#last year i was too tired and burnt out and overwhelmed to go exploring much

[boggedybloggedy]

One of my goals this year is to go visit more parks and preserves for non-work related reasons

#last year i was too tired and burnt out and overwhelmed to go exploring much #this year i've been finding nice spots to sit in very quietly and startling passing snakes #parks #nature #florida #Old Florida #sabal palm #river #lake #scrub habitat

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

I’ll Tell You My Sins (So You Can Sharpen Your Knife)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst! A lot! (ends in fluff tho), canon typical violence, briefly mentioned and very vaguely descried torture, blackmailing.

Word Count: eight fucking thousand words what the fuck

Summary: Reader hides important information about her past from both Steve and Bucky, causing serious damage to their relationships with her. When Bucky’s severely (likely fatally) hurt, the Reader tries to finally do what’s right.

Beta: @walkingaline​ and I genuinely couldn’t have done it without her. She’s the sweetest fuckin person.

A/N: I’ve dedicated my life to this for two weeks, and it’s positively the longest one-shot I’ve ever written. I’m rather proud of how it turned out, and the feelings I got to explore. Would really love to know what you think!

It’s- vines, climbing up her organs, endless, crawling, and overflowing, thorns stuck inside her skin, digging in, and the breaths come shorter, clipped, chest weighted. There’s no alleviating this pressure, this overwhelming whirlwind of emotions, chaotic, heavy and filthy, slimy and awful.

The rumble of her engine, a loud interruption to her vicious thoughts, digging their claws inside her eyes, filling them with tears. The world is blurry, but the vibration- it's a welcome distraction. Familiar and strong, her motorcycle drives her at this point, muscle memory leading to the Compound, tears flying off her face by the whipping wind.

She’s booking it. Time barely registers. It’s somewhere between lashing thoughts and trembling fingers that the off-white building rises between the trees, overwhelming and tall, glinting lights always on, no matter the time of night. Somewhere between gasping, fast breaths and stuttering heartbeats that she throws the bike to park and runs, fast passes every lock with her ID and forgoes the elevator, knowing full well that the adrenaline thrumming in her veins will carry her up the stairs faster.

Shoes as if weighed by rocks, she feels slow, stuck in mud almost, liquid cement, sinking, drowning in quicksand as she rounds the corner and- Steve’s there, arms crossed over his chest, busted bottom lip pursed with his top one, a deep sigh swelling his chest. His hair is longer than the last time she saw him, he looks battered and bruised, and she’s known him for years- she can read his face clear as day. And as situations like this always have him, she knows, in the clench of his jaw, the statue-still set of his eyebrows, in his stony posture; he’s as worried as he is determined.

The phone call had been rushed.

She shouldn’t have heard it, about to jump in her shower, had she not forgotten her towel on her bed. Naked, feet padding on her plush rug, she digs in her bedside table for her usually silent device. It’s Steve, and she hasn’t heard from him in nearly a month and a half. Instantly she knows something isn’t right.

There’s only so many seconds it takes for the words to sink in, words like “mission went wrong”, and “hurt”, and “won’t make it”, and “Bucky”. Soon she’s pulling on clothes at lightning speed like the universe depends on it, shower be damned. Keys, jacket, helmet forgone, tears stream down her face as if she’s already lost him, bike kick-started because what else is there to do but be there.

And now? She’s here. And she feels foreign and bizarre, stepping in a space that she barely belongs in anymore. It’s sorta how she imagines entering an old house that’s now inhabited by new residents feels like- it feels the same, but in the same way it feels all too different, strange and foreign; revisiting an old life that’s been made into a new one for someone else.

It really doesn’t matter though, does it? Because she’s not here for herself- not for Fury, not Steve, not for the Avengers, or the missions. She’s here- she’s here for him.

Steps even slower now, approaching the Captain himself, very much aware of her knotted shoulders, her shaking hands. It’s evident, suddenly, in his posture that he knows she’s there. His shoulders stiffen just this bit more, and with a breath with which his chin raises a notch, he turns to see her. One foot behind the other, and he moves out the way, letting her in his spot in front of the window of the room Bucky is in-

A gasp.

Time finally stops.

Unrecognizable. Buried under wounds and bruises, endless tubes- her lost boy, James, Bucky. Tears fall at a new speed, and she allows this moment of vulnerability in front of Steve, allows herself to cover her mouth, her expression crumples, her tears flow freely, and- despite being mad at her, despite having patches to mend (if they can even be mended anymore), Steve is there, solid as always, with a hand on her shoulder, urging her in his arms. Old friendships die slowly, she thinks bitterly, and sinks in the comfort, eyes unable to be torn from the sight before her.

It takes some time, a good chunk of it, to compose herself, to part from Steve’s warmth and wipe the wetness off her cheeks. She wraps her arms around her front and shakes.

“We got ambushed,” he murmurs, and the statement is heavy. There’s guilt, sorrow, she’s sure it’s not fun to recall. “My fault. Didn’t know they were that many, must’ve had false info. Barely got to get him out of there.” She shudders. The image is loud and clear in her mind; Steve limping with the leg he’s currently not leaning on, busted and bleeding, carrying an unconscious Bucky, blood dripping from his mouth. She flinches.

“Can I-“ hesitation. A deep breath, shoulders squaring, remembering she no longer asks, she states. “I want to go in.” Steve stares for a second, calculating, thinking, looks back at Bucky, limp on the bed. He nods.

“Go.”

Before she knows it, the door shuts behind her slowly, an industrial, metal click, signifying a sealed door, nearly impenetrable if it was locked. She tries to be calm, but there’s no way, no reason to look composed either, so she flings herself to Bucky’s side, fingers twitching, hands hovering over him, afraid to touch him in case he frails like a burnt paper, in case he turns to dust and disappears before her very eyes.

Tears, once again, fall freely on her cheeks, tracing paths already carved by the previous breakdown, and the prospect of never seeing his wonderful crystal eyes, blue and loving, tears her apart. Worse so, the idea that the last time she saw them, they were red, hateful, betrayed, staring at her as if she was a monster, nothing more than the true scum of the earth, and he was right, and she will likely never be able to make everything right again.

It feels like  claws are tearing at her chest like it’s low quality linen, destroying every tiny piece of her into infinitesimal other pieces and then tearing those too. There she is, now, nothing but rubble and ash, on the floor, limp and bleeding. Heart far too heavy for her chest, breaking again and again, her temples feel like they’re about to burst from the pressure.

Sitting on the chair next to his hospital bed, her fingers tremble, carefully sliding under Bucky’s still ones, holding his hand between hers gently, like a lifeline, leaning her forehead on it. She sits there, folded, crumpled, and she cries.

~

Y/n’s palms are red and kind of stingy, but she pulls her sleeves over them and keeps holding the scalding cup of coffee between her hands anyways. Eyes closed, she lets the steam warm her nose, lets the scent comfort her, and she imagines, with her headphones plugged in her ears, that she is elsewhere, in her apartment with Bucky, on the fire escape, watching the sun descend beneath the skyline of New York City. She imagines his arms around her waist, sitting between his legs with her own dangling off the metal landing and over the street. His voice, vibrating through his chest, onto her back, murmuring teasingly in her ear, nose buried in her hair and his warmth all around her. It’s peaceful, it’s soft and warm and everything she has ever wanted.

When her eyes open, she’s met with sky blue ones, not the ones she was just dreaming of, and she flinches, suddenly very happy her coffee cup has a lid over it.

Steve.

With a sigh, she takes a calming breath, and pulls her headphones out of her ears, tugged by the wire pinched between her fingers. She places them gently on the table in the cafeteria for guests and low-level agents in the compound. It’s nighttime, and the lights in the cafe make Steve’s hair look golden and glimmering.

“How’re you holding up?” She’s not sure how much he means that, and she knows he’s still very much mad at her for everything that’s happened between them. She knows, however, he’s also the one that called her to let her know about Bucky. She feels heavy.

“I can’t stop fuckin’ crying, if that’s what you’re asking,” she tells him, no care to maintain a strong persona, not in front of the person she used to consider her best friend until not so long ago. She flicks the edge of the lid of her beverage with the tip of her nail and looks up at him. Steve looks better than she does for sure. Not because he cares less, or because he’s slept at all, but because the serum gives him more stamina than her. He’s not as tired as she is, despite the hours he’s been awake for. Still, despite his enhanced powers, there’s purple bags under his eyes. “You?”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her with a small shake of his head, sighing deeply. She takes that as her answer. Despite wanting to fiddle with something, a way to prevent her hands from shaking, a nervous habit, she pushes her coffee cup towards him, a peace offering, something to hopefully bring him the comfort it brings her. Steve doesn’t touch it. She fiddles with her sleeves instead.

The cafeteria, despite being open twenty-four seven, is quiet. A blanket of silence falls over them and Y/n crosses one leg under the other just to have something to do, something instead of opening her mouth and ruining the temporary civility between them. The words bubble, climb over one another like beasts, up her throat, and threaten to spill- and there’s just so much of them. So many apologies to make, so many explanations to offer, so many please let’s just go back to how we were ’s, so many this is killing me ’s, so many I can’t bear the thought of losing him without at least saying I’m sorry one last time. I don’t want that to happen with you too ’s. It’s all clogging the back of her throat like a spoonful of thick syrup that just won’t go down.

The idea that this might happen with Steve one day too overwhelms her. Two of the people she had found family in now hate her. She can’t let this happen with him, can’t lose him without telling him all of it. The realization; it’s the drop that makes the glass overflow. What if- what if tomorrow, or a month from now it’s Steve on that bed, Steve dying, what if she doesn’t get to tell him all of it? Never gets to apologize? How will she ever forgive herself for the things she didn’t say?

Her eyes well again. Her tongue feels like lead. It’s time.

“I…” She can’t bear to look at him. “Steve, I’m…” a shiver runs violently through her spine. “I’m so sorry. For all of it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not Bucky, Y/n.” It’s like a kick in the stomach. She hears what he’s saying. I can’t forgive you for both of us. It almost sounds like your apology is useless.

“Well it’s not just Bucky I need to apologize to.” She looks up at him, and she wills the tears to be held at bay, matching his intensity with her gaze. She clenches her fists, fingernails digging in her skin just to distract part of her brain, to feel less numb. “Do you want to hear the truth?” Steve watches her. His irises bounce between hers, they do a once over of her stance, and she knows how small she looks in her seat, in contrast to him, who, despite his frame of mind, always makes a room smaller just by being in it.

His expression is grim, as he nods seriously. She takes a deep breath.

“This is the truth.”

~~

The older she grows, Y/n keeps thinking that she’s experienced everything there is to. But it truly feels to her like she’s never experienced this kind of cold before. And it’s not- it’s not just external temperature. It’s icicles, lodged under her skin, brutally freezing, causing her to endlessly shudder, tremble like a leaf out in the winter, causing her jaw to lock, her limbs to knot up.

She walks and walks, a woman with a purpose, head held high, as high as a prisoner can hold it and- something really isn’t right with this morning. Something isn’t right, and she can tell because this morning she- she felt something she hasn’t felt in years, something she thought she’d never again feel, a bubble of emotion she truly believed they had snuffed out in her. But it becomes an itch, an itch she can’t seem to scratch, something she can’t exactly put words to, can’t name.

The more she walks, the more the feeling of dread climbs up her throat. This she’s familiar with; fear. Cold and fear, clouding her senses, paralyzing her, as Müller’s door raises in front of her, and she struggles to remind herself to keep walking, keep breathing, one foot in front of the other, inhale, exhale, calm down. There’s no way to escape this anyways.

Director Müller was as tall as his voice was shrill and loud. His features were sharp, glass-cutting cheekbones and dimples that showed far too often. His hair was strawberry blonde and his eyes sunken, as if he was seventy years old with one foot in his grave. His skin looked taught over his bones. Always sharply dressed and always hiding about a dozen knives and pistols somewhere in his office. He liked Japanese jazz, had an affinity for yelling, and drank his whiskey straight. The only affection he’d ever had was reserved for his two small birds, Friedrich and Brigitta, whose singing he adored and who roamed in his office freely.

When he’d first kidnapped her and her older brother, Y/n sat doe eyed and watched as they beat her only sibling, her last relative left alive, to a pulp right in front of her. They didn’t know she had things to offer then. They did it for fun, a show of their capabilities, power play. They did it to break her into submission. When they found out, though, about her knowledge of science, her love for technology… That’s when her life truly ended.

She walks, now, down the freezing corridors, and knocks on Müller’s door three times. Status report straight to me every four days, he’d muttered in sharp German way back when he’d first assigned her missions, back in the beginning, and true to his word, every four days, Y/n was forced to see the skin around his bony face tighten and stretch with another chilling smile.

“Come in,” he yells, and his awful voice bounces in the empty, concrete walls of the corridor. She hears his birds. The door creaks open loudly, metal as it is, and she quickly closes it behind her so that Friedrich and Brigitta won’t escape, something she’s learned to do over the years, after one particular incident no one likes to remember, never mind speak of. He calls her last name with lewd, slimy confidence, supposedly happy to see her, his rotten dimples making an appearance. She sits on one of his chairs, upon his prompting “How’s your assignment progressing?”

“Nicely, sir. I’ve reprogrammed the Chair and fixed previous faults.”

“See, Y/n…” He sits on the plush leather chair behind his desk, hands wringing together and as he says her name, he sits up, elbows on the arm rests. His long lashes and abyssal brown eyes examine her. “I think you’re not telling me the truth.”

“Uh…” Stance maintained, but lips pursed and hands just slightly trembling, she keeps his gaze. She can’t displease him. There’s no room for her failure. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir. There’s… surely ways to improve, b-but the chair- it works well.”

“Ah, but that is not what I hear.” Müller stands up dramatically, rounds his desk with slow steps, and Friedrich starts chirping consistently, sensing the sudden tension in the room, loud, high pitch hurting her ears. She dares not flinch. The cold returns fiercely, heart climbing up to her throat, choking her. This won’t end well. “As a matter of fact,” he leans, rests on his desk, right in front of her, loving his height difference and accentuating it by standing while she sits, a reminder to both of them that he’s superior. Y/n wants to melt into a puddle on the floor, never to be seen again. “I hear that Smith, your test subject… he has almost already recovered.”

Referring, of course, to the poor boy whom they snatched and have provided her as a sick guinea pig, a way for her to test the torture chair they have forced her to make. It’s a requirement, of course, that she tests it on him herself.

“Sir, I don’t think-“

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” In the flash of a blink, he’s pulled a knife from his belt and he’s pushing her back in her seat, by pressing his blade on her throat. “You know what HAPPENS,” a tilt of his head, “when you LIE.” Friedrich is joined by Brigitta, as well as the echo of Müller’s voice, and Y/n’s heartbeat accelerates, her breath is caught in her throat. She feels like her ears are about to burst.

“He was unconscious when-“

“What did I just say?” Lips purse, scared of making any sound that’ll piss him off further. “Seems to me like you’ve forgotten,” he murmurs, flicking his knife shut and narrowing his eyes. He takes a deep breath, straightens up and she doesn’t dare to move an inch, but it feels like her heart has plummeted to the center of the earth, and she wishes it could drag her too, as far away from this as possible. She’s well aware of what’s to come.

 A chilling half hour later she finds herself sucking up tears that’ll only make her situation worse if someone were to see them. The cold, plastic, remote controller is in her hands, and it’s heavy as it’s ever been. She deems herself desensitized of the emotional toll forcefully inflicting torture on innocent people used to take. However, nothing, nothing, could possibly prepare her for what it feels like watching two HYDRA soldiers dragging her bleeding, thrashing brother from his armpits, and forcefully shoving him into the chair Y/n’s made. Director Müller watches her press the appropriate buttons with a sickly smile on his face.

She begs. For the first time in years, she begs God, the universe, something, to save her, to make her disappear. When this doesn’t work, when pleading for somebody to take mercy goes unheard, when the remote feels like the heaviest thing she’s ever lifted, her eyes draw to Müller, who’s watching her intently, waiting for her to carry on with her new assignment.

The millimeters her thumb has to cross feel endless. The process takes eons. The button is nearly unmoving.

Y/n will never forget her brother’s screams.

~~

In the hours that follow, she’s trapped inside her chamber, a tiny room of blank four walls with a hard bed and an open toilet, looking more like a prison cell than anything, the only difference being that in the daytime she’s allowed to come and go as she pleases within the unrestricted areas.

Tears streak her cheeks for yet another night, and the despair has never felt like this before. She thought she’d escape it one day, the guilt, the weight, but it seems she’s trapped, like an ant under a boot, seconds before she bursts to pieces, with the pressure of the entire world on her chest.

The itch grows louder. It’s right there, in the bottom of her heart, something to pay attention to, in her state of absolute isolation and despair. She’s alone, has been alone for so many years, and she wonders, still, why she hasn’t killed herself yet, but the idea that if she does, they’ll probably also kill her brother comes and slaps her in the face. However, what else is there to do? How much torture can she make her brother go through because of her mistakes, how much guilt can she shoulder?

She sits on the bed, counts the bolts that are screwing the vent door on the ceiling, listens to footsteps pass by every so often, and ponders. Silent tears crawl down the curves of her face. She’s lost so much. She hasn’t spoken her native language in years, and sometimes she wonders if she’s forgotten how to.

A pair of heavy duty boots leisurely walk down the hallway, and she recognizes the voices of two guards. Conversation easily flows between them, and Y/n has no choice but to listen.

“Did you hear about the new chair the American has made?” one of them says. Her ears perk.

“The American? No, what about it?”

“They say it’s one of the most painful things they’ve ever used in HYDRA.” Y/n winces.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s what I heard. Wouldn’t wanna find out myself.” The soldiers share a chuckle. “Müller made the American do it on her brother. I hear he died about twenty minutes later.”

Y/n’s heart drops.

He- he’s- he’s dead?

“No kidding. The bastard survived six years. ‘S a wonder he’s lived this long” And as the soldiers pass by, Y/n’s left in her chamber. The silence grows deafening, but the echo of her heart splitting and falling apart, shattering on the hard concrete floor is ear-splittingly loud. All that she’s done, all the sacrifices, all the sheer, iron will she’s had to muster to maintain her sanity, all the awful things she’s done, the blood on her hands, the guilt, the pain she’s caused and- and in the end… he died by her own hand.

Chaos and confusion, an ocean of lashing thoughts violently crashing and pulling her under. It feels like the crescendo of the longest song that’s ever been written, six years of constant playing, and the orchestra’s hands are bleeding on the strings and buttons, coating everything with their own pain, worked down to the bone, and this is it- the minutes before it’s finally over. The roof is about to be blown off its hinges.

The itch is no longer underlying. It consumes her, and she knows, finally. She recognizes it. Escapism. Revenge.

~

Steve’s silent. He hasn’t looked away from her, hasn’t changed stance, still with his arms crossed over his chest and bulging underneath his dark green sweater. He’s staring at her, patiently as ever, with a set to his jaw that she knows isn’t there out of anger, but because he, too, is overwhelmed with emotion. His shoulders are no longer stiff, and he now has a cup of coffee too, finished in front of him. The bags under both their eyes are darker. 

“I didn’t get to kill Müller. But I managed to run away. Barely. I disappeared, travelled to the States. I found Fury and sold all the information I knew about HYDRA and the department I had been held in, in return for protection. Fury took me in.” It’s a lifeless shrug, weighted and tired, and it’s then that Steve glances at his feet, then back at her. “I trained, learned how to fight properly. Used my knowledge for good. Made it to the Avengers in a desperate attempt to make up for all that I had done. ‘S when I met you.”

Steve seems to remember. He recognizes himself entering the story. It’s almost like he’s reliving the time they first met, back on that Helicarrier. A good memory, all things considered.

“There’s little excuse for me lying to you. I know. But please, you have to understand. The burden of getting to know the best friend of the person you’d been forced to help torture for years… becoming close friends with you? How could I ever say anything about anything and have you actually trust me?” She shook her head.

“What do you mean…?”

“They forced me to make weapons, new torture methods, even tried to make me refine Zola’s formula. A way to get a better grip on Bucky’s mind. I didn’t know much about all of it, nor who it was for, wasn’t my field anyways, and Zola’s formula was successful as it was, there wasn’t much for me to add. They later left me to the torture part, not the brainwashing. Even if I had known, though, I wouldn’t really have had a choice in the matter. I did anything I had to do to protect the only family I had left.” He nods seriously.

“We grew closer and closer and I wanted to tell you, to share my guilt with someone finally, but… the prospect of losing you was… too much. I didn’t want to lose the person that had reminded me for the first time in decades what it was like to be cared for. You were-“  a gulp “are like a brother to me.” Steve looks down. “I couldn’t see the betrayal on your face. It- it paralyzed me.

“I didn’t think you’d ever find out, honestly, how was I supposed to know you’d find my file? But don’t think I never felt guilty. It was always there, like everything could crumble at any moment, like a cloud looming over my head, but… I guess I kind of learnt to ignore it. I had found a family, Steve. After years of pain, pain received and pain caused, after so much darkness, I had finally found people who understood what guilt felt like, what it meant to be composed on surface level. I found people that loved me for what I was then and there. The idea of losing that crushed me.

“I know I can’t take it back, but for whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Steve.”  

Steve stays tight-lipped, pondering, staring at the table, then at her, then at the table again. He’s carefully controlling his expressions, clearly analyzing the information he’s been given, and she holds her breath. Whatever his reaction is, she thinks, nothing compares to the breath of fresh air she can allow herself to take, free of this awful, lengthy story. Finally, clear honesty, a sort of vulnerability with her best friend that’s different and new. True, down to its core.

It’s the sigh that does it for her. Resigned. Her eyes snap up at him. “You should’ve told me” He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose before looking up at her, and shaking his head. “I would’ve understood. Nothing would’ve changed.” He looks right at her, very much like a discouraged parent. “What am I gonna do with you?”

And it’s- it’s the way he says it, as if everything makes sense now, shoulders dropping all the way down. The way he just- like he says you absolute moron, but in their own, loving, sibling-like way. As if  he can’t stay mad for too long. Looking at her with the tiniest sympathetic curl of his lip.

It’s relief, because it’s in that half a smile that she sees it all. She sees the forgiveness, the understanding. She sees the love. It’s as if he’s looking at her, saying family, am I right? Despite her situation, for the first time in years, so, so many years, she breathes deeply, breathes oxygen that feels nurturing to her lungs, that makes her think she’s floating, and smiles, apologetically, trying to telepathically communicate I’m sorry for being an idiot. Sorry for not trusting you. Sorry for fucking up this badly. I promise to be better.

She knows, he’ll always be there to give her another chance.

~

It’s moments, a handful of them, in which time and space seem to stop existing, to warp into something else entirely, a world that’s so confused, nobody knows how to put it back. It seems, in those moments, one forgets where they are, how they got there, their brain has not yet escaped from the liquefied dreamland it’s manifested, can’t seem to fit in the strict, square rigidness of reality.

Bucky finds himself in that place. His eyelids seem to weigh about twelve tons, barely feeling his fingertips. It takes a great deal of effort to have thoughts, to- to maintain them, and as his mind slowly starts running a little faster, he remembers faintly, cloudy memories barely registering, that the last thing he saw was three soldiers, that had sneaked up on him, he remembers the gun being aimed at him, instinctively moving and getting nailed in the stomach multiple times.

Wherever he is now, it’s quiet. He worries for a second that he’s been left for dead in the HYDRA base, worries that he’s either dying on the floor or a vague prison cell, resembling something he’s been in already, but he’s comforted by the fact that the surface he’s on seems soft, the lights behind his eyes bright. Whatever the case, he should wake up now, he might need to get up and defend himself.

And as his eyes open, heavy and tired, he meets another pair of gorgeous ones, familiar and soft, and he feels warm all over. He’s- he’s safe. He’s safe because she’s here, and he loves her, with all of his being he loves her, and she’s holding his right hand close to her chest, he feels everything, her warmth, and he knows it’ll all be okay, it’ll all fix itself. He doesn’t have to try.

There’s something lingering just beneath his skin though, a need to recoil. Like a small bucket of icy water thrown over him, because, yes, he loves her, but she betrayed him. She could be out to get him right now, could be working with HYDRA still, and he might be trapped somewhere, and his heartbeat accelerates, because he has to escape and he can’t trust her anymore- until he sees the tears. The tears streaking her cheeks, over old salty marks, and a smile, broken but whole. This isn’t the behavior of a captor, he decides, deems himself, if not safe, then entirely incapable of fighting back, should he need to anyways. Why worry now? Let his future self do the work.

His eyes move around the room, blue-ish gray walls vaguely familiar, and- there’s another figure, another pair of eyes- blue, happy. It’s Steve.

Bucky feels safe. He knows he’s alive. He knows he’s home.

~

Like any other free afternoon, Y/n finds herself on her couch, curled up as much as she can with a book in her lap. There’s a short lamp on the side table, and she leans on the armrest comfortably with her toes curled, flying through pages and pages of words. Her hair is down, she wears comfortable clothes, and has a blanket over her legs. The weather’s been getting colder lately.

A warm sound, four soft knocks on her wooden door, are enough to pull her out of her novel, enough to make her eyebrows stitch together. She’s not expecting anyone.

Her feet are bare and she’s well aware of how close her knives are to the front door, just in case she has to fling herself over and grab one. She presses her eye against the little peephole, but it’s old and foggy and the workers who had once repainted the building managed to cover part of it with small drops of paint and she hasn’t gotten around to trying cleaning it. Doorknob cold under her palm, she tilts and-

Oh.

The first thing she notices is his shirt, a maroon Henley, buried under two more layers of clothes, a brown hoodie and a darker brown leather winter jacket. The buttons on the collar of his Henley are open, giving her a cheeky peak of the skin of his chest. She loves this shirt on him. It feels like someone tugged at her heart from every direction. Longing.

The second thing she notices is that this- it’s Bucky. Bucky standing in front of her door with an expression she’s rarely, if ever, seen on his face before. Her favorite, gorgeous light blue eyes staring straight at her after briefly scanning her down, as if he, too, is making sure she’s actually there.  She is. And so is he. Here. Now. In front of her. Looking at her. Her feet are on the floor, she’s not dreaming, the world is round and Bucky is here.

Oh God. He’s really at her door.

“James…”

He seems to shiver. A shake of his head, something she recognizes as him convincing himself this is happening, then eyes meeting hers again. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. She holds the door less tensely.

“I think…” squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, looking at the floor. “Steve said to talk to you.” A heavy breath. Shoulders awkwardly, tensely shrugging, sorta like a kid forced to apologize by their parent. She doesn’t know how, but her head manages a nod, gulping. She pulls away from the doorframe, makes way for him to pass.

“Come in.”

 New York sounds as alive as it ever does, even at eleven at night, and Y/n wishes she was sitting, because her legs are unsteady. It makes tears well in her eyes, seeing him here again, in her kitchen, looking around absently. The world feels different, much like it did in the Compound when she’d gone to visit him, even if nothing has changed in it apart from them.

Despite the passing cars outside, and people yelling, heard through the open window, it feels quiet. As if they’re the only ones in the world, being here with him feels like a cosmic event. She remembers what it was like sitting here and being so overwhelmed by the love in her heart, remembers what it was like to be surrounded by his arms and held so impossibly close to his chest. She remembers what it was like to look in his eyes and see them so affectionately looking at her, as if she’s everything he could ever ask for, as if she’s the light in his world. The cold of the night and of the space between them feels very much like a slap in the face.

“I know you no longer work for them,” and it truly breaks her heart how part of that statement feels like he’s trying to convince himself, or as if it’s difficult for him to process. How awful, the shift between being someone’s favorite person and being someone who’s trustworthiness is little over questionable. The weight of being responsible for fucking up the most important relationships in her life suffocates her. “Steve told me.” 

There’s nothing to do but nod numbly. She looks at him, watches the warm, glimmering lights of her kitchen fall on the curves and edges of his face, admires the yellow-ish hue outlining his features, making his eyes look iridescent.

She mustn’t cry.

“He told me everything, actually.”

She must not cry.

Bucky doesn’t say a lot of words, but they’re there, at the tip of his tongue, floating in the air like dust particles. In this, there’s a lingering question, a large Why. Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you hide all this from me? Why did it have to be this way?

Y/n looks down. What to say, really?

“I just- I can’t believe-“ she jumps at his loud tone, Bucky never one to have vocal outbursts. She sees the tears in his eyes, gaze lingering away from her, towards the living room for a second before looking up at the ceiling momentarily, then straight at her. His hands are shaking, and she sees it all then. The betrayal, the hurt, despair, the- the loss. There’s no alleviating this pain that overwhelms both of them. She hates herself for this, can’t believe she caused all of it.

“I- I did what I thought would be best for us-“

“No, don’t pull that shit with me.” He glares now and points at her, and she never, ever wanted to be in the receiving end of such an intimidating look. Venom is laced in his tone, harsh and biting, and it feels like the temperature in the room dropped below zero, her spine rigid. “You did what you thought was best for you,” said as calmly as the tears that slowly leak from the corners of his eyes and over the apples of his cheeks are. “In fact, I doubt you thought at all”

That’s not true though. The amount of times she’d sit in her bed, with his arms around her while he slept, weighed down by the lies and the guilt; the guilt of all the terrible things she’d done, and the guilt of hiding them from the most important people in her life. She’d scale the pros and cons of confessing everything, for hours she’d make lists in her head, extensively long, but the cons were always destructively larger and would always win. She’d choose to stay as she was, with them oblivious and happy, until they would finally see her for what she truly was, and she’d convince herself, it would all be worth it for the time spent with them.

“I couldn’t tell you- I couldn’t face the idea of losing you I-“

“So you’d rather lie to me? You’d rather hide your past from me? I trusted you, Y/n.” He hasn’t called her by her first name in so long, and it feels like he just took one of her knives on her kitchen counter and stabbed her straight in her chest with it. “I gave you all of me, I told you every single little thing about myself, everything I hated, everything I’ve done, and I trusted you to have it and- and you couldn’t even trust me to listen to you? To- to understand you?”

She deserves this, she does, but she can’t- can’t deal with him yelling at her and, reflexively, she lashes out- “I was scared, Buck,” –and it’s a pitiful excuse, she knows, but it’s the bitter truth and the reason behind everything. “You have to understand- this isn’t some black and white situation, I thought you’d hate me for everything, I didn’t wanna lose you, or Steve!”

“Scared?” he seethes, walking towards her with angry steps, and she starts stepping back too, entering the living room. She realizes how large he looks, how his anger fills every corner of the room. “You were scared?!” She can practically taste the condescension on her tongue. “And you think I wasn’t?! You think I wasn’t paralyzed you’d run away after everything I’d done? You think I wasn’t terrified of my feelings for you and how fast they came to be?” She wishes she could answer that, but part of her is terrified to know what he used to feel for her and how much of it she actually ruined.

“But I’m a fucking adult, and I dealt with it. You… you lied about everything. Did you even give a shit about how badly you were gonna fuck me over, if I ever found out?”

“Does it look like I fucking like it? You know how sorry I am, how much I hate myself for everything I’ve done to ruin both yours and Steve’s trust in me!”

“I don’t know shit,” her legs bump on the back of her navy couch. “You hurt me- hurt us. We gave you everything, I put my heart on the line for you, and you couldn’t even have a little faith in me to believe in you, and what you truly are.”  A monster rings in Y/n’s brain. Nothing but a monster.

“Please, stop.” Submission. That’s all she has left, by now, because his words ring nothing but true. Because she can’t bear to hear everything she feels about herself being told back to her in his voice, it would literally be a nightmare come true. Everything drains in her body, and it all comes down to this. She just wants all of this to stop, the pain in both of them to stop.

“No,” he hisses, and she can’t really blame him. He’s close to her, about two feet away, and she’s trapped between him and the couch. “I’m not gonna stop just because things got uncomfortable for you, just because you had to come back because I was dying in a gurney. You barely tried to make everything right before that. Do you even care?”

“Don’t you see that I did everything because I love you?!”

Silence. Bucky nearly staggers back, as if the words that have never, before, been said came out and punched him in the face.

“Why the fuck do you think I didn’t tell you anything? Because I wanted to break your heart? No, you clueless asshole, I’m in fucking love with you!” His expression is stunned, eyes wide at her outburst, watching as she takes the steps she needs to close the gap between them. Her finger is jabbing at his chest, which is raising and falling with panted breaths. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, couldn’t take to watch your trust break, couldn’t bear the thought of you finally seeing I’m a monster!” And she breaks down, a sobbing mess now, the tears that once trailed down her face, now endless. She covers her mouth, face crumpled and red.

“I j-j-just wanted us t-to be okay, bec-cause I love you t-too much to fuck-king lose y-you”, As her eyes shut, crying relentlessly in her hand, throat feeling like it’s gonna burst, she feels so eternally cold, as if showered by a bucket of icy water. The idea that she might once again be left alone in the world while someone she loves is taken away, all because of her actions- it’s too much. It takes her back to the worst day of her life, brings back a kind of cold so furious, it knots her joints and sends shudders down her spine- her hands tremble at the thought. She can’t believe how colossally she’s managed to screw things up with him, how much he hates her and genuinely believes she did anything less than care about him. .

Like a tidal wave, the emotions overwhelm her, the self-hate like a boulder that smacked her in the face and threw her down a cliff and now everything hurts, and her stomach feels like it’s climbing up her throat. Her heart tears through her chest, painful and slow, and it’s all her fault, everything, and there’s nothing there to fix it all, to make it better- except, all of a sudden, warm, strong arms curl around her. She breaks down harder, curling in his chest because she fucking missed this, missed his affection, his protective embrace, his comforting smell.

Fists clutching his shirt, she sobs, acutely aware of her tears wetting the material of that maroon Henley she loves so much. The arms around her curl tighter, one hand dipping under her hair to hold the nape of her neck gingerly, keeping her against him, thumb rubbing gentle circles. And it’s then that she hears it, his own sniffling, his chest shaking. He’s crying too. The need to provide the comfort she seeks is overwhelming, and she lets his shirt go, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him together too. “I’m so sorry,” she cries, shoulders shaking, and Bucky shushes her, shaking his head slightly. His arms tighten briefly.

In her crying, she vaguely registers him moving them to the couch, both sitting down, and her curling up into him instinctively. For a while, until she calms down slightly, she lets herself be held and holds him back just as fiercely. It feels like she’s finally letting go, an outburst that frees her of part of the weight she’d been shouldering for years on end. It feels like release, a dam that broke and is spilling every last drop of water that’s been pushing at it for so long.

When she quiets down, when her sobs no longer hurt, no longer feel like they’ll split her ribcage to splinters, when her breathing sort of evens out, she pulls one of her hands to rest on Bucky’s chest, and pulls away to look at him. Bucky’s arms tighten to keep her close.

She’s well aware she must look like a mess, what with all the crying, but this is Bucky after all, her James, the love of her life. He’s seen her under all kinds of light now, and there’s no need to hide. Like he wants, if he is to care for her, after all this, he should care for her for all the things she is, not the things she pretends to be.

Bucky’s eyes are a little less bloodshot than hers. She cups his chin gently and watches his eyelashes flutter, his eyelids softly shut. With her thumb she gently strokes his cheek and notices the way he seems to lean into her palm, lips parting with heavy breaths. He missed her too.

He opens his eyes again to look at her and leans his forehead down to touch hers, holds her closely and brushes the tip of his nose on the bridge of hers so lightly she almost misses it. She sighs. “You have every right to be angry at me,” she whispers to him, pulling her hand back and tucking it in her chest. “I lied, and I didn’t trust you, and I acted the complete opposite way of how I should have. For all of that,” a breath sucked, almost clogged at the center of her chest, “for all of that, I’m sorry.”

Bucky, still infinitely close to her, shakes his head gently. He takes one arm from around her, and she thinks this is it; this is where he says goodbye-

But, gentle as always, he places his right hand on the side of her neck, softly nudges her head up to his and drops his lips on her own, a ghost of a kiss, short and unexpected, before he pulls back and looks at her. “I love you.” He whispers, breath hitting her lips, and her eyes well with tears once again, as she looks up at him. She never thought she’d hear those words, not after everything. Bucky kisses her single fallen tear away, noses at her temple.

“I don’t think you’re a monster, the same way you didn’t think I am one. You helped me heal, helped me learn that those things I did, they weren’t me. I didn’t have a choice.”

“B-but-“

“No, you listen to me.” He tells her, his grip around her body tightening, giving emphasis to his words. “You did what you had to do to protect your brother. What you did… The blood isn’t on your hands.” He has not let her gaze go for a second, and she’s transfixed, tears still overflowing- she wonders when she’ll finally run out of them. “I love you.” Her bottom lip trembles. “I love you more than I thought I was ever capable of. Thinking you betrayed me completely incapacitated me, but I understand you. I see you. I forgive you.”

She gasps, shudders, and in the spur of a single waking moment, lunges at him, kisses him fiercely, holds him tightly. Their lips mold together, and the last pieces of the universal puzzle of the cosmos click to place. Everything settles, mouths moving in sync, desperate, hungry, all the emotions tumbling out all at once, and it’s like the slingshot snapped, and the missile hit the target. She bites his bottom lip, and the groan he lets out comes from deep within his chest, tongues tangling together. His metal arm crushes her against him, hand buries in his hair, their noses smush together, breaths strangled, air shared, and…This- this feels like belonging. No- more like, this feels like coming home.

Inevitably, they part, trying to suck in much needed air, foreheads knocking together gently and chests heaving. It seems like they feed off each other’s personal space, like they hold each other in one piece, while also completing one another. To Y/n it feels like a breath of fresh air.

“This doesn’t mean we’re perfect yet,” Bucky utters gently, not in a menacing way, but as a soft clarification, a request even. “I- I’m gonna need some time.” She’s grateful he even chose to give her a chance at all. Y/n smiles up at him affectionately and nods.

“Of course, Buck. All the time you need.” She caresses the side of his face with gentle fingers, traces his features with a feather-light touch, then cups his jaw. “Thank you.” And it’s weighted, hangs low in the air. She looks at him intensely to make sure he knows she means it. Bucky closes his eyes and leans into her touch, then blinks them open, brilliant, sky blue irises staring right at her. “I love you so much.” He breathes out heavily.

“Say that again,” he whispers. She grins at him as if he’s all good things in the world, because he is.

“I love you, Sergeant Barnes.” A kiss pressed to his cheek. “I love you with all of my being.” A kiss gently tucked on each of his eyelids. “I love you for all that you are.” And she kisses him on his lips sweetly, and he responds like she’s made out of glass, like she’s fragile. He sighs out. They breathe close to each other for a while.

“I know you said you need some time. Do you… wanna go out with me? Coffee? At Michelle’s?” Bucky grins. Their spot. He nods.

“I’d really love that.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. An olive branch. The first step to gain his trust back. There’s nothing Y/n deems more important. With a deep  breath, she knows. She’s ready to do anything, to work her hardest to earn a place in his life, the one he’s so graciously offered her. To get to build a future with him, on steady foundation this time.

Their life begins now. Y/n can’t wait to live it. With him.

~~

A/N 2: please tell me what you thought!

#mcu #marvel #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky x fem!reader #steve rogers #sebastian stan #chris evans #bucky fluff #bucky angst #bucky fanfiction #bucky fanfic #mcu fanfiction

[pinencurls]

Oh Honey

Hey! here’s the last of my draft one shots! Hope u enjoy and if u don’t remember I wrote this a g e s ago so you can’t blame me !

Italy, bike rides and a sun burnt Harry

3.6k 

These days, we wake in the early hours of the morning. It's hard not to stir when the sun rises so early and bright through the thin cotton drapes strung up over the bedroom window. Sometimes, we stay quiet. Exchanging a few murmurs of good morning wishes and lightly pressed kisses; silently decided to stay in each other's arms until the ungodly hours pass and breakfast is more tempting than bed.

I think it's Wednesday. I got pulled into the warped holiday time effect as soon as we arrived. I was free from jet lag at least, the flight from London to Italy only changing the clocks forwards about an hour. Harry had been less fortunate; the busy winding of work post-tour kept him out in Los Angeles a few more days than planned whilst Sarah, Mitch and I made our way to the holiday home we'd booked in Italy to celebrate a successful first tour. By the time Harry arrived in the white-walled villa tucked away comfortably in a small town - away from prying eyes, he was slow-moving and sleepy, although the afternoon was only just setting in. He'd eagerly drunk the coffees we offered and passed out around 5pm. Harry complained to me the next day that he was still exhausted, his brain and body were working nine hours behind after all-

"You shouldn't have slept on the plane, H." I mumbled, steadying the kettle over the large white mug as I poured hot water into Harry's second coffee of the morning. He'd been vocal about his dissatisfying sleep all of the two hours we'd been awake and my comment was seemingly unhelpful. He confirmed this by burying his face into my neck, head laying heavy on my shoulder, a low groan buzzing against my skin.

It took him a few days before he was fully himself again, but we've been here for a week now and everything's falling easily into long days by the pool and explorations into the cities either side of us. It feels oddly like a family holiday, I've known Sarah long enough; We grew up in the same town a few years apart, both moving away when we hit eighteen to pursue careers in similarly creative industries - music and journalism. We ended up at the same dinner parties and, for a few months before she moved to LA, we shared a shoebox flat in London.

She's the reason I met Harry; I stayed in her overheating LA apartment over the Easter break of 2017. We spent most days sprawled out on her sofa with all the windows thrown open, catching up on everything that'd happened since she moved away. She'd promised I could meet Mitch - a guitarist for the new band she'd started playing with whom she'd been dating for a few months. I'd heard bits and pieces about him as soon as they met, mostly about his brother-like closeness to the singer they played behind, and as promised, the Tuesday afternoon I opened her front door to Mitch, an equally long-haired-Hawaiian-shirt-clad boy followed.

Harry was goofier and unarguably louder, we paired up naturally in the group of four and it wasn't hard to get to know him, or to fall for the infamous charm I'd heard he was known for. To my pleasant surprise, it didn't feel odd when we joined in with Sarah and Mitch's couple-y activities - mini-golf, brunch, movie nights, I tagged along to a few studio sessions too before I had to go home. We promised to keep in touch but I was certain I'd probably never see him again, or at least not in the same way we'd spent the last week but, when he kissed me goodbye at the airport, I had a little hope.

"Hazzaaa!" Mitch calls loudly down the hall - no doubt on a temporary high from his new coffee addiction. There's no point responding, I can hear his footsteps storming towards our door before he swings it open and I can hide my face further into Harry's shoulder, who is unsurprisingly awake now.

"Go away Rodrick." I grumble, smiling at the rumble of laughter my nickname causes to ripple through Harry's chest.

"We've got bikes, Sarah's found a ride that's only a few miles - we're gonna get lunch." I could probably live here with Sarah and Mitch forever, there was only a few years difference between us but sometimes they felt like parents - or older siblings, cooing over me and Harry's relationship. I always felt part of something when we were all together, it wasn't so hard to imagine moving around each other in the same villa for the rest of our lives.

"Give us a sec Mitchy," Harry's waking up now, I roll over as he leans forward to sit, reaching out for the tea Mitch passes him. I hear mine clink down on my bedside table. "When're you leavin?"

"Thirty minutes?" Mitch replies, twisting his wrist to check the time on the ridiculously retro watch Harry had bought for his birthday. "S'already midday."

Harry hums, promising we'll be down in ten before Mitch accepts his mission of recruitment successful and leaves the room. I shift my head at the metal click confirming the door's shut behind him.

"M'gonna stay here," My face is resting in the crook of my arm, eyes closed as I try to cling to the last bit of sleep, "too tired."

The duvet shuffles slightly again with Harry's movements. He rests on his front now, his torso propped up as he leans his face down into my hair. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to his smiley morning kisses or the smooth scratch when his curls fall over my own.

"It'll be fun," I turn beneath him, settling to listen to his groggy drawl, his accent is always thicker in the mornings, he strokes a wave of hair behind my ear to see my face. "We'll get a nice lunch - Sarah'n'Mitch'll fawn over some street cats, what more could you want?"

"Sleep..." I giggle, his classic pout having the opposite effect as intended. "I'll come next time, promise. Today I just wanna sleep a little more and maybe go for a swim."

He glances down at me for a moment longer, hesitant to accept my excuse before swooping down to press a kiss to my cheek with a hum of approval and bounding out of bed. He tugs a white t-shirt over his head, pulling it down his torso to reveal the smiling bee graphic - "Enjoy Health - Eat Your Honey." He tries to calm his slightly dishevelled curls in the mirror before he goes back to his long morning process of getting ready.

I could spend all day by the pool if nobody stopped me. It's small enough to fit cosily in the garden of the villa and still leave enough patio for lounging chairs and a small table. A row of citrus fruit trees line the fence at the edge of the garden, they offer a little shade over the far end of the pool in the afternoons when the sun reaches its peak. Every now and then a blossom will fall from the larger trees along the patio; the first day we were all together, Sarah, Mitch and I swam for hours until the evening breeze got too cool against our wet skin. Harry had been reading in a chair a few feet off from us and despite our noisy chatter, he'd fallen asleep, no doubt aided by his still slightly backwards body clock. I made my way over to wake him, the breeze must have been stronger than we thought because as I got closer I noticed tiny pink flowers nestled in his hair - they must have blown from the trees and landed on him as he slept. For hours after he trailed behind me inside through the patio doors, I was picking small blossoms from his curls, he was smiley and dopey from jet lag as he kept reaching his hands out to catch mine and pull me into his chest. I'd missed him for the last ten months when he'd been dazzling the world in flares and Gucci suits. I visited and travelled with him for a few show dates, of course, we'd even managed to spend Christmas and our one year anniversary together, but it was different spending so much time apart. Everything was still shiny and new to me when he left for his first solo tour - we'd only been together four months, most of which had been spent in his London house or weekends together in LA. The refreshing familiarity of being together again after so long hadn't quite rubbed off as we lay sprawled over the sofa, blossom abandoned for now.

"What're you thinking about?"

I look up at Harry, he's changed into a grandpa esque pair of brown drawstring cords I don't miss the little bow he's tied. He raises his eyebrows at me inquisitively when I don't answer, smirking slightly as my eyes wander up to his face.

"Nothing," I smile, pausing to yawn, "Just thinking about what 'm gonna do today."

"Sure you don't want to come with us?" He's collecting bits and pieces from around the room - his phone, wallet, sunglasses, but he peaks his head over his shoulder to look at me as he asks.

"Yeah, think I'm just gonna sit outside for a bit, I wanna catch up on a little bit of work."

His eyebrow quirks up slightly, the 'catching up on work' conversation is something we've had tirelessly throughout our fourteen months together. His work was obviously a little more...noticeable. When he was at work it was normally in a studio all day or sat in meetings, sometimes in a different city or country to me. I could work at home more at least; the articles and reviews I wrote almost always required me to spend a few days out of town to research the topic but once I had my notes, I could write from home. This sometimes lent itself to later nights sat up in my small study - work day blurring into the evening. Harry couldn't argue on it though, he did the exact same. His long hours out of the house didn't cancel out the long ones in, Jeff called any hour of the day with 'pressing matters' and even without external pressures, Harry was determined to get everything perfect, even if it meant tweaking new songs on his weekends off. Normally when he was overwhelmed by the workload of album deadlines and promo he was out in LA, where the pre-sleep chatter whilst we both got ready for bed wasn't an option.

"We're on holiday love, you can let some of it slide."

"It's not work-work, I just wanna write a little." I brush the topic away, it didn't need to abet the argument it'd triggered in the past. "Hurry up - Mitch'll run off without you at this rate."

"I wouldn't worry, don't think Mitch has run a day in his life." Harry chuckles, the goofy smile he wore the whole first day we met beaming back at me as he tucks his belongings in his pockets. He leans down to where I'm sat up over the duvet now, kissing me goodbye. "Be back in a bit, don't burn the house down."

"Promise not to - don't fall off your bike." I say as he pulls away. "Love you- now go, I can hear Mitch having a hissy fit from here."

He laughs. Everything's so easy here, it feels as if time has warped slightly and nothing's too hard anymore. The sun's almost at it's strongest now, defying the curtains and falling on Harry as he makes his way to the bedroom door, picking up his pace as Mitch yells up the stairs at him to 'Stop messin with your hair and come down already.'

"Love you!" Harry calls behind him. His heavy footsteps are followed by Sarah's laugh from downstairs and then the door clicks shut and everything's quiet again.

After an hour or so laying by the pool and a nap that might have lasted a little longer than planned, the sun beats a little heavy and I make my way inside. I've written a decent amount - I found myself recalling the last week here, dipping into more personal ground than I would usually. It's not that Harry and I's relationship is a secret anymore, after about eight months people caught on, but we were still private. He'd brush off interviewer questions about relationships and his 'status' and my social media profiles are free from the hundreds of cosy domestic Harry photos I might have posted if he was someone less in the public eye. It's hard sometimes, especially when I can't share a decent chunk of my photography and all the experiences I might have written about. My old film camera is sat on the kitchen counter now, no doubt filled with sweet moments that'll never see the light of day outside of the four people in them.

The fridge was pretty well stocked considering we'd spent a lot of evenings eating out. We'd taken an eventful shopping trip earlier in the week to the massive grocery store in the town thirty minutes down the road. We ended up buying too much fruit and bread and not much else. The trek home hadn't been considered as Harry and Sarah grew more and more excited over the fresh foods they were used to being shipped over and older than ideal, after it all, we ended up on a long single-tiered town bus, tote bags full and tucked safely on our laps. There one photo in particular of Mitchell standing at the bus stop, watermelon in his arms and a bemused expression on his face that I can't wait to see again once I get to the small camera store back home.

After scouring the shelves for a moment longer, I settle on a sandwich. I'm slicing crunchy lettuce on the old wooden board with swirly carvings around the edges when I hear the door open and familiar voices.

I smear a thin layer of mayonnaise over the contents of the bread before cutting two even triangles and wander out to the living room. Mitch and Harry are already lounging over two of the sofas when I get there, Sarah's nowhere to be seen but the sound of the shower running upstairs starts quietly through the house.

"Hey," I call, making my way over to the back of the black sofa Harry's laying over. "How was it?"

Harry peaks one eye open and reaches his hand up towards me-

"Good- what're you eating?" I steer my food away from his prying fingers as he swoops up to tear off a corner.

"Sandwich, didn't you just eat lunch?"

"Yeah but the portions were tiny," Harry whines slightly, reaching up in a second attempt, protesting when I love the bread away from him again. "I'm growing!"

Mitch laughs from the other side of the room. He swings his legs over the side of the sofa and stands up, rubbing his eyes slightly and trogs over to the stairway. "I'm gonna go shower."

"Good idea, you stink mate," Harry smirks cheekily, earning a glare from Mitch before he disappears up the stairs.

"How was it really, H?" I ask before taking another bite of my sandwich.

"S'good, we cycled for ages - it was actually really beautiful. You've gotta come with me sometime before we go home, although we need to find a different cafe- I paid €11 for the smallest burger I've ever seen."

"We'll bring a picnic or somethin'" I muse, thinking between chews. "I was thinking we could make something tonight 'stead of going out again, something summery maybe."

"Yeah?" Harry mumbles, rubbing his hand over his sun pink cheeks, "Like what?"

"Maybe pitas and some fruit- you bought enough kiwis to last us a lifetime." It's true, he'd claimed he had to in celebration of the tour coming to an end. "Here, d'you want the rest?"

Harry's eyes wander down to the remaining half of my sandwich I'm holding out to him, I try not to think too long about how I could watch his sleepy eyes light up for as long as he'd let me.

"I had something after you left earlier, I'm not that hungry." He looks up at me, unconvinced, but takes the plate anyway, quickly setting the plate on his lap and tucking in. Now that he's sat up in the light without the shadows of the dark cushions around him, I can see how pink is face really is. There's a blushing red along his cheeks and nose and the tips of his ears are bright pink. I brush my thumb over his ear softly, catching his attention as he winces slightly.

"Sorry- think you caught the sun a bit." He swallows the food in his mouth and nods up at me.

"Yeah, hurts a bit." I tilt his face slightly to see the other side - the pink continues down his neck and shoulders where it disappears under the tan lines of his t-shirt.

"Did you not put suncream on before you left?" His mouth full again, he just shakes his head. I smile slightly at how suddenly he's eased into his patient role, munching on his sandwich and peering up at me - ready for me to tend to his injuries. A soft grumble comes from Harry before I sigh - "I'll get the aloe vera."

I walk out into the cool tiled kitchen, opening the fridge again to retrieve the small pot of gel from the top shelf. It was one of the only sensible things we'd managed to buy during the kiwi shopping spree.

"And why didn't you have any suncream on?" I chastise him, giggly at his pouty expression. "It's right on the table, you know."

"You were in bed - I forgot." He eyes my movements as I tuck my leg undeath my body and sit opposite him on the sofa, twisting the cap off the small glass pot in my hands.

" M'I supposed to remind you of everything now, can't even remember suncream without me hey?" He shakes his head, curls tousled around his face. "Come here, stay still..."

I balance the pot in his hands and push his hair back and behind his ears, it'd gotten longer on tour and was threatening to grow into a curly lord farquaad territory. He keeps his head in place when I take back the pot and spread the cold gel over his nose, smiling slightly in surprise-

"S'cold." He watches as I scoop another load of aloe onto my fingertips and cover his cheeks.

"It's been in the fridge- how're your shoulders?" I ask once the gel is spread sufficiently over the pink tint that covered his face and the tips of his ears.

"Not so bad, it's just my face that hurts really."

I hum an okay, spinning the pot lid back on and placing it on the coffee table beside my lunch plate. Harry's hands lay limply in his lap, one reaching slowly to stroke the hem of my loose summer dress. I look up to see his slightly shiny face settling in a shy expression-

"I can be quite forgetful - might have to look after me forever you know." He smiles lovingly, looking up from where his finger and thumb play with the cotton of my dress, to meet my gaze.

"Oh forever, so you've got no plan to improve this bad habit then?" He laughs at my teasing and his smile broadens into a trademark Harry grin.

"Nah...S'okay though, I'll look after you too."

We all end up in the garden by eight pm, lying around the pool with platters of fruit and pittas full of salad and falafel. Harry has a stripe of suncream down his nose and he keeps trying to throw kiwi into Sarah's mouth, although it's ending up anywhere but. The pink in his cheeks has calmed down by now and he's stolen a blue scrunchie from my suitcase and tied a little bun on top of his head.

The hours tick by and the air starts to lose its humid warmth. Pair by pair we trickle back inside, Sarah and Mitchell retreating to their room first.

Harry's standing above me, barefooted in the grass and tipsy on wine. He holds out his hand to me and I take it, pulling myself up from the soft blanket we'd been laying on.

"Leave it," Harry says when I kneel down to fold it, "It's not gonna rain."

Before I can protest he's pulling me behind him and inside the sliding french doors. The tile floor's cold against the bottoms of my feet but the air inside is warm, Harry squeezes my hand in his and pulls me closer against his side, slinging his arm over my shoulders. He's soft and sleepy, and we make out way up the curling staircase clumsily in each other's arms.

I call goodnight to Mitch and Sarah before falling into my own bed. There's a second and then two familiarly inked arms curl around me and pull me into a warm chest. I'm a little drunk, sun-kissed and sleepy from the long conversations of the evening and it isn't long before my eyes are closing - the last noise I can hear is Harry's soft mumbling against my hair. I could definitely stay right here forever.

#Harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles fic #oh honey #italy harry #mitch rowland #sarah jones #fine line #harry styles mitch #harry styles sarah

[pudding-on-parade]

amply-obscure replied to your photoset “Oasis Landing. <3 I’m totally loving how my TS3 game looks…now that...”

This looks so much fun! Loving the pretty horse in the last picture.

TS3 is fun! I mean, it took me yeeeeeeeeeears (as in, about a decade *laugh*) to warm up to it. It has a LOT of gameplay if you have all the EPs installed, and it can be a bit overwhelming if you start cold with them all installed at once. And yeah, I’ve had to download/install some fixes and mod it out the wazoo to A) make it run well with no annoying amounts of lag and B) make it enjoyable for me because a lot of the way the vanilla game works is...not appealing to me. Especially EA’s story progression. For me, pretty much all of the NRAAS mods are absolutely essential, as in “I won’t play without them,” both in terms of making the game run well and making it enjoyable. 

But I’ve really come to enjoy TS3′s overall gameplay. After about 12 years (with no breaks) of playing TS2, I’ve gotten pretty tired of/burnt out on playing (but not building in) it, even with all the great mods out there. I’m sure I will go back to actually playing it eventually, after enough time has passed that it doesn’t feel like “same old, same old” drudgery to me anymore, but in the meantime I’ve really been enjoying exploring TS3 more over the last...six months or so. I’m not playing anything too seriously yet. I just have a bunch of different saves that I’m not overly attached to, doing things a little differently in each one and cycling through playing them, just figuring out what I do and don’t like to do in the game so that I’ll eventually land on a general play style that I like and then maybe I can settle into one more long-term save. 

Well, that’s the plan, anyway. :)

But yeah, I like TS3. I mean, if nothing else, it has actual horses. :) Although I usually turn off the wild horses in Oasis Landing (the future world) because...I dunno, it just looks odd to me to have random stray animals running around in that kind of environment. But, I forgot to do so in that save and then I just decided to let them be. *laugh*

#amply-obscure #replies

[aglossblog]

Small Business Startups: Behind the Scenes

Disclaimer: I wrote this article for my ENG 1B class. The assignment was to choose a subculture community that you are a part of, so I chose the small business community. I hope you enjoy!

The small business community are aspiring entrepreneurs who decided one day that they wanted to make their ideas come to life. However, starting a small business is not as easy as it looks. Many outsiders of this community do not realize how much self-discipline, commitment, and perseverance it takes to start a business from scratch. There is a lot that goes on behind the scenes of entrepreneurship. Behind the scenes, many entrepreneurs face sleepless nights, discouragement from others, being overwhelmed by the amount of work, spending their own money, and inevitable failures. Despite the obstacles that most successful entrepreneurs encounter, they persevere through it all. They go through a self-transformation and learn how passion and self-discipline are key elements to their success.

The small business community is a community that I identify myself with because I have started two businesses in the last five years. My first business failed because I lacked the knowledge of how to maintain a business. I took about a two-year break and then started my second business. Within that break, I have learned that self-discipline and passion for your business are essential. If you are passionate enough about it, you are most likely willing to sacrifice your time and money. The small business community is full of passionate, positive, and hard-working people who want to follow their dreams. 

The small business community can thrive anywhere from physical stores, street markets, and most recently, ecommerce which are online stores. Online businesses are very popular nowadays because anybody can start their own business from the comfort of their own home. Online businesses thrive using social media platforms as a free marketing strategy to help them gain customers or clients.  However, only a handful of them survive. Although online businesses seem like an easy, convenient place to start, there is a lot of work that goes unrecognized. 

Ashley Rodriguez, owner of Lashed Premium Lash Supplies Incorporated, explains how online entrepreneurs have to “write the caption, write the details, write the ingredients,” for all of their products or services. She also believes that outsiders of the small business community do not realize the amount of work entrepreneurs do for their businesses, there is “so much that goes into it and people think like oh she’s kind of being...lazy or whatever, but like no I’m working on my business.” Many people outside of this community often think entrepreneurship is not a real job compared to teachers, doctors, or any “9-to-5”  job because entrepreneurs are able to be their own boss. Rodriguez shares, “it’s funny being an entrepreneur because like when you have a regular job you go like 9 to 5...like that’s your set hours, but when you’re...passionate about something and it’s your own...brand and your creation, I feel like I’m working every second of every day.” Being an entrepreneur and having your own business is a lot of dedication because if you really want to see results, you have to work nonstop. Melanie Doan, founder of The Lash Cartel, explains: “I spend about what feels like every waking moment of my life working on my business...I’ve sort of made this my life.” Gabriella Chow, owner of Nailed  It, spends about “30-40 hours a week” on her nail business. Having your own business is an everyday self-discipline commitment not just because you need too, but because you want too. You have to be very passionate about the business you start because if you are not passionate about it, then why would you put in the work for it? 

Many entrepreneurs start their business because of their passion for creativity. Gianna Bernadine Leal, owner of Kream Cosmetics, explained why she started her business, “I’ve always been a creative optimistic person and this is a perfect opportunity to use my creativity and optimism in an artistic way.” Entrepreneurs are naturally creative people because they have the ability to think of an idea, make it their own, and bring it to life. Leal says, “A lot of people just see the selling aspect of everything, but no one really knows the creativity and hard work put cultivating new products until you actually do it.” Small business owners are very passionate about their business because it allows them to express their creative side. Doan reveals, “I’ve always been a creative at heart and the beauty industry was something that I had grown up in.” 

Other entrepreneurs often start their business because they are tired of their 9-to-5 job or want to do something more with their life. Doan says, “I started my business when I felt burnt out, stagnant, and wanted to put my future in my own hands.” It takes a lot of passion and courage to start a business because you never know what the outcome will be. 

Chow expresses to aspiring entrepreneurs, “Remember why you started. Never lose sight of that fire and drive you have. It’s unmotivating when things don’t progress, but when you do one thing right, a lot of things come with that. There is always a bigger picture and it is so worth it.” Many successful entrepreneurs are able to be proud of themselves and the work they have done when their business takes off or when they have accomplished their business goals. Outsiders of this community may not be able to feel this sense of accomplishment because they don’t know what it is like to have a business that they started from scratch grow into a successful company. Rodriguez expresses, “I think it’s really cool to see people use my stuff or post me or just kind of like ask me for advice. I always think that’s super cool. I think I am proud of myself because I started this when I was nineteen and then to see it grow, it kind of almost reflects the chapters in my life.” She started her business when she was nineteen years old in an extra room at her parent’s house. Then two years later, she is financially stable, got her own apartment in LA, and is in the works of having her own physical lash supply store! With passion and self-discipline, Rodriguez, Doan, Chow, and Leal are all self-made entrepreneurs who explored their creativity and were able to make their ideas come to life. 

In the process of studying this subculture, I have been able to apply my findings to my own business. Learning that passion and self-discipline are key elements in running a successful business I have been more passionate and consistent with my online business and have gained more customers. I have learned that small businesses are no joke. If you really want it to succeed, you need to discipline yourself to market your product or service, be consistent with creating new content, and work day and night. Self-discipline comes with passion. You want to make sure that your business sparks passion in your heart because if you are not passionate about it, you are not going to be able to discipline yourself to work on your business everyday. I have also been able to have a greater appreciation for the hard work and struggles that entrepreneurs face. Supporting small businesses is important because you are supporting someone’s dream by helping them make it a reality. 

A GLOSS COSMETICS: @aglosscosmetics

LASHED PREMIUM LASH SUPPLIES: @lashedpls

NAILED IT: @nailed.it.nails_

THE LASH CARTEL: @thelashcartel.co

KREAM COSMETICS: @kreamcosmetics

#aglosscosmetics #businessblog #smallbusiness

[ninja-scenarios]

Oasis more like pleasure heaven - Asra smut

Someone said: “Goodness honestly, asra pleasuring himself is so fucking hot, you did an. AMAZING job! If you are still taking requests, ffff could I please ask for more of that? Like anything you want but I just love him playing with himself while thinking about the MC fffffffffff (maybe pillow humping aaaaaaaaa)”

Ahhh, thank you so much!! <3 I wrote this in one go, i´m so doneeee

But it was really fun!! I hope you like it <3<3<3

MAJOR SPOILERS!! SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS!!!

Asra seeks comfort in his oasis. Little did he know that he´ll find more comfort than he expected. or How long can he last without reliving himself?

Words: 1,9k

Relationships: Asra / Non binary reader (implied) , Asra / Himself (?)

Finally returning to the comforting confines of his oasis, Asra let out a hollow sigh. His body felt tense, rigid from the scene he had fled back at the shop. The wandering magician shook his head, fluffy white hair bouncing up and down from the movement. He´d almost destroyed everything, almost put you at danger, again. The guilt sat heavy on his shoulders, weighing him down as he left deep footprints in the sand.

Oh how he wished to be with you again. Everything had changed, back then. The overwhelming joy of seeing the lost life returning to your body had been quickly displaced with utter horror. Your missing memories put a deep hole into your existence, much like a puzzle missing its most important middle pieces. Even after three years, day after day filled with hope that you´d wake up and remember, that your eyes would light up in recognition and fill with tears as you hugged your lover, your current status hasn´t changed.

Asra wasn´t allowed to dream, to let his mind wander back to what was. Whenever he did, his heart ached for you like it was on fire, demanding your closeness and love. Your relationship was in the past, hopelessly overshadowed by the dulling, numbing present. A warm breeze swept by, engulfing the young wanderer as if to hug him, yet the thought of you still didn´t leave his mind. Here was the only place when he showed weakness and spoke his deepest, secret wishes.

Yet, while it was a paradise, the dark parts of his minds were represented as well. They hid in the deep rain forest, in the smallest cracks and holes, whispering his name whenever he passed by. Even though he himself had created this place, there were things even Asra couldn´t control.

The more striking was his astonishment when he suddenly came upon a river. There was a tent-like, open pavilion on the other side, similar to the ones in Nadi´s palace gardens. Next to it stood a resting silhouette, emitting a calming aura rather than a threatening presence. On closer inspection, it looked like a perfect reflection of himself. Maybe he was imagining it because when he blinked, the figure had vanished.

Without paying it much thought, Asra lifted the satchel over his head while he waded through the waist deep, warm water. The warmth of the river still did nothing to relax his body. He´d felt on edge for days on end. Once leaving the water, he stepped out of his pants, underwear, socks and shoes, eager to try out the soft-silky interior of the pavilion. For a second he wanted to turn around and explore it together with you. You´d have laughed at his unplanned swim, in fact Asra heard your warm laughter ringing in his ears. Oh how he wanted to share this moment with you, to bring you here.

Throwing his pocket somewhere on the fluffy carpet-ground, he let himself fall into the sea of rose-coloured pillows. They felt nice against his naked skin, so silky and cool. Experimentally he rocked against them a few times, just to be almost immediately overwhelmed by sleep. It was no wonder when he the constant thoughts tired him out. They were painful, reminding him why he had fled this time. The reason was so utterly careless that he had debated on never coming back. A week ago, he had just poked his head into your bedroom, wanting to wake you for breakfast. You had read your favourite book, engrossed in the lines like you´d always used to. When, after some moments which Asra had used the seldom opportunity to stare at your beautiful features without disturbance, you had lifted your head and smiled at him in such a heart-warming, familiar way that he had wanted to tell you everything right then and there. It felt like his heart melted in heat right on the spot and while his lips had already formed the words, thankfully his voice had failed him. I love you.

I have loved you since the first day, and will continue to do so until my last.

When he awoke, thick rain drops knocked against the top of the tent in a calm, happy tune. It was a summer rain, coming to water the thirsty plants and revive the desert. With a sigh, Asra turned around, and shuddered as his erect, hot length was exposed to the air. As much as the guilt forbid him to chase after pleasure, his inner, love-starved self got the best of him. The erection stood hot and proudly, begging for attention by oozing pre-cum out of its head.

It was no use. For the last week, the act of punishment by denying himself pleasure had taken its toll on the young magician. How he wanted to hold you, kiss you, love you… the grains of sand of the desert beautifully described how many times he had jacked off to joint, fond memories.

Finally, Asra gave in, his hand coming down onto the searing hot skin. The pure contact had him hiss, considering that it was the first one in a while. His fingertips traced patterns into his shaft, smearing his pre cum all over himself and Asra gave a tight, little moan. When it felt slick enough he stroked it, slowly moving his hand up and down the thick cock. Under some circumstances, it would be your hand, squeezing and luring the pleasure out of his body.

The pure memory of you affected the magician deeply and it wasn´t long until he was moving faster, hips pushing up to meet his hand. His fingers formed a circle, creating a loose hole for him to thrust into, while Asra called out your name. If it was in hope or in despair, no one would ever really know.

While his own hand did not provide much comfort, the feeling of your mouth around him did, forever burnt into his mind. His reflection appeared again before the pavilion, watching him as it came closer. It didn´t feel quite like his own magic, but it felt familiar. Maybe it was the magician? In this gaze, it was hard to tell. Either way, Asra wasn´t set on stopping now, having been caught anyways. Also, he was positive that nothing, except his own mind, could ever hurt him in this safe heaven.

He closed his eyes and let his cock slip through his fingers again and again, blushing at the slick sound. It wasn´t enough, though. His body strained and moved, yet the desired rush of euphoria failed to take over.

Asra grit his teeth, moving faster, tighter. When he reopened his eyes, his reflection stood before him. Despite the rain outside, it didn´t appear to be wet. A snap resounded in the air. Asra´s brain was too foggy to fully process as his other self leaned over and suddenly wrapped a surprisingly slick hand around his raging boner. The white haired wanderer cried out as his reflection jacked him off, hard and fast. His tight, slick hand moved up and down his rock-hard length, creating the lewdest of sounds while his owner kept silent.

Asra panted, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he simply gave in to the experience. He thrust into the tight grip like crazy, letting out a desperate groan as the hand squeezed even tighter.

My heart belongs to you. I´d give my self up to safe you until there´s nothing left of me.

Guilt worked against pleasure in merciless, cooling waves, bringing him down from his high. His body went rigid in discomfort and he opened his eyes. How did the reflection work? Did it know how his true self felt? I must have, because suddenly he grabbed one of the silky pillows and leaned forwards, pressing it around Asra´s cock like a second pair of skin and forming a warm orifice.

His breath left Asra in a shuddering exhale as his eyes fluttered close. The pillow felt excellent against this twitching cock, almost, almost as good as you. His hands searched for purchase, nails clawing into the sea of pillows as he let out a loud moan of your name.

It felt good, the tightness, the warmth. Asra didn´t notice how his reflection came even closer. Only when he felt a palm gently cupping his cheek, he gasped in surprise. Yet he didn´t open his eyes as he leaned into the touch, so very thankful. He could almost feel you against his skin, feeling you stroke his cheek while you cooed sweet nothings into his ear.

Your name left his lips over and over again as he thrust into the pillow for dear life. A thumb brushed over his sensitive tip whenever it peaked out in the front, making his body shudder and tremble.

It´s all my fault. If I had been brave enough you´d have never died. I left you. I don´t deserve to be around you, to think of myself as your protector when I failed to do so while you slowly died scared and alone.

“N-not enough…!” Asra mumbled between sighs and moans, frustration growing on his face.

Without a word, his reflection removed its hand from Asra´s face. Another snap, then suddenly Asra felt something warm and slick circle his hole. Gasping, he witnessed how the finger entered him. The digit fucked his hole gently, and was soon joined by another one.

I was a coward for running away and a fool for being so stubborn. To this day, this decision haunts me in every one of my dreams.  

You had always been so excellent at sucking him off, knowing all of his sweet spots and preferences and when to pull back to draw out his pleasure and prolong his orgasm. And the lovely sounds that had escaped your pretty mouth, small moans that had sent twitches right to his cock.

Asra was about to lose his mind, thrusting upwards into the heavenly pillow while he got fingered into oblivion. “F-fuck, yes…” His moans echoed in the dry sand, while the oasis bloomed with his pleasure. His shirt stuck onto his skin in sweat and heat, hair sticking against the pillows. Your name left his lips over and over again. “Forgive me! Please, forgive me…” Warm tears escaped the corners of his eyes and dripped down the wet, flushed cheeks. His cock throbbed, spasming as he felt he fingers curling against his sweet spot and spilling into the warm heat.

His other self pulled his hands back, letting Asra bathe in the afterglow. Whether his reflection was his own or someone else´s magic, he didn´t care. Just about you, he did. You would be sad that he would be gone for so long, yet he had to escape this ruined relationship sometimes. It didn´t matter how much he loved you, how much he was willing to give, when it was best if he let you alone. Your feelings, your well-being were his top priority and he would let no one, not even himself, get in their way.

Through the thick haze of the fogginess inside his brain, he could make out your face. His heart painfully tightened at the sight, was he not miles away from you in this very moment. Eyes still closed, the young magician detected some movement in the pavilion. Assuming his reflection had left, he was even more surprised to feel a palm cupping his cheek, wiping at his dried tears. Yet, this was nothing compared to the shock he felt when his other self suddenly connected their lips. They shared a slow, gentle kiss. After a few moments, the other Asra pulled back.

“I forgive you.”

#asra #asra the arcana #asra x reader #asra smut #asra x reader smut #the arcana drabbles #the arcana fanfiction #the arcana fanfic #asra fanfiction #asra the magician

[druddigoon]

Bird Song

Well I didn’t tell anyone, but a bird flew by

.

.

There’s the faint scent of something burning in her room. It smells like the aftermath of Mommy and Daddy’s fights, but Daddy isn’t here and Mommy’s never here and it’s starting to get hard to breathe. When Azula opens her mouth to cough, a strong hand clamps on her mouth and shushes her. 

She’s wide awake now, struggles and kicks her legs at the scary shadow looming over her; it grabs her legs and arms and twists them into uncomfortable positions, the room rolls as she’s lifted before she finds it in herself to scream. She sees it make a ball of fire that lights the way, warm oranges and reds much like hers, but steadier. 

Fire is the essence of power, she remembers Daddy telling her. A stronger firebender’s flame will always overwhelm a weaker one’s. He wants Azula to be the best. 

The stranger’s fire is a little flicker of life in his hand, warm and familiar, and she reaches for it the best she’s able with her hands behind her back, seizes it until it dances just for her. For a while it’s just her and the flame, ready to answer to her command. So she commands, and it flares up in joy. 

Dimly she hears the scream of a man she doesn’t know before she is dropped and the world comes to its feet. The stranger is yelling very bad things that would get Azula a fierce mouth-washing with soap if she ever repeats them. He’s large and tall and angry, but now she sees his face twisted in pain and the skin burnt off his fingers and he becomes just another human. 

They’re in one of the secret tunnels, she vaguely remembers, one she had explored maybe a year ago and never came back to because the air was dusty there were too many spider-moths. Her flame friend finally winks out so she generates another one, casting long shadows against the man’s face. 

More footsteps arrive, and Azula finds herself separated from the man by a circle of royal guards, all shouting at him to stand down. 

Next come Mommy and Daddy. Mommy throws her arms around her and holds her in a way she rarely does to her but often to Zuko, and she starts feeling safe again. Her father sweeps in with utmost regality, and the man starts snarling insults at him. Azula tries to hear but Mommy covers her ears and hums a song about leaves and vines. 

“You’ve condemned my brothers and sisters to die in petty conquests, your factories have polluted and starved my village, and all for what? Glory? Your lower classes die for some fucking twisted sense of duty, just so you have a little more coin to line your coffers! You’re a bastard of no morals, a disgraced descendant of Agni!” 

Daddy gives no reaction, but Azula can see the muscles in his neck tense up like how they do when he’s about to hit Mommy. Calling someone a disgraced descendant of Agni is a very grave insult, even more so on the royal family, who are the direct children of Agni. But like a good ruler, he waits for his subjects to speak their fill even though none of their words are important, so it’s only when the man is silent and breathing hard that he speaks. 

“Is that why you decided to kidnap my daughter?”

The man glares up at him, eyes dark with anger. “I am going to take away someone you love, just like you’ve done to me and several million other families out there.” 

Mommy pulls Azula in closer until it gets hard to breathe, and in the background she hears Daddy laughing quietly. 

“You break into the royal palace and kidnap my daughter for a few dead people? Not the healthiest coping mechanism, I must say.” Daddy has a way of speaking as if he’s breathing flames not words, and right the air seems to heat up as he continues. “You have committed a serious act of treason. Since you are the coward to steal a five-year-old girl instead of confronting me, I’ll let my daughter decide your fate.” 

“Azula,” she hears Daddy call, and snaps to attention. Does he want her to do something? Daddy still looks really angry, and she hopes that he’ll throw his anger at the man instead of at her. “By law, what is the punishment for treason?” 

The answer comes naturally; Daddy always drills her on Fire Nation laws at the dinner table. “All actions made with the intention to oppose Agni’s Children or his Nation are ordained as treason; peoples who have committed treasonous acts are subject to death by execution.”

Daddy smiles at her in pride, and she smiles back. Mommy’s face dawns into an expression of horror. “Precisely. It is the duty of the royal family to oversee such an execution. You are the judge, Azula—how should he be punished?” 

Mommy’s grip is strangling on her wrist. “Be reasonable, sweetie. Don’t do something you don’t want to be done to you.” It is just like Mommy, to ignore her daughter until she wants something from her. This time Azula is unwilling to give. 

She yanks her arm free. “Start firebending,” she commands to the man with all the authority her child’s voice can carry, not realising it is the soldier’s swords that make him rush to obey. She then takes his fire and makes it hers—this time the man notices and the fear on his face surprises her. He is making that face because of her. She flicks her wrist in a maneuver that she just learned and still feels clumsy in her child’s hands, but this time she pulls it off and the flame twists, turns like a living being before swallowing the man whole. 

That night, Azula learns control. 

Daddy praises her authority and prowess, something he almost never does, and she takes it and puts it with the rest of her happy memories (like when she and Zuko played hide and seek in the palace tunnels before Grampa sealed them off, or—oh!—their vacation at Ember Island). He says she did the right thing. Mommy doesn’t say anything, just storms out of the tunnels like thunder. Why isn’t Mommy proud of her? 

She shoots an apologetic look at Daddy and the cleanup crew before following Mother. They make it all the way to her bedroom before Mommy turns around. 

“What?” she hisses, almost feral, and Azula shrinks a little. The smell of burnt flesh lingers on both their clothes. 

“Are you proud of me?”

“For what? For my daughter cooking a man alive with his own flame?” Mommy laughs, but like in a happy way, more in a voice hitching, about to cry or scream kind of way. Before Azula does anything, her voice hardens. “Go back to your room Azula. You must be tired after all that firebending.” 

She is, but there’s something about the kidnapping that convinces her she won’t get a wink of sleep in her own bed. “Can I stay in your room? I’m scared.” Zuko tells me that whenever he has a nightmare, you let him stay on your bed. 

Suddenly Mommy’s stepping towards her; she opens her arms expecting to be carried but she’s shoving her, pushing her backwards until she’s tripping out onto the doorstep with a soft cry of pain. Ursa slides the panel door until there’s a tiny slit between them. “Go to sleep, sweetie. Monsters aren’t afraid of the dark.” 

.

.

Saw what I’d done he set up a nest outside,

And he sang about what I’d become

He sang so loud, sang so clear

I was afraid all the neighbours would hear,

.

.

Her mother hated her. Her mother called her a monster.

Her mother was a coward, she thinks bitterly, a coward who wept over wounded turtleducks and war casualties, who left without even saying goodbye. Maybe she was right, maybe Azula is an evil, evil monster, so vicious and twisted that her mother couldn’t love her, but the least she could do was turn around and face her.

Not that she wants to see her disappointed face one last time. 

Ever since Azula was born Ursa slept in a separate room from her husband, the one opposite of the master bedroom reserved for concubines, staffed by servants that reported her every move. It’s been a week since she graced this bed, but the sheets haven’t been changed since and they smell of her as if she never left. Their scent sends a stab of emotion to Azula’s chest, more painful than Father’s punishments when she messes up her katas, and she is stunned by the ferocity of it all. 

It’s a foreign feeling. Azula tries to put a name to it, picking up the side of the silken bedsheet even as her heart seizes, eventually settling on hatred, though not quite. 

She grins as her blue flickers around the edges, red sheets curling black against the head, and she has to be careful because the whole room was made out of wood, but if nothing Azula prided herself on her control. Little filigrees of smoke, weaving through the air. Blue and red, blue and red. 

Black. 

She stumbles back, breathless and trembling. The room is hazy with smoke, ashes upon ashes, and the little candle inside her splutters out. She should’ve known, her mother was no phoenix.

She hears him before she sees, him, stumbling against the corridors, like a fledgling hawk with its wing cut off—and believe her, she’s known from experience—all hacking coughs and smolder. “Azula,” he shouts through a hoarse throat, “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” she says with a cutting smile, making her way to the bedside drawer. 

Zuko snarls quietly. He’s livid, but both know better than to allow their father to find out. 

Now that she has his attention, Azula picks up the memento in her hand, palms it; the thing fits nicely in her hand, but its ashes will fit even better. Wooden oni masks are so, so flammable. 

She sees Zuko tense out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t you dare,” he hisses. 

Such petty sentimentality. Like mother, like son, she supposes. It’s only fitting that he took after his coddler, getting all attached and protective over such a useless object, shrinking like a beaten dog whenever Father raises a hand. It wouldn’t be surprising if he turns tail and runs from his duties when he’s older. 

“Or what?” There’s something in the glee of the moment that takes her smile,  stretches it so wide it hurts, the mask clenched in her hand trembling imperceptibly. “Or what, you’ll call mother? “

Mother left us. Don’t you remember, Zuzu? She was a coward. 

“You’re sadistic!” he snaps back, “Evil! Broken!” She’s skilled enough in reading people to see that’s he’s desperate, that she’s struck a nerve, and now he’s blindly throwing jabs in the hopes one of them sticks. She goads him and he eats it up, like a puppet on invisible strings. The puppetmaster allows the chi to surge through her fingertips, sets the room alight in a blur of red then blue then black. More ashes drift down into the carpet. 

Silence hangs like smoke in the air.

Zuko steps back, the air between them electric with tension. 

“Mother never loved you,” he says, his voice quivering yet resolute, and leaves without another word. 

Her chest feels tight, like there was a platypus-bear settled on her chest and her lungs forgot to breathe. Burning her mother’s belongings has lost its intrigue now that there was no one to taunt, so Azula stole out of the graveyard, noting the smoke lingering through the hallways. It’s only a matter of time before Father finds out, she realizes. She dusts clinging ashes off her clothes and wonders who casts the blame first.

(Azula does, in the end. When their Father beats Zuko black and blue, sends him crawling to bed without dinner, Azula laughs because she doesn’t know what else to do.)

.

.

So I invited him in, just to reason with him

I promised I wouldn’t do it again

But he sang louder and louder inside the house,

And no I couldn’t get him out

.

.

Mai covets her knives like secrets, steel-edged kunai and shurikens and needle-blades. Azula had given her several on her fourteenth birthday, an old set made from carved dragonscale, light and durable, and watched them disappear into the fold of her sleeves. Nobody knows how many she owns (she’s counted at least forty-two once, during sparring practice) but she cares and sharpens them all to pinpoint precision. 

She hones her skill like blades. They are her defense, her redemption, her identity, and she hones them relentlessly until the trees around her house are more hole than tree and her fingers are worn to bloody stumps, nails clipped against harsh metal. Azula remembers seeing her etched with shallow cuts across her face and arms, back when she first started; now, the only scars she bears are the ones inside. 

Ty Lee, the youngest of her septuplets, never gets any attention from her parents. It’s a kind of freedom that has gotten into her head. She is flighty, flirts with death as if it were her partner, leaps up to catch passing hopes and dreams knowing nobody would catch her if she falls. And she’s fallen. A lot. 

She has the most broken bones out of all of them. Her left leg’s been fractured in five places, her right leg even more. Once, when they were little, Azula found her sprawled on the stone courtyard below her second story room, red cascading out of her cracked skull like a fountain. Ty Lee looked up at her beneath the blood running down her face and grinned, all wild glee on bloodstained teeth. Those concussions must’ve gotten to her head, because she’s the only one of them that never grew up. 

Azula never talks about her training with Father. 

There are rumors, whispers amid nobles and peasants alike. The assassin, a child who beat a Yu Yan in a sharpshooting match, who would be recruited to the military a hundred times over if she weren’t a noble’s daughter. The acrobat, who can take master firebenders in the blink of a second, who steals one’s chi right out of their body with a simple prod of her fingers. The princess, the favored heir who mastered her firebending at the ripe age of eleven, the youngest in firebending history. The princess, who burns a blue like no other and breathes lightning. Precocious, they say. Natural prodigies.

 Azula scoffs at the notion. If they are prodigies, they’re ones born of blood and sweat, wounds and burns and breaks. Talent is earned, not given. Her father has said that with great power comes great sacrifice.   

On the days where Father is too busy with meetings to train Azula, she strings Ty Lee and Mai along to practice near the palace. The courtyard is a blur of movement, the low hiss of flame followed by the twang of knife hitting tree. Ty Lee dodges Azula’s fire dagger and manages to get away as she pulls back to block an oncoming blade. Mai calmly evades her ensuing bout of flames, but is stalled as Ty Lee feints and comes up behind her. 

When they’re finished, they catch their breath on the banks of the turtleduck pond (which is nothing but clear water and koi now—she’s taken care of the little flock of problems a long time ago) and talk about everything and nothing. Azula enjoys the mundanity of it all, even when the conversation is more akin to a field of landmines than anything casual. 

“We’re leaving.” Mai breaks the silence with a bombshell. “Today.”

Her words snap Azula out of the lull of midmorning. She stares at Mai in a moment of weakness, then, seeing the other girl regard her with raised eyebrows, killed the emotion on her face. 

This is a mistake. It has to be.

Your father is a political asset to our nation’s council and he would be foolish to discard a chance to be in the Fire Lord’s good graces would be the pragmatic response. I know ways to secure political positions for your entire family, to get bills passed that will be beneficial for your party, right under the council’s noses would be the bribery. I’ll tell them all about how you were the one to spill the sacred braziers in the Fire Temple, not me would be the blackmail. After all I did for you and Zuko would work wonders to Mai’s (muted) sense of shame. 

Friends don’t leave each other like this would be too close to the truth. 

“You’re lying,” she ends up saying, “You can’t possibly.”

Mai sighs, as if steeling herself. Azula spies a flash of silver peek out of her silks as she fingers her knives. She opens her mouth—

—And Ty Lee leaps in for the shockwave. “We’re both leaving.” She sounds almost apologetic, and for a second Azula even believes her. “Mai’s father was appointed mayor of some Earth Kingdom town a fortnight ago, and I want to run away and join the traveling circus that’s been around town lately. It’s not like my parents care where I am, and I want to be somewhere where I’m not part of some matched set.”

“You aren’t part of a matched set with me.”

Ty Lee sets her jaw. “Yes, but ever since Zuko left you’ve been so busy with training and war meetings everything under Agni! This is the first time we met in about a month!” 

“So you and Mai decided to leave. And nobody thought to tell me this until now.” Azula says quietly.

Ty Lee averts her eyes. Looks to the pond, as if peering at ghosts of turtleducks. “I’m sorry.” 

Azula is the princess of the Fire Nation, heir to the throne. She’s played political pawns against each other like pieces on a chessboard, helped orchestrate successful military maneuvers in the Earth Kingdom; later on, she would be the one responsible for the death of the Avatar and the fall of the Impenetrable City. She is a prodigy, feared and revered, always the helm of power, always the grip of control. Yet she is not good enough to keep these two girls from leaving her. 

“I thought we were friends,” she hears someone say in her voice.   

“We still are,” Mai cuts in, though softer now, the defiant set of her jaw melting away. Azula hates how much it hurts her. “We’ll never stop.” 

(Years later, on the metal deck of a once inescapable prison, she’ll say “I love Zuko more than I fear you” and shred her promise into pieces.)

 “We’ll always be by your side, ‘Zula. Just farther away.” Ty Lee hugs her with hours, days of pent-up anxiety and frustration. When they separate, it is a goodbye in and of itself. 

(On that same deck, she’ll break her companion’s trust and sanity in one fell swoop.)

“I’m not a coward. I don’t need anybody at my side.” Gritting her teeth—she’s been slacking on the threats, they should love her more—Azula abruptly shoves off Ty Lee’s concerned arm and heads back to the palace. 

With every step, she is alone. 

.

.

I picked up the bird and above the din I said

That’s the last song you’ll ever sing

Held him down, broke his neck,

Taught him a lesson he wouldn’t forget

.

.

From the safety of the tavern window, Azula watches Zuko cry over his uncle. 

Or not. She can’t really tell from there she is, but she can sure hear it, and, if his plaintive cries are any indication, little Zuzu is distressed. 

She allows herself a thin-lipped smile. Three years in exile have weathered her brother just as three years alone in the palace have intensified her, and yet he bears the same faults like a scar. And Azula knows those weaknesses, those fears, knows they are not of his flesh and bone but of the people around him. Her fuddy-duddy tea-loving hooligan of an uncle needed to go down anyways, so it was a two-birds-one-stone kind of deal. 

Wind whistles through the ghost town, making Azula shut her eyes to block stray sand. When she opens them again, Zuko is clumsily supporting Iroh, and one of the tribe peasants—Katara, she vaguely recalls—is stepping forward with one hand on her water pouch. Azula tenses, expecting a flash of ice and blood, but none comes. Instead, Katara kneels by the two, as if to heal. 

Stomach roiling, she turns away and leaves before she can watch the rest of their exchange. The crown princess has places to be, namely finding the whereabouts of her two allies. 

As she mounted her mongoose dragon, however, Azula’s mind wanders back toward the ghost town gathering. 

It wasn’t like she held any attachment for uncle. The old man was always away on war campaigns, or, after Azulon died, a ghost in the palace. She felt immense satisfaction when the lightning left her fingertips and struck him square on the chest. He was a traitor to the crown, and his death was as good as guaranteed.

Azula doesn’t make mistakes, after all. 

Uncle was a coward. A shell of former glory days, the taste of sweetness gone sour. He’s lost his son and she her mother, he turns tail to the enemy while she’s still standing. Father’s said that Azula is already better than his brother (there seemed to be a disappointment sibling every generation, it seems) could ever hope to be, and yet in his dying throes he’s surrounded by his nephew and the Avatar’s friends, while Azula flees alone. 

The waterbending peasant offered to heal him. 

Why? If her sources are right, she is the last waterbender of the Southern Tribes after an (apparently unsuccessful) string of cullings. Someone of that background would harbor intense animosity toward a figure of her enemies, descended from the man who ordered the cullings in the first place. And yet Azula saw her kneeling down toward her uncle, hand extended, a gesture of peace in the midst of war. 

What did Iroh have that Azula didn’t? What virtue did a disgraced traitor possess that the Crown Princess lacked, that made Zuko follow him like a puppydog and the waterbender extend a healing hand? A true ruler knows that loyalty is won with fear and influence; Iroh lacked both. 

The Princess snarls silently, guiding her mount with sharp jerks toward the scene of a scuffle near the river. Mai and Ty Lee are on the banks, suspiciously damp but not too worse for wear. 

“Nice of you to swing by,” Mai says dryly, collecting her knives from where they’re lodged into trees. 

Azula ignores her. “We lost.” She is sore and tired all over, but keeps perfect posture as she settles on a jutting rock. “I expected the Avatar to be there, but then…” She chews on her cheek, suddenly ashamed. She’d miscalculated, something she’s never supposed to do. To fully admit she overlooked something, could overlook something, would be a weakness. 

“But then…?” Ty Lee, never the one for boundaries, edges her on. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Mai look up too. 

“It’s nothing much. He went into the Avatar State and I couldn’t fend him off.” Better to appear she met a powerful spirit head-on than to confess she fled from her own brother and uncle. She’s sure Mai still has a soft spot for him, and Ty Lee would cry if she knew Azula killed Iroh. 

Ty Lee wilted. “Aww, that’s too bad.” She hesitates, somehow managing to fidget through a handstand. “Sorry we couldn’t manage to stall them. Mai and I had it all under control until a huge furry thing came and slapped us into the river!” 

Azula waves a hand in dismissal. “Apology accepted.” It wouldn’t do to reprimand the two when she herself had failed. “I expect both of you to analyse your battle and see what went wrong, as well as what you can do better next time. Once you’re done picking up everything, Mai, we’re setting off. There’s a military base not far from here.” 

She returns to her mount. The river gurgles softly in the ensuing silence and she fiddles with her reins, suddenly contemplative. “Hey, if we happen to be fighting the Avatar and I got struck by lightning, would you drop everything to help me?”

“Yes!” Ty Lee jumps enthusiastically at the question. Azula spies her knuckles purpling in an angry bruise and looks away. She has always been eager to serve. “You’re one of the most important people in the nation, Azula, and I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Her words are flattering, but not what she’s looking for. Azula turns to the Mai. “And you?” 

Mai raises her eyebrows. Her mouth is set hard on the edges, as if she’s deciding whether she’d be better off bored at home or bored with Azula. “Honestly, Azula, this is redundant. I expect the Princess to avoid being struck by lightning in the first place.” 

They are both right; she is here to serve her nation to the best of her ability, not ponder on some twisted sense of dependability. As long as she abides by her father’s lessons and keeps control on her subjects and cuts out the loose ends that threaten to hurt her, she won’t ever need anybody to fall back on. 

Azula doesn’t fall. 

The trio arrive at the base by sunset. Azula settles into her sleeping bag and dreams of the long way down.

.

.

But in my dreams began to creep

That old familiar tweet tweet tweet

I opened my mouth to scream and shout,

I waved my arms and flapped about

.

. 

She’s seeing blue as she skids across the battlefield, sparks fizzling out like fireflies around her. Zuzu’s standing steady above her—he’s changed, a stranger, they all were—there’s blood in her mouth, roaring in her ears, yet her normally clear mind’s lost to the foggy haze of betrayal. She’s slipping, and he knows it. 

Azula tries to get to her feet.

The air buzzes with a taunt and she’s slipping, slipping, bares her teeth (I’ll show you lightning!) and feels the snap of ozone as her sanity lances past her fingertips. She aims it away from Zuzu and at the water tribe peasant, watches the split-second expression of fear in her eyes, and laughs to forget the tears in hers, thinks that’s the last song you’ll ever sing.

She miscalculated. Zuko loved Katara than he feared Azula. 

Her control through fear was her highest exaltation; now it is her greatest downfall.

She’s five years old again, this time bound in metal-link chains, tear tracks burning down her face, her mother’s heavy disapproval laid across her shoulders. Her ancestor’s greatest companion steaks like a dragon across the sky, a testament to her failure; in the end, Azula is weak. From the beginning, she is alone.

Azula cries because she doesn’t know what else to do. 

.

.

But I couldn’t scream I couldn’t shout,

The song was coming from my mouth

The song was coming from my mouth

.

.

Ao3

#atla #azula #azula week #azula week 2019 #drudwrites

[arielleyoga-blog1]

Do Less

http://www.bu.edu/quantum/zen/readings/keepingQuietNeruda.html

I have been reading KEEPING QUIET by Pablo Neruda in some of my classes lately. It was read on an episode of ON BEING with Krista Tippet, and I immediately had to pause the podcast so that when I parked I could look up the poem and read it. Every time I read this poem, different parts of it come to life for me. That’s what’s so wonderful about writing: you, the reader, get to take what works for you and leave the rest. 

Currently, the second to last paragraph is the one that is speaking volumes to me time and time again.

I have been working in some form of care-providing field for over two decades now. I started in elementary school as a mother’s helper, which moved into babysitting and eventually being a nanny for 8 years. During all of that I also have been a manager, an assistant, a bill payer, a book keeper, a dog walker, a pet sitter, an actress, worked in customer service, worked as a bartender…and for the last 5 years I have spent everyday holding space for others as a yoga instructor.

Part of my insane work ethic and juggling of multiple jobs at once has been out of necessity: rent/bills/student debt...the usual. But I must admit that there is this other part of me that has this overwhelming fear that if I don’t work the world will come crashing down around me and I will die.

Sounds dramatic. And it’s yet, it’s my truth. 

All I do is talk with clients and students about self care, about how important it is to make time for themselves, to rest, to go to yoga, to put themselves first. And as I sit there watching them flow, I think to myself “How lucky they are to be able to take a yoga class...I wish I could take a yoga class.” Because my truth is that I put them, I put my job, I put income before myself. 

Living this way for over a decade, has for sure caused various burn outs: emotional breakdowns, physical breakdowns, all the typical signs of somebody that needs to take care of themselves. Body pain, depression, migraines, panic attacks...you know, the stuff most of us live with pretty regularly. And even with those experiences, even with the knowledge of the importance of self care,  I've always kept going because my worth, to myself, has been SO intrinsically tied up to how much I do in a day. 

We live in a culture that glorifies the grind, that encourages hustling, that celebrates the fact that we are all doing too many things at once, not so slowly destroying ourselves and the world around us at the same time.

And I’ve had enough.

I don’t want to wake up exhausted every day, I don’t want to live in a world where people feel like they need an IV drip of coffee all day, I don’t want to be a mom that shoves a phone in her kids face or has a phone in her face when her child is asking for attention because I’m too burnt out to even care for the one who needs me most, I don’t want to be a wife that is too tired to connect to her husband, I don't want to wake up in my 60s and feel like my whole life was a blur. I found myself on Sunday nights wondering what happened (not just about GOT, but like in general), and gritting my teeth to get to Saturday again.

That’s no way to live. 

And that is what this poem is speaking to me: TO DO LESS. That life is not about how much you do, but it’s about HOW YOU LIVE! 

To take my dog on a long walk without my phone. To read a book on the couch, until my eyes get heavy and I take a spontaneous cat nap. To start blogging!  To do yoga! OMG TO DO YOGA! You guys: I’m an instructor and for the first time in TWO YEARS I just took TWO yoga classes in ONE week! I am so busy training people and driving around LA that I don’t even have a personal practice. And that’s embarrassing.

When I decided to start this blog I asked for post ideas: and one that brought up a lot of shame for me was: “How you find time for your practice in your day.”

Well, I don’t.

Or rather, I didn’t. But this week three clients are out of town, and I’ve been reading that poem over and over. 

That poem came to me last week after I started actively asking the universe to allow me to do less.

I have found that when I truly need or want something and I am too afraid to make the first move, eventually, the universe gives me a little shove. A few weeks ago, a morning class of mine got moved. And with that one move, I took a few steps that were difficult and scary for me because they required me to put myself first and to vocalize it: to my husband, to my mom, and to a client. 

But now... two days a week I can sleep past 5:30am!!! One day a week, I do not drive the over 20 miles one way into LA at all! 

I am doing less...and that is allowing me to do more!

But not more for the sake of doing more. But, because I prioritized myself, I have more energy. More energy to cook, to get stuff done around the house, to be efficient, present, and joyful.  I get to BE more, and learn and explore what that brings up for me. Which, at times, is a lot: I absolutely have to talk myself off a ledge sometimes when I don’t have a completely full calendar for the day. I’ll sit there and think what I can schedule in. And then, I stop myself. DO LESS! These two days a week I am not up at 5:30am: I’m only two weeks into it, and so it’s going to take me some time to embrace the space! But I’m trying!

Living life is about BEING yourself, and loving yourself, and living a life that feels good. Not a life that flies by that you were too busy hustling to enjoy and appreciate. 

America is one of the wealthiest countries in the world, and yet we have the HIGHEST rate of unhappiness. Yoga has also BLOWN up in the Western world over the last decade in ways that I won’t even begin to bore you with. But it’s exploding. And do you know why? Because whether you’re taking a yoga sculpt class, a kundalini class, yoga and spin, restorative yoga, yoga with wine, yoga in a sauna...YOGA IS WHEN YOU GET TO JUST BE. You’re not on your phone, you’re not working, you’re not talking...YOU ARE JUST BEING YOU. You’re listening to your body, you’re honoring yourself, you’re breathing consciously. AND THAT FEELS GOOD. 

IT FEELS GOOD TO JUST BE. 

In a country where we are inundated with success being linked to an image of extreme material possessions, where we work without boundaries because our cellphones have brought our bosses into our bedroom, where we are being fed food that’s fast and inflames our organs so much that we walk with aches in a fog so thick we can’t even make eye contact with the person in front of us yoga is spreading. Yoga is spreading because that image of success we are force-fed on plastic spoons that destroy our planet covered in GMO’s, is giving us the ability to breathe over the noise. To see through the fog. To redefine our idea of success.

Success is not about having, it’s not about doing. It’s about being. 

So I’m going to take the towels out of the laundry, walk Dusty (my really cute pug), and do a little less before my evening classes.

I would love to know what you don’t have time for that you wish you did have time for, and why. 

Sometimes, when we can write out what we want and what’s stopping us: it’s easier to see that it’s really US standing in our own way of feeling good. 

Say it with me: My worth is not dependent on how much I do, how much I make, if I have initials after my name. My worth was given to me the moment I was born. I deserve to feel good and to live a life that feels good. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH. 

#wellbeingcoach wellnessblogger arielleyoga livewellwitharielle doless selfcare selflove yoga workingonyourself bestversionofme

[cammiluna]

Cammi’s Blog Series on Watercolor #1

Due to several requests from many of my twitter mutuals, I’m going to talk about watercolor for a few posts.

This is everything based on my own experiences and my suggestions or methods are in no way “the right way to watercolor.” There’s pros on youtube that can teach you how to watercolor like a champ.

I just draw silly characters!

in THIS post, I will list my suggestions on watercolor supplies to purchase for getting started. Later posts during the week/month of February, I will go into defails on specific kinds of paints, paper, brushes, palettes, and then some.  A table of Contents will be added to this original post as more posts are added to this series.

All price estimates are in US dollars

1: My Personal Favorite:

Daniel Smith Essentials Set of 6 ($30 on Amazon)

Daniel Smith Primatek Introductory Set of 6 ($25-30 on Amazon) 

Meeden Empty Watercolor tin with 12 half pans ($11 on Amazon)

Interestingly enough, now Daniel Smith has a 15-color pan set for about the same price as this setup, and it has all the essential colors except for New Gamboge, but it doesn’’t include any of the gorgeous Primatek colors, and the lid isn’t made for mixing color (the water spills onto your lap) so you’ll have to buy an additional palette anyway. Still, iif the colors in that set are up your alley, go for it! 

Daniel Smith has been my dominant paint choice for almost a year now; getting them last February and taking a few months to get used to them after using cotmans for two years and artist loft for the 10 years prior. I didn’t think artist grade paint would be worthwhile for the likes of ME because I just draw character doodles and not landscapes or textures that rely on high-pigment paint to really shine, but I was wrong.  The colors lay down so much better and you use less paint per drawing because of the high pigment load. I’ve painted a lot more in 2008 than I have in previous years and none of my tubes are close to running out!  The Plague Knight and Mona drawing posted above was done with artist grade paint.

I’ve expanded since then, buying another tube of Daniel Smith when I was able to go to Blick with a small wad of cash, or get a Winsor & Newton Artist grade tube for $5 with a Michaels coupon.I also repurposed my Cotman box for my current paint set. I can’t remember how much this whole palette is worth together, but the initial 12-color+metal case setup was about $70 (the primateks gifted to me), and then I added a new color every several weeks or when I felt like I really needed something else.

2: The Simple Budget Grab-n-Go

You are very new to watercolor, not sure if you are willing to commit, or you’re just plain not in a situation where you can be spendy.

Maybe you’ve used those $5 watercolor cake sets and you’re tired of the chalky powder rubbing onto adjacent pages when the paintings dry in your nice Moleskine book

Winsor & Newton Cotman: Sketchers Pocket Box. These days, you can get it for around $13 on Amazon.

There are LOTS of different cotman sets, but this one has two kinds of reds, two blues, two yellows, two greens, and 3 neutrals, which, if you’re a beginner, is a great way to learn about color mixing. It also has some of the most popularly-used colors in the world of paint, such as burnt sienna, french ultramarine, cadmium yellow [hue], alizarin crimson, sap green, and the pthalos, so you can develop familiarity with these and easily find tips and tricks on using them online. Any color you don’t like later on can get tossed in the garbage and replaced with another color (I’ve replaced black with Paynes Grey, white with Cerulean Blue Hue, and Burnt Umber with Van Dyke Brown).

You can make all sorts of colors with this, and you won’t get overwhelmed with having too many colors to glance over.

Refills and additional colors are available for $5+ each

It comes with a small brush. You may not like it. 

Cotman Brush Pen Set, $17 on Amazon.

I’m not a fan of color setup except for the inclusion of Paynes Grey, Turquoise, and a really nice purple, but I LOVE this box!  It comes with more mixing space on the lid and a waterbrush that I think works really well. It’s a very thin tipped brush, so if you want something to more easily paint over larger areas, I suggest getting a medium size waterbrush listed below.

If you don’t like waterbrushes, a foldable pocket paintbrush can fit in the slot just fine.I’ll have a separate post on paintbrush details.

---

The main issue with cotmans is that they carry less pigment than more expensive pants as these are student grade. Many of the colors are still vivid and wonderful, and you’ll just have to layer some colors a few times to get some really bold color application on the paper. Many people use cotmans just fine.

avoid Van Dyke Brown at all costs. Look at this Banjo!

3: More Colors for your Buck!

You don’t care about mixing or portability, You love color. you want to explore all that’s available in paint or want to build a collection that’s as big as your copics.

You have options, my friend!

Kuretake Gansai Tambi, $30 on Amazon, $40 on JetPens. I do not recommend these if you like to mix colors or complex layering because these don’t handle that well. I’ve tried layering color on commissions and it would just lift the bottom later of paint after it dried a week prior, and this nearly destroyed two commissions. HOWEVER, if your watercolor style is simple shading, bold, flat colors, using the white of the paper for highlights, this set will be a terrific friend of yours. The pinks, greens, and blues are absolutely fantastic and I use it for my Superstar Saga art whenever I’m home. 

The paint is really opague unless you water it down a ton. It’s still going to look great regardless.

Smaller sets of this are availablle, but since mixing more than two colors at a time doesn’t work out very well, you might as well go with the largest set.

There’s also the option of larger cotman sets with a half pan set of up to 45 colors for $55 on Amazon.

Paintbrushes

For this post, I’m going to briefly list some travel brushes. a more detailed post about bushes will come in the near future.

The main points are:

You would want a water brush if you like to paint with water in the brush, or paint on the go with no real opportunities to put a water cup down anywhere.

You would want a synthetic paintbrush if the stiffness works with your painting style and you want the brush to hold more pigment than water You can get these in assorted price ranges, but the super cheap ones  will wear down and need frequent replacement.

You go for a natural hair paintbrush if you want to make really long paint strokes or paint large areas without having to re-add paint and water to the brush so frequently.  Most of these are pretty expensive.

Anyone may tell you “natural hair brushes are the best brushes” but this is completely up to preference and painting habits Any small brush over $10 will last you a long time if you take care of it. Unless maybe it’s from Artist’s Loft.

A good size main brush (particularly if you do A5-sized paintings like me) is a 6 round. if you could only afford one brush, make it this one. This would be your go-to brush that can do thick fills, tight corners and thin lines as you need. Other size and shape brushes can be added to your set as you feel you need or could afford them later on.

Pentel Aquash waterbrush: $10 on Amazon. You simply fill the barrel with water, and the brush will drip water from the bristles and let you paint without needing to dip the brush into a jar of water. You won’t need a jar of water at all!  Some people love the convenience, some people hate how out-of-control the water flow gets.

I recommend the medium for a main brush. If you need a finer point for details, you could get one as a secondary brush, but if you feel you don’t need it, then just the medium is fine.

I just started using the Pentel brand a couple of months ago and can’t give judgement on them yet. Other brands I’ve tried before needed replacing at least twice a year with regular use.

I love travel brushes because I like the bristles to be protected when I take them places.  Normal handle bushes can be cheaper or longer.  Personally, I don’t look for brand names when picking brushes, I look for the material of the hair.

Both Escoda and DaVinci make great Red Sable brushes, and they have been my mains for two years. Expensive as they were, they are still working great and have perfect sharp points 18 months later. Not to mention, I’ve made the money back through watercolor commissions, in which these brushes allowed me to complete more commissions in less time.

White Taklon has worked well for me for synthetic brushes. Princeton has been my regular brand in late 2008 since I was able to snag those at Michaels in the mixed media brush section.

---

That’s it for now! Next post I’ll cover watercolor paper.

#watercolor #cammi's watercolor blogging

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18

Now that my post-bacc is years behind me (I’m realizing as I write this that I began it in 2010, which is nuts), it’s very easy to tell an elegant story of adversity being channeled into growth, or about the benefits of experiencing rejection. I’ve been aware for a long time that I was probably spared a life that wouldn’t have been right for me when I didn’t get into medical school, but the passage of time has made it easy to forget how painful the loss of that dream felt when it first happened.

Over the last 11 weeks, I’ve had the interesting experience of getting a taste of the path not taken. I’m not doing medicine, per se, but I’m doing the kind of dietetic work that’s as clinical as it gets. Much of what I love about it—problem solving, the detective work of exploring a patient’s history, the intellectual challenge of establishing a problem and then finding my way to a suitable intervention—aligns with what I think I’d have loved about medicine.

The lifestyle, though, isn’t a fit. Maybe I’m saying this because it’s the first weekend since the DI started in which I feel genuinely and completely burnt out, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Oftentimes when I’m at work I feel interested, or even exhilarated, by what I’m doing. Yet it always feels as though I’m living somebody else’s life, doing someone else’s job, and I don’t think that has anything to do with my status as an intern. I think it’s because a part of me is strongly lit up, but too many other parts are dormant.

I miss creative work. I miss cooking with intellectual and artistic engagement, rather than trying to rush through my meal prep over the weekends simply for the sake of being fed. I miss having a little fun with food photography, which at the moment feels more formulaic and dutiful than enjoyable. I miss reading cookbooks and food blogs and recipes for inspiration; I miss writing about food from my heart and soul, rather than recapping what I’ve recently made and eaten.

I miss having a little unstructured time built into my days. Much as it’s been good for me to have a set schedule and structure in my life (so much that I’m already pondering how to have more of it next year), I’m not a person who’s capable of go-go-going. I’m too sensitive, too prone to burnout and overwhelm.

For a long time I accepted this while also wishing that I were more of a doer. The more time I spend in the DI, the less I idealize being able to work/do/accomplish nonstop. This, actually, is a huge gift: for the first time in my life I’m craving stillness not because I’ve tired myself out or gotten overly anxious, but because I’d very honestly rather have less to do than more.

Each weekend, I tell myself it’ll be easy to catch up on blogging and writing, along with errands and my DI class and other responsibilities. It isn’t—of course it isn’t. Blogging is my job. Thinking about and creating food isn’t just how I love to spend my time: it’s what I do professionally. For so many years I’ve had a hard time owning food/nutrition writing as my career; I’m constantly disclaiming that I’m also in grad school, also making my way into healthcare, also a former editor. The fact that it’s been so difficult for me to embrace a creative life has everything to do with my own insecurities and fears about charting an unmapped course for myself, rather than hewing to a clearly defined path.

As I noted a few weeks ago, the DI is teaching me a lot about how to trust in my own judgment. It’s also helping me to clarify some of my priorities as a person and a professional. I’m settling into the clinical work more ably than I expected to, which has been affirming. How surprised I’ve been, though, to realize that excelling in the ways I always hoped I could doesn’t entirely feed me.

Life never stops taking me by surprise, nor does it ever stop encouraging me to explore my hungers and the things that satisfy them. I’m writing this post from my sofa, draped in a blanket and feeling let down by all of the stuff I though I’d have energy to do this weekend and didn’t. But I’m clearer than I have been in a long time about what makes me tick. This is a gift, even if I won’t be able to act on it until after the DI is behind me.

Wishing you a week that makes you tick, even in the smallest of ways. Happy Sunday, and here are some recipes and reads.

Recipes

Thanksgiving may be over, but that’s not gonna stop me from making Cadry’s adorable vegan stuffing muffins!

Ditto for Tamsin’s creamy mashed potatoes…

…and I’ll top it all with some of Marly’s vegan gravy!

Switching away from Thanksgiving fare, I’m loving Jess’ recipe for vegan stuffed pepper soup.

Finally, it’s been a while since I made homemade falafel, and Steven’s baked jalapeno falafel would be a perfect recipe to try.

Reads

1. I’m late to the party on this post, but so glad I found it, via Cup of Jo: 10 wise comments on breakups.

2. These tips on navigating Thanksgiving while in recovery could easily apply to the entire holiday season.

3. Kathryn Schulz’s terrifying, nuanced reporting on an earthquake that is supposed to hit the Northwest—though we’re not sure when.

4. Speaking of stillness/free time—and because the article title along is worth sharing—the profound pleasure of puttering.

5. This article, via the New York Times, echoes a lot of my own feelings about probiotics: helpful in particular instances (such as a bad bout of traveler’s diarrhea), but until we know more about how they work, there’s not a strong case for routine supplementation.

OK, friends. This sleepy DI student is off to take care of what needs doing before week 12 begins. Sending love.

xo

The post Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 published first on https://storeseapharmacy.tumblr.com

[gardencityvegans]

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18

https://www.thefullhelping.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/weekend_reading.jpg

Now that my post-bacc is years behind me (I’m realizing as I write this that I began it in 2010, which is nuts), it’s very easy to tell an elegant story of adversity being channeled into growth, or about the benefits of experiencing rejection. I’ve been aware for a long time that I was probably spared a life that wouldn’t have been right for me when I didn’t get into medical school, but the passage of time has made it easy to forget how painful the loss of that dream felt when it first happened.

Over the last 11 weeks, I’ve had the interesting experience of getting a taste of the path not taken. I’m not doing medicine, per se, but I’m doing the kind of dietetic work that’s as clinical as it gets. Much of what I love about it—problem solving, the detective work of exploring a patient’s history, the intellectual challenge of establishing a problem and then finding my way to a suitable intervention—aligns with what I think I’d have loved about medicine.

The lifestyle, though, isn’t a fit. Maybe I’m saying this because it’s the first weekend since the DI started in which I feel genuinely and completely burnt out, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Oftentimes when I’m at work I feel interested, or even exhilarated, by what I’m doing. Yet it always feels as though I’m living somebody else’s life, doing someone else’s job, and I don’t think that has anything to do with my status as an intern. I think it’s because a part of me is strongly lit up, but too many other parts are dormant.

I miss creative work. I miss cooking with intellectual and artistic engagement, rather than trying to rush through my meal prep over the weekends simply for the sake of being fed. I miss having a little fun with food photography, which at the moment feels more formulaic and dutiful than enjoyable. I miss reading cookbooks and food blogs and recipes for inspiration; I miss writing about food from my heart and soul, rather than recapping what I’ve recently made and eaten.

I miss having a little unstructured time built into my days. Much as it’s been good for me to have a set schedule and structure in my life (so much that I’m already pondering how to have more of it next year), I’m not a person who’s capable of go-go-going. I’m too sensitive, too prone to burnout and overwhelm.

For a long time I accepted this while also wishing that I were more of a doer. The more time I spend in the DI, the less I idealize being able to work/do/accomplish nonstop. This, actually, is a huge gift: for the first time in my life I’m craving stillness not because I’ve tired myself out or gotten overly anxious, but because I’d very honestly rather have less to do than more.

Each weekend, I tell myself it’ll be easy to catch up on blogging and writing, along with errands and my DI class and other responsibilities. It isn’t—of course it isn’t. Blogging is my job. Thinking about and creating food isn’t just how I love to spend my time: it’s what I do professionally. For so many years I’ve had a hard time owning food/nutrition writing as my career; I’m constantly disclaiming that I’m also in grad school, also making my way into healthcare, also a former editor. The fact that it’s been so difficult for me to embrace a creative life has everything to do with my own insecurities and fears about charting an unmapped course for myself, rather than hewing to a clearly defined path.

As I noted a few weeks ago, the DI is teaching me a lot about how to trust in my own judgment. It’s also helping me to clarify some of my priorities as a person and a professional. I’m settling into the clinical work more ably than I expected to, which has been affirming. How surprised I’ve been, though, to realize that excelling in the ways I always hoped I could doesn’t entirely feed me.

Life never stops taking me by surprise, nor does it ever stop encouraging me to explore my hungers and the things that satisfy them. I’m writing this post from my sofa, draped in a blanket and feeling let down by all of the stuff I though I’d have energy to do this weekend and didn’t. But I’m clearer than I have been in a long time about what makes me tick. This is a gift, even if I won’t be able to act on it until after the DI is behind me.

Wishing you a week that makes you tick, even in the smallest of ways. Happy Sunday, and here are some recipes and reads.

Recipes

Thanksgiving may be over, but that’s not gonna stop me from making Cadry’s adorable vegan stuffing muffins!

Ditto for Tamsin’s creamy mashed potatoes…

…and I’ll top it all with some of Marly’s vegan gravy!

Switching away from Thanksgiving fare, I’m loving Jess’ recipe for vegan stuffed pepper soup.

Finally, it’s been a while since I made homemade falafel, and Steven’s baked jalapeno falafel would be a perfect recipe to try.

Reads

1. I’m late to the party on this post, but so glad I found it, via Cup of Jo: 10 wise comments on breakups.

2. These tips on navigating Thanksgiving while in recovery could easily apply to the entire holiday season.

3. Kathryn Schulz’s terrifying, nuanced reporting on an earthquake that is supposed to hit the Northwest—though we’re not sure when.

4. Speaking of stillness/free time—and because the article title along is worth sharing—the profound pleasure of puttering.

5. This article, via the New York Times, echoes a lot of my own feelings about probiotics: helpful in particular instances (such as a bad bout of traveler’s diarrhea), but until we know more about how they work, there’s not a strong case for routine supplementation.

OK, friends. This sleepy DI student is off to take care of what needs doing before week 12 begins. Sending love.

xo

[Read More ...] https://www.thefullhelping.com/weekend-reading-11-25-18/

#infrared #health

[andrewdrobins]

The Bledsoe Show w/ Simon Scott: Burnt & Poisoned #77



This is a special episode, where Mike and a few friends describe their experience right after participating in a special ceremony in Sedona, AZ, which included frog medicine from the amazon called kambo.

Kambo is an extraction from an Amazonian frog, which some people think is poison, but it’s a collection of peptides, which humans use for cleansing the body and spirit for thousands of years.

The episode is broken down into three back-to-back separate interviews. The first one is with Simon Scott, the kambo medicine provider and administrator, and two more interviews with the participants in the ceremony, including previous guest, Mark England.

Enjoy!

-Mike

A post shared by Simon Scott (@simonscott) on Apr 25, 2018 at 5:40pm PDT

Who is Simon Scott?

Simon Scott is a kambo practitioner and provider, who has been administering thousands of kambo ceremonies for the past 5 years. Before getting into kambo, a south American medicine used in the Amazon, Simon had a strong career in visual effects, living in the UK, which is where he is from.

Simon got into kambo as a result of his health problems. He was depressed, could barely walk, and was looking for help. He first found ayahuasca, and after working with ayahuasca for 3 years, he found kambo. Simon was attracted to kambo after he saw the physical results of people who did it. He witnessed how people who were hunched over, who looked depressed and decaying, looked energetic and upright, post kambo ceremonies.

The biggest thing Simon received from kambo is a sense of trust, a sense that he is held and connected. Instead of walking around in fear, thinking about how he will survive, kambo freed Simon of that feeling, and made him more trusting and confident.

Mike and other participants at Simon’s ceremony felt clarity, sharpness, and relaxation.

“Shamanic medicine comes with a price, and the price is usually some form of pain or giving something up.” — Simon Scott

Connect with Simon on social: Instagram, Facebook

Resources: Kambo Cleanse

What’s kambo?

Kambo works on different levels: Physical, emotional, and spiritual. People can come to a kambo ceremony with a physical issue, and then find themselves working on the emotional and spiritual levels.

Kambo doesn’t necessarily cure disease and should be kept separate from the medical field. Your so called disease can come from some kind of blockage in your body, and kambo tends to loosen or release those blockages completely. Most of the results from kambo happen post ceremony, Simon has witnessed people who have changed partners, careers, and even sex.

Kambo is not prevalent in domesticated frogs, it comes from fibromyalgia frogs, which are big green tree frogs found in Peru, Brazil and Columbia. A lot of tribes have a special relationship with these frogs, and they know how to call the frogs and “speak” to them. They don’t kill the frogs, else only capture them to get the kambo and release them.

In the past, hunters and warriors used kambo to sharpen their senses (hearing and visual), and to be able to go longer without water and food. When you first get introduced to kambo, it can make you tired as you’re working through a bunch of shit. But later on, it can be energizing, and fine tune all of your senses. It even removes the human smell and makes people “invisible” to wild animals.

“Kambo is not a miracle cure. It’s not going to solve cancer, but it will help you become a better version of yourself at that moment.” — Simon Scott

Kambo administration

If you want to work with kambo practitioners, you have 3 options:

Independent person — Someone who is self-trained

IAKP — International Associated of Kambo Practitioners

KKP — Katukina Kambo providers

Currently, most people take kambo and reconstitute it with water to make it a paste. They then make a “gate” on the body using a hot stick, and apply the kambo to a hole so it can go into the bloodstream. For safety, ceremonies start with a single point, and then increase the number of points to 6 or more.

Sananga eye drops are also commonly used before kambo (and ayahuasca) ceremonies. Sananga eye drops are also from the Amazon, they are made from roots of a bush, and enhances eye vision:

“For traditional Amazonian tribespeople, sananga is a powerful eye medicine used to sharpen night vision. For modern seekers of spiritual healing, however, sananga does more than help with hunting. Often used as a precursor to ayahuasca ceremonies by the Kaxinawa and Matsés tribes of Brazil, these powerful eye drops have a healing power that’s more energetic than physical, and that has the capacity to increase spiritual insight in the minds of those who use it.” — PsychedelicTimes.com

Post kambo

Listen to your body after a kambo ceremony. If your body wants to go on a hike because it is energized, do it. If your body is exhausted and you feel like sleeping for 12 hours, do that. When you are post a ceremony, listen to yourself, not the group. Moving forward, think of kambo as a space maker, go meditate, and go journal.

Get 15% OFF Qualia with promo code: Bledsoe15

Kambo retreat testimonials

Rick McCoy is a MMA institute owner from Richmond, VA. Rick has struggle with being peace and calm, and has always been a person who was trying to go for the hard way. Kambo made him realize he doesn’t have to do it, which was a huge breakthrough.

Rick has done kambo prior to this retreat, but during this one, he felt like the setting and people took it to another level. He felt really good, felt serenity, and slept amazing over the weekend, even though he usually takes sleeping pills.

When it comes to kambo, one of the biggest roadblocks for people is vomiting, and Rick was very much against it, but he learned to embrace it. When it comes to purging and vomiting, he realized it was getting bad things out of him, and it almost felt like a celebration!

“I wasn’t sure what I wanted out of this, but I got exactly what I wanted out of this.” — Rick McCoy

Connect with Rick on social: Instagram, Facebook

Resources: MMA Institute

Brian Muka is a veteran from Richmond, VA, who currently does medical sales, but intends on switching careers to coaching and leading people to approach their relationship with fear.

Post ceremony, Brian felt more centered, and felt like there was an inner shift in him. Even though the ceremony brought things from his deployment to Iraq, in the end, he felt calm and energized.

“I can be more comfortable being uncomfortable.” — Brian Muka

Connect with Rick on social: Facebook

Resources: Fear Sherpa

Ashley Bledsoe is not only Mike’s wife, but also has a master’s degree in Sports and Recreation Management, and has been supporting, coaching and facilitating groups in the fitness industry for the past 10 years.

However, over the past three years, she’s been delving into deeper healing work. She’s passionate about coaching female entrepreneurs to forge deeper connections to themselves, each other and creating unique and practical ways to bring that to their businesses.

In the past year, Ashley has done a lot of work to get back to her inner self. She wanted to get rid of what no longer serves her, and felt like she was always tired. Post ceremony she felt more relaxed than she’s ever been, and her body felt really good.

Today, Ashley is working on the Great Bold Woman Project, which is for women that are in relationships with entrepreneurs. The project is about learning how to stay in power and be in love and support of their partners.

“It wasn’t overwhelming, unless I thought it was overwhelming… Trust yourself and trust the medicine.” — Ashley Bledsoe

Connect with Ashley on social: Instagram, Facebook

Mark England has professionally coached thousands of clients worldwide using the power of words and stories for over a decade. He holds an BA in business and a Master’s in Education. Mark is the co-founder of Procabulary and is a lifelong personal development enthusiast.

Mark met Simon Scott in 2014 at a leadership emergent after the Envision festival at Costa Rica. Mark saw a picture of people doing it before and heard about a first-hand experience from a friend. When he did it for the first time, he was too tensed to get all the benefits. Today, he is trying to form a better relationship with kambo as it takes a while to relax into a kambo session, similar to the process of relaxing to an ice bath session.

Mark felt content, but there’s always more. Post ceremony, he gets more insight into what he’s doing in his life and that’s enough for him. His favorite quote from the retreat describing kambo was said by Mike:

“Let old things die.” — Mike Bledsoe

Connect on social: Instagram, Facebook

Resources: Procabulary, Mark’s TED Talk: Identity vs. Process: Reinterpreting Failure, Procabulary Instagram, Procabulary Facebook

Avery Wood has been on a path to heal from a chronic intestinal disease for the last 3 years, where she has been exploring every modality of healing she came across. Avery has a strong curiosity to understand everything that goes through the healing process, and realized with the help of medicine that her condition has to do with her emotional and physical states.

“It has been like a rest button, reminded me to slow down, and take care of myself on a day-to-day basis.” — Avery Wood

Mike felt like kambo was working from its way his taint to the top of his head. He felt heat coming up through his neck to his head, then down his arms, into his hands, and down to his belly. During the entire process he really focused on breath and softening his belly, as he felt sharp pain deep in his gut.

Mike felt like nothing is really a big deal after kambo. He noticed the amount of energy he has after a session is intense, but not like a cup of energy, else feeling bigger, like his capacity for life is enlarged. He felt like the experience from the medicine has transformed him in a permanent way, and he loved it.

“Pain x resistance = suffering. If you can bring down resistance to 0, then pain is just pain, and suffering does not exist.” — Mike Bledsoe

NEW SEMINAR!

The Strong Coach

The post The Bledsoe Show w/ Simon Scott: Burnt & Poisoned #77 appeared first on Shrugged Collective.

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18

Now that my post-bacc is years behind me (I’m realizing as I write this that I began it in 2010, which is nuts), it’s very easy to tell an elegant story of adversity being channeled into growth, or about the benefits of experiencing rejection. I’ve been aware for a long time that I was probably spared a life that wouldn’t have been right for me when I didn’t get into medical school, but the passage of time has made it easy to forget how painful the loss of that dream felt when it first happened.

Over the last 11 weeks, I’ve had the interesting experience of getting a taste of the path not taken. I’m not doing medicine, per se, but I’m doing the kind of dietetic work that’s as clinical as it gets. Much of what I love about it—problem solving, the detective work of exploring a patient’s history, the intellectual challenge of establishing a problem and then finding my way to a suitable intervention—aligns with what I think I’d have loved about medicine.

The lifestyle, though, isn’t a fit. Maybe I’m saying this because it’s the first weekend since the DI started in which I feel genuinely and completely burnt out, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Oftentimes when I’m at work I feel interested, or even exhilarated, by what I’m doing. Yet it always feels as though I’m living somebody else’s life, doing someone else’s job, and I don’t think that has anything to do with my status as an intern. I think it’s because a part of me is strongly lit up, but too many other parts are dormant.

I miss creative work. I miss cooking with intellectual and artistic engagement, rather than trying to rush through my meal prep over the weekends simply for the sake of being fed. I miss having a little fun with food photography, which at the moment feels more formulaic and dutiful than enjoyable. I miss reading cookbooks and food blogs and recipes for inspiration; I miss writing about food from my heart and soul, rather than recapping what I’ve recently made and eaten.

I miss having a little unstructured time built into my days. Much as it’s been good for me to have a set schedule and structure in my life (so much that I’m already pondering how to have more of it next year), I’m not a person who’s capable of go-go-going. I’m too sensitive, too prone to burnout and overwhelm.

For a long time I accepted this while also wishing that I were more of a doer. The more time I spend in the DI, the less I idealize being able to work/do/accomplish nonstop. This, actually, is a huge gift: for the first time in my life I’m craving stillness not because I’ve tired myself out or gotten overly anxious, but because I’d very honestly rather have less to do than more.

Each weekend, I tell myself it’ll be easy to catch up on blogging and writing, along with errands and my DI class and other responsibilities. It isn’t—of course it isn’t. Blogging is my job. Thinking about and creating food isn’t just how I love to spend my time: it’s what I do professionally. For so many years I’ve had a hard time owning food/nutrition writing as my career; I’m constantly disclaiming that I’m also in grad school, also making my way into healthcare, also a former editor. The fact that it’s been so difficult for me to embrace a creative life has everything to do with my own insecurities and fears about charting an unmapped course for myself, rather than hewing to a clearly defined path.

As I noted a few weeks ago, the DI is teaching me a lot about how to trust in my own judgment. It’s also helping me to clarify some of my priorities as a person and a professional. I’m settling into the clinical work more ably than I expected to, which has been affirming. How surprised I’ve been, though, to realize that excelling in the ways I always hoped I could doesn’t entirely feed me.

Life never stops taking me by surprise, nor does it ever stop encouraging me to explore my hungers and the things that satisfy them. I’m writing this post from my sofa, draped in a blanket and feeling let down by all of the stuff I though I’d have energy to do this weekend and didn’t. But I’m clearer than I have been in a long time about what makes me tick. This is a gift, even if I won’t be able to act on it until after the DI is behind me.

Wishing you a week that makes you tick, even in the smallest of ways. Happy Sunday, and here are some recipes and reads.

Recipes

Thanksgiving may be over, but that’s not gonna stop me from making Cadry’s adorable vegan stuffing muffins!

Ditto for Tamsin’s creamy mashed potatoes…

…and I’ll top it all with some of Marly’s vegan gravy!

Switching away from Thanksgiving fare, I’m loving Jess’ recipe for vegan stuffed pepper soup.

Finally, it’s been a while since I made homemade falafel, and Steven’s baked jalapeno falafel would be a perfect recipe to try.

Reads

1. I’m late to the party on this post, but so glad I found it, via Cup of Jo: 10 wise comments on breakups.

2. These tips on navigating Thanksgiving while in recovery could easily apply to the entire holiday season.

3. Kathryn Schulz’s terrifying, nuanced reporting on an earthquake that is supposed to hit the Northwest—though we’re not sure when.

4. Speaking of stillness/free time—and because the article title along is worth sharing—the profound pleasure of puttering.

5. This article, via the New York Times, echoes a lot of my own feelings about probiotics: helpful in particular instances (such as a bad bout of traveler’s diarrhea), but until we know more about how they work, there’s not a strong case for routine supplementation.

OK, friends. This sleepy DI student is off to take care of what needs doing before week 12 begins. Sending love.

xo

The post Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 published first on

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18

Now that my post-bacc is years behind me (I’m realizing as I write this that I began it in 2010, which is nuts), it’s very easy to tell an elegant story of adversity being channeled into growth, or about the benefits of experiencing rejection. I’ve been aware for a long time that I was probably spared a life that wouldn’t have been right for me when I didn’t get into medical school, but the passage of time has made it easy to forget how painful the loss of that dream felt when it first happened.

Over the last 11 weeks, I’ve had the interesting experience of getting a taste of the path not taken. I’m not doing medicine, per se, but I’m doing the kind of dietetic work that’s as clinical as it gets. Much of what I love about it—problem solving, the detective work of exploring a patient’s history, the intellectual challenge of establishing a problem and then finding my way to a suitable intervention—aligns with what I think I’d have loved about medicine.

The lifestyle, though, isn’t a fit. Maybe I’m saying this because it’s the first weekend since the DI started in which I feel genuinely and completely burnt out, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Oftentimes when I’m at work I feel interested, or even exhilarated, by what I’m doing. Yet it always feels as though I’m living somebody else’s life, doing someone else’s job, and I don’t think that has anything to do with my status as an intern. I think it’s because a part of me is strongly lit up, but too many other parts are dormant.

I miss creative work. I miss cooking with intellectual and artistic engagement, rather than trying to rush through my meal prep over the weekends simply for the sake of being fed. I miss having a little fun with food photography, which at the moment feels more formulaic and dutiful than enjoyable. I miss reading cookbooks and food blogs and recipes for inspiration; I miss writing about food from my heart and soul, rather than recapping what I’ve recently made and eaten.

I miss having a little unstructured time built into my days. Much as it’s been good for me to have a set schedule and structure in my life (so much that I’m already pondering how to have more of it next year), I’m not a person who’s capable of go-go-going. I’m too sensitive, too prone to burnout and overwhelm.

For a long time I accepted this while also wishing that I were more of a doer. The more time I spend in the DI, the less I idealize being able to work/do/accomplish nonstop. This, actually, is a huge gift: for the first time in my life I’m craving stillness not because I’ve tired myself out or gotten overly anxious, but because I’d very honestly rather have less to do than more.

Each weekend, I tell myself it’ll be easy to catch up on blogging and writing, along with errands and my DI class and other responsibilities. It isn’t—of course it isn’t. Blogging is my job. Thinking about and creating food isn’t just how I love to spend my time: it’s what I do professionally. For so many years I’ve had a hard time owning food/nutrition writing as my career; I’m constantly disclaiming that I’m also in grad school, also making my way into healthcare, also a former editor. The fact that it’s been so difficult for me to embrace a creative life has everything to do with my own insecurities and fears about charting an unmapped course for myself, rather than hewing to a clearly defined path.

As I noted a few weeks ago, the DI is teaching me a lot about how to trust in my own judgment. It’s also helping me to clarify some of my priorities as a person and a professional. I’m settling into the clinical work more ably than I expected to, which has been affirming. How surprised I’ve been, though, to realize that excelling in the ways I always hoped I could doesn’t entirely feed me.

Life never stops taking me by surprise, nor does it ever stop encouraging me to explore my hungers and the things that satisfy them. I’m writing this post from my sofa, draped in a blanket and feeling let down by all of the stuff I though I’d have energy to do this weekend and didn’t. But I’m clearer than I have been in a long time about what makes me tick. This is a gift, even if I won’t be able to act on it until after the DI is behind me.

Wishing you a week that makes you tick, even in the smallest of ways. Happy Sunday, and here are some recipes and reads.

Recipes

Thanksgiving may be over, but that’s not gonna stop me from making Cadry’s adorable vegan stuffing muffins!

Ditto for Tamsin’s creamy mashed potatoes…

…and I’ll top it all with some of Marly’s vegan gravy!

Switching away from Thanksgiving fare, I’m loving Jess’ recipe for vegan stuffed pepper soup.

Finally, it’s been a while since I made homemade falafel, and Steven’s baked jalapeno falafel would be a perfect recipe to try.

Reads

1. I’m late to the party on this post, but so glad I found it, via Cup of Jo: 10 wise comments on breakups.

2. These tips on navigating Thanksgiving while in recovery could easily apply to the entire holiday season.

3. Kathryn Schulz’s terrifying, nuanced reporting on an earthquake that is supposed to hit the Northwest—though we’re not sure when.

4. Speaking of stillness/free time—and because the article title along is worth sharing—the profound pleasure of puttering.

5. This article, via the New York Times, echoes a lot of my own feelings about probiotics: helpful in particular instances (such as a bad bout of traveler’s diarrhea), but until we know more about how they work, there’s not a strong case for routine supplementation.

OK, friends. This sleepy DI student is off to take care of what needs doing before week 12 begins. Sending love.

xo

The post Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 published first on https://storeseapharmacy.tumblr.com

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18

Now that my post-bacc is years behind me (I’m realizing as I write this that I began it in 2010, which is nuts), it’s very easy to tell an elegant story of adversity being channeled into growth, or about the benefits of experiencing rejection. I’ve been aware for a long time that I was probably spared a life that wouldn’t have been right for me when I didn’t get into medical school, but the passage of time has made it easy to forget how painful the loss of that dream felt when it first happened.

Over the last 11 weeks, I’ve had the interesting experience of getting a taste of the path not taken. I’m not doing medicine, per se, but I’m doing the kind of dietetic work that’s as clinical as it gets. Much of what I love about it—problem solving, the detective work of exploring a patient’s history, the intellectual challenge of establishing a problem and then finding my way to a suitable intervention—aligns with what I think I’d have loved about medicine.

The lifestyle, though, isn’t a fit. Maybe I’m saying this because it’s the first weekend since the DI started in which I feel genuinely and completely burnt out, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Oftentimes when I’m at work I feel interested, or even exhilarated, by what I’m doing. Yet it always feels as though I’m living somebody else’s life, doing someone else’s job, and I don’t think that has anything to do with my status as an intern. I think it’s because a part of me is strongly lit up, but too many other parts are dormant.

I miss creative work. I miss cooking with intellectual and artistic engagement, rather than trying to rush through my meal prep over the weekends simply for the sake of being fed. I miss having a little fun with food photography, which at the moment feels more formulaic and dutiful than enjoyable. I miss reading cookbooks and food blogs and recipes for inspiration; I miss writing about food from my heart and soul, rather than recapping what I’ve recently made and eaten.

I miss having a little unstructured time built into my days. Much as it’s been good for me to have a set schedule and structure in my life (so much that I’m already pondering how to have more of it next year), I’m not a person who’s capable of go-go-going. I’m too sensitive, too prone to burnout and overwhelm.

For a long time I accepted this while also wishing that I were more of a doer. The more time I spend in the DI, the less I idealize being able to work/do/accomplish nonstop. This, actually, is a huge gift: for the first time in my life I’m craving stillness not because I’ve tired myself out or gotten overly anxious, but because I’d very honestly rather have less to do than more.

Each weekend, I tell myself it’ll be easy to catch up on blogging and writing, along with errands and my DI class and other responsibilities. It isn’t—of course it isn’t. Blogging is my job. Thinking about and creating food isn’t just how I love to spend my time: it’s what I do professionally. For so many years I’ve had a hard time owning food/nutrition writing as my career; I’m constantly disclaiming that I’m also in grad school, also making my way into healthcare, also a former editor. The fact that it’s been so difficult for me to embrace a creative life has everything to do with my own insecurities and fears about charting an unmapped course for myself, rather than hewing to a clearly defined path.

As I noted a few weeks ago, the DI is teaching me a lot about how to trust in my own judgment. It’s also helping me to clarify some of my priorities as a person and a professional. I’m settling into the clinical work more ably than I expected to, which has been affirming. How surprised I’ve been, though, to realize that excelling in the ways I always hoped I could doesn’t entirely feed me.

Life never stops taking me by surprise, nor does it ever stop encouraging me to explore my hungers and the things that satisfy them. I’m writing this post from my sofa, draped in a blanket and feeling let down by all of the stuff I though I’d have energy to do this weekend and didn’t. But I’m clearer than I have been in a long time about what makes me tick. This is a gift, even if I won’t be able to act on it until after the DI is behind me.

Wishing you a week that makes you tick, even in the smallest of ways. Happy Sunday, and here are some recipes and reads.

Recipes

Thanksgiving may be over, but that’s not gonna stop me from making Cadry’s adorable vegan stuffing muffins!

Ditto for Tamsin’s creamy mashed potatoes…

…and I’ll top it all with some of Marly’s vegan gravy!

Switching away from Thanksgiving fare, I’m loving Jess’ recipe for vegan stuffed pepper soup.

Finally, it’s been a while since I made homemade falafel, and Steven’s baked jalapeno falafel would be a perfect recipe to try.

Reads

1. I’m late to the party on this post, but so glad I found it, via Cup of Jo: 10 wise comments on breakups.

2. These tips on navigating Thanksgiving while in recovery could easily apply to the entire holiday season.

3. Kathryn Schulz’s terrifying, nuanced reporting on an earthquake that is supposed to hit the Northwest—though we’re not sure when.

4. Speaking of stillness/free time—and because the article title along is worth sharing—the profound pleasure of puttering.

5. This article, via the New York Times, echoes a lot of my own feelings about probiotics: helpful in particular instances (such as a bad bout of traveler’s diarrhea), but until we know more about how they work, there’s not a strong case for routine supplementation.

OK, friends. This sleepy DI student is off to take care of what needs doing before week 12 begins. Sending love.

xo

The post Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 published first on https://storeseapharmacy.tumblr.com

[oovitus]

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18

Now that my post-bacc is years behind me (I’m realizing as I write this that I began it in 2010, which is nuts), it’s very easy to tell an elegant story of adversity being channeled into growth, or about the benefits of experiencing rejection. I’ve been aware for a long time that I was probably spared a life that wouldn’t have been right for me when I didn’t get into medical school, but the passage of time has made it easy to forget how painful the loss of that dream felt when it first happened.

Over the last 11 weeks, I’ve had the interesting experience of getting a taste of the path not taken. I’m not doing medicine, per se, but I’m doing the kind of dietetic work that’s as clinical as it gets. Much of what I love about it—problem solving, the detective work of exploring a patient’s history, the intellectual challenge of establishing a problem and then finding my way to a suitable intervention—aligns with what I think I’d have loved about medicine.

The lifestyle, though, isn’t a fit. Maybe I’m saying this because it’s the first weekend since the DI started in which I feel genuinely and completely burnt out, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Oftentimes when I’m at work I feel interested, or even exhilarated, by what I’m doing. Yet it always feels as though I’m living somebody else’s life, doing someone else’s job, and I don’t think that has anything to do with my status as an intern. I think it’s because a part of me is strongly lit up, but too many other parts are dormant.

I miss creative work. I miss cooking with intellectual and artistic engagement, rather than trying to rush through my meal prep over the weekends simply for the sake of being fed. I miss having a little fun with food photography, which at the moment feels more formulaic and dutiful than enjoyable. I miss reading cookbooks and food blogs and recipes for inspiration; I miss writing about food from my heart and soul, rather than recapping what I’ve recently made and eaten.

I miss having a little unstructured time built into my days. Much as it’s been good for me to have a set schedule and structure in my life (so much that I’m already pondering how to have more of it next year), I’m not a person who’s capable of go-go-going. I’m too sensitive, too prone to burnout and overwhelm.

For a long time I accepted this while also wishing that I were more of a doer. The more time I spend in the DI, the less I idealize being able to work/do/accomplish nonstop. This, actually, is a huge gift: for the first time in my life I’m craving stillness not because I’ve tired myself out or gotten overly anxious, but because I’d very honestly rather have less to do than more.

Each weekend, I tell myself it’ll be easy to catch up on blogging and writing, along with errands and my DI class and other responsibilities. It isn’t—of course it isn’t. Blogging is my job. Thinking about and creating food isn’t just how I love to spend my time: it’s what I do professionally. For so many years I’ve had a hard time owning food/nutrition writing as my career; I’m constantly disclaiming that I’m also in grad school, also making my way into healthcare, also a former editor. The fact that it’s been so difficult for me to embrace a creative life has everything to do with my own insecurities and fears about charting an unmapped course for myself, rather than hewing to a clearly defined path.

As I noted a few weeks ago, the DI is teaching me a lot about how to trust in my own judgment. It’s also helping me to clarify some of my priorities as a person and a professional. I’m settling into the clinical work more ably than I expected to, which has been affirming. How surprised I’ve been, though, to realize that excelling in the ways I always hoped I could doesn’t entirely feed me.

Life never stops taking me by surprise, nor does it ever stop encouraging me to explore my hungers and the things that satisfy them. I’m writing this post from my sofa, draped in a blanket and feeling let down by all of the stuff I though I’d have energy to do this weekend and didn’t. But I’m clearer than I have been in a long time about what makes me tick. This is a gift, even if I won’t be able to act on it until after the DI is behind me.

Wishing you a week that makes you tick, even in the smallest of ways. Happy Sunday, and here are some recipes and reads.

Recipes

Thanksgiving may be over, but that’s not gonna stop me from making Cadry’s adorable vegan stuffing muffins!

Ditto for Tamsin’s creamy mashed potatoes…

…and I’ll top it all with some of Marly’s vegan gravy!

Switching away from Thanksgiving fare, I’m loving Jess’ recipe for vegan stuffed pepper soup.

Finally, it’s been a while since I made homemade falafel, and Steven’s baked jalapeno falafel would be a perfect recipe to try.

Reads

1. I’m late to the party on this post, but so glad I found it, via Cup of Jo: 10 wise comments on breakups.

2. These tips on navigating Thanksgiving while in recovery could easily apply to the entire holiday season.

3. Kathryn Schulz’s terrifying, nuanced reporting on an earthquake that is supposed to hit the Northwest—though we’re not sure when.

4. Speaking of stillness/free time—and because the article title along is worth sharing—the profound pleasure of puttering.

5. This article, via the New York Times, echoes a lot of my own feelings about probiotics: helpful in particular instances (such as a bad bout of traveler’s diarrhea), but until we know more about how they work, there’s not a strong case for routine supplementation.

OK, friends. This sleepy DI student is off to take care of what needs doing before week 12 begins. Sending love.

xo

The post Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

Weekend Reading, 11.25.18 published first on