#and I can’t use relaxer on it because the point of me getting locs was so that I could have my natural hair without relaxer

[the-winds-of-destiny-xxx]

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[murdrdocs]

east to west | j. sully

description. when jake has you bent over in front of him with nothing but tree bark to keep you steady, you can barely remember why you were upset in the first place.

includes. SMUT 17+, very slight daddy kink, bratty!reader, fem!reader, choking (once), tail play??, jakes dick glows, they link, they’re also mated, takes place between a1 and a2, no kids, reader has a thing for vampires

a/n: hey! i still exist and i still write full fics lol. this is legit not proofread so ignore any and all mistakes plz i just needed to write something

word count: 3.0k+

There was a fire in your chest.

Its flames creeped up your throat and just lightly scraped the beginnings of your tongue. You could feel the smoke slipping up, burning your eyes and fogging your mind.

The effects were felt all over your body until you couldn’t ignore it. Yet, by the grace of Eywa, you managed to until you and Jake were alone.

Until he had you cornered against a tree and he was visually attempting to keep his glare as soft as possible. You, on the other hand, let it reign free, even hardening your gaze at one point just so he could see how upset you were.

A small disagreement was had between you two and it spiraled completely, until it brought you here: Angry with no desire to fix your attitude.

Which Jake saw.

His arms were crossed over his chest, which steadily rose and fell with calculated breaths. His tongue poked his cheek inside of his mouth. His hair, which has started to loc up, lays over his left shoulder.

Although you wouldn’t admit it, the sight of him had something stirring low in your belly. You wanted to be mad, though, not to be aroused. Instead of focusing on the glowing freckles along Jake’s skin, you thought about all of the reasons you have to be upset with him.

Seemingly understanding that you weren’t going to ease the tension first, Jake spoke.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The simple question does nothing but throw kindling to the fire. Your eyes roll, you cross your arms, and push off of the tree.

“You know what’s wrong, Jake. Stop pretending.” When you began walking away, Jake followed.

“If I knew what was wrong, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Men are so stupid.” Your voice was low enough for the complaint to obviously have been meant for your own ears, yet loud enough to purposefully share it with Jake’s.

He scoffed. “You can’t blame me when you’re pouting and refusing to tell me what’s wrong.”

The ground was soft under your thunderous steps. In your peripheral vision, you could see how it glowed with each step you took, and you would usually take time to appreciate the sight, and thank Eywa for the life that She has given you.

Unfortunately, you can’t find it in yourself to complete such a task now.

Instead, you mumble swears that you haven’t used since you were a rebellious teenager.

Jake’s strides were longer. He caught up to you quicker than you originally expected.

His hand envelopes your wrist, effectively stopping you. You stare ahead, physically biting your tongue while Jake comes around to take up the space in your point of view.

“Talk to me. What’s wrong?” That soft tone. The way it always melts away your anger, even when you don’t want it to.

Your shoulders begin to relax, as does your tough gaze, but the forceful bite on your tongue does nothing. You lean into the tree behind you to put some space between you and Jake.

“You know what.” And you start to question if he even does, but all that thought does is make you more upset because he should know, he’s supposed to know.

Jake sighs and his hand drops from your wrist. He looks away, into the sky or at the forest surrounding you both, but then he looks at you once again.

It takes him a second to speak, but he does eventually. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. If you want to be a brat, fine.”

The smoke burning your eyes gets stronger, the bite on your tongue gets looser.

“Dickhead.”

It takes a second for the offense to get through his thick skull, but it eventually does. You can see the way heat rises to his face when he understands. Your eyes watch the way his jaw clenches, the veins that protrude from his neck, the way he rolls his shoulders back.

Your head tilts, your eyes squint, and you smile. Because you’re finally getting what you wanted.

He pushed you this far. He pushed you until you wanted some sort of fight or aggression in return.

There’s a second where you wonder what his move is going to be, if he’s even going to make a move.

But he takes a step forward, and stretches a hand out that clasps at the back of your neck. He uses the grip to forcefully pull your lips to his and you’re delighted to taste him.

The fire in your throat moves down to your belly.

Your smirk is known as Jake devours you. He kisses you fiercely, with a ferocity that you can only attempt to reciprocate.

When he pulls away for a breath of air, punctuated with short, chaste kisses, you can’t help but tease. “I’m still pissed at you.”

Jake couldn’t care less. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Your hands grip at his skin, running along the toned muscles in his shoulders, back, and abdomen. He’s practically bare against you, but you want more, you need more. You’re mewling and moaning into his mouth, the muffled sounds truly showing how riled up and needy you were. You craved nothing more than release at this moment, and you could truly only hope that you hadn’t pushed Jake to the point where he would deny you such a thing.

The way he licks into your mouth and pulls your pelvis flush into his with his free hands hints at you that by denying your own pleasure, he would be denying his as well.

You grind into his stiffening cock to speed the process along.

When Jake detaches from your mouth now, it's to kiss at your jaw and neck. He kisses you feverishly, harshly. His lips suck and his teeth nip. It’s not until the third or fourth time that you get used to the tingle of his canines scraping at your skin.

It’s a jarring thought, but you allow the fantasy of Jake sinking his teeth into you and drawing blood to come to the forefront of your mind. It’s something out of a tale told to you by the older sisters in the clan about creatures who live off of blood and can walk only after eclipse. You remember how the image kept you up at night, and how eventually you wanted someone like that to come for you.

Jake, as a dreamwalker, was possibly the closest to such a myth.

You push your chest into his when his canines graze your skin once more.

“Jake,” you whine. It’s soft, softer than the gentle breeze in the air, but the proximity is not forgiving, and Jake hears.

He chuckles, his breath hot on your already boiling skin. A single kiss is pressed at the spot he was working his mouth on before he pulls back to tilt his head in front of yours. “So now you can speak?”

You don’t say anything, instead deciding that glowering will get your message across.

“Uh uh, don’t go silent on me now.”

The hand Jake had behind your neck comes to the front and rests at the base of your throat, his palm flat against the insides of your collarbones and his fingers resting at a place where they can easily crawl up if need be. His other hand, meanwhile, comes around to the side where his fingers play with your loincloth.

Jake’s wide eyes watches your face as he teases the string, sliding it down your leg only to leave it there and not do anything about it.

Your next sound is a grunt, wordless, yet still showing your frustration.

It only amuses Jake.

“Not giving you what you want,” he leans in and presses his lips to your jaw, kissing a spot just a few hairs away from your ear, “until you tell me what you want.”

His voice is low, deep and slow. He ​​enunciates each syllable, truly ensuring that you understand exactly what he means.

You take a second to consider if Jake is simply teasing, and if he’ll crumble in the end anyway. But then his hips shift back away from yours, and the pressure of his fingers against your skin in both places lessen.

When you try to move yourself forward towards him, Jake uses the hand still at the base of your neck to keep you still. He pushes against you, keeping you away from him, far enough to deprive you of what you want.

You really don’t want to give in, but you understand that you’ll have to.

When you speak, it’s a whisper, “I want you to touch me. To make me feel good, Jake.”

He hums, his head tilts. He considers.

“Is that really what you want, sweetheart? Because I can still hear some of that attitude.”

Jake’s hips push against yours once more and his cock is still stiff and begging for attention against your thigh. He wants you as much as you want him, but he won’t make it easy for you.

You don’t respond. You’re still a little angry, even though the feeling has mostly disappeared until now. You just have to hope that Jake will have mercy.

And by Eywa, it seems that he has at least a little sympathy on you tonight, because he says:

“I guess I’ll have to fuck it out of you.”

And it’s as much of a delightful promise as it is an intimidating threat.

Jake’s hand slides up and wraps around your throat. He squeezes, just for a few seconds, and then lessens his grip to only keep his hand there, reminding you of what he could do if he wanted to.

His other hand slides over the top of your thigh and under your loincloth. When his fingers press into the undergarments you wear beneath the cloth, you can’t keep your hips from pushing towards his hand. He doesn’t mind, it seems, because the movement spurs him on.

He singles out two digits and uses them to slide up and down your clothed slit, separating your lips enough through the fabric to where he can easily locate your clit and give it the attention you so desperately wanted the entire night.

Those sounds from your mouth now are only light and airy in their tone. Your noises are so pretty, Jake eats them up happily. His ears perk up and turn to you, and you can see the insistent swish of his tail behind you.

Your hands come to Jake’s waist, keeping him close to you, and the tip of his tail curls towards you. You take a second, deciding if it’s too bold a move, Jake wasn’t completely used to his Na’Vi body afterall, but you take the risk.

Your hand reaches to his tail. The tips of your fingers graze the end of the muscle and Jake flinches.He stops. Your eyes find his face to see his eyes wide, his eyebrows raised, and his lips parted.

It takes a second, but he nods, once and firm.

You reach for his tail again, and this time he lets your fingertips skirt along his skin. Your fingertips slide and your blunt nails graze, you draw circles and work your touch around the entire circumference.

All the while, Jake matches his circling on your clit to yours on his tail. You watch his ears push back, and his eyes close. It’s a moment of tenderness between the both of you, a moment of softness where you both briefly forget what has you close to fucking in the woods in the night anyway.

You’re the one to remember and remind Jake.

You wrap your hand around the tip of his tail and tug, a mischievous smile on your lips when Jake’s eyes pop open and his ears stick up to the sky.

He glares and you glare back.

Jake makes a move.

His hand removes from your neck and both of them go to the cord that holds your loincloth and undergarments up. He tugs and the fabric slips down your thighs. The slight chill in the air brushes over your wet cunt and your legs spread. Jake is so close, if you could just–

Jake plunges two fingers into your entrance, sliding them to the first knuckle and then giving you a second before he bottoms out.

His fingers are so long and thick and skillful. He’s thrusting and curling them only a few times and you already have a leg hitched over his waist, trying to get him even deeper (you’ve always been excessively greedy).

“Take what I give you, baby.” Jake warns, but he doesn’t protest when your leg presses into his hip.

His free hand moves your top out of the way and you gratefully watch as he lowers his head to your neglected chest.

His lips and tongue circle your aching nipples, sucking and biting just enough to provide stimulation in the form of a delicious combination of pain and pleasure.

Jake continues to work you open, and you appreciate his efforts (truly), but you’re ready for him now.

Instead of telling him that, you drop your leg and tug his loincloth down in a similar fashion that he did yours.

Jake doesn’t bother commenting on it, because your hand is finding the tip of his cock.

You can’t stop staring at it. Your eyes play connect the dots with the freckles that adorn his cock, you especially linger on the ones below his leaking head.

You want to fall to your knees and wrap your lips around him, but you’re both so impatient that that’ll have to wait for another time.

Jake pushes your hand away and you pettishly do the same with his. Your legs spread, and then you decide that’s not enough, so you hike a leg up onto his waist once again.

But Jake fucking laughs at you. He doesn’t chuckle, or snicker, or even giggle. He laughs.

You stare at him dumbfoundedly, almost a little hurt, until he decides that whatever has got him is no longer too funny to prolong speaking and he opens his mouth.

“You’re not getting it like that, sweetheart.”

His large, sticky hand wraps around your calf and he brings your leg down. When his hands find your waist, you know what he means.

You pretend to be upset and reluctant to turn around, but in reality, you're ecstatic.

You turn to face the tree, and brace your hands against the bark while you arch your back.

Jake’s hands rest on your hips after he’s used one to guide his cock to your entrance. He slides in slow, almost too slow, and for a second you think he’s going to fuck you slow.

But then he bottoms out with a rough thrust and it’s only your hands against the tree that keeps you from breaking your nose.

Jake notices. “Careful,” he warns.

“‘M fine.”

It’s all he needs to hear because Jake then starts to fuck you exactly how you’ve wanted it for the past night.

His hips slap against yours, the only sound save for the cicadas is the wetness of your cunt taking him in and letting him go.

You’re tight, squeezing around him, suffocating him. And Jake, ever the verbal one, comments on it.

“So tight. ‘S like a vice, baby. You have no idea how good you feel, d’you? Hmm? You know how good you make daddy feel?”

That stupid fucking nickname that should make you uncomfortable or turn you off, but it unfortunately does the opposite. It makes your back arch further and one of your hands leaves the tree to wrap around your tit.

“I know, Jake. You feel ‘s good, too. So good, Ma’Jake.”

Jake reaches a place you hadn’t even thought possible before he came into your life. His dick curves perfectly, it sits perfectly within you, almost as if he was–

“Made for me, Jake. You were made for me.”

“Yeah. That’s right, sweetheart. Tell me how good I make you feel.”

The words tumble out of your mouth as if you were intoxicated.

“Didn’t think I could ever feel this good until I met you. No one will ever fuck me like you do.”

Jake groans behind you and a deep feeling of satisfaction settles deep within your chest.

There’s only one other thing that can make you feel this satisfied.

“Tsaheylu, Jake. Please!”

The hand on your tit comes around to your queue so you can hold it up for Jake.

You throw a glance over your shoulder just to see the two queues reach out for each other. When they connect, you both gasp.

You immediately feel everything. The way you’re clenching around Jake, the knot he has at the base of his stomach, the heat that warms his entire body. Even deeper than that, you feel the way he feels for you.

The frustration that you’re not sharing, the hope that you’ll help him understand, the deep and intense love for you he has.

Your eyes find his and you can tell he’s feeling everything too. The way his cock hits that spot within you, the way his balls bounce on your clit with each thrust, the intense way arousal meets you from the location of your rendezvous. And of course, he feels your frustration at him, you want to tell him what’s wrong but the pride that keeps you from doing so, and the love in your heart that acts as a reminder, letting you know that no matter what Jake is bonded with you for life. He is yours.

Maintaining eye contact, Jake reaches around to bring his two digits to your clit.

He gives you wide slow circles at first, until he feels just how close you are and then he tightens the movement and speeds it up.

“I need you to cum first, sweetheart. I wanna feel you.”

It doesn’t take long for you to fulfill his wish. You’re cumming with a sharp gasp and heavy breaths. You try to keep your eyes open as the muscles in your body tense and loosen repeatedly, but you can’t help but let them close.

“That’s it, let go for me. Let it all out,” Jake coos, his thrusts at the same speed but his fingers along your clit slowing enough to give you some sort of mercy.

You’re spent, but you still have enough energy to make one last request. “Inside. I want you to let go inside of me.”

It takes only a few more thrusts and then Jake is letting warm spurts of cum coat your fluttering walls. You milk him dry, sighing gratefully and leaning into the feeling that the bond allows you to feel.

When you and Jake are calmed down, he redresses you. You lean against the tree and let him slide your loincloth up and readjust your top. He kisses at your skin while he does so, and when he’s redressed he kisses you.

It’s soft and sweet and the complete opposite of your past moments.

“You still mad at me?” He asks you, a pout on his pretty face.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

[ohimsummer]

JENNY ( ft. mikasa)

— crushing, mikasa x fem! reader, black! reader, modern au, fluff, inspired by this song, idk a lil sum sum for Mikaaa

Mikasa had known you for a while, just a couple months shy of a year. You two met at some college frat party, forcibly shoved into each other by drunk and rowdy partygoers. She murmured out a ‘sorry’, but her apology is completely drowned out by your loud exclamation.

"God dammit!", Your words are still hard to hear over the deafening music. "Spilled my fuckin' drink!"

The hustle and bustle of patrons does nothing to help the situation, so Mikasa ends up accompanying you off to the edges of the crowd so you can get cleaned up. And as she turns back towards you, she gets to see the face belonging to such a pretty voice. The shine of your glossy, plump lips, bottom one tucked between your teeth as you struggle to deal with the growing stain on your sweet, satin dress. Her eyes roll over rounded curves, dark skin highlighted by flashing rainbow lights, and long, sleek hair that cascades over your shoulders and down your back.

“Are you checking me out?”

Your words pull Mikasa from her thoughts, and the red blush on her face is immediate. She prays that the lights are distracting enough to not make her embarrassment noticeable.

“Uh, no.” comes the low and curt response, almost inaudible over the beating of her own heart.

Clammy hands rub at her jeans as you pause, and then release a symphony of giggles. You grab handfuls of paper towels off the roll on the table, dabbing at the stain while throwing playfully suspicious glances at Mikasa.

“O-kay...but I mean...I wouldn't have really gave a fuck." You smile up at her with a mischievous glint in your eyes.”Just, ya know, be a lil’ more subtle about it. But if you wanna look, baby, I don't mind. Tryna catch eyes tonight, anyway."

Your playful tone, the wide grin on your lips, and just the way you’re staring at her, and that’s it. Mikasa's a goner.

From that point on, you have her wrapped tight around your finger. Mikasa finds herself cancelling plans with her friends if it meant getting dragged off to watch you get your nails done, or help you pick out hair in the shop for your next hairstyle. “Braids, locs? Twists? Or should I go for another wig?”, you ask her. And Mikasa doesn’t answer because she can’t decide. Because she knows you’ll look great in all of them.

It's on a familiar Friday night that Mikasa finds herself again at your apartment, sitting on those familiar, cotton sheets and bathing in the comfort of your company. You’re in the bathroom; Mikasa spots you swaying your hips to whatever song is currently playing as you finish your nightly routine early, and occasionally peeking at her through the mirror. Mikasa can tell you’re amused at how she can’t hold your gaze.

“You okay back there, Mika?”, you ask. The smile is evident in your voice.

“Mhm.”

“My laptop’s on the nightstand, why don’t you find a movie for us to watch?”

Mikasa obeys your order without question, browsing the streaming service’s array of selections and occasionally asking your opinion to get a feel of what she could choose. You eventually finish your routine, climb onto the bed and position yourself next to her; both of you lay stomach-down on the sheets with a thick blanket to block out the cool air of your apartment. Mikasa ended up picking some old, slasher-comedy flick, but despite the bad takes and cheap jumpscares, she finds herself heavily absorbed in the movie’s terrible plot. You, on the other hand, are drifting off deeper and deeper into slumber, head lolled onto Mikasa’s shoulder but she doesn’t even take notice. 

The credits begin rolling across the screen and Mikasa finally takes note of your limp form. “Y/N?”

“...Hmm...?”, you hum at her, moving to clutch her arm and snuggle against her shoulder. 

Mikasa stiffens for a few seconds under your touch, then forces herself to relax. “Do you want to go to bed? I can leave.”

“No, ‘m not tired, baby..”, your mumbled voice is barely audible and the words are slurring together. “Stay here with me.”

She’s glad you’re too drowsy to notice the way her face is deep red, and how her breaths have become shallow like she’s afraid to breath too hard in fear of waking you up. In spite of her nervousness, Mikasa decides to test the waters, and slowly but gently lays her cheek against the crown of your head. Being this close, she can smell the light, lingering scent of shea butter and coconut from your hair conditioner; it calms her down just a little, enough to get comfortable resting her head against yours as she listens to the low sounds of your rhythmic breathing. Mikasa closes her eyes as sleep begins to overcome her, as well. You two sit like that for a while, comfortably silent and poorly fighting off the persistent urge to doze off. 

“Mikaa?”

The quiet murmur infiltrates her ears and makes Mikasa crack her eyes open.”Mm?”

You’re silent for a few seconds before speaking again.”D’ you wanna go out with me?” Another pause. “Like a date?”

Mikasa’s mind feels heavy in her head, and though the curse of sleep is muddling her thoughts, she’s well-aware enough to spout a response. ”Of course.”

She hears the content sigh blow from your lips, feels the heavy rise and fall of your side against hers. “Okay.”, is all you can say. It sounds relieved, like a huge burden has been taken off your shoulders.

You don’t say anything else, and Mikasa eventually realizes you’ve finally drifted off to sleep. She dozes off right next to you, still not fully understanding the weight of your question and her answer and what it could mean for you both. But who cares? She’d think about it in the morning. Right now, she just wanted to sleep next to you like this forever.

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

06. The Fall Festival

3550 Words, No trigger warnings that I can think of. 

Previous

Grace got ready for the dance with her mother. She wanted her to look like “the belle of the ball” and though Grace thought the gown was a bit much, her mother had always been extra when it came to extravagance, and she learned her lesson about trying to step in with her own opinions on how she should look. Mrs. Monroe had Grace looking like a Disney princess. She hired a professional makeup artist (EVEN THOUGH they both had years of experience Grace from dance recitals, her mother being a beauty queen and socialite). 

After her hair debacle on the train a couple of years prior, a world famous stylist for natural Afrocentric hair had been Grace's beautician. She helped her to grow her hair back, twisted it into locs and was always keeping her stylish with the hottest natural looks.

Mrs. Monroe hovered and fussed over her like she couldn’t get ready by herself, the moment all of the professionals had gone to wait for her final presentation downstairs. Grace wasn't used to that. Her mother never had time for her and even when she was expected to look her best, Mom usually didn't get involved. Grace longed for this and relished in it. She couldn't complain, even though it was stifling.

Whenever Simon came up the fire escape, Grace panicked. Her parents DID NOT know about him doing so, and she was ready to have a complete shutdown seeing him appear in the window while her mom was putting butterfly embellishments in her up-do. Simon froze, and thought about jumping off of the stairway when he saw Mrs. Monroe in there, but once the woman looked at him and smiled, he relaxed and stepped inside. “Hi, Mrs. Monroe. I’m Simon, Grace’s frie-”

“Grace has a school dance tonight, Simon,” she said, not interested in introducing herself. “I’m sure after all of this; she’ll explain to me why her fire escape is open and why a boy is using it for anything but a fire.”

“Simon is my escort, Mom,” Grace said in a voice so small that Simon didn’t even recognize it and could barely hear her. She had NEVER been this quiet in all of the years that he had known her. It was alarming, actually, but within a moment, he realized why.

Her mother stuck another butterfly into her hair, with a hard jab and Grace winced when the pin stuck her in the scalp. “I see,” the woman said.

The pageant smile that she had initially given Simon in her confusion was gone and now, a stone like grimace was there, pointed right at Grace with no warmth or emotion. “Stand.” She commanded, and Grace did so, with military-like precision. The woman led her next to Simon and stood her at his side, took a step back to assess them, then flared her nostrils and raised an eyebrow. “No.”

“But, Mom…” Grace said in that same tiny voice, this time pleading. A single look from the woman silenced her.

“Grace, I did not pay thousands of dollars to make you perfect tonight for you to ruin the entire aesthetic with this shaggy boy in a shabby suit that looks like it costs less than your earrings. I’m sure he’s nice, but do we want nice things for you, Grace?”

“No.”

“What do we want for you, Grace?”

“The best,” she said.

“Alright. Now, I’ll give you a moment to say goodnight and LOCK your fire escape, then hurry down for the pre-dance photo shoot.” Grace’s eyes welled with tears as she looked down at her hands, clasping her dress anxiously. Her mother lifted her chin with her fingertips and said in a sweet voice, but through clenched teeth, “Don’t you dare cry and ruin this makeup job, and let. Go. of. That. Dress!” When she said dress, she jerked away one of Grace’s hands with her free hand and Grace’s other hand quickly followed.

Then, Grace whimpered in her tiniest voice yet, “He’s my best friend.”

Her mother looked at her with a mixture of pity and exasperation and shook her head, “We can discuss that another time.”

Grace took a deep breath and almost magically forced away the tears trying to form in her eyes. Simon was horrified by how frightened the woman made her. What would she do to her if she told her to piss off? He wasn’t going to find out tonight, because Grace stepped in line and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Simon.” She was using that voice that she used with people whenever she was just telling them what they wanted to hear. That was a voice she used with non-essentials, not with him... “I still want to do the whole pumpkin patch thing tomorrow, if you don’t hate me for wasting your time tonight? Maybe my parents will give you money for the train ride home.”

“I’m not going home! My suit may be shabby, but it was the best that I could do and I tried really hard to look nice for you tonight!” His voice was louder than he meant it to be and he knew that her mother could probably hear him, but he had just witnessed the worst thing to happen to him in months (which was already saying a lot) and he just didn’t understand this version of Grace that he had seen tonight.

She smiled, sadly and touched his cheek, “You DO look nice. I love it. I love that you remembered the colors for your accents, and it's very obvious to someone like me, who knows your type of fashion, that you did put a lot of work into this look. But, what I'm telling you is that there is no way that my mother is going to let you get into the car with me and head to the dance, now. I didn’t expect her to be here! But, apparently my first school dance was an event she couldn’t miss, despite missing several other things that I thought should have been pretty dang important...” She dropped her hand and sighed, “I really wanted to go with you tonight, but it can’t happen now. She made that clear to me. I’m sorry, Simon.”

She looked like she might cry again, but she quickly sucked it up and put on a smile. “We can go downstairs together. You don’t have to take the fire escape…”

“What do they do to you? What do they do to you to make you like this? What could they possibly do for you to treat me this way?” He asked, practically pleading.

“They work hard to make sure that I have the best. It’s my responsibility to be my best for them, and they… they… know what’s best.”

“You don’t believe that, Grace! They’re one of the main reasons that we don’t trust adults!”

“Even if I don’t trust them… I have to do what they say! What else can I do? They’re not gonna just leave me alone and let me live my life. Maybe one day, Simon. Just not tonight… Not now...” Simon had tears in his eyes, but Grace was definitely disassociating.

She had to be strong, because she had to present herself to her parents, the pros who put together her look, and the photographer. She had to be perfect whenever she made her entrance. “Goodnight, Simon.” She gave him a playful tap on the cheek, strummed his face with her thumb and left him in the room alone. Simon covered his nose and mouth with both hands and started to cry.

.

The time it took Grace to smile through the photo shoot pretending that she hadn't just sliced her heart into pieces and fed them to her mother, to get the dress safely into the car, and the drive to the dance… Simon had already made it there. The school was closer to Grace's house than his house was, so he just walked. Anger and resentment fueled his pace.

When he arrived, he went to the bathroom to freshen up and get himself together. He slid into the stall with his jacket off, rolled up his sleeve and looked at his arm for a while. He drifted into a daydream.

They were 10, she was in her ballet garb and he was in his vest, shorts, socks and sandals… she was gonna "teach him a few moves," though he couldn't remember why. All he ever remembered about that day was that he couldn’t focus on a single thing that she said to him because she was standing close enough for him to be more concerned about focusing on her features and whenever she was standing behind him, trying to help him get into position, her hands were on his person and she smelled like fruit and flowers. She usually smelled of nice, expensive products and fruit scented lip gloss, but there was something else that he wasn’t as familiar with, though it was very nice. He found out later it was mango butter. She lathered herself in the stuff to moisturize. She didn’t teach him ANYTHING that day but that he wasn’t really into doing ballet, and that she was the prettiest girl that he knew. Always would be. Tonight, they were supposed to dance together again. This time, in front of people. This time… Maybe it wouldn't just be a huge failure, he thought. But, it failed before they ever even made it there. You're never going to be good enough for her.

Simon pulled down his sleeve, put his jacket back on, "You're just as good as anybody else! You're better than most of the people you've ever known!" He hissed, straightening himself out in the mirror.

Then, he went out to get some punch. There was a table of fountains with various fondues and drinks. He remembered that this was his first dance at the academy and that his former jr high bashes would pale in comparison. Everything was SO formal. It reminded him of photos of his parents at a military ball whenever they were first dating… but then add like a million dollars of decorations and stuff.

Whenever he thought about money, his mind went back to Mrs. Monroe's cold features and empty smile. The way she tore him down like he was a null and Grace just LET her.

If his parents ever so much as cut her an ugly look, he'd bludgeon them. She couldn't even tell her mother "no," for him? She'd been so beautiful in that yellow dress, with her goddess locs pulled up and twisted into a cascading bang, a halo crown and sparkling butterflies with jade jewelry and light green and gold accents in her dress, makeup, and hair. Simon didn't even know wtf chartreuse was until he had to try to find "accents" for his suit. He found a tie, a pocket square and socks! He shined his shoes, like he'd seen his father do. He watched videos to learn to tie the tie and fold the square. He'd exfoliated his skin and gelled his stray hairs to try to keep his ponytail neat!

He was sulking into another cup of punch when somebody said, "Is that Grace Monroe?" He turned and the kids made way for her. Her driver helped fix her dress for her entry. She had that fake ass smile plastered on her face, but the moment she saw Simon, it faded. Then, her real smile quickly appeared and she shuffled over to him. "You still came!" She cheered. Everyone else immediately didn't matter to her, but Simon wasn't smoothed over. He was still very much hurt.

"Your mom can control you, not me," he grunted. She put her hand on his shoulder and he looked at it before flicking it off with a harsh brush of his hand. "We're not here together, remember?"

"Obviously, I remember. But, we're still friends… Right?" She stared at the top of his head as he stared into the cup of punch. It was good. Tasted like pineapples and cream with some spritz to it… but it didn't taste good enough to help him avoid this questioning. It'd have to do for now, because there was no way he dared look up to see how she might be looking at him. The feel of her eyes upon him was heavy enough. "What can I do?" She asked in a small voice.

He glanced at her, looking down at her hands and clutching her dress. He sighed and shifted his eyesight to look at the others in the room with them, having fun without a care in the world. Meanwhile, here they were… both obviously miserable. "Nothing," he finally answered, though he didn't look at her again. "You're clearly a powerless kid, just like me. We thought we were so tough because we could win some fights with nulls and really, we're the worthless ones. Your mom proved that tonight. She could care less about specks like us. These kids treat me like I'm something they stepped in, and I can't do anything about it, because my parents can't toss money at administration if I mess up. But, if I get kicked out, my chances of being successful will decrease three quarters. I'll never be rich and powerful, no matter the fact that I deserve it. I deserve it more than anybody else in this room of fakes and flunkies! I'm smart. I'm strong. I'm fearless. I'm tactical. I deserve respect. I deserve the best, too, Grace."

"You do."

"Then why didn't you have my back!?" Now, he looked at her. He deserved an answer.

"Because… I'm… not... those things. I'm not that smart. I just know how to talk to people. I'm… not that strong. I'm just agile and can dodge a lot of danger. And, I think you saw for yourself that I'm not fearless. I'm terrified of my parents seeing any of that. Everything that I'm not. They'll lose the little bit of love that they have got for me and I can't stand to risk it. I guess I just thought that you wouldn't. That... you could take one night of my cowardice and still love me. I was wrong to expect that. You deserve better, but I'm not someone who can give you that. You were always gonna eventually do great things. I was always gonna skate by on my family name." She wiped her eye and looked at her glove to see a little makeup. "I'll leave you alone now…" She was going to go cry over this. Very uglyish and loudish… but Simon caught her wrist.

They looked at each other. Her eyes were asking him why he stopped her when she was giving him his way out, but he knew as well as she should have.. she was absolutely right. He'd love her through anything. He just wasn't going to say that. "We're supposed to open the waltz," he said. His gray eyes were soft on her and she sighed with relief and hurled herself into him for a hug. He held her. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Your mom's a monster. And she's got a ton of money. I've never seen you be afraid of anybody else and I shouldn't have attacked you about it." She was now fully crying on his shoulder. "Apex never dies."

She smiled and nodded, "We're on this wild train for life." She stood up straight and they stared at each other. Did… did she see Simon blushing? She touched his chin much like Simon had seen her mother touch hers, which momentarily gave him a little nervousness, but she said, "You know, Socks & Sandals… this outfit really makes your eyes POP! Have… have they always been green?"

"My eyes are gray," he said, blushing even more, but also looking offended.

"Thank goodness! That's what I thought they were before now…" she kept staring though. "They're prettier than I remember. Did you do something?"

"Like eye reconstruction or shapeshifting?" He asked sarcastically. She laughed and he smirked. Then, they made their way to the dance floor. Grace was in his arms most of the night. They took photos together, with "friends," and at the booth, and before dismissal, they ducked out to ditch her driver and jump on the train to head into the city.

Grace peeked into her clutch for her mask and saw several valuables that she knew weren't hers. "Simon… what is all this?" She pulled out watches and jewelry to get to her mask.

"That's stuff I found on assholes at the dance."

She looked at him a moment, like she was judging him; then they both laughed. "Please tell me that at least ONE of these items came from Shana!" He smirked and shuffled through his haul to show her a set of keys with a plushie keychain. "Are these her car keys???"

"Looks like those are all her keys. But the keychain is fruit with a face! We love fruit with a face!" Whenever they got off of the train, Simon removed the keychain and threw the keys to the wheels. He didn't have an issue with Shana, but she had made Grace her rival since the recital years ago, so that meant she was Simon's enemy… and tonight, she'd be stuck at the dance.

"It just occurred to me that a mask won't do much when the rest of me looks like this," Grace said, laughing.

"It JUST occurred to you that a face mask wouldn't hide your very conspicuous ballroom gown?"

"Shut up!" She laughed and held his hand as they ran out of the train station. Both of them stuck their tongues out and flipped the surveillance camera the bird as they did.

She didn’t want to go home. They had been going around the city for hours and she was certain that unlike when she was 10, her parents could care less if she was home, so long as she didn’t embarrass them while she was out there.

So, she and Simon waltzed at the creek in the moonlight, unintentionally inventing inside jokes, lounged around the closed mall, stole some skateboards from someone’s yard and went skateboarding at the boardwalk. Grace was much better at it than Simon, despite the fact that she had never tried before and was wearing a lengthy gown. Simon vowed that he was going to get better than her.

They made their way back to her house and Simon tampered with the lock on the fire escape to let her in. Whenever he successfully broke in she gasped and he said, “You owe me 20 dollars.”

“I did bet you 20 dollars that you couldn’t possibly break into my home…” she said.

“Yep.” He held out his hand and she put his stolen valuables in it. “This was already mine, whenever I took it.”

“Yeah, but I’m taking the 20 I owe you out of it, for having held onto your loot.”

He groaned and stuffed his pockets. “If we’d been searched or something, they would presume that stuff was somehow all yours. Me? Obvious criminal.”

“You pickpocketed like a dozen people at a school dance and just broke into my window. You are a criminal.”

“So? That doesn’t mean that they have a right to suspect me as one!” She laughed and opened the window to climb inside.

Whenever she was on the other side, she turned and smiled at Simon. “Thanks for getting me home safely, Gray Eyes.”

He blushed and she definitely could see it, even in the moonlight. “Of course. Apex sticks together.” He reached out to give her a fist bump, but she rested her hand on his fist, shut her eyes, leaned forward, puckering her lips… like she was going to… going to kiss him. It happened really quickly, so he couldn’t prepare himself properly. It landed on the corner of his mouth and he didn’t know if she meant for it to be there, on his cheek, or directly on his lips. But, he turned slightly for their lips to touch and she gave those a second kiss, then a third. Small pecks, but two on the lips and the first extremely close to them was still... a lot.

They looked at each other a moment, realized that they were holding hands now and pulled them back. “Well, that was a perfectly normal friendship kiss,” Simon said.

“Very platonic affection,” she added, fighting a smile. “We still on for the pumpkin patch tomorrow?”

He nodded and smiled as he went down the stairs and she locked up after him, then watched him skateboard away on the board he had. Gray Eyes… That had to be his favorite nickname that she’d ever randomly given him.

Grace looked down at her frazzled dress, filthy at the seam and torn and dirty in other places. She looked in the mirror, traced her fingertips across her lips that she had just so BOLDY used to kiss Simon and she laughed, climbing into bed to go to sleep without a shower or anything. He had kissed her back. She giggled about it. She giggled herself to sleep...

Next

[thebibliomancer]

Shadows of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 11

Shadows of the Dark Crystal by J. M. Lee because I want Naia and Kylan to have a relaxing chapter.

Last times on book: Naia is on a journey to Ha’rar to defend her brother against accusations of treason. She is joined by the Song Teller Kylan who is on his way to Stone-in-the-Wood and wants to prove that the Hunter is real. Kylan and Naia fall down a hole, find that the vein of darkened crystals has spread to Spriton lands, and narrowly escape from a darkened ruffnaw.

Chapter 13

Kylan and Naia find a bridge out so the only option is to go through the Spooky Woods at night. Wait, really? The only option??

The next day after the cave adventure, Naia learns that not all mountains are the same mountains and in fact many are geographically different. Then she punches Kylan for laughing at her about it.

Friendship!

Otherwise she’s very excited about getting to the river. Finally, some actual moisture!

I-I think Naia doesn’t know what sand is?

Naia was ever thankful for the shoes Maudra Mera had given her. As the grasses gave way to drier weeds and shrubs, the earth became salty and golden. Walking it barefoot, or even in her first set of bark sandals, would have made the journey near impossible.

She’s never seen sand!

Kylan: “There used to be dozens of [Podling] communities, all throughout the area. But their numbers have been dwindling, and many families end up living with Spriton communities when their colonies become too few. Some say it’s poor crops.”

But Naia and Kylan look around the the bountiful land and think ‘doubt’

Kylan blames the Hunter which seems likely actually if he just kills random Gelfling in their homes at night. But this is also the point where the darkening starts affecting crops, right?

Could be a combination of failing crops and a dude going around killing people at random. Both could lead to smaller comunities congregating together to pool resources and for protection.

Apparently Kylan is like a noble goat because he takes to climbing the ridge on the way to the river even more nimbly than Naia.

They reach eyeshot of the river just as the Great Sun is setting.

“The Black River,” [Naia] said. A smile came over her face. “We’re so close! We’ll build a raft and ride it all the way to Ha’rar. Are there any falls?”

“Ha! How would I know?” Kylan asked. “This is new to me too!”

“No songs about Jarra-Jen and the Black RIver?” Naia was teasing, but when he shook his head, she felt some disappointment.

See, now you wish he had a song for every occasion.

When the two reach the ravine they find that the bridge has been broken. And there’s no way across the ravine without it. Naia is disappointed because she really wanted to make it to the river and stick her feet in it.

“Naia kicked a pebble over the side of the cliff and tugged at her locs. If only she had wings! Yet there was nothing at her back but soreness and a heavy traveling pack that would probably weigh her down too much to make the crossing, even if she had been able to fly.”

There’s a lot of Naia angsting over not having her wings yet in this book which makes me think that its got to either end with her getting them or deciding that she doesn’t need to hurry to grow up. And I dunno, I don’t think wings just come in like FWOOP so I think acceptance is more likely?

How does that even work though? Do they just push through the skin? Do the Gelfling... molt? I wanna know!

On their way backtracking down the cliff, Kylan stops at a boulder to do some dream-etching. Because he can just lay on hands and write on a boulder. So cool.

Because he’s the good best boy, Kylan wrote a warning to other travelers about the bridge being out. Naia doesn’t point out that most Gelfling couldn’t read.

They can’t?!

No, I guess the Skeksis wouldn’t encourage literacy programs. They prefer the Gelfling dumb.

Since they had to detour, now Kylan and Naia are traveling in the dark. Naia feeds Neech the shoulder eel some glow moss and he starts glowing after only a few moments!

That’s cool! And a remarkably quick metabolism!

Kylan be like ‘i gotta write this down later’ ha

Apparently the detour is taking them through the Dark Wood, which Tavra specifically warned Naia not to go through and which Naia is now pointedly ignoring in favor of making up for lost time.

Kylan is nervous and thinks it would be better to wait for daylight. Naia tells him WWJJD? What Would Jarra-Jen Do?

“I don’t know if you were listening, but the Dark Wood at night is when Jarra-Jen met the Hunter and was chased until he had to leap off a cliff into the Black River,” Kylan retorted.

Heh.

But Naia points out that Jarra-Jen was alone and they aren’t. And Kylan concedes that if he avoids ever seeing the Hunter, he’ll never be able to confront him.

As a Drenchen and a Spriton, and of course as Gelfling, neither Naia nor her friend were unfamiliar with forests.

They get mad racial bonuses. Simply ludicrous.

But the Dark Forest is a thing unto itself.

The strong pillars of ebony bark and dark turquoise leaves were interrupted only by thick brush, shrubs, spiny rocks, and flowering land corals with huge white night blossoms. The earth was padded with layers and layers of leaves and moss, rippling over the forms of the ever-present roots that sometimes arched from the land in swooping forms that created hoops and arches under which they walked.

Naia asks Kylan if his bard-brain knows the name of a vine root and he suggests she just ask. The vine. And brings back up the conversation re: her dreamfasting with not-Gelfling.

She tells him that it never happened until recently but she’s sometimes had trouble controlling her dreamfasting. Gasp! Possible protagonist power! All along she thought she was bad at control but really she had a secret gift!

Also, is this related to how Kira formed an angry mob of animals and had them swarm the Scientist? I thought that she just learned Beastmaster.

Also also, she wasn’t touching any of them so, no, probably unrelated.

The two Gelfling hear a low eerie moan in the forest which spooks the glowy flowers until they close up. Naia hides Neech so his glowy doesn’t give them away.

In the darkness, something huge and serpentine pushes through the forest.

Kylan backed up against Naia and they stood together, breathing in sync. When Kylan’s fingers snaked around Naia’s wrist, she tried to brush him away.

“Don’t grab me now. I need to be able to move.”

Kylan jumped, moving away from her, though the warm grasp on her wrist only tightened. Voice piqued with surprise, he said, “I’m not...”

Oooooooooooo what a spooky! This chapter and the last I missed out not reading on Halloween!

What really grabbed Naia was a cluster of tendrils which yanks her into the air and tosses her through the forest from tree to tree, separating her from Kylan

=O

And then they just drop her. Rude.

No sooner had she regained her footing than she heard something rushing toward her. She ran as roots and branches lunged for her, scratching her arms and legs in their attempt to catch hold of her once more. Her ears burned as a flock of hollerbats burst from within a knotted old tree trunk, screeching and flapping their clawed wings as they thrashed past, but she couldn’t stop to curse them. She knew she was running deeper and deeper into the wood, but she had no other choice. If she stopped, she would be caught, devoured by the Dark Wood.

She’s getting the full Night in a Spooky Wood experience and I am here for it. And here for feeling bad for her. Geez. Poor Naia.

Hopelessly separated from Kylan she decides to head towards the Black River in hopes that he’ll think the same thing and they can meet up there.

But as she walks, she sense the presence of something lying in wait at the center of the Dark Wood. Something... off.

Yes, the Dark Wood sang the song of Thra, but notes were off-key, as if it had forgotten parts, or was too distracted -- too disturbed -- to fall back into tune.

Very evocative! Very unnerving...

Then someone calls her name.

The voice paralyzed her, a wisp of cold air tickling the backs of her arms. She turned toward it, wary in disbelief but unable to deny what all her senses were telling her. A Gelfling boy stepped out of the tree cover, exactly her age, with matching clay-colored skin marked with Drenchen spots and speckles. his locs hung at his shoulders, and he wore a beautifully embroidered black-and-violet soldier’s uniform. Naia’s breath was stuck in her throat, her heart leaping.

It was Gurjin.

??????????

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

Cyrano Who?

Commissioned by the fantastic @likearumchocolatesouffle! Commission info is here!

~

“He doesn’t like me,” Rabiya muttered, bouncing her tennis ball off the wall.

“So?” James asked, scribbling in his notebook and glancing at her often. He was still having trouble describing her eyes.

“So… I feel like he should.” Rabiya threw the ball extra hard and dented her wall.

“Hey, easy!” James protested, reaching out to touch her arm. Rabiya stopped and turned to look at him sullenly. “Do you even like him back?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she replied forcefully, frowning. “I mean… I think I do. He’s nice, and handsome, and rich, and mom and dad like him...”

She sounded utterly unconvinced. That hurt, but James didn’t say that. If Rabiya wasn’t attracted to Geoff, who was quite a few things besides nice, handsome, and rich, then what could she see in James, who was depressing, ugly, and poor?

“Maybe you just have to get his attention,” James suggested, a little weakly. “Do something that will interest him.”

“Like what?” Rabiya snapped. “He’s at the same law office as me, he reads the same books as us, and that’s it.”

James frowned, wracking his brain. The best he had ever done to attract a lady’s favor had been… “Write poetry?”

Rabiya finally laughed and punched James’ arm. “That’s your answer to everything!”

“Sometimes it works!” James protested.

“True, true.” Rabiya stopped laughing, and stared into the middle distance, thinking. James knew better than to interrupt her thoughts. Instead he listed every brown gemstone he could think of, trying to match her eyes. Sweet Rabiya, with her beautiful brown eyes and brown skin and her favorite shimmering purple hijab…

Suddenly, her face lit up, and she whirled on her cushion to grin at James. The gleam in her eyes scattered his thoughts, and instead of longing, he felt the excited dread he usually felt when she had a grand scheme.

“You write the poems,” she told James.

He blinked at her. “What?”

“You write them! We’ll say they’re from me, but you’ll be the writer! You’re better anyway.”

“Rabi, you know I can’t write poems about guys!” James protested, feeling his face flush. She was the only one who knew he was bi—and also the only one who knew he was worse at talking to guys than he was with girls. “And I don’t know him.”

“Ah!” Rabiya raised her hand, holding up one finger as she grinned. “But you will know him. You’re going to the company picnic with me, aren’t you?”

“Well… yes...”

“And Geoff has said he will be there, with his sister!”

“Rabi, I think I know where you’re going with this...”

“Get on her good side. Use your Adorable Face. We both know girls are suckers for your Adorable Face. Talk to her, be friendly, ask about her relationship with her brother, and glean as much info as you can. Geoff told me she’s talkative; all you have to do is encourage her and ask questions!”

Put that way, it sounded relatively simple. James swallowed hard. The pure glee on Rabiya’s face made him long to write another poem about her. Finally, he sighed. Anything for her. “Alright, fine. When do you want me to start writing?”

~

The first poem was insipid and lacked depth, but Rabiya said it was perfect and slipped it to Geoff the day before the picnic.

The picnic itself was… well, stressful. A bunch of mature adults in mature clothing, teenagers in mature clothing that they were obviously uncomfortable in, and small children in comfortable clothes perfect for playing in the dirt and woodchips. The adults spoke—whined, really—about youngsters these days and the cost of champagne and politics. The teenagers talked about school, teen drama, and politics. The children just ran around on the playground shrieking and laughing.

James felt even more uncomfortable than the teenagers. He was only twenty-one, but that was too old to talk to seventeen year olds. It was also too young to be taken seriously by the older adults. And his one nice outfit was a little tight and he couldn’t help adjusting it constantly. He knew he should’ve begged his mother for a new shirt at the very least.

Rabiya was cool and effortless, chatting with lawyers and doctors and CEOs as if she’d been doing so for years, despite also only being twenty-one. It was probably because she was tall, and looked damn good in a dark purple suit and an even darker hijab. James felt severely outshined, which wasn’t unusual.

Geoff and his sister were standing at the other end of the veranda, also looking out of place. Geoff’s locs were pulled back in a ponytail, and his face was set in a pleasant smile, but from the way he fiddled with his cup, James guessed he was bored, or nervous. Seeing the glazed eyes, James chose bored.

Geoff’s sister was not dressed like the other women. Her hair was wrapped in a bright yellow-and-red scarf, and her dress was of a fluttery fabric in red, yellow, and green. She stood out, proud and bright, lounging on the veranda pillar with a champagne flute. No pastels or jewel-tones there. James found himself thinking immediately of how the warm colors gave a rosy tint to her dark skin, how the green on her dress suggested ever-present life in the fires of the universe, how—

They both saw him staring. He looked away quickly, blushing furiously. There was nowhere to run, though. He had a drink, nonalcoholic punch; he had already had a few snacks, he didn’t want anyone to glare at him for going back to the snack table; and Rabiya was so engrossed in a conversation about private versus federal prisons that she barely noticed him.

James felt very alone and forgotten.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He jumped and spun, and the hand gripped his bicep to keep him upright.

“Hey, hey, sorry about that,” Geoff said, smiling. He had a very nice smile, his hand firm and warm as James steadied. His voice was nice, too; soft and smoky and still with a Jamaican accent. “You look a little bored. I’m Geoff.” He held out his hand to shake, and James returned the favor.

“I’m James,” he answered, ignoring how his hair flopped in his eye. Again. He really should’ve gotten it cut a while ago. “Um. I came with Rabiya.”

He didn’t know if that was the right thing to say, but Geoff’s face lit up anyway. “Oh, Rabiya! Yes, I know her. She’s fantastic. If you came with her, you must be her friend the poet.”

James blushed. “Yeah,” he said softly.

“Do you want to hang out with me and my sister? We’re both tired of talking to the old people.” Geoff made a face, and James smiled. Well… maybe he could write a few poems easily enough.

Geoff’s sister hadn’t moved an inch, but when Geoff introduced James, she smiled and shook James’ hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice lighter than James had expected. “I’m Marie. Want some champagne?”

“No thank you,” James replied. “I don’t drink.”

“Good,” she said cheerfully, “’Cause this stuff tastes like pi—”

“Company,” Geoff interrupted. Marie stuck her tongue out at him.

It was actually quite nice, how quickly James relaxed with these two. They were funny, and kind, and Marie teased Geoff constantly. They had both read plenty of work by Maya Angelou, who was the only poet allowed in James’ parents’ home, and Marie had plenty of recommendations for Jamaican poets that James eagerly noted in his phone.

“My dad is pretty bad with poetry,” he admitted in a small voice, “And my mom can’t read English very well. I translate the English orders usually.”

Geoff and Marie nodded in understanding, and didn’t push the issue with the usual questions that made James feel small and sick.

He didn’t need to use his Adorable Face. The conversation was so natural that he picked up plenty of information without even meaning to. Then all three of them went on Facebook on their phones, and the siblings sent James friend requests. He accepted them so fast Marie laughed, but instead of feeling embarrassed, James just felt relieved. Hopefully they wouldn’t mind his daily haikus.

Rabiya glided over, and all three of them greeted her with pleasure. The catering had come and gone and everyone else was eating by the time they realized that several hours had passed. There was only one open spot big enough for the four of them, close to a table of loud children. James felt terrible upon seeing the spread of food, and only took one ham-and-cheese sandwich and a scoop of potato salad, while Rabiya, Geoff, and Marie loaded their plates. They all took their seats, and before any of them could take a bite, one small child leapt up from his seat, pointed right at James, and started making squealing noises like a pig.

The other small children laughed. James blushed so hard his face hurt, and he didn’t touch his food, even when the boy’s mother snarled at him about manners. Rabiya said softly, “James, really, it’s okay,” but he just shook his head and mushed his potato salad around. He hadn’t been hungry, anyway.

Around 8PM, the picnic broke up. James was glad. The small children had continued making pig-noises at him, no matter how many times parents or his friends told them off sharply. He felt sick and tired and the more he realized what bad company he was being, over something small like kids being kids, the more guilty he was.

When he and Rabiya climbed into Rabiya’s car, he was close to tears. Rabiya hugged him, and said quietly, fury in her voice, “Those fucking spoiled-ass brats. I’ll get you a smoothie. We can play Mario Kart for a bit before you go home.”

James nodded because if he refused, Rabiya would be sad, and he didn’t want her to be sad.

The smoothie helped, and he realized with another pang of guilt that most of his being upset was because he actually had been hungry. Rabiya’s parents were having another shouting match and didn’t notice them slip upstairs to her room.

James felt better after playing Mario Kart and telling Rabiya everything he’d learned. She teased him when he went on at length about how well-read Geoff was, but this kind of teasing he was used to. He could smile and pretend it didn’t hurt.

When he got home, his father was drunk and asleep, and his mother was painting again, some of James’ poems. They hugged, she gave him some soup, and he went to bed.

~

Poetry is hard.

James was used to filling up pages and pages trying to describe nature or emotions or Rabiya, but trying to write about a guy he barely knew was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Finally he decided to write about his voice. It had been a lovely voice. Very sexy. James emailed the poem to Rabiya, she printed it out and doodled some hearts and flowers, and then she slipped it to Geoff.

This was the point where James realized Rabiya actually wasn’t interested in Geoff.

He’d read her poetry. It was fantastic. Her love-poems were moving and her prose was spectacular. But… she could not draw up the emotion to write one of these poems for Geoff.

“I told my parents I was sending Geoff poems, because they were badgering me about marriage again,” she told James heavily over the phone. “They seemed pleased.”

“Are you pleased?” James asked.

She sighed. “James, let’s not go there. I’m tired of discussing it.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

The more James forced himself to consider Geoff and write up as many passionate poems as he could, the more baffled James was. How could Rabiya not be interested in Geoff? It was very confusing.

One night, James was on Facebook, scrolling through some of the poetry groups he’d joined, when someone messaged him. Thinking it was Rabiya, or maybe Carl back in California, James opened the message without reading the name.

It was Geoff.

Hey, James! I have a conundrum and I was hoping you could help me. I keep getting these poems in my mailbox at work and I think they’re from Rabiya.

James’ stomach dropped.

I like them a lot, she’s an awesome poet. But I was hoping, can you help me write back to her? I’m not good with poetry. I’ll pay you if you’d like!

James took a deep breath, swallowed hard, wondered why he felt so anxious and sad, and answered.

No payment necessary! If it’s Rabiya, I’ll definitely help you out.

I insist. What’s your Paypal?

When they had negotiated the terms (which was really just Geoff wearing him down and offering him ten dollars a poem), James wrote up a poem to Rabiya’s lovely writing skills and emailed it to Geoff. Geoff thanked him, paid him, and they talked about other things until midnight. James was sorry to stop talking to Geoff.

The next day, James was finishing up his latest editing gig when Rabiya called him.

“Someone put a poem in my box at work!” she started right off with, sounding panicked. Not excited, not gleeful: truly frightened. “I swear I thought no one saw me put one in Geoff’s!”

“Hey, hey, chill a bit,” James cut in, trying for a soothing tone. “I’m sure it’s fine. What did the poem say?”

Rabiya recited it, but her frightened tone sucked all the warmth out of it. James felt awful all of a sudden. She was scared—of reciprocation? Of it being so soon? Why? He didn’t know if he should ask.

“Do you want me to stop writing poems to him?” James asked, startled to realize he didn’t want to.

Harsh breathing on the other end of the phone, and a hard swallow, then Rabiya replied shakily, “No. No. This is fine. This is fine, this what we were aiming for. God, James, I’m sorry, I’m just… I don’t know why, but I started crying, and it wasn’t happy-cry. I was genuinely scared, and I don’t know why, and that scared me more. He shouldn’t know yet.”

“Who else would put poems in his box about how wonderful he is?” James replied. “You’re the only nice person there.”

“Melody is nicer,” Rabiya retorted, uncertainly.

“But does she have access to his box?”

“No. She’s also seventy and has grandkids.”

“So you’re the most likely person.”

“I… yes.”

“So it probably wasn’t hard. It’s okay, Rabiya, we can stop if you’re scared.”

A whimper, and then she said, her voice almost a wail, “I hate this! I hate trying to make people like me! Why can’t I live alone and be a boss-ass bitch lawyer?! I don’t want love!”

James blinked, and stared at the poem on his wall that his mom had painted and illustrated. Not one of his; one by his grandfather, who was actually a published and renowned author back in China. Almost a prayer, asking for strength and heart and freedom. James had needed it often in high school, and he suspected he needed it now, because he really didn’t understand—but he had to. For Rabiya.

“Then… you don’t need it,” he said slowly, trying to think past his own bewilderment. “If you don’t want love, and it scares you, then you don’t need it. You don’t even need to get married.”

“My parents,” she sniffled, and James saw the second biggest facet to the problem. “They want me married off, fast. But I don’t want to. We’re still kids, James. We have legal responsibilities, but we’re kids.”

James frowned worriedly. “Could you… marry someone you at least get along with? Not me,” he added hastily, startling himself. “I do want love. But you could, I dunno, sift through some people and agree to marry and you can keep it open. Your parents will be happy, and won’t be after you about it, but you’ll be happy too, because it’ll be more business than love.”

The sniffling was quieter. Then Rabiya asked softly, “Do you think that would work?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“...Do you have the next poem ready?”

~

Six months later, James realized he was well and truly fucked.

Rabiya had insisted on tapering off the poems a few weeks after her scare; James had agreed. Geoff had called him, and asked worriedly if Rabiya was alright, and if he should stop commissioning poems for her; James soothed him and said she was just going through a rough patch, and that probably all sympathy should be kept to a minimum, because Rabiya was just like that. Geoff had sighed, thanked him, hesitated, then asked James about his work. So they’d talked on the phone for a few hours, and James had found himself laughing, and being sad that they had to hang up.

Loving Rabiya didn’t feel like this. Loving Rabiya felt like passionate despair and pained yearning, knowing she was too good for him and if he confessed, she wouldn’t want to be his friend. Talking to Geoff felt… nice. Like something he could do every day.

Marie messaged James on Facebook to say, If you break my brother’s heart, I’ll break your nose.

What? It’s not like that! He doesn’t like me like that!

Hmph.

And she’d logged off.

But now, every few days, James and Geoff would meet up, and hang out. Sometimes Marie came along, and James was happy to see and speak with her, but he couldn’t help being a little grumpy, because Geoff was less candid around his sister. When it was just the two of them, they talked about all kinds of things. Movies, visiting family in other countries, books, video games, work. Geoff liked to knit; James sewed a lot of his own clothes. It was… enjoyable, to spend time with him.

He told himself he was researching for his next poem. He knew that wasn’t it.

Rabiya was getting jumpy. They would go out to movies or clubs or their favorite frozen yogurt shop, and one minute she’d be laughing and talking easily, and then the next she’d be tense and fidgeting. James couldn’t figure out what was wrong. It hurt, that she wasn’t comfortable around him anymore.

Finally, one day after playing Mario Kart, she asked him abruptly, “Do you like Geoff?”

“Yes,” James replied, puzzled. “He’s a great guy.”

“No, I mean do you like-like him?”

James opened his mouth to say no, then closed it. His face began to burn. Rabiya sighed—in relief.

“Oh, thank god,” she said, and patted his arm. “Then you won’t mind if I marry him and you come live with us.”

“What!” James squeaked, looking at her in horror. “What, that’s—what do you mean?!”

Rabiya snorted. “You told me once to think of marriage as a business transaction,” she reminded him. “So, I talked to Geoff about it.”

“When?!”

“Oh, a couple months ago.”

Months. James’ stomach dropped. Months. He’d been blissfully unaware, falling in love with Geoff and writing poems for them both, and they’d been talking about this for months.

Rabiya looked at him, and her face clearly showed sudden guilt. “Oh, James,” she said, and tried to hug him. But James didn’t want to be hugged, he didn’t want to be—comforted. He felt—betrayed, and he wasn’t sure why or by who. So he stood up and walked away, still staring at her, shocked.

“Months?” he said, quietly, and his voice was shaking.

Rabiya’s arms were still outstretched, and now she looked just as upset as he felt. “James—I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you—we both did. But it didn’t seem right. We both love you, okay? Just—you’re my best friend, and he loves you like you love him.”

“I don’t love him.” But it was weak and shaky and he still felt cold and alone.

Rabiya stood too, slowly, her arms falling to her sides. He didn’t want to look at her anymore. He didn’t want to see her guilt. He’d start wanting to forgive her, and that just wasn’t right. He looked down instead. He was hugging himself. He hadn’t realized. God, he just wanted to disappear. This was just too much. The two people he loved most, letting him believe this fiction of them both trying to woo the other, while they plan a marriage, and just like that, she drops it like a bombshell and breaks his heart.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and she sounded like she was trying not to cry.

James couldn’t think of a response. So he left.

~

Geoff called him three times that week, leaving voicemails that got more and more frantic, until the last one sounded like he was crying. Marie sent James a message on Facebook saying she was so sorry, she hadn’t known, she’d yelled at Geoff and he really was sorry. James didn’t reply to her.

He sat in his room, quietly, staring at the poem on his wall.

Mom left him dinner outside his room. He took showers when he knew his parents were asleep. He refused to talk to anyone until he had thought this through completely.

About ten days after Rabiya had told him that, James sent both her and Geoff an email asking them to meet him at the diner that all three of them used to go to. He got agreement from both of them within minutes. He tried to feel something about that, but he was already feeling a lot of things.

Fear. He was afraid. And hurt. But he’d thought about it. And he thought he knew what to say and do.

He got to the diner first, and sat in a booth at the back, precisely placed so neither of them would sit with him. They arrived together. He only knew because, since he was staring at his glass of water, he didn’t see until they both slid into the seat across from him.

He raised his head and looked at them both. Neither of them looked like they’d slept well. Rabiya’s eyes were red. Geoff’s hair wasn’t as neat as usual. They both looked scared, and hopeful.

James would’ve cried, but he’d already thought it all out, and he no longer had tears for this.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, deciding to get the hardest question out of the way first.

“Because it… it didn’t feel right,” Geoff answered, haltingly. His voice was rough, like his throat hurt. “I figured it out after the first few poems you sent me to give to Rabiya. You have a really distinct style, and… and I didn’t know what to do. Marie has already smacked me for not just asking either of you. And then we started hanging out, and...” He blushed and looked down at the table.

“I wasn’t thinking about the love part,” Rabiya admitted softly. “Because it just… didn’t seem important. I thought, well, hey, you two loved each other, if we did this then you two would be happy and everything would be fine. I didn’t think about if it would hurt you. I’m sorry, James.” Her lip trembled and two tears escaped her, as she stared at him. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

James nodded, and went back to staring at his water. That made sense. Rabiya didn’t know that he loved her, and he had been the one to suggest the business line of approach. She was one of those people who was so focused on the goal (get married and get her parents off her back) that she sometimes forgot about others on the way (like James). And Geoff… well, Geoff was hesitant. Didn’t like to make the first move until he’d thought about it hard, and then sometimes it was too late. He had told James, and demonstrated, that he was the opposite of impulsive.

And James was a fool for thinking they wouldn’t team up behind his back.

But they had considered him. They had decided that they would make room for him. It was just Rabiya’s poor word choice, bad timing, and James’ own fear that had made the moment a botch.

“You should have asked,” he told them both.

“Yes,” Geoff said simply. “We should have. And we are sorry.”

Rabiya swallowed hard, and asked softly, “Can we try again, James? Please?”

James had already known the answer to that. He reached out both hands, and Geoff and Rabiya grabbed one each, tightly. “Yeah,” he said, raising his head and managing a smile. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

~

The wedding was great, and James just smiled softly as Geoff and Rabiya led the dancing. It had been about a year since their talk in the diner, and he sometimes worried that he would, at any moment, be thrown to the wayside.

But that hadn’t happened. They’d all three moved into an apartment together, and James had found out that Geoff was an excellent kisser. Rabiya had made obnoxious kissy noises at them until James threw a crumpled piece of newspaper at her. They might all have been drunk.

Ostensibly, the master bedroom was for the engaged couple, and James had the smaller one. In reality, Rabiya had shoved them both towards the bigger room and told them to “work out which side of the bed is whose”. James still felt a little odd, sharing a room, but cuddling in bed was great, and sometimes Rabiya would come in and drape herself over them and eat rice crackers while they all three watched She-Ra or The Last Airbender or even just some crime drama that Rabiya and Geoff would thoroughly eviscerate from a legal standpoint. James loved those days.

Geoff was very much his mother’s child, in that he insisted that James stop skipping meals out of shame. Since the meals were uniformly delicious, James found it easier to accept this new rule. When cuddling, Geoff would sometimes end up with his face smooshed against James’ soft tummy, and James could never help feeling such a strong surge of love that he almost cried. After years and years of people taunting him, there was someone who appreciated him—all of him.

So James watched the wedding from the sidelines, and didn’t even care when people gave him their fake condolences that the woman he loved was getting swept away by someone else—by a better man, though they didn’t say that.

He just smiled and thanked them and drank his soda contentedly.

After the wedding, when they made it back to their apartment and divested themselves of their wedding finery, Rabiya called, “Dibs on first shower!”, grabbed a towel, and darted into the bathroom. James shrugged and Geoff sighed morosely. There was glitter on his face.

“You knew what you signed up for,” James teased gently, putting his arm around Geoff’s waist. Geoff grinned and wound his arms around James.

“Yes, I certainly did. May I have this dance?”

Swaying to Geoff’s lazy humming, they danced slowly in the living room. Their wedding dance. James wondered if anyone had ever been as happy as him in this moment.

[eldritchsurveys]

1038.

For those who wear jeans, do you have a favourite kind of fit or wash? For those who don’t wear jeans, what other kinds of pants do you wear? >> Technically I do wear jeans, by which I mean this one pair of Old Navy skinny jeans because I don’t have money for clothes right now and therefore my wardrobe is pretty limited these days. But I don’t like jeans and if I had the option I wouldn’t wear them at all, and would only wear loose-fitting, comfortable bottom garments (preferably with good pockets!).

For those who have Facebook, how often do you check it? For those who don’t have Facebook, is there a reason why you don’t? >> I check it every couple of days or so, just to see if I have messages or notifications or whatever.

For those who listen to metal, do you pay attention to all the subgenres like power metal and metalcore and thrash metal? For those who don’t listen to metal, are there any specific metal songs you do like? >> I pay a cursory amount of attention, just enough to get a vague idea of how certain bands or sounds would be categorised.

For those who have a job, what do you have to do at your job? For those who don’t have a job, is there a reason you currently don’t have a job? >> I don’t have a job because I am functionally disabled from a mental-health standpoint. Employing me would involve a lot of accommodations and a compassionate employer, and in this capitalist hellscape, that’s not going to happen. Not to mention that even in that situation, my brain could still decide to act the fuck up and ruin my chances at keeping even the best job. So, you know.

For those who wear makeup, are there any specific brands you have to use? For those who don’t wear makeup, does wearing makeup make you feel uncomfortable in any way? >> Technically I do wear makeup, but I wear it so infrequently that I’m not too sure which side to take on this question. I’ll just answer both -- yes, there are specific brands I prefer (and plenty of brands I can’t use because they have nothing for my skin colour, ofc), and no, there’s really no reason for me to feel uncomfortable about wearing makeup because it’s 100% optional. If I’m not comfortable with it, I just don’t wear it.

For those who have gauged ears, what size are they? For those who don’t have gauged ears, would you ever stretch them? >> I used to have stretched ears, way back when. I think I got up to about 2ga before I had a blowout trying to stretch to 0.

For those who like dreadlocks, do you think one sex looks better with them than the other? For those who don’t like dreadlocks, is it specifically because you think people with them can’t and don’t wash their hair? >> No, I don’t care about the sex of the person??? Dreads are just cool, period. I don’t see why sex has to matter. I’ll tell you what does matter -- the hair texture of the person. While the cultural appropriation aspect of white people wearing “dreadlocks” is a subject I’m not going to touch right now, the plain old “this really... doesn’t work for your hair texture...” angle is very clear. White people usually just end up damaging their hair when they try to loc it, because they have to employ crazy methods to get it to do the thing, and I don’t see why you’d go through that struggle. You’ve got so many other options! 

For those who own band t-shirts, which band t-shirt is your favourite? For those who don’t own band t-shirts, do you think they’re stupid/lame? >> If we go by how often it gets worn, it’d seem like my Blaqk Audio shirt is my favourite, but I just wear it a lot because it’s the perfect size for just relaxing in and the material is soft. Design-wise, I really like my Trans-Siberian Orchestra shirts and my Behemoth shirt. Oh, and the one Amon Amarth shirt that I cut the sides out of.

For those who have done a hard drug before, do you do any hard drugs regularly? For those who have never done a hard drug before, do you think you ever will? >> Aside from the occasional edible, I don’t do drugs anymore. Which works out, because it’s not like I can even access them like I could when I was in the City.

For those who are still in high school, what are some things you love about it? For those who have graduated high school, what are some great memories from school? >> Great memories??? from school???? Ha.... haha. Ha.

For those who suffer with a mental illness/disorder, which do you suffer with and what are some things that frustrate you most about it? For those who don’t suffer from a mental illness/disorder, what would you do if you were diagnosed with one such as anxiety, depression, or bipolar disorder? >> The one thing I’m clear about is that I definitely, without a doubt, have CPTSD. There’s no getting around that. Whether I am also on the ASD spectrum or not is debatable, and without the prodigious funds required to get formally tested, I guess I’ll never know. But I find resources for autistic people to be very applicable to my own needs, whether or not my symptoms are from the CPTSD or from another neurodivergence. Anyway, I could go on and on about the intricacies of my particular flavour of badbrains, but, like. Why. I’m sure some of my survey answers over time have shined enough of a light on it.

For those who make surveys, have you ever made more than five surveys in a day? For those who don’t make surveys, is there any specific reason you don’t make them? >> I used to make surveys, but I don’t do it anymore. I’m just not interested or invested in putting in that much effort. I prefer to take them.

For those who text often, who all do you text on a regular basis? For those who rarely text, do you hate texting or do you just not really feel the need to? >> I don’t hate texting, I just don’t have anyone to text.

For those who have more than one Xanga, how many do you have and what are the usernames? For those who only have one Xanga, are you signed up to any other social networking sites? >> Damn, what a throwback.

For those who post pictures before each survey, where do you find all your pictures? For those who don’t post pictures before their surveys, is there a reason why you don’t, like because you just don’t feel like putting in the extra effort to do so? >> Yeah, I just don’t want to put in that effort. I don’t see the point for me personally.

For those who number their surveys, are you shocked by how many surveys you’ve done? For those who don’t number their surveys, are you ever curious to know how many you’ve actually taken? >> Of course I’m not shocked. I’ve been doing these for almost 15 years, I’ve taken thousands upon thousands of surveys by now. 1,038 surveys on this one tumblr account is just a drop in the bucket.

For those who have a specific religion, do you follow every single thing you’re supposed to with said religion? For those who don’t have a specific religion, how do you describe your beliefs? >> I don’t have any religious beliefs, per se. I just... have a lot going on in the non-materialistic arena, is what I’ll say.

For those who have went to college or university, if there was a best and worst part of the experience, what were they? For those who haven’t went to college or university, do you plan on doing so? >> I do not plan on doing so.

For those who smoke marijuana, who do you normally smoke with? For those who don’t smoke marijuana, if you’re curious, what is making you so curious and if you aren’t, why are you against it? >> Technically I don’t smoke it, I eat it, but you know. I don’t have a social circle that I do it with or anything, I kind of just pop an edible whenever I feel like I’m in a good enough space for it.

For those who drink alcohol, what is the most drunk you’ve ever been, if you’ve been drunk? For those who don’t drink alcohol, do you feel drinking socially sounds more appropriate than drinking just to get smashed? >> The most drunk I’ve ever been is to the point of being sick for the rest of the night. I was absolutely fine when I woke up the next day, though, lol. As would continue to be the trend to this day.

[mlovesstories]

You Know What You’re Doing Part 10

Tag List

Ask Box

Masterlist of Masterlists

Words: 1962

Warnings: Angry characters, self-esteem struggles, fighting, cussing, psychologist.  

SPN Bingo Square- none

“We’re going to keep the babies downstairs. Feel free to use our bathroom to soak in the tub or take a long shower. Exfoliate, shave, whatever. You’re in charge, okay?” Danneel smiled at YN. “The upstairs is all yours.”

“Thank you,” YN grinned at the prospect of time to herself. It had been a few weeks since Alex decided to ninja his way into her room. She had now moved rooms. Some nights she slept on a pad next to Jensen and Danneel’s bed. Danneel shut her door.  

YN got in the warm bath water and read a book. After reaching the end of a chapter, she put it away and shaved. Listening to calm music, she stayed still, but that didn’t last long. The memories came back, so she stood and wiped herself down, emptying the tub. YN sat on Jensen and Danneel’s balcony with the country music radio station blaring.

“What’s YN doing?” JJ asked. “It’s noisy.”

“It’s not noisy. You can barely hear it. YN is relaxing in Mommy and Daddy’s room. She needed some alone time.”

“But I want to see her!” JJ whined. “She needs to play with me.”

“No, she doesn’t. YN needs to have some YN Time. When you get older, you’ll understand.”

———-

YN called James to catch up while eating some chocolate that she had hid in her room. She let him know that she was okay, and that, yes, she was the main person in the news story. Since “Jensen Ackles’ House was Broken into” He asked her toms of questions, but she stopped him.

“Jamie, can we please just- I only have these two hours. Can we talk about what you’re doing for summer break?”

“I’m so sorry, YN. Yes. It’s been good. I’m staying with a college friend until I can go back to the dorms when school starts.”

“Where do they live?” YN hoped he didn’t have to travel far.

“College Station.”

“Boo Aggies!”

“I know, I know. But he’s letting me stay for free, so it’s worth it.”

“Well, that’s cool. Oh, shoot.  I only have a little time left.  I need to go write in my journal. I love you, Jamie.”

“I love you too, boogaloo.”

————

YN JOURNAL ENTRY

Great two hours. Feel better. I got to do what I wanted. J can’t take me from me.

Jamie makes me feel safe. He knows what it’s like.

————

“Hi, doc.” YN stepped into his office that looked like a living room.

“Hey, YN. You doing okay?”

“I just did my two hours.” She sat down on the couch.

“Really? I’m very proud of you. And you brought your notebook. So were the two hours helpful?”

“Yes. I got to do things that I wanted to. I was listening to my music, cleaned myself up, talked to Jamie.  It was- peaceful? I felt like me.”

“Good that’s the point. I see the notebook has some wrinkled pages. Have you been using it?”

“Yeah,” she put it on her lap.

“Would you like to tell me what is in it, or do you want me to read it later, and we can talk about something else?”

“Can you read it later?” She cringed, ashamed she couldn’t speak to him face-to-face about these things. “I think I want to tell you about my two hours.”

He extended his hand to receive the now glitter-covered notebook with a demon protection symbol in the center. The doctor smiled. Once it was in his possession, he locked in away in a cabinet.

“So?”

“It was amazing, but I feel bad that Jensen doesn’t want me to. I really enjoyed it, but every time it comes up, he- I don’t know. He doesn’t think it would be helpful? But I really like it. I get to be me. Do stuff I like.”

“You’ve never really had that.” The doctor supported her statement.

“No. I get that he doesn’t understand. It just makes me feel bad when he says stuff.  Do I really need those two hours?”

“Yes. And I’ll tell you why.”

“Okay…?”

“You don’t get to just think. Ever.  Or just do what you want. You’ve never been able to listen to music only you like, or go where you want to go. You’re almost fifteen. You are allowed to enjoy stuff that not necessarily anyone else likes.”

“I get that. So what do I do when he does that? I feel bad saying anything.”

“I understand your trepidation, BUT you are entitled to the same amount of space that anyone else is. You should express how it helps you. Tell him specific things to show him that it is of benefit for you.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know, but those two hours are for you. You need them, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you should write him a letter then. Hand write it or type it. For this, either is fine. It’s important for him to know that you want this, and you would like his support.”

—————-

Dear Jensen,

I need my two hours. I know you don’t like it. You groan every time Dee and I try to schedule it. It makes me feel bad. Please, I need this. I want you to be okay with me and my two hours.

I love you.

YN

—————

Her note rambled, but she thought it would work. YN placed it on Jensen’s desk in his office while he and Danneel were out on a date.

“Gen?” YN walked into the kitchen. The older female turned around to face her. “Thanks for staying with me. Sorry you have to babysit me.” YN looked away and pulled at her sleeve. “I wish I could stay by myself again, but-“

“But nothing. It’s fine.” Gen smiled.

“I want to go to bed, but I normally stay next to Jay and Dee’s bed since- ya know.”

“You wanna crash on the couch? I can sit with you.”

“With a light on?”

“Sure, if that would help. I’ll bring my book. Go get dressed for bed and bring your pillow,” Gen smiled at the teen.

————

“Hey,” Danneel entered the house with a whisper.

“Hi. She didn’t want to be by herself. Hope it was okay that she fell asleep on the couch.”

“Totally.”

“I’ll bring her upstairs,” Jensen dropped some shopping bags on the counter, and slowly raised YN off of the couch. Gen ticked her pillow under Jensen’s arm.

“Huh?” YN slowly awoke.

“Shhh. I’m taking you upstairs. Go back to sleep,” he whispered.

———-

“Good morning, YN,” Jensen knocked on her door.

“Hi,” she yawned.

“I, uh- got your note.” Jensen showed her the piece of paper

“It’snotabigdeal,” she spat out.

“I think the fact that I was belittling what you needed IS a big deal. You trust the doc, and I do too. If he says you need it, then I will stop making those comments. I didn’t even realize I was saying them, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You realize you slept alone last night?” Jensen’s grinned. “I’m proud of you.”

“I guess I did.”

“We wanted to reward you for your hard work in therapy so...” Jensen offered a sly smile.

“What did you do?” She tilted her head, confused.

“Well, I think you should go open the front door.”

“Okay…” YN stood up, and slowly walked down the steps. She reached for the door and turned the knob. “JAMES?!” She ran into his arms. “Jamie! What are you doing here?!”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ackles invited me to stay for a few days.”

“You did what?” She turned her body to face Jensen. “Thank you!”

————

“So, how have you been doing since…,” James started.

“Fine.” YN answered shortly.

“You are not, you liar,” he grinned as they sat on the couch while the family was outside.

“James,” she whined.

“No, talk to me.”

“Been going to therapy.  You know how it is.  You think you’re doing good, and then something messes it up again.”

“Yep.  I get that.  You know it’s going to be worth it, right?” James nudged her to look at him.

“Whatever, Jamie.”

“I’m serious.  The doc has helped me too.  It takes time, boogaloo.”

“I’ve been in therapy since I was nine, James.  That’s almost six years, and I feel like shit.”

Jensen was about to come around the corner to offer them chips and salsa when he overheard their conversation.

“Dammit.” He stood there for a moment.

“We went through hell, but you ARE better.  Believe it.”

________

That evening, the Ackles Family celebrated YN’s fifteenth birthday.  She was very excited to have James there with her, but she was nervous being around so many people.  At every noise, she turned her head.  

“Why don’t you go get those noise-cancelling headphones,” Jensen whispered.  

“I’m okay,”  she whispered back.

“You’re not.  Go.  They’re in my office in the desk drawer.” He stepped out of her way so that she would have a clear path to the house entrance from the patio.  She nodded and walked away.  The foster dad sighed in near defeat.  

When she came back out, he noticed a piece of cloth hanging out of her pocket, and one ear covered by a headphone and the other not.  Just enough to block out the noise.  

“How is she?”

Jensen turned to see his mom expectantly waiting for an answer.  

“Recovering still.  Comes in waves.  She’s on edge with so many people here.”

“That’s okay.  She’s here and she’s safe-”

Everyone heard a shrill come from the backyard patio door.

Jensen recognized the scream right away.  Leaving his mother, he ran to the sound.  

“What happened?”

“I ran into her on accident.  Scared her, I guess,”  Jared answered.  “You’re okay, YN,” he soothed.  

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly from the floor.  “Sorry.”

Jared helped her off the ground and pulled her into a hug.  “Breathe.” James came over to his friend.  

“She okay?”

“I’m fine.  Who knew I would get three bodyguards out of this,” she giggled into Jared’s chest.  Without her noticing, Jensen motioned for James to follow him.  James nodded and walked into one of the house’s hallways.  

“What did she tell you?  She’s anxious.  You being here may not be a good idea,” Jensen paced back and forth.  

“Wait, wha-” James didn’t understand.  

“She hasn’t been herself since you got here.  Did you force her to talk about it?”

“No!  We talked about Terry and Susan, but nothing anyone doesn’t know.  And besides, I wouldn’t tell you anyway, Superhero.  She’s my friend.  We went through this together, and I won’t break her trust,” James growled.  “She’s just bouncing back, that’s all.  Happens to me too!”

“Get your shit and get out.  Don’t come around.”

“I’m not giving up my friendship because some rich guy is trying to have a pissing contest with me.”

“GET. OUT.”

YN walked around the corner with her headphones on and dried tears on her face.  She looked up to see James running out of the house and Jensen’s jaw locked.  She ripped her earphones off of her head and yelled to James.

“Jamie!”

“Not now, YN.  I”m only hurting you.  Love you.”

With that, he rushed out of the house.

“What the hell?” She stomped over to Jensen.  “What did you do?” 

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[ariadnelives]

Chapter 12 -- The Worst-Case Scenario

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3”]

“Honey, we're home!” Ariadne shouted as she and Spacebreather disembarked from her shuttle. “We have information and we need some synthesis!”

Alicia, Tripwire, Lefthook, and Taryn were all waiting in the docking bay for them, looking somewhat concerned.

“Promise you won't be mad?” Tripwire offered nervously.

Of course, neither Pilar nor Ariadne would make such a promise, and it's a good thing they didn't, as Pilar had never been angrier than she was when she found out Sasha had spirited away from the station.

“Please,” Alicia said calmly as Pilar kicked a crate across the room in frustration, breaking it into three pieces, “don't blame yourself for this, there was no stopping—”

“I don't blame myself!!” Pilar shouted, picking up a rather expensive-looking vase from the crate she'd kicked apart, and smashing it against the ground. “I blame you!”

“Querida, that's—” Ariadne started reassuringly, but Pilar cut her off.

“That's what, unfair? She's the one who helped her sneak out! She's the one who disguised her as me! This is on her!”

“No, it's not,” Taryn insisted, “It was Sasha's decision.”

“It's okay, Taryn,” Alicia said flatly. “This was on me, I'm the one who helped her.”

“Well, then, it's on me too,” Taryn replied angrily. “We all thought she should be allowed to go in the field. We all saw how miserable she was in here, if she said she wanted to go, there isn't one of us here who wouldn't have helped her.”

This struck something in Pilar. She was still angry, but something about hearing how her sister felt like a prisoner snapped her back to reality and made her feel a pang of guilt.

There was silence for a moment.

“I'm willing to take full responsibility for this,” Alicia said calmly, “but I need you to remain calm when I tell you this next part.”

Pilar once again made no such promise, and almost broke her hand punching the wall of the shuttle when she found out the station had lost contact with Sasha and her rogue crew, who were now presumed captured.

When she calmed down a bit, she pointed at Tripwire. “You. I want the coordinates for Sasha's last known location programmed into my shuttle five minutes ago.”

Tripwire scrambled into the shuttle in the hopes of not making the situation worse.

Pilar pointed somewhat aggressively at Alicia. “You. We're going to need to put a pin in how furious I am with you. We have information on the life centers and we'll need all the help we can get in order to mount a rescue.”

Alicia bit her lip and nodded.

Pilar then pointed at Taryn. “And YOU. Took a lot for someone as young as you to stand up to me like that for the sake of your crewmates. Me and Ariadne will have to have a talk about your name.”

Taryn would have smiled under any other circumstances.

***

Pilar was, at the moment, too anxious to pilot the shuttle, and Alicia was poring over the information they'd retrieved from La Pesadilla, so Ariadne took the driver's seat. Of course, she was just as anxious as Pilar, but she put it aside because her hands were a little bit steadier and Spacebreather was much better at panicking.

“So, I think it's pretty obvious what the immersion pods and Cortex implants are for,” Alicia offered.

“Let's pretend it's not,” Pilar snapped, “Sorry, my brain is all over the place right now. I'm going to need you to assume nothing is obvious.”

“Okay,” Alicia replied calmly, trying to strike a balance between being accommodating and condescending in the hopes of not getting Pilar even angrier at her. “Well, it's a cult. In the old days, and I'm talking really old, they would prey on people who crave structure and ritual, they convince those people that they're better off with someone else making all the decisions for them, then convince them that any of their loved ones who've got concerns are actually the cause of all their suffering.”

“And how do the pods and implants factor into it?” Pilar asked, trying equally hard to be patient, as she did technically ask for a long-winded explanation.

“Well, see, eventually they tried to make it seem more rational and scientific. They introduced fancy-looking machines that they claimed measured mental stress, or the despair of the soul, or some other intangible quality that no court could technically prove they weren't measuring. They'd scare people into joining their practice by showing them hard data that seemed to prove they'd be better off in the cult. I think this is something similar. The pods and the implants would both allow the cult's leadership to do all sorts of things. Show them visions of their god, convince them their dead loved ones can't get into heaven unless they sign up, encode their brain with the irresistible urge to wear ugly orange robes. In fact, they wouldn't even need to go to all the trouble of exploiting a certain group of people. They could program the appropriate psychological profile, with the brainwashing already done, onto a disk and then just pop it into people's heads. Anyone who agreed to their audit would be clay in their hands as soon as the machine turned on.”

“That'd explain why nobody ever seems to come out of the Life Centers,” Pilar looked slightly confused, “but then, why both? You could do that with the just pods or just the implants, and since the implants need to be surgically installed, it doesn't seem all that practical, you know?”

“Again, I'm not sure this is what they're doing. I'm just saying, it's something they could be used for. I agree, the implants aren't practical for large-scale cult programming, but they could be used for a more direct form of mind control.”

“How do you mean?” Pilar asked.

“Well,” Alicia continued, “we've considered the possibility that maybe our impostor Ariadne might not be pulling the strings?”

“And the quantum shift generator?” Pilar asked.

“Still not sure. I'd guess it has something to do with the life centers. I mean, the impostor usually seems to be in two places at once, with the right tweaking, a quantum shift generator could make that possible. Or…” Alicia saw the look on Pilar’s face and instantly regretted beginning this sentence. “…some of the old-school cults actually had prison ships so they could detain people who wanted to leave. A quantum shift generator could be used to freeze a person in time so you don’t have to worry about supplying them with food and water.”

Pilar looked horrified. “We have to get my sister out of there…”

“We will,” Alicia started, “just—”

“Don't,” Pilar snapped. “You and I… we're not there yet.”

“That's it,” Alicia sighed, “I was really hoping I wouldn't have to do this, but…”

Alicia pulled a small circular hologram projector out of her pocket and attached earbuds to it.

“I've made a call. Hopefully they can talk some sense into you,” Alicia said, placing the projector on the table. “She's on hold, just tap the crystal.”

Alicia quietly went up to the cockpit and took the controls from a very relieved Ariadne, who walked back to be with Spacebreather.

Spacebreather had the earbuds in both her ears, listening to the woman in the hologram that Ariadne recognized immediately.

She looked a lot like Alicia, although her demeanor was slightly more relaxed. Her hair was long and twisted into colorful locs, and she had a faintly visible scar that started on her forehead, crossed her left eye and eyebrow, and landed at the top of a prominent cheekbone.

She was talking quickly, and from having spent so much time with Alicia's younger sister Ariana Baltimore, that the speech she was giving was probably sarcastic and full of borderline irrelevant tangents.

Ariadne wished she could hear what Baltimore was saying. She was something of an expert in sisterly conflict. For some incredibly complex reasons that frankly don't need to be recounted again, Alicia was forced to fake her death and disappeared for ten years, and she and Ariana had spent the last several years working to patch up the damage this had done to their relationship.

Pilar was listening intently, shaking almost imperceptibly. Her responses to Baltimore's speech were mostly nods and quiet utterances of “mhm” and “okay.” At the beginning, she seemed angry, but her expression quickly softened until she looked sad, and then horribly guilty. By the end, both Baltimore and Pilar were crying.

“Thank you,” Pilar said to her.

Baltimore said something back.

“I will,” Pilar responded, and unplugged the headphones so Ariadne could hear.

Another woman walked into the holographic display. This was Marisol Beam-Spacebreather, Baltimore's wife and Pilar's adoptive older sister. Her brown hair was longer than the last time they'd seen her.

“Hi Pilar! Hi Ariadne!” Beam cheered. “We hear you're on a dangerous mission!”

“I wasn't super listening when Alicia described it to me but as I understand it, you're trying to help the President of Mars get his confidence back?” Baltimore asked while maintaining a totally straight face.

“Not even close,” Ariadne grinned.

“And Mars doesn't have a—” Pilar started, but was cut off by Baltimore.

“I know, I'm just being a jerk. Just be safe, okay?” Baltimore said. “And remember what I told you.”

“And come back alive,” Beam quipped, “I mean, ideally. We want to bring the twins out to the station on Halloween weekend and it'd probably be better if you two weren't dead, so please try to make it an easy mission!”

“We'll do our best,” Pilar smiled, and wiped away a tear.

“What'd she say?” Ariadne asked.

“She gave me a lot to think about, and thought about a few things for me so I didn’t have to,” Pilar did not elaborate, and Ariadne did not pry further.

Ariadne and Pilar both intended to fulfill their promise to remain safe when they stepped off the ship. They gave Alicia instructions on what to do should they not make it back in time for the rendezvous, and attempted to break into the Life Center closest to Sasha's last known location.

It was almost too easy to break into. Seemingly, whoever was in charge of activating the security system had forgotten to do so, and despite the late hour, there was not a night watchman in sight.

Ariadne and Spacebreather quietly scanned for some kind of dungeon or holding cell, and after observing two barracks where rows of acolytes slept in bunk beds, a small kitchenette that seemed to be devoid of all seasonings, a recreation room that consisted of a few card tables and uncomfortably religious board games, and three separate dark rooms that had very little besides a capsule resembling a refrigerator in them, they found a large vault with the door ajar.

They silently hoped that this meant that Sasha and her rogue crew had escaped on their own. When they got inside, they found little more than dusty wooden crates, statues covered by white sheets, and shelves of books that had been there so long that, while there was no way for Ariadne to notice this, the dust mites in the pages had evolved into their own subspecies.

The only person inside was a young white man, about Ariadne's age, with dark hair and a naturally punchable face. He was shoving various trinkets, scrolls, and volumes into a large duffel bag.

He jumped back when he noticed that anyone else was in the room at all, but when he saw Pilar's tattoos a second later, he recognized her immediately.

“They let you out?!” Prescott said in a tone that was somewhere between a whisper, a gasp, and a scream.

“Uh … what?” Spacebreather replied.

“Do we know you?” Ariadne asked.

“Ugh, I guess if you want a job done right, you've got to do it yourself.” Prescott tapped the face of his watch several times and suddenly the silence split open as alarms rang through the air. Emergency lights switched on with a loud clunk and the vault door swung closed behind them. As easily as he'd deactivated the security, he'd switched the system back on, and the open vault door had triggered a full lockdown. He spoke loudly and clearly into his watch. “Babe, I've got what I need. I'm gonna need that teleport.”

“You got it,” a female voice said from the watch.

Pilar, however, moved slightly more quickly than the woman on the other end of the line. She unsheathed two of the knives strapped to her thigh and, in one move, sliced the watch from Prescott's wrist with her right hand, knocked Prescott several feet back, pinning him against the wall, and placed the knife in her left hand against his throat. Ariadne instinctively drew her blaster and trained it on his forehead.

The watch fell onto the open duffel bag, and there was a flash of white light. The watch and the duffel bag were both gone, presumably now in the possession of whatever accomplice Prescott had been talking to.

“You blew our cover and I've had a really bad day,” Pilar growled at the young man who was suppressing the impulse to wet himself. “If you want to keep all your fingers you'd better be able to get us out of here. ¿Está claro?”

Prescott began to laugh nervously.

“Something funny?” Pilar let the knife press a little harder against his throat.

“You just flushed it down the toilet!” Prescott laughed wildly. “Unless you've got a teleport of your own, the only way out of this vault just poofed away with my nest egg.”

“Wrong answer,” Pilar shouted and, with the knife that wasn't pressed to his throat, severed his right pinky and ring finger. The resulting scream was loud enough to drown out the alarms. “Clearly you've shut the security down before, so if you want this little piggy to keep eating roast beef you'd better tell us how to open that vault door.”

“That's toes,” Ariadne shouted over the alarms and Prescott's continuing sobs.

“What?” Pilar asked sharply.

“This Little Piggy, that's toes, not fingers,” Ariadne explained. “Still, I'd do what she says, you're losing a lot of blood.”

“It only opens from the outside, someone has to let us out,” Prescott whimpered.

“Try again,” Pilar hissed, and with another scream, his middle finger fell to the floor. “You've got 17 fingers and toes left to give me the right answer.”

“And probably some other things you'd rather not lose,” Ariadne added helpfully.

When the screams died down, Prescott managed to push a response through the tears. “I set up the security system,” he was gasping between every few words, “they know me. When they come check the vault, I can convince them this was a— surprise security, uh, audit, that you two are consultants, and that the system malfunctioned and trapped us here.”

Pilar considered this.

“P… please… don't hurt me again,” Prescott begged.

“Right answer,” she said, and dropped him hard to the ground. He fell to his knees and attempted to wad his T-shirt around his bleeding hand.

“You… you fucking bitch…” Prescott whimpered, which prompted a flash of rage in Ariadne that manifested in her clubbing him in the eye with the butt of her pistol.

Prescott fell to the floor, unconscious.

“Sorry,” Ariadne said immediately, “Oh god, Pilar, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” Pilar said back. “You just knocked him out.”

“But now we're trapped for real,” Ariadne was trying very hard not to panic.

“Would've happened either way,” Pilar shrugged, and slumped back against a crate, waiting for their captors to come recover them.

“How do you figure?” Ariadne asked, really hoping to make sense of what she was being told.

“You were faster than me,” Pilar replied, “which is the only reason he's unconscious and not dead.”

Ariadne sat down next to Pilar and waited for someone to collect them.

[blackwoolncrown]

Years ago, my body ‘journey’ began with something I figured was just what it was and nothing more at the time- going natural.

The natural hair movement for Black people- mainly women, was really a fantastic vehicle of possible liberation that extended in its popularity into non-black communities. While there were various reasons to undergo the BC process and start investigating a plethora of wash, detangling and transitioning methods, the end result is removing your body from one locus of traumatic racism and in many ways, detaching from the ego.

Many of us grew up with hot combs and relaxers, to the point that our identity of who we were was not just our body, but our body with smooth edges and straight hair. Our concept of self was this primped black girl, who was socially passable in a way we automatically accepted because we were raised in it. 

Going natural provides a great method for healing and reconnecting, and I always recommend it. I BC’d, managed my hair until it became a huge fro, loc’d it and wore locs for years before cutting and detangling them (yep) because I needed to wear hats and wigs. Hats, by the way, or some manner of sun-covering are a MUST down south, so the fact that 90% of natural hair styles make hat wearing impossible really chafes) Over time I definitely let go of the newbie natural obsession with the right products (I had only so much patience for it anyway- all the right products have the same basic ingredients- it’s much cheaper to just DIY) and hair growth, and my natural hair became not a focus of my time but just another part of me. Accepted, cared for, part of the whole.

Fast forward to today, and I’m thinking back on how much work I’ve had to do to work around how much harder it is to have any hair and still be able to wear wigs- any protective style bulks my head too much for wigs, and I have to go back and forth between stretching & being able to perform and having some manner of style and not being able to work until I take it down. A hassle. Wearing headraps isn’t super effective for me because I have a mohawk- the traction is just way different.

But I realize that here, too, is another identity. On the one hand you could say ‘then just shave your head!’ “I am not my hair” and all that. True! But I like having hair, and shaving your head is a lot more effort than people think- I’ve been there, done that. It was much much more work than managing the shoulder-length braids I have today.

This identity born out of my hair’s natural state now reflects primacy of the body. The idea that this body in this current state is somehow the most natural me, the ‘real’ me; to change it in any way disrupts my ‘down to earth’ ‘all natural’ ‘JSYK I haven’t internalized racism’ look.

Which brings me to this point: I’m glad I did what I did. But a bitch is straightening her hair. It has become work (in the way of getting in the WAY of work) to maintain, all for the sake of what?I worry about heat damage sometimes but isn’t that JUST as petty? My hair will grow and regrow, and one day I’ll be dead anyway. ‘Natural girl’ is just as much an identity as anything else, and efficiency is my passion. 

The body is just a symbol, in a language only the self can read. I.e. Sometimes you can’t judge a book by its cover. You never know just why someone’s hair is the way it is.

[fmdnamwoo]

✘ deadly dull

synopsis: this basically describes in great length how namwoo deals with the progression of his grandmother’s disease post-debut (aka anything after what’s mentioned in his bio); alternatively: a collection of memories of his family from 2012 to 2019 word count: 2806 warnings: Alzheimer’s disease is mentioned in name or symptoms a lot, brief allusions to death (though no one’s died yet)

April 2012 When Namwoo calls home the first time after his official broadcast debut, his grandmother tells him she has food on the stove. Dakgaejang – his favorite. Her voice and the mental images her words conjure up paired with the mix of elation and utter exhaustion he carries underneath his skin are almost enough to make him tear up, so he gladly allows her do most of the talking while he only hums at appropriate times to let her know he's still listening; he always is. Nothing would ever be quite as relaxing as the weathered voice of the woman whose arms had held him when all others had pushed him away, and her steady ramblings about the impossible state her garden is in (even though he knows it looks immaculate because there's never been a time it hasn't) have almost lulled him to sleep when the blaring of an alarm on the other end startles him back to attention, back into a sitting position like it was somehow his responsibility to intervene.  “Grandma?”, he asks cautiously, as if even the slightest change in intonation, the faintest trace of tension in his voice could harm her. “Goodness, I got so caught up in my story, I forgot all about the food. Silly me!”, she replies with such pointed collectedness, Namwoo has to pause to listen for any holes in her composure and still discovers only a slight irregularity in her breathing pattern that he has a hard time interpreting one way or another. Had he not known any better, he might have chalked it up to the many things his grandmother has lived through that made her into the woman he knows today – that nothing can rattle her so easily because she's seen it all a hundred times before. But he does know better. He knows that the reason this doesn't faze her is because it's the third time this exact thing happened – the third time this month. (Two of those, she doesn't remember.)

July 2013 This year is busier than the last, and Knight's career has at no point been anywhere near slow, so Namwoo is beyond grateful he gets the evening off to visit home despite their impending comeback, just days away now. Anticipation burns in the tips of his fingers as he taps them against the stark white wall of his grandmother's house while he waits for her to open the door, which is taking her surprisingly long. Not that Namwoo ever really counted, but he does have a rough number of heartbeats he remembers passing every time before the door swings open with too much force for so small a woman to exude. Eventually, it does open – slowly, almost tentatively, like there's something to hide he could spot if the gap was too wide. “Namwoo? I didn't expect you! You should have told me you were coming over,” his grandmother greets him as her features light up just as slowly, just as tentatively, and that's all it takes for him to realize what she's hiding. For a moment, he entertains the thought that she might be playing around with him, that this is all part of a grander surprise and he is about to fall for it, but the light he sees in her eyes is subdued by a smudge of grey fog he's come to know all too well, so he smiles as if to make up for it – here's all the warmth and light I have; take it, you can have it. I want you to have it. I need you to. I need you. “Do you know what day it is?”, he asks and finds that a carefree attitude is so hard to fake, the effort is almost enough to make him forget where the pauses between his words are supposed to go, like language and lies were two separate things – one a pristine art, the other what's left of it when everything that made it beautiful goes up in flames. “Tuesday? Why are you asking?”, she replies, in equal parts confused and agitated, and Namwoo can't bring himself to say anything in return. A gentle shake of his head is his only response, tongue wetting a bottom lip that isn't dry because she knows it's a sign of nerves on his end when he bites down on it and he doesn't want to worry her any further, so this is the closest he can get – because it's wrong, all of it.  He did tell her he was coming. It's Thursday. And it's his seventeenth birthday.   (Gone are the days he could pretend the memories she let go of were of little importance, that there was a conscious filter to what she kept and what she dropped. There is nothing fair about this.)

September 2015 It's been a long time coming. For years, he's known that something's wrong – something beyond his grandmother being a little ditzy, a little clumsy; something beyond the old age she used to complain about but stopped as soon as she saw the fatigue mirrored in his eyes. Sometimes, he wants her to complain again – to forget that he's busy and tired, that he might not be alone, and tell him all about the difficulties she faces in her day to day life so that he could at least somewhat be a part of it still. But she doesn't, and he knows the harder he pushes her for it, the stronger the walls she puts up – because his grandmother is more of a warrior than he'll ever be and she's fought too many battles to lose one to him. There are things she won't concede even as the small, everyday disputes with her own body turn into an all-out war. Therefore, it doesn't surprise him when it's not his grandmother who calls him when she needs him but the hospital, because at least he is her emergency contact despite it all. They tell him on the phone to stay calm, that nothing serious happened – she simply got lost and someone was kind enough to take her to a hospital to make sure she hadn't gotten injured prior or somewhere along the way, but Namwoo can't control the frantic rhythm his heart beats into his ribcage like it's searching for its way to get lost as well, like it has a right to be with her even when the rest of his body is busy working late. He doesn't dare asking a manager to drive him, doesn't even trust his voice to speak more than an explanation he wrote in his head before so he only has to read it out now because he knows he's incapable of forming coherent thoughts when people look at him with pity they don't even have the decency to conceal. Instead, he takes a cab and pretends his hands aren't trembling so badly, he struggles to open the door for a few moments. This is what the life of an idol has prepared him for: to wear his smile like a curtain and pretend there's nothing hiding behind it. The doctor is kind and takes his time to explain to the both of them the diagnosis – Alzheimer's disease –, and what that means 'for the family'. It's painfully obvious that he's handled multiple cases before and is going off of that; that usually, he deals with concerned children who ask their parents to move back in when they develop the first signs, and not some idol grandchild who lives in a dorm with far too many people and can't promise he can be home more than once every two weeks. What he takes away from it is this: there's no cure, there's no hope, only a vague time frame and stages of progression that will haunt him until they finally arrive and rob him of the family he has left. Still, Namwoo smiles and pulls his grandmother into his chest because she is crying and he can't remember a time she ever did so in front of him, which further cements his belief that it is now up to him to be the strong one, to be the grown-up, and look after her as she has done for him so many years.

That night, with his back pressed to the headboard of a bed he hasn't slept in in months, Namwoo dials a number he hasn't called in years. His father's. “It's me, Namwoo,” he reminds him as a way of greeting, because he isn't sure he'd remember him by voice alone. It's unlikely. “Grandma is sick. It's Alzheimer's disease. She isn't going to get any better, so I just wanted to let you know – maybe you should come visit sometime.” His father hangs up on him wordlessly and Namwoo swallows back disappointment barely there because he expected nothing else. When the next morning comes, he hasn't slept a wink but he's browsed every page on the internet Naver suggested, and the knowledge he's acquired has formed an iron weight he now carries on his chest every step that he takes, but as soon as he walks into the kitchen where his grandmother sits and scribbles down post-it notes for things she doesn't want to allow herself to forget, he puts on his smile again like it's just another part of a choreography he's memorized and perfected long ago. Fear was replaced by an eerie calm that surrounds him when he has something to keep himself occupied with, so he soon sets out to talk to the neighbors he used to see often when he was a child and still lived here – the ones he knows he can trust. An elderly couple with no children of their own seems almost glad he's come to them with this request, and they promise they'll stop by his grandmother's house at least once a day to check up on her whenever Namwoo is too busy to make it – so, realistically, most days. His grandmother is overjoyed he isn't sending her to a nursing home just yet, as the doctor offered.

January 2018 Even through his blurry vision – his level of overexertion is at an all-time high –, Namwoo can make out the newly formed creases in his grandmother's clothes where they used to fit her but don't anymore. Gradually, much too quickly, she's been losing weight and he's come to investigate why. Again, as always, his smile is in place and unwavering, because that's what he's vowed to be for her and he's never been one to break a promise, even if no one but him was witness to it.  “Who are you?”, she asks him wearily, not loosening the chain that keeps her door locked to most visitors nowadays, and Namwoo takes a deep breath as if those words didn't just rip something in him apart. Every memory of theirs she forgets tears a hole in the pictures he keeps like polaroids stored in his brain, and they bleed happiness until he forgets what it felt like. Was it like this, too? An illusion of strength he bears himself with that he means no more than lyrics a stranger thrusts into his hands to deliver to people who don't want to listen, only watch – with too much conviction and too little heart? “Namwoo, your grandson,” he replies, his tone light and easy. Nonchalant, almost, for he's certain she won't remember all the ways to see past appearances he puts up.  “Right! Namwoo, my boy. You changed your hair again, didn't you? That must be what confused me.”  “That must be it,” he humors her, though he hasn't changed it in months.

It's not hard to find the cause of her weight loss – a single peek into the fridge tells him she doesn't eat the food her neighbors bring over, or what he buys for her when he goes grocery shopping because she no longer can without getting lost or forgetting why she left the house in the first place. All containers are labeled – dates, every day of the week a different color –, and only random ones were opened, most not touched at all. There's only one conclusion this leads him to: she no longer remembers to eat. Has it already progressed this far? When he steps into the living room to confront her with his findings – gently, carefully, a mere inquiry instead of a possible accusation, though she doesn't take well to either anymore –, he sees her grow increasingly frustrated with the TV station that just won't change despite her animated button-pressing on the device in her hand.  “Grandma, you're holding the telephone,” he says and is surprised at the softness of his voice and how clearly fear shines through yet again. Her eyes dart from him to the phone in her hand and back to him before she dissolves into sobs and tears that don't stop until his shirt is soaked with them – and he still doesn't let go then.

That's when he makes the decision that something needs to change. It's simply no longer safe to let her spend most of her time on her own – not when she's no longer capable of taking care of even her most basic of needs reliably –, and yet he knows she'd prefer death by starvation to a nursing home, anyway. Hence he searches his recollections of all the pages he's browsed and remembers a particular service that he'd already taken into consideration back then: personal caregiver. Of course they're costly and it's not guaranteed his grandmother will take well to a stranger walking around her house like they belong there, but for someone who's all out of options, it's the best thing he can offer. (Does it make him a horrible person that he doesn't even consider trying to get out of his contract to care for her himself? It does, in his opinion, and he reminds himself of it every time he tries to fall asleep.)

Once more, he attempts to call his father to inform him of recent developments because Namwoo thinks he has a right to know – it's his mother, after all. Should they not be able to relate to one another at least over this – over the woman who raised them both slowly slipping away from them like a light flickering out, and with every flutter, they can only wonder if it might be her last? But he's barely a few seconds into his explanation when his father interrupts him with an angry huff. “What, you want money now? You earn plenty of it yourself.” “That's not what this is about at all,” he tries to reason, but at this point, he's only talking to the dial tone. Again.

April 2019 Whenever Knight get a break, the first thing Namwoo does is visit home. When every day could be his grandmother's last, he wants to spend as many as he can at her side and etch them into his memory as if filling his head with images of her could make up for the fact that her own is emptying out everything.  A gasp falls from his lips at the silhouette he spots on the porch – one he doubts he'll ever forget, even though he hasn't seen it in years. It's his father, in the flesh. When he turns around and their eyes meet, Namwoo expects him to spit venom again; he expects anger or not being acknowledged at all, because that had always been his fate (and infinitely worse), but what he sees instead is the same fear he's come to know so well as a permanent resident in his heart, and he realizes then he won't see his father come back again. The woman who opens the door wears a smile much like his – pasted on as a perfect façade to make sure no one spots what is beneath –, but she's pleasant enough and she manages to deal with his grandmother's mood swings while he isn't around, so Namwoo is eternally grateful for her efforts. It makes it easier that neither of them is willing to show emotion when she tells him that his grandmother has to wear diapers now; that most days, it takes her forever to form a sentence because language no longer comes together naturally. He's beyond glad she doesn't expect a reaction from him, because he doesn't know what to say or do. Acceptance feels a lot like burning oneself on a hot stovetop – it's numb in the moment, but ripples of pain continue to spread for a long time after, and Namwoo continues to smile through all of it.

[youreallyshouldtalkmore]

Dana Don’t Lie_Part 4

This takes place after The Oasis. As usual you can see all the parts listed for this series, along with other fanfics in my Black Panther Masterlist.  

At the time of watching this I was rewatching alot of old Madea plays/movies and got a lot jokes/ideas/inspiration from those.

Disclaimer:  Nothing really, Erik will be Erik so use of the N-word.

Part 4

Erik knew there was a chance that his past could catch up to him however he knew that this time was false. He didn’t sleep with her. Now he needed you to hear him and more than that believe him.

Aquaneesha was whining about something again.

“Does she have to be here?” Erik complained as the group walked into the center.

“Obviously…” Shuri said annoyed as disappeared into the back.

“Hold him, Erik!” Aquaneesha was saying, trying to give the 3 year old boy to him.

Erik pulled away, “Stop.”

“He’s your son! Hold him!”

Erik spun around to face Aquaneesha, “I’m about ready to strike you, you know.”

“Do it and you’ll be in jail.” Aquaneesha threatened.

“Please….” T’challa tried to be the voice of reason while Nakia wandered around to find you.

She tried the first place which was the tarp that separated the wall you were working on from the rest of the lobby.

Pulling it back she could see that you had your earbuds in and was painting on the wall.

“Please nothing, cuz. Step back…” Erik said pushing his cousin out the way. He glared down at Aquaneesha, “So help me if you mess this up for me…..”

“You the one done messed up!” the young lady cried.

T’Challa then forcibly dragged Erik into the back as Shuri came out. Erik was cussing and fighting and T’Challa had to throw him into a nearby room and  push him into the chair.

“I need you to calm down, N’Jadaka!” T’Challa’s voice was smooth.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! Not when that ho is coming in here bring all this drama.”

“Is the baby yours?”

“No!”

T’Challa eyed his cousin and Erik sighed running his hands through his locs.

“The baby isn’t mine. Really.” He looked up at his cousin.

T’Challa nodded accepting this, “Okay. Now tell me the story. How do you know her?”

“I should talk to Y/N. Try and see if I can explain….”

Erik moved to get up but T’Challa hand on his shoulder stilled him. “You know how Y/N is. She doesn’t like excess drama.”

“Yeah, she probably won’t listen to me now, eh?” Erik sighed and sat back in his chair slumping down.

“It don’t think it’s a matter of her listening to you. Until the test it done, you know she will have reservations. Now tell me the story…..”

Music blared in your ears as you painted, shutting the outside world out. The wall painting was almost finished. You had been working on it for a couple of weeks. You estimated about another week or so and you’ll be done. You were quite happy with the work so far as challenging as it was.

You bobbed your head absently as the tarp was pulled back. You didn’t hear it but you felt the soft touch to your shoulder and looked up.

“T’Challa….” you said turning off your mp3 player and setting it aside.

The King smiled and took a seat on the floor next to you, “Is it wise to be working on that in this state of mind?”

“It relaxes me.” you said with a shrug turning back to your painting.

T’Challa nodded and there was silence for a long moment. “N’Jadaka wishes to speak with you.”

You gave him an amused smile, “What, you running point?”

“Wait a minute, I know this one” T’Challa said shaking his finger, “It means running interference right? Making sure things go smoothly?”

You nodded trying not to laugh. T’Challa gave a boyish grin, “Then yes, I’m running point. Someone has to.”

“Clearly won’t be her….” you said turning back to your painting.

You barely formed a good stroke before T’Challa reached out and gently grabbed your wrist to stop you. You looked at him.

“Sister Y/N, I know you are angry. You get quiet when you get angry almost closed off. I’m letting you know that we are here. You don’t have to deal with this yourself.”

You gave a weak smile.

T’Challa give you a sideways hug, “He told me the story, Y/N. At least hear him out. Okay?’

You nodded slowly. T’Challa gave a smile and stood before resting his hand on top of your head for a moment. Then he exited. A few seconds later Erik entered.

You knew he was standing behind you but you didn't’ look back at him. You fiddled with your brush nervously. You weren’t really sure what to say or do.

“Cuz said it was alright for me to be here. Is it?” Erik had his hands stuffed in his pocket and he looked down at you. He could easily read the tension in your back.

You nodded but Erik still didn’t sit down. Instead he shuffled on his feet and looked up at the painting, “You do good, ma. This is gonna be a masterpiece when you done.”

Erik was pleased to hear you chuckle behind that. Again an awkward silence that was rare between the two of you settled.

“That ain’t my baby….”

He just watch your head bob but you didn’t say anything. Erik squatted on his haunches and looked at you, “ here are times I wish you would like other women, cussing and fighting.  At least that I know where you stand. This is one of those times.”

He was greeted with silence.

“Come on, baby girl you got to tell me something.  I know you're angry with me.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say” You finally murmured.

“Anything. Everything.” Erik licked his lips eyes on you, “At least, can I explain?”

You gave a shrug, “Don’t know what you are waiting for.”

Erik felt his hackles rise, “You gonna hear me or you already condemned me.”

You glared at him then, “You know I don’t roll like that.”

“It’s what you are acting like.” Erik hissed.

“Erik, are you are trying to start a fight with me?” You raised an eyebrow.

Erik gave a long sigh his rising anger disappearing, “No, I ain’t.”

“Then explain it to me. Don’t tell me what or how I think. If you have something to say, say it. If you don’t then don’t but I’m not gonna play games with you. I’m not gonna go back and forth with you.”

Erik was silent a long moment before he dropped his behind to the ground and crossed his legs still facing you.

“Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if I did have a baby somewhere, and a baby mama or two.” he started before looking up at you, “But I swear this one ain’t mine.  She's crazy.  What happened was…..”

You interrupted them, “ Do I even really want to hear this? I don’t want details of you escapades, Erik. I can surmise your past without it.”

Erik gave a sigh, “I promise this is something you will want to hear and it’s not graphic. I won’t bleed your ears.”

You gave a slow nod and he continued,  “I did not have relations with that woman.  it's all in her head and this time it’s true. Yes, we met at a club but the only reason I remember her is because of how clingy she was. I didn't like it then and I don't like it now.  but she spent time in the club trying to get me,  but I ended up going with one of her friends.  And that's friend I…..”

Erik sucked his teeth once, “....but with her I never did.   I bet you that she saw me on TV  and it brought back all that memory.  I wouldn't be surprised if she was trying to put this baby on me. But I ain’t the nigga that knocked her Up.”

He couldn’t accurately read your expression so he continued, “Look, I handle my responsibilities. I know I screwed up many times and if my past comes a knocking I’ll deal with. I wouldn’t run from it.  If a baby momma came in here,  I’d own up to it. But she can’t put on me what I didn’t do. I didn’t even tap that.”

He sighed then and ran a hand down his face, “I just want you to believe me. Y/N…..”

You gaze at Erik a long while before you finally nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Hm.”

You turned back to the wall. You didn't really feel like painting anymore. Silence drifted a long while before you heard.

“Are we we gonna be okay?” Erik asked.

You turned and looked at him.

“Is there a reason you think we aren’t” you asked.

Erik was watching you carefully, “I know women like you, good women, don’t like dealing with baby mama drama.”  

“Very true…” here you gave a smirk, “...but she isn’t your baby mama now is she?”

Erik’s mouth quirked, “True. True. But what if one came one day?”

He had realized he almost stopped breathing.

You gave a sigh and dropped your head once. Popping it back up you looked at him. “You really don’t know?” You didn’t give him a chance to answer,  “Erik I know you did things. There are probably things you’ve done that I would thank you never to tell me. I’m not gonna hold your past against you but I’m also not gonna be a part of this mess either.”

You held up your hand when he opened his mouth, “I believe you, N’Jadaka, I do.”

Lowering your hand you continued gazing at him steadily, “This is not your mess but whether it was or not, I won’t be apart of it. If a baby mama come here and we are still together you will deal it. Not me. I didn’t make the mess and I won’t clean it up and I won’t be a part of it. I’m not trying to stage some Maury drama here. I will remove myself from the situation as I did today. The rest will be on you.”

You held his gaze a long moment before turning to look back at the wall. After a moment you felt Erik shift as two arms circle your shoulders. You leaned back into his chest. You didn’t say anything and he didn’t either for awhile. You all just sat like that.

Erik always knew you were different from the usual women he….well he didn’t go out with them did he? So that wasn’t accurate. But either way, you weren’t the type to fight unless absolutely necessary. It was a balance that Erik didn’t know he needed until he met you. He was always ready to fight, even after turning over a new leaf the firecracker in him still existed. He was less likely to start a fight then long ago but he was still ready to pop off at any moment.

With most women he dealt with, that lead to loud arguments. They would get into screaming matches and cussing fits. At that point it was about having the last word and winning an the argument in general not about the point of said argument. Which usually got lost by the time they stopped screaming at each other.

However with you, winning an argument wasn’t high on your list. It was about what was said. More than that, you spent a lot of time listening. That was one thing that Erik came to love about you. You listened more than you spoke, so that when you did speak, you usually had thought through baser emotions.

A quirk that Erik noticed about you was that your voice lowered and got softer the angrier you got.  He could never quite understand how that worked.There was times, like just now, when his hackles would rise and he would be ready to pop off but unlike other women you didn’t allow it to bait you. A lot of times you would just look at him without saying anything. (Though he didn’t want to admit it, that was a time you had the ability to make him feel like a fool...)

There were even times depending on how bad it got, you would stare at him a good long moment before walking away. He remembered the first time that happened, about a week after he claimed you as his girlfriend. Or as he liked to say, his woman. Girlfriend was for high school. Erik didn’t want to admit it even now but it almost sent him into a panic attack once the initial shock wore off. He thought he lost you that day and had he, it would have been no ones fault but his own.

You felt his chest rumble before you heard him speak, ““Y/N, I won't let nothing break us apart.  You my woman now. Imma do right by you.”

You smiled a little at his words.

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

13. A Shot in the Dark Part 1

Part One of the "Prologue" chapter.

This could have all been prevented. Had they just not brought it here. This could have gone smoothly. This could have succeeded, but instead of being on one accord and being on the same page, they had all taken various pages out of Simon Laurent’s book. 

“Do you think she’s dead?” Jalicia asked. “I heard at least 6 shots… you think he put them all into her?”

“Shut up, 227,” Sunny said.

“Oh, I’m 227 right now? We’re still on Date Night? Grace just got shot…” Sunny grabbed Jalicia by the collar and the younger one laughed a little bit. “You still tryin’ to be Grace when Grace isn’t here? Because, that’ll be a long ride, considering that she’s dead now.”

“I said shut up. Xan. Pull over.”

“That’s not protocol,” he said. 

“No, it isn’t. But, we were outside, and it wasn’t his home, so one of two things have happened, either he left her there to die, or someone has called for help. Either way, this is a different circumstance.”

“She wouldn’t want us to risk the operation for her.”

“NOW, you care about that? You didn’t care about that when you tried to make Simon an X, BEHIND her back!”

“That was the ONLY thing I cared about!” He hissed at Sunny. “And did I work alone? Was it ME that made her stop trusting her fucking team?”

Now, she grabbed his collar and he swerved the van. “Pull the motherfucking van over!” She growled. He obeyed. They switched seats and she circled back to where Grace had been shot. As suspected, there were police lights, an ambulance, the firetruck. The usual. She tried to pass by slowly and try to see. She couldn’t see Grace, but she did see a covering over an obviously dead body. Xander and Jalicia must have seen it when she did, because he yelped and Jalicia burst into tears. The workers were waving the van along, so she sped up only slightly, to not draw too much attention. Then, she saw him, standing with the police, talking… Simon.

Her breath hitched and she blinked away tears as she continued driving. Neither Xander nor Jalicia mentioned him, so she presumed that they hadn’t seen him. But she had. Now, it was time to regroup.

.

“Yoga and Meditation for Seasonal Depression with Sunny!” the community center board read when Simon stepped into the building with his mat and bag. She had been there for a while. He knew that, because he had too, only from the outside. She had a head full of faux locs that he hadn’t seen her sporting prior to whenever she made him think that she was Grace a few nights before. She saw him the moment he walked into the gym, but her expression was unreadable. He enjoyed that, to a certain degree. He did like that he didn’t have to feel as tense around her as Jalicia or Xander, but he had a feeling that he couldn’t be as relaxed around her as he was around Alexandria, and her little warning that night made him even more weary about the casual smile that she had on now. She was maybe like him… and he knew that he was nothing to toy around with, and would pay her the same reverence, until he understood her better. 

“Hi. I’ve never seen you in the community center before,” She said. She extended her hand, “Sunny.”

“Yeah, the sign says so,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it. They both held tight and shook firm, staring each other down, either trying to outshake or outsmile the other. And in a moment, they made the simultaneous decision to end both. “Is it okay that I’m not a regular? The post and fliers didn’t mention that it was a closed class.”

“It’s open. But, if it gets full and I see regulars…”

“I know my place,” he said. They both smiled again. 

“Well then, find yourself a spot on the floor. Looks like you’ve come prepared. Have you done this before?”

“No. But, I once tried capoeira at a country club.” She frowned. “I’m going to presume that look is because it’s an art form created by enslaved Africans. Trust me, I’ve gotten that speech already.” 

She rolled her eyes and pointed towards the door. “I’ve got other guests to greet. See you later, Monison?”

“What? Simon.”

“Right. If I forget again, I can always go with Surveillance Soccer Mom.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t?”

“Your preference is… noted.” She cheerily went to greet the people coming in, who she seemed to know, because she hugged them and talked animatedly with them. It was different than how she’d handled him and reminded him again of Grace, and the way that she had a certain obligatory politeness that seemed to be taught and structured and perfected… Sunny had that too, only she was using what he’d called Grace’s “customer service manners” with  him, and the more natural pleasantries with the other people there. He wondered if she had made that choice on purpose, or if it was just a side effect of her not trusting him? At any rate, he noted that she didn’t immediately reach for her phone to alert Xander, the way that Jalicia had whenever she’d seen him enter her space. In fact, she hadn’t done so, even by the end of the class.

She wished several of them well, gave some info on upcoming things, and other warm and gentle dealings, until it was only she and Simon left in the room. Still, he noted, she didn’t get onto her phone. In fact, she seemed to be waiting for him after she packed up all of her things. He knew that she didn’t have to lock up, so he wondered why. She offered no insight. Just stared at him, with all of her things packed away and her bags on her shoulders. Still, no phone. 

Simon collected his things and went up to her, hoping that he could gain something from whatever their exchange was about to be. “I… you know who I am, right?” he asked. She threw her head back and cackled to the skies, echoing off of the gym walls until they were out in the cold of the air and her lungs felt the repercussions. “I now regret asking that.”

“I know who you are. That lackluster writer that has risen to popularity only because you’re in a package that can be rewarded for mediocrity. Timonthy Something.”

“Did you say Timonthy? TiMONthy?”

“I’d call you “Tim,” for short, but that’s one of my favorite characters from The Magnus Archives, and I don’t wanna blend that world with the one you’re a part of. Maybe I’ll say “Mon.”

He chuckled and put on ear muffs. “You seem really chill about me being here, is all. I thought that maybe you didn’t realize. The others are a little bit different about me.”

“Meh. Maybe if I was there, I’d feel differently. It isn’t like I’m not empathetic. I really am, and if the others feel threatened or anxious, I would never discount that for them, but I also have no firsthand experience with you that has given me any reason to personally hate or fear you and I don’t like to say it out loud too much, as it makes space for my loved ones to get really offended and upset, but the people who were there for whatever it is you supposedly did - I’m hesitant to take what they say at face value, because they can be very close minded. Grace isn’t trippin,’ so maybe they are.”

“Then, why did you threaten me?”

“If you read it as a threat, I can’t change that, but it does help to mold my opinion of you and what you’ve been doing to my good sis…”

He frowned and looked at the ground. “Well… when you put it that way, I guess it wasn’t threatening. I’m not a harm to her. I never have been. I don’t think that I could hurt her if I tried. She grew up on the streets. I was in one fist fight when I was 13, and it was mostly me just getting the shit kicked out of me and trying to shield myself.”

She laughed again, “I’ve been told you have that effect on people. What’d you do to get your ass kicked?” 

“I told people that I had a crush on a boy.” She immediately stopped laughing and felt bad. