sky, or spring from the Earth? Or maybe you were just a person who happened to be special and he was a man lucky to accidentally cross paths with you.

“I’ve been talking this whole ride, tell me about yourself. What’s your deal?”

“I don’t have a deal,” he answered coolly.

“No family? No friends? Do you sit and stare at the wall all day?”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Buck, because you sure are boring as hell,” you coyly mock. He smiled in spite of himself.

“Well,” he trailed off. He wanted you to know him, he wanted to talk to a person who seemed interested in him. Not the Winter Soldier, not Captain America’s best friend, but James Buchanan Barnes. He hadn’t said anything untrue to you, but he felt like hiding himself was like lying to you and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

“I have a little sister.” You waited for him to further continue, sticking your hand out the window to feel the breeze between the fingers as he drove. “Rebecca. She’s a sweet kid.”

You realized that was as much as he would indulge you for the moment. “That’s a pretty name.” He could hear you smiling once again. He admired that quirk of yours.

“I moved down here about two weeks ago. I’m friends with the Wilson’s. They’re good people.”

“Ain’t it a small world, I used to babysit for Sarah. I’ve been friends with them ever since. You do anything for work?” you asked, now playing with the petals of the bouquet in your hand.

“I’m a mechanic.” That wasn’t false, so he didn’t mind telling you. He decided to take up work at a local car shop. It didn’t pay much, but it was honest work and his boss mostly let him do his own thing.

“Is that where you got the fancy metal arm from?” Your eyes trace over the gold detailing of his appendage as he used it to grip the steering wheel.

Bucky’s eyes widened. With the heat of Louisiana combined with recent stress, he’d forgotten to wear something that would cover up his metal arm when leaving the house. He quickly shot his eyes to see it gleaming in the sunlight before refocusing on the road.

“Oh, this old thing. You like it?” There was no use in denying it, so he thought he should try to play it off. His face remained nonchalant but panic began to settle in his stomach. She thinks I’m a freak. She thinks it’s weird. Fuck.

“I think it looks handsome on you.”

Bucky could feel his weariness begin to melt away and warmth take its place. It was silly, but he felt like a schoolboy all over again. You were wonder, everything that he wasn’t, everything that he used to be; open, outgoing, and trusting.

“You’re more interesting than you lead on, Bucky. Turn into the next driveway.”

Following your instructions he pulled into a driveway of gravel road. A cute little house appeared, the next one not for another mile. The garden situated in the front was decorated with flowers and fauna of all sorts.

“Is this your house?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“She needs a new coat of paint, but she’s all mine.”

“You don’t know me. Why are you letting me in your house?”

“You’re a friend of the Wilson’s, that’s enough to trust you.”

“You’re insane.”

“And yet you’re still here, Buck. C’mon,” you beckoned him out of the car. For a moment, he stood to admire the view of your house before you took a hold of his hand to pull him along inside. Your skin was soft and warm against his, just like he remembered it from the other night. You arrived at your porch and began to take out your keys.

What am I doing here?

It was a wondrous feeling to be carried along by you, but he couldn’t keep playing pretend. You were too loving to have to deal with his mess. He’d eventually tell you who he was and he’d understood you’d want to run, to never see him again. It was fun while it lasted, but reality settled in at one point or another.

“I think I should go,” he said flatly.

“But we just got here,” you frowned, turning around from the door to face him. “We were going to make some of my homemade bread.”

“You’re very sweet and you’re really pretty, but I come with a lot of baggage.”

“Who said I don’t?”

“It’s-,” he sighed. He wanted to explain everything, to make it make sense. But words were his weakness and he would hate to sadden those curious pair of eyes in front of him. He could tell you the whole truth and you’d be mortified or he could lie and live with the guilt of deceiving you. “It’s complicated.”

You looked down dejectedly at your bouquet, brushing your thumb mindlessly against the stem of the flowers. “Bucky, I know,” you mumbled.

“I don’t think you do.”

“At first I thought it was a coincidence. When I first saw you, I thought your face looked a bit old-fashioned kind of handsome, but some people are like that. I questioned it more when I noticed the metal arm, but some people have prosthetics.”

It was coming. He could feel the rejection about to roll off your tongue. You knew about his past and all the nasty things that came with it. Monster. Liar. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lead me on? Don’t talk to me. Please leave, I’m scared. His heart sunk to the pit of his stomach as he awaited for you to finish the final blow.

“Then you said you were friends with the Wilson’s and I knew. You’re Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. I know I’m not much like the woman of the 40s and I’m just a small town girl and you’re a hero-”

“You think I’m a hero?” Out of all the endings to this conversation that was not the one he was prepared for. Him? A hero? He never thought of himself that way and he couldn’t even fathom someone thinking that about him.

“I’m friends with the Wilson’s, Sam’s told me a lot about you. You’ve saved so many lives, you’ve lived such a fascinating life. Hell, I wouldn’t have summoned the courage to walk up to you if I knew you were some big shot,” you laughed lightly. It was strange to be talking to a piece of history, a man you’ve heard so much about but never seen in the flesh. “But, in the short time I’ve known you, you seem like a real sweet guy. Who the hell even brings flowers to dates anymore? That’s adorable.”

This was a lot of new information to process at once for the both of you. Bucky now knew you knew. You had only realized who he was ten minutes ago. It was a lot to say the least. By this time, he would have expected to have been driving home after a well earned scolding. What the hell was happening? And more importantly, was that all you knew.

“Then you know about the Winter Soldier?” He held his breath awaiting your response.

You replied with a silent nod, looking up from your collection of flowers and into his troubled blue eyes. You’d never felt so small than in that moment. You wouldn’t have dragged him around town if you would’ve known who he was. Who were you? Just some small town girl pestering the life out of this poor man who was too nice to say no. You were way in over your head, you knew it once you realized, but he was just too endearing to let slip away.

Bucky clung onto every word you’d spoken, he seemed to listen to every sound you made intently. He genuinely cared about what you had to say. Sure, he had his walls up, but he was gentle underneath. The way his face softened when he spoke of his sister and the Wilson’s was enough to make a frozen heart thaw.

“And that doesn’t bother you?” His voice was even, but his thoughts were scrambling all over the place.

“I just invited you into my house as a single woman who lives in bumble-fuck nowhere, so I’d say no, it doesn’t bother me. You’re Bucky, not him.”

He let out a small laugh, relief entering his body.

“If you’re still up for it, I have lemonade inside too,” you offered quietly, a hopeful smile on your face.

It’d be a lot easier to say no, to go back home. It’d be a lot less risky to just turn around and forget the past few hours. But it’d be so much more lonely. He could return to the cold floor of his house and spend many more restless nights in his lonesome.

Or, he could try something new. Something that was tender and wore vanilla perfume. Something that spoke fervently and had every type of flower springing out of her front yard. Someone with warm hands and the prettiest smile he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing.

I deserve this.

“That sounds nice,” he smiled shyly.

“Good,” you grinned back. You pushed open your door and took him by the hand to lead him into the house.

Bucky was an awful baker, but he had the spirit. Flour would always end up more on his clothing than into the pan. He seemed to knead the dough as if he were attacking it and he didn’t really understand what yeast was. But he was the perfect baking partner. He’d see you work and would nod intently with deep focus as you mixed together the ingredients. He was eager to make the lemonade (by making that meant him cutting the lemons and measuring the amount of sugar needed with his heart) and was the perfect taste tester.

“This is the best bread I’ve ever tasted. You’ve really outdone yourself with this one, Buck.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Maybe.” You couldn’t hold back your smile. Through the many trials and tribulations, you managed to make some alright food. The bread was mediocre at best, but you had never had so much fun making it.

Liking you came so easy to Bucky. He liked the way you lilted his name and how gentle your eyes were. He’d only known you for less than 24 hours, but already felt like he was safe with you. For the rest of the date, he couldn’t shake that warm feeling that gathered inside his chest every time you smiled at him.

Maybe this wasn’t how he imagined his relationship would start, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

~

AN: Thank you so much to anon for the submission omg I love when I get requests. I hope this lives up to your expectations <3. I got a LOT of domestic!bucky requests so be ready for more of those. Thank you for reading and have a lovely day

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Taglist: @itscheybaby @akaaaaashiiii @Dumbhead1

[lorata]

Injured Creed AU: Part 4

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The day before the Reaping, summer descends as it always does: thick and heavy and oppressive, knocking the birds silent, wiping out even the faintest breeze, silencing all but the cicadas, their screams the one act of defiance against the burning sun. It’s worse in the inner districts, Dad told him once when Creed complained about having to weed the vegetable garden in the mugginess of day; they don’t have the mountains to shield them and bring the rain, nothing but dry, flat, desert heat — or worse, in the plains, rolling waves of humidity coming off the crops that sticks to your chest and slaps the air right from your lungs. Still others get the weather mixed with lungfuls of pollution from factories or coal mines.

Be grateful for your district, Dad said, as Creed grumbled and scuffed his toes in the soil, overturning a clump of grass he’d been half-heartedly tugging. Not everyone can be so lucky.

Creed is grateful, but the day before his brother stands for the Reaping, he wonders if kids in the districts are allowed to complain about the weather without getting a full lecture about honour and duty. Tomorrow Alec will Volunteer, and Creed — Creed’s faith will see him through, he has already promised. Tomorrow he will meet his brother in the Justice Building, see him face to face for the first time in years and tell Alec exactly what he needs to hear.

But today —

Well. For now, it’s today. And today the cicadas scream in the trees and the leaves hang limp on the branches and the only words Creed can conjure are the ones he knows, he knows he can never say.

It should be me.

Alec can win. He will win, there is no other option, and he is smart enough and strong enough and good enough just like Creed always said when no one else listened, but it’s Creed’s fault he’s here. Alec never liked the Program. He never liked the violence, never liked the killing, never wanted to start fights. If Creed had been smarter, stronger, faster, better, Alec would be home right now, living the life he’s meant to live. Instead Creed stumbled, and now it’s up to Alec to finish what he started. The little brother making up for the eldest’s failures.

It should be me.

A whole lifetime of living other’s dreams. Shouldering other’s expectations. That he braced his feet and bent his knees and took the weight doesn’t make it fair.

He tries to write it down, commit his thoughts to paper to untangle the wild snarl and find something workable in the mess, but when he sits back it’s the same thing over and over, scrawled across the page: it should be me it should be me it shOULD BE ME —

“Creed.”

He drops his fork. Metal clatters with a force that startles him, and when the noise stops rattling his senses there’s Mom studying him from across the table, eyes narrow and intent. “Come on,” she says. “Outside.”

Relief snaps in him like the first hard crack of thunder over the mountains. He pushes his plate away and follows her out; Dad watches them go, a look of tight quiet pinching his features.

Creed and Mom spar … a lot, these days. Way more than they ever did when he was younger. It’s embarrassing, or maybe it would be, if Creed had any room left in him for shame, if he hadn’t burned all that away in those ugly, early weeks, lying in his bed flinging apathy and self-hatred into the universe like clouds of poison. Now he doesn’t care. Most kids outgrow sparring with their parents by the time they’re itching for the Residential signature, while here Creed is, long past Reaping age, desperate for the mental clarity that only comes from throwing down with his mother in the backyard while the squirrels hurl protests at them from the trees.

Mom likes to joke it keeps her sharp. She fights a lot of shitty teenagers at her job (she would never call them shitty, but, let’s call a Twelve a Twelve), cocky ex-Careers fresh out of detox who think they’re the stuff and don’t need to listen to a bunch of civs. As if the Program wouldn’t stock the feeder school with ex-Centre teachers, but it means Mom spends most of her free periods challenging kids out on the lawn. Half for dominance and respect, she says, but also it’s the only thing these kids know. They’ve spent upwards of a decade, some of them, getting slapped down every time they ask a question. If they stirred up trouble and didn’t get called outside to settle it, a third would burn the place down and another third would quit.

Structure, Mom says. Everyone needs structure.

Creed doesn’t mind Mom using him to keep her skills sharp, but tonight he’s not thinking about mouthy fourteen-year-olds drawling what are you gonna do about it in the middle of a civics lesson. He’s thinking about Alec in that big, empty Volunteer suite, freshly scrubbed, the next day’s outfit laid out for him, practicing the entrance he’ll make when the escort calls for volunteers. He’s thinking about Alec’s mentor, up with sponsor files late into the night, and he’s tried to guess who it would be (Emory? Devon?) until it drives him mad.

Mom’s arm catches him across the chest, fingers closed around his arm, leg hitting him firm in the back of the knees, knocking him off-balance. He flies back, slams into the ground hard enough to wallop the air from his lungs. Clarity hits him like a boulder to the chest: for a few wonderful, agonizing moments, the only thought that floods his mind is pain, sharp and searing, and the raw, desperate need to fill his lungs with air.

Mom reaches down, clasps his wrist and hauls him to his feet. Creed bends over, hands on his thighs, sucking in ragged breaths, until the same ugly thought worms its way back in like a muttation scratching at his back door. He pushes himself up, blood hot in his face. “Again.”

She doesn’t ask him. She’s a teacher and a Peacekeeper, not a therapist, she’s not qualified to reach into the mess inside Creed’s head and untangle it into nice, smooth threads. Creed isn’t a trainer, he’s been out of the Program for years now, he can’t tell if it makes his fighting sloppy or if it’s painted all over his face, but Mom was a trained interrogator (he’s pretty sure, though she never said so to her boys) and whenever the hawks in his brain rise to fever-pitch, that’s when she knocks him down. Again, again, again, wordless and impassive and absolutely free of judgement, as first Creed screams, then breaks, then sobs, then finally stands, winded and exhausted, flushed out clean and whole again.

He reaches inside, searching for the guilt. He finds nothing, a hollow that when he knocks it with his knuckles rings clear with purpose. Creed staggers on one foot — Mom might get in trouble with his physiotherapist next month but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care — and now she steadies him by the shoulders and gives him a rare smile. “Better?”

His throat is raw. He could climb to the peak of Eagle Pass and sing at the top of his lungs for hours. “Yeah.” 

Mom smiles again. “Good. Go eat your dinner.” He’s halfway back to the house when she calls his name. He turns, glances back at her, the whole line of his body a question. “Fetch your father.”

Creed stands at the back porch and watches her for a moment first, stretching out her neck and shoulder against the golden glow of the evening sun.

*****

The sun burns hot on Reaping Day, the last year when it will matter. Oh, every year matters, every year the sacrifice is real and vital, every year two very living, breathing teenagers will stand up on that stage and dedicate themselves to death or glory, but after this that sacrifice will be a little more distant, more remote, more abstract. Creed won’t know their names, their favourite weapons, the snack they liked to wheedle from the trainers in exchange for joint locks or proper footwork or weapon grips or a clean disarm. He won’t know the worst fear the tracker-jackers conjured up in those final months of testing, the ones they shared crammed knee-to-knee in his room with a pilfered bottle of terrible wine from the staff cupboard that Milo sneaked out the next night to replace.

And the worst part is, it’s already started. He doesn’t have room in his brain for all the others, every year for the rest of his life. Easier to let that fade. He’s not sure whether he understands the grown-ups (he is a grown-up) or hates them.

No time for that now. Now there’s Alec, and only Alec — but it’s Lyme and Callista on the stage.

They told him to come. They’re all there, Dad, Mom, Uncle Paul and Aunt Julia, Uncle Ramon and the others. The Valents didn’t get a card last year, and it wasn’t Selene. That has to mean something — but Callista? Lyme? Alec should be Brutus, or Emory, even Devon. Is it all a joke?

He doesn’t know the girl. Not from their town, must have joined Residential from a different Transition facility. She stands by Lyme, looking proud and stoic with hints of something deeper. So that leaves — no. It can’t be. Not Callista the Butcher. Whatever happened in the past two years, there’s no way —

“I volunteer!”

Creed chokes on his own breath.

His first, idiotic thought is — tall. Last time he saw Alec, across the room during free time, he’d been with a group of his friends at, what, fifteen? Near the end of his growth spurt, or so Creed had thought, and unlikely to get much taller. But now he recalls the smoothies he’d choked down every morning after passing his field exam, the growing pains in the final years as he shot up those extra inches and his muscles expanded. Even so, it must be the stage effect, the double screens and the distance and the delicate Capitol escort who waves him to the stage, because Alec seems gargantuan. Whipcord muscles, not bulked out like Creed had been, but if Creed stands next to his little brother now he swears he’d have to crane his neck to look at him.

Fancy, he tells himself. Imagination. His brain struggling to hold on to something tangible as Alec throws his head back and grins, sharp and feral.

“Ohhhh … shit,” Mom murmurs under her breath, in a tone full of wonder. A ripple of shock at the blasphemy hits Creed like a blast wave, but he doesn’t dare turn to stare at her.

Callista is a golden statue behind his brother, eyes shining with pride.

*****

“Brothers, huh?”

Creed jumps. The Peacekeeper standing guard at Alec’s door grins at him. “I — what? Yeah. I mean, yes sir.” He grips his hands so tight behind his back his fingers ache. Did he limp when he came in? Can they see the scar tissue on his knee through his pant leg? Do they know he tried to come here first, that it should have been him, can they see the years of training and the ghost of the Arena in his eyes? Or do they think he’s like everyone else, letting their little brother make the sacrifice because they weren’t good enough?

(Mom throws him to the ground and waits as he staggers to his feet, hands curled loose at her sides, watching.)

He lets out a breath.

“Yeah, I could tell.” The officer opens the door and winks over his shoulder. “Five minutes.”

Creed had to argue for five minutes alone, jaw set and feet planted. For a weird, sliding moment they’d reenacted the conversation Mom loved to tell at parties, when Creed was far too young to remember — “That’s my baby!” “That’s your baby brother, Creed, but he’s my baby” “No! That’s my baby!” — but all too soon his parents exchanged glances and stepped back, allowing him time with Alec first.

He’s even larger than life in the wood-panelled room, standing with his back to the window, warm, mid-morning light throwing his curls into a glowing halo. Creed can’t breathe. Alec swallows, the tension in his throat the only change in his expression.

“I wanted this,” Alec says, and what? “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

Creed reels back. “What? Of course you did. You were always good enough, I’m just glad you finally believe it.”

This time the corners of Alec’s eyes tighten. “That’s a weird way to remember it. You used to say you wished you were me because no one cared what I did.”

Creed doesn’t remember that conversation either, but he’s not ending his last conversation with his brother on a fight, not for all the limestone in the quarries. “I don’t care what I said. I was a kid and an idiot. I washed out. You didn’t. I’m proud of you. And you probably don’t need to hear that anymore, and that’s good, but I am, so too late now.”

Alec stares at him for a long moment. “Selene wasn’t kidding, you really are sincere. I couldn’t always see it up close.”

“Thanks so much,” Creed says dryly, and what he’d really like to do is knock Alec to the ground for a wrestling match or catch his head under his arm and ruffle his hair, but he can’t. Alec is a tribute now, not his brother, and he’ll need to leave all that behind once he steps aboard that train. “I know you can do it. Whatever we used to say as kids, you’re strong, the strongest of all of us, and you always were. Even when I was shitty and self-absorbed I knew that. Whatever happens in there, I’m going to watch every single minute of it.”

A long silence passes, and Creed is ready to turn and leave with the awkwardness stretched between them, before Alec finally exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Just remember to sleep,” Creed bursts out. “You always push too hard, you never wanted to look weak, but remember it’s just as important to rest —“

Alec socks him so hard he knows he’ll be tracing bruises well after the Games begin in earnest. “Are you seriously giving me Arena pointers right now? You? Now? Fuck off.” And then he laughs, before Creed can decide whether to be more shocked to the sucker-punch or the swearing. “God, you never change. Look, I’ll call you. On the other side, all right? So don’t be all tragic and weirdly noble about the last time we’ll ever see each other.”

Creed’s eyes snap wide and his breath sticks in his chest. Alec’s grin twists, the savage satisfaction of the Reaping stage but with the edges softened. “Ha, thought so. Loser.”

“Asshole,” Creed shoots back, but his voice cracks. “You’re not allowed to say things like that. I had my whole weirdly noble speech already written out.”

“Too bad.” Alec stretches his arms over his head. He is taller than Creed, only an inch or so, but it feels like a lifetime. “I’ve got plans on plans, motherfucker.”

*****

Alec’s interview suit is a deep blue, with running silver threads like veins of quartz. He sits back in his chair, fielding questions with a confident air that stops just shy of arrogance. Creed sees their mother in him more than ever now, the flashes of dark humour, the sharp smile. too. More than once Dad’s gaze flicks over to her, but he stays quiet.

“So,” Flickerman says, teeth flashing in the light. “You’re handsome young man. Anyone waiting for you back home?”

Odd question for a Two, since they have to pretend they sprang out of the rocks as fully-formed tributes, but Alec rolls with it. “Maybe? I can’t stop anyone from waiting,” he says, and winks when Caesar says ‘Ouch!’ with an exaggerated grimace. “No, I’m kidding, I have better things to do than break hearts. Who has the time? I do have a brother, though, and I look up to him a lot. He got me through a lot of tough times when we were younger.”

Flickerman clasps his hands over his chest. “Oh! Brotherly love. Isn’t that sweet. Are you going to win for him?”

Alec tilts his head, and his eyes catch the light. “For him? No. I’m doing this for me. For me and my district, like I said. But I hope he’s watching all the same.”

Mom reaches over and gives Creed’s knee a reassuring shake.

****

“You’ve been watching me.”

Two days in, Alec corners the boy from One against a tree at the edge of the clearing the Pack has declared as their home base. And either he’s right, or whatever happens next is significant enough for the Games editors to cut it that way, because Creed noticed it too, the last few hours of the broadcast full of shots of 1M shooting Alec long, smouldering looks just barely in-frame.

1M — Leander, the pop-up chyron reminds them, dial in to add funds now! — scowls. “Have not. Ego much?”

“Yeah-huh.” Alec grins at him, slow and sure as his gaze slides down and drags back up, and oh. Oh, there’s the Callista tribute in his brother, holy shit. He looks for ten-year-old Alec playing tributes in the woods, dying dutifully as Selene stabs him with a tree branch, and comes up empty. “Nothing wrong with it. So what do you think? I’m hot, you’re hot, it’s the end of the world.”

Leander’s nostrils flare. He probably would not want to know that the running feed in the corner of the screen with his vitals registers an uptick in his heart-rate. Creed and his family always watch the raw feed, no commentary, but he can only imagine what Flickerman makes of that. “What the fuck is wrong with you? That’s your reason? We’re going to die, let’s make out?”

Alec’s eyes narrow, just a fraction, giving him a look of — not anger, but intensity. Creed has the ridiculous thought that he looks like Selene even before he says, “Why not?”

Leander’s knees buckle when Alec kisses him, but he gets his feet under himself soon enough. Creed lets out a disbelieving noise when the cameras pan up toward the treetops, leaving the sound on to fill in the gaps in viewers’ imaginations, but the Games have always been more skittish about kids groping than killing each other. And if he’s completely honest, he’d rather watch his brother skewer someone than get handsy, so he can’t get too high and mighty.

“Well,” Mom says, desert-dry, the same tone that’s trickled down to both her boys through some magic of genetics, “He didn’t get that from you, Joe.”

A high, sputtering sound cuts the living room silence; Creed turns to see Julia stifling a laugh into her hand. Dad turns his gaze up to the ceiling with the air of a man calling the heavens for eternal patience. “You would have shot me,” he says, and Julia loses it completely.

It’s the first time anyone has spoken since the countdown, and the tension doesn’t ease but it does crack a little, like how the first roll of thunder signals a break in the pre-storm humidity.

****

They call him for an interview when Alec hits the Final Eight.

“What?” Creed says, too shocked to stop himself from questioning Program staff. “But families don’t —“

“He mentioned you,” the woman says, brisk and businesslike in a way that makes Creed think of Uncle Paul when someone very important makes his life very difficult. “On camera. Remember? Can’t exactly go back on that now.”

This isn’t Alec’s one-on-one with Flickerman in the Capitol, on stage under blinding lights played to a screaming crowd. It’s not live, there’s no audience, and the woman from Head Office tells him they’ll cut and edit his answers as they see fit depending on the narrative the Capitol and Alec’s mentor agree to present. The interviewer is a reed-thin man in a feathered suit with sculpted lavender curls who lifts Creed’s hand with two fingers and tells him he has a face meant for the movies.

“Thank you?” Creed’s knee ached as soon as he stepped foot in the Centre building in some kind of weird, sympathetic echo. Stepping into the pretend-Remake room for makeup and an appropriate suit nearly gave him a full-on flashback, but he’s fine. He’s not going to have a fucking regression while Alec is out there fighting for his life.

He’s had half a lifetime of media training and the questions are foam-tipped. He tells them Alec is brave, and driven, that he’s never backed down from a challenge. He doesn’t tell them about giggling together late at night from the bunk bed, or that time Alec got so jealous they rolled around on the front lawn punching each other in the face, or that Alec was too shy to ask for a second cookie after school. “He is the bravest person I know,” Creed says. “And I know it’s cheesy, and he’d roll his eyes so hard if he were here, but I don’t care, if he wants to fight me for it he’ll have to win first. He’s my hero.”

“Thank you for your time,” the Capitol envoy says, and shows him to the door. On his way out Creed passes a big boy Alec’s age dressed in the Capitol’s idea of what normal teenagers wear these days (or maybe Creed is just out of touch). They make eye contact for a long second; the boy shrugs helplessly and slips inside.

****

Poisonous plants. Giant snakes. Monkey mutts with teeth the size of Creed’s hand. Acid rain that eats through foliage, sending Alec diving for cover into a crevasse in the rock face. By the time Alec faces his final opponent on the clifftop, he’s exhausted and bloodied, sepsis racing through his body, arm purple and swollen, the fingers of his right hand refusing to close around his spear haft. It feels sacrilegious to make a noise louder than a breath, now; Paul is the only reason any of them have eaten, coming in with bites of food and water every time he gets up to stretch his leg.

Creed can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can barely blink, terrified to close his eyes for even that hundredth of a second. But then —

But then —

He dislocates his knee victory dancing around the living room. His physiotherapist will tear a strip off his side for the next six months. Creed does not give a single, flying fuck.

Alec won.

He won.

His brother’s coming home.

****

End of summer a letter arrives, rich, thick paper and crimson ink. Creed slices his finger on the flap trying to open it, and he’s sucking a bead of blood when the words sink in: your brother and recovery and improving and asked to see you

After that are two more words, underlined so sharply the pen nib scored the paper. He imagines Callista sitting at an elaborate desk, somehow holding a gilded fountain pen with her dagger-tipped fingernails, underlining once, twice, just in case he’s too thick to understand the first time.

only you

Creed’s breath stops in his chest. Mom finds him still holding the letter, the rest of the mail scattered across the table, the skin of his finger still caught between his teeth. She reads over his shoulder, and when she’s done her breath hisses soft between her teeth. “Mom,” Creed says, choked. “Mom, I can’t, if only one of us can go —“

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mom spins him around, grips him by the shoulder. “We all knew we would never see him again. Now they’re breaking the rules for you. That’s incredible. We’re not going to waste it.”

We all knew. Except that in the Justice Building, Alec told Creed he would call for him, and Creed never once thought he meant only him. Why wouldn’t he have asked the whole family? He would have said something earlier, if he’d known. Warned them, maybe, or apologized, or — something, besides stand here with the invitation in his hand, staring at Mom and feeling like his whole world tipped sideways.

Mom tweaks his nose like he’s five years old, except Creed was five years old, once, and he’s pretty sure sure never did that then. “Go,” she says. “You deserve it.”

[transmasc-wizard]

"Pretty Girl", my A Million Possible Outcomes story

The prompt for this one was "Do you understand, darling, how often immortals do so wish to die?". I did end up having the phrase in the story, though I think I strayed from the idea of the prompt quite a bit.

As a bonus fact: I spent the entire time writing this story listening to "please put me in a medically induced coma" by carolesdaughter, so. Do with that what you will.

Tagging @strawberrie-faerie so you see this! I did it! I did not forget!

Anyway. here it is!

Word count: 1859.

TWs: depression (not named but that's what it is), a lot of implied transphobia, cursing.

Pretty Girl.

In movies, sadness was sharp.

That was what he’d realized, very recently. In movies, when you were sad, you screamed. You cried. Your mascara ran, your face never blotching enough to be ugly, and you broke down every time something went wrong. In movies, sadness splintered your life like spikes drilled through stone, and you felt every single wound like it was the first one. In movies, the ones you loved cried with you, wishing for you to be better and happier, unable to ever ignore your plight.

Movies lied.

Sadness was sharp, at first. But slowly, it accumulated, and when that happened, it went numb. You feel one nail piercing into your skin. You don’t feel a hundred. And eventually, everyone else went back to their lives. Their more interesting lives, their more fun lives, their less-of-a-hassle-than-yours lives. They left you behind, and you were too sad, too tired to scream.

“Darling, would you come downstairs and set the table?”

His mother’s voice was like a knife trying to cut through something cold and sticky. He was tired, despite having slept nine hours last night, and had to force himself downstairs.

“Ah, my pretty girl,” mother said with a smile, and he managed a fake one back. No one could tell the difference anymore, luckily. “I thought you might be trapped up there.”

I prefer it to you, he thought, but aloud, he said, “Well, I’m not.”

He started to set the table, a droning nothingness. Everything was… not boring, exactly. That wasn’t the only emotion. Everything was slowed, and grey, and fuzzy, but not really. It was only for him. Everyone else was waiting for him to catch up.

“Hannah, sweetie, pay attention,” mother said. That is not my name, he wanted to reply, but could he? He had no other one. He was the nameless boy. The pretty girl. He didn’t know which one was worse.

“I am,” he said, and his voice was too hollow. That would not be good enough, so he quickly tried to inject more energy into his voice. There wasn’t much to spare, but he managed to sound more upbeat when he said, “I have theatre club after dinner.”

It wasn’t a club. At least, not a school club, which he’d told mother it was. It was a group of friends and friend-adjacents, who’d recently decided to put on a play for charity. The local food bank, or something. He didn’t really remember.

“Speaking of,” said mother in that tone she used when she didn’t like something but considered herself too polite to say so, “do you have to go to your rehearsals today? Grandma’s coming over.”

“Yeah,” he lied. “It’s a really big one. I can’t miss it. Tell grandma I said hi, though.”

Mother crossed her arms. “Could you not skip it?”

“No. Sorry. They’re counting on me.” In a quick attempt to appeal to her good side, he reminded, “They need me.”

“I… fine,” said mother tiredly.

“Thanks.” He glanced at the clock and, perhaps pushing his luck just a little, said, “Oh. Oops. I’m supposed to go now.”

“It’s dinner,” said mother.

“We have dinner every day.”

“Fine.”

“Thanks,” he said, and he was out the door mere minutes later.

It was going to rain soon. He could tell by the deep grey of the clouds, by the chill in the air that made him wish he’d grabbed a jacket. But at least out here, there was no one else, and he could quietly be nameless and unknown.

By the time he got to the theatre, an empty building in the autumn save for his little club, he was shaking. Pre-rainstorm cold around these areas was always bad, and today it was forcing his teeth to chatter so hard that he felt awake and alive. Well, as much as he ever did.

“You’re early.” Dana’s voice was curious as she said this, stepping out from the shadow of the stage curtain.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Mom wanted time to clean the house.”

Dana wrinkled her nose. “No wonder she herded you out. You smell like death.”

He didn’t disagree. He could smell his own terrible scent, a week of missing showers half-heartedly masked with some deodorant he’d put on four hours ago. But instead of giving Dana’s response any merit, he replied, “Do you need help setting up?”

They spent the next ten minutes working in silent, a pre-rehearsal setup that Dana usually did alone. She was the queen of their little club, directing fairytales and tragedies made out of cardboard cutouts and whatever cheap costumes they could find. He did not like it here—it was an “all girls’ group”, including in the casts of their plays—but at least it could feel more like pretend. He was pretending to be royal, pretending to be brave, and pretending to be such a pretty girl.

The others in the group started to show up just as they finished. Madison, darling daughter of the theatre owner. Harley, the captivating and kind writer of their plays. And Wendy, the girl he had still not figured out yet.

“Hannah,” said Wendy flatly, holding out a bag. “I passed your house. Your mom practically flew out the door to catch me, she wanted me to give you this.”

He took it carefully, a chorus in his head whispering, that is not my name. His still-cold fingers pried open the bag, and he looked inside.

“It’s from your grandmother,” said Wendy, as he—the nameless boy, the pretty girl—held the thing up. It was a colourful glass ballerina. The little stage she stood on had words on the side: my darling granddaughter.

Grandma knew. So did mother. So did practically anyone and everyone who had been paying attention to him, to his life, to anything he said. It was an open secret, if one that everyone but him hated. And he wanted to be angry; he wanted to throw it against the wall, to call his grandmother and scream, ask her and mother and father and his sister what do you get from this? But he could not muster that, because this wasn’t the movies.

The best he could do was let it drop, drop, drop, drop, falling just a few feet and shattering into a thousand pieces on the cold theatre floor.

“Oops,” he said, his voice quiet, emotionless, nothing. “I’ll get a broom.”

He didn’t, of course. He just went into the nearest bathroom with a blue women’s sign, and hid.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t throw things. He didn’t wreck things. He wanted to scream, but he could barely summon the energy to sleep. He sat on the checkered tile floor, nearly under the sinks. How long was he going to hide here? He didn’t know.

Under the sink beside him was a crumpled old piece of paper. After a second, he realized it was a page of an old script—he’d helped Harley write this one. It was slightly ripped from something he didn’t remember, but he could read one line. His.

Do you understand, darling, how often immortals do so wish to die?

He wanted Hannah gone. He hated her, the girl he pretended to be, the facade he had to wear every goddamn day, the monster that sapped his energy to keep up her pretty girl smile. She was the immortal, remembered by every and all person who preferred her to him, and he was the one that wanted her dead. Maybe if she was, then he could live. He, the nameless boy, barely breathing.

The bathroom door creaked open. “You didn’t get a broom.”

“I lied,” he said flatly, looking up to where Wendy stood.

“Hannah,” said Wendy. Softly, sincerely.

“She’s dead,” he said flatly. He wanted to snarl it like a monster, but he could barely manage a whisper. Nevertheless, he’d said it, and it would not be taken back.

“Edgy,” Wendy remarked. “Calm down, princess.”

“Fuck off.” Those words were snarled, a spark of anger that he wished he could let burn. “I get that you think you’re funny, but could you maybe think about your words for once in your life?”

“Princess has claws.”

“I swear to god, Wendy, I’m going to lose it.” The words were bitter and sour in his mouth, but he kept going. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to prove how close I am to snapping? Do you need a giant meltdown, like in the movies? Is that what you need before you’ll believe me when I say I’m too tired for this?”

He stood, not waiting for an answer. She didn’t give one, anyway, even as he walked away and left her standing alone in the theatre bathroom.

He left the building without telling anyone else. It was getting dark, now, but that was fine. He didn’t stop walking until he got home, opening the door as silently as possible. He could hear mother and grandma talking in the kitchen; carefully, he slipped past and up into his room. The light was off. He didn’t bother turning it back on as he grabbed his backpack, throwing whatever he may need inside it. His phone, a book, some fruit gummy packs he’d been keeping in his room so he didn’t need to go downstairs for snacks, a water bottle, a change of clothes, all the cash he had.

He knew he was screwing himself over. This would come back to haunt him. This was a bad decision.

He didn’t care.

He sneaked back out of the house, his beanie making his hair look short and his backpack clutched tightly in his frozen fingers, and took the fifteen minute walk to the bus stop. There were odder things in life than a sixteen-year-old waiting for the bus on an autumn night, and no one gave him notice.

The bus came soon enough—though it was officially dark now, and in situations where he was less tired and angry he would have been feeling extremely paranoid by now—and he quickly came aboard, paying for “whatever stop you go to that’s farthest from here”. That was apparently Toronto, and he sat quietly in the back of the bus, nearly alone.

The bus ride would be five hours. He had that much time to think things up. Starting with the text he would send to his mother—goodbye, probably. And secondly, he thought somewhat groggily, a name.

He imagined being asked, Who are you? And quietly, he whispered the thing that instinctively came to him. Maybe it would change later, maybe not. A lot of things would be.

He was still sad, still angry, still tired. But at the very, very least, after a few minutes of looking out the window at the city lights racing by, August—the no longer nameless boy, savior of himself—was finally able to fall asleep.

He did it with the thought that he would allow no one, not a soul, to ever call him a pretty girl again.

[bcdwhcre]

okay, listen to me. levi and an insecure reader with her body, because she is not in the "beauty standards"

“Beauty,” Levi x Reader

Summary: Levi being with a insecure reader and tries his best to be a good boyfriend and make you feel beautiful 🥺

Warnings: none

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It was always difficult for you to truly love yourself. You never really gave it a lot of thought or looked at yourself longer than a few seconds in the mirror because it just made you feel awfully sick to your stomach.

And once you started to date Levi, the insecurities only grew worse. The relationship was still fresh, still new- it had only been a few months and you’ve done pretty well to hide the fact that you pretty much hated every inch of your body.

That is until he grew comfortable around you, coming to your room late at night and taking off his button up shirt to lay next to you and cuddle. You always had that sick feeling when he had his arm around your waist, his hand almost hanging over your stomach and you would have to gently move it up so you felt more safe.

Deep down you felt like your stomach wasn’t flat enough and maybe if he placed his hand there while cuddling you, he’ll notice and leave you. It had always crossed your mind and it just made you sad.

You tried to pull the poker face, not wanting to let him notice how truly broken down you were on the inside. How badly you hated yourself and the body you were given. The insecurities lingering over your head like a rainy cloud, it was terrible.

But one day Levi was gone, you assumed he would be too busy to stop by today with the amount of work he had to get done with Erwin.

The depression had rained down on you, making you stay in bed almost the entire day until you decided to shower before he would make it back. As you stood in the bathroom, shower running- you stood in front of the mirror half naked.

You hated it, you hated the way you would stare at yourself and think such bad thoughts. You hated the fact you couldn’t be happy with the body you had, the fact you couldn’t be happy period.

You didn’t deserve Levi, you didn’t deserve the amount of love he would pour onto you. You didn’t deserve any of it and it just made you more sad. What if he runs into someone with a prettier body? Prettier face? It was hard to not think of the possibilities and the fact there are much better looking people than you.

You couldn’t help the tears building up in your eyes, thinking far too much on the topic to even listen for your bedroom door opening and Levi walking in after a long day of work.

He had taken off his boots, the jacket and the straps that tugged around his body. He could hear the shower running from the bathroom, walking towards the door and suddenly heard sniffling on the other side, assuming the worst- he walked in.

His eyes landed onto you, in front of the mirror with tears streaming down your face and once you had seen him, your eyes went wide and shook your head while grabbing a towel to try to cover most of your body up.

“Hey, why are you crying?” He frowned, reaching his hands out to you but you stepped back, making his heart stop.

“Did I do something?”

You shook your head, you were caught and you didn’t even want to explain yourself or explain why you’re crying- he probably wouldn’t get it or understand. He’ll probably think you’re being dramatic.

“Talk to me, please.” He spoke again, noticing your silence and when your eyes met with his sad ones, the amount of guilt you felt was suffocating.

“I just.. I don’t know, I hate the way I look.” You mumbled barely loud enough for him to hear but he still heard, his heart instantly shattering.

He’s tried to spend his days complimenting you and showering you with so much love and while you stood there in front of him, admitting your insecurities- he felt like a complete failure. He felt like he failed to make you feel happy and beautiful and that made him feel like shit.

Levi felt terrible, like a terrible boyfriend. Was he really that dumb to not notice how much pain you were in? How much suffering you went through everyday as you struggled to find one inch of beauty within yourself.

“Y/N,” He started to say, stepping closer to you and you let him, his hands reaching down to grab onto the towel that covered up your half naked body.

You hesitated, looking down at his hands as he held onto the material, his eyes burning into you and you finally released the tight grip you had on the towel, letting him slip it off of your body.

Levi looked down at you, his heart swelling, he found every inch of you perfect, beyond perfect and he wish you could see what he saw in you. Maybe then you would love yourself just as much as he loves you.

He stood behind you, his hands twisting your body to look at the mirror. His soft hands had traced over your curves and wrapped themselves tightly around your waist, planting a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

“Look at yourself, every inch, every curve, every piece of your skin is beautiful. There is not one thing on your body that is ugly.” He mumbled, his words making your heart flutter and your stomach swarm with butterflies.

But even then, you couldn’t see what he saw in you.

“You are so perfect, Y/N. Everything about you makes me fall in love even more.” His voice was quiet yet soft, complimenting each part of your body.

A few more tears had streamed down your cheeks, making his head turn and place a gentle kiss on your cheek, reaching up to swipe the tears off your skin and he turned you around to embrace you in a tight hug.

Your face buried into his shoulder, clinging onto the shirt on his back and you took a deep breath, taking in his scent and his warmth and tried to take as much of his love as he showered you with it.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like your body is ugly and I’m going to make sure you know just how beautiful you are to me.” He traced his hand on your bare back, pulling you closer and it had made your stomach do flips.

Not once did you want Levi to find out about your insecurities like this but it was going to happen eventually. The more days had went on, the more insecure you gotten and it was a matter of time for him to notice it.

You were somewhat glad he found out, the overwhelming weight that pinned you down and choked you, you couldn’t handle it but his love, his compliments had made you feel a bit better but the lingering insecurity had remained in your head.

But you were willing to push it to the side for him on certain occasions, not wanting to make him feel bad and not wanting to make him feel like shit.

You were in love with him and for the rest of the night he made sure to make you feel his intense amount of love as he helped you shower and laid in bed beside you, only wearing his shirt while he cuddled you and reminded you just how perfect you were to him because you were perfect, you were beyond beautiful and he didn’t want you to forget it.

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so cute🥺 sorry for lagging on posting, been trying not to feel forced to post❤️

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[bubblyhoney]

picnic bitch

warnings: crude language duh, suggestive (not explicit) content, an eminem reference

tags: sapnap x gn!reader

words: 1156

A/N: a continuation of a detail from my boyfriend!sapnap head canon :D

-

The breeze wafts across your face, moving a lock of hair to tickle on your cheek. You swat a hand up at your cheek and furrow your brows.

The weather today has been fairly pleasant and not too sweltering, thank God. The park is busy this time of afternoon, but you both snagged a spot underneath a huge tree in the southwest corner of the field.

“Pass me a strawberry, please, baby,” he mumbles from above you. You glance up at him, one eye squinted, and reach for the container of strawberries. “Feed me.” He smirks and drops his mouth open, tongue out. You just roll your eyes and place a berry into his mouth, careful to not get his spit on you. You settle back into his lap, content.

Today was the designated picnic day. You try to have a couple during the summer just because it’s so lovely to sit outside, relax, and eat, but you’d already had about six since the start of summer. They mostly consist of you feeding Sapnap fruit and laying with your head on his lap, stretched out and comfortable. Today you were sporting clothes all loose and blue as the sky, wanting to be stylish but not too sweaty. He’d gone for sweat-shorts and a green flannel over a white shirt: cute. Very cute. So cute you can’t help but stare and feel your cheeks flush.

Shuffling his legs, he readjusts his arms and hums as he settles back into the bark of the tree. Sweet music plays lightly in the background, courtesy of your portable speaker sitting perfectly on top of the picnic basket.

“You look ethereal,” is what you can’t help but to whisper. You peek one eye open and stare up at his relaxed face. He rolls his eyes but smiles down at you, tips of his ears pink.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, shy. You just huff and roll up onto an elbow, reaching for your lemonade. It’s tart on your tongue and you make a pleased noise at the taste, swallowing. He just watches you.

“What time are you making dinner?” You fold up onto your knees, raising your eyebrows as you screw the cap back onto your bottle.

“Oh, am I making dinner now?” Teasing, he reaches for your arms and you accede, letting him tug you onto his lap. “It’s salad night.” Making a face, he strokes up and down your bicep, both soothing and causing goosebumps.

“I thought you liked salad night, babe.” His hair is soft and nice on your palm when you reach a hand up to pet his hair. He stills and lets you, but shrugs after a moment.

“I like salad, but never as a full meal. Can we make spaghetti?”

“Okay, yeah,” you agree, shuffling forward on his lap. “That sounds good. I’ll be expecting homemade pasta, Chef.”

“Oh, yeah?” He brushes a wind-disturbed tuft of hair out of your eyes. Full lips split into a smile as he leans back into the tree, eyes closed. “Sounds like a lot of effort, sweetheart.”

Your skin tingles brightly at the pet name. A beam of sunlight breaks through the green leaves of the tree and stripes diagonal across his calm expression. When you said ethereal, you meant it.

The serene mood, all breezy and gentle music, breaks when you open your mouth. As usual.

“Hey, are you Mom’s spaghetti?” You pause for a second and let your hand drop onto his collarbone. “Because you make my knees weak and my palms sweaty.” The pick-up line takes a second to hit before his eyes snap open. Bowing forward, he makes a retching sound into your lap.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, cheeks puffy and strained as he holds in a laugh. “That was actually awful. You should be ashamed.” Shrugging, you relax back into his thighs with a sigh.

“I thought it was pretty good, actually. You’re in love now; I just beguiled you. Get beguiled.” Your voice is teasing, poking, as you play with the bottle of lemonade in your hands.

“I don’t think an Eminem reference has as much power as you think it does,” he says simply, and tugs you closer into his lap. One hand slides up to your neck, just resting, before he’s pulling you forward, inches away from his mouth. “But I do love you.” His lips slide easily against yours, tasting your chapstick and breathing you in. You taste like lemon and sugar. His other hand rests comfortably in the curve of your waist, squeezing intermittently.

You take a few minutes to just kiss. Not making out, not grinding or teasing. It’s peaceful out here, away from families, so you take your time.

It’s the second a drop of water plops right onto your shoulder that you tense. Pulling away, you raise an empty palm up in the air. Drop. Drop.

“It’s raining,” you practically wail, and clamber out of his lap. The sky has turned an ugly grayish blue, dark clouds that came out of seemingly nowhere looming in the distance. He huffs, irritated, and starts to gather your stuff up. The strawberries go into the basket, as do the sandwiches, and you toss your lemonade in as well. You stand to fold the picnic blanket and shove it down into a tan tote bag.

The park is rapidly clearing of people. Teenagers at the skating park hop on their bikes, adults walking their dogs scatter in the parking lot to their respective vehicles, and you two scramble to collect your things and make a dash for your car. It’s full on pouring when you yank open the passenger seat and climb clumsily in.

“This sucks!” He yells over the downpour, and slams closed the driver’s door. It’s much more quiet in here, you realize, and tilt your face up to the sunroof. You’d peeled back the covering on the way here “to let the sunlight in” and now it’s getting pelted with large, warm raindrops. Sapnap moves in his seat, getting situated, and starts the car with a rumble. It’s also fucking hot in here.

“This is not how I was thinking our picnic was going to end,” he pouts. “I thought we would actually make it to the cake.” A cartoonish frown appears on his lips and you melt, aw-ing. You reach a thumb to rub at his bottom lip.

“It’s okay, we can finish the cake when we get home. Spoil our dinner.” You wiggle your eyebrows and he huffs out a laugh, pulling his seatbelt to its lock.

“I doubt we’ll make it home without pulling over and shoving our faces with it,” he scoffs. A smirk grows on your face and he glances warily at it, shifting to reverse out of the parking spot. “What’s that face for?”

“Are you familiar with the idea of whipped cream play?”

Yeah, the cake doesn’t make it home.

-

A/N: ask or send me stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D comments are extremely welcome and even encouraged

[the-firebird69]

This image was taken today. And Denzel Washington says several days it'll be here and we don't think so no that's true and even at high altitude and although the tail end of it looks like it might head here it's not going to make it that it will most likely be pushed to the south and this plume coming across is from several mediums defense systems being destroyed and it is going to get here around Saturday morning for real and it will further halt the clone ship from doing its operation and more importantly from creating a hurricane. It is going to actually stall out the storm completely by removing fuel. There's other things happening they're pretty big And and it's coming this way but right now people are concerned about this and the hurricane and the rings so this hurricane system will be stopped and in three days from now actually you will see some activity and you'll see large plumes of dust in other words they're going to try and get it to rain nelson says that's easy you just take ships out and then said ohh yeah then they'll see the clones. No they don't do that great with it but if they have a regimen they can do much better but after several days they become weak and really stupid but they wanna do this and try juicing and stuff then to wipe people out and to kidnap our son we don't want that to happen and we're gonna use force on them and it's gonna get ugly. A lot of them are going to get critically injured because of what they're saying about our son we don't want them near him. We also have a lot of stuff to do but these guys mean business we need to use force it's coming up real quick and our son says the plume was here two days ago so almost three days for the big one but it's faster out there so probably two days which would be the Friday afternoon strut to the winds are much faster it's gonna probably be Friday morning and that is More likely the case more shortly

Thor Freya

and your not reisstant enough no you are. and shall weather it but we need to contol it as necessary. and yes the preservatives will desentigrate and the medds. fast too. a couple o days and a lot of it aybe a third to more will be broken up. not long after the next cloud you will grow. and you saw it bike riding the muscles contract and are not as big. true too. they do that. soon. we expect an inch or so from tis cloud well no. it willbe meaning ful though. and bulking will happen. already some result less fat true too we saw it lots did. and works out and start again. mb a quarter inch up but moreso out. and wieight this round and week coming up about 4-5 lbs tota and back to two sixty. and good she says. but not so much by fat. and a few days later a couple more. and then this. his legs ae huge and will be bigger. and healing finally. need it and yes good. warts will fall off. and by radiation alone no. it is the opposite. and healing good

Nuada Arrianna we did wait and good he says it is helpful and ok. a pressure cooer and no just hot here lol aah and good one sir hahaha sir yes Father Mother good. we shall help now. and the contest will begin sortl. we will have meetups and with the kit cars. and meetup went nuts. tons no a few. and a few car ones. needed it ok to see it. and bja works it.

we use it ok

trump

no no cant you oaf and him fatso we herdi t need the intel and here we go again the whee of death and ok shtu up then dont want them to have it

bja

we see it need it now too

macs

Olympus

we use this see them hold back but for daimonds and to threatne the daimonss in and ok they say we may have misjudged it. and tey ck and we shall see they say

Thor Freya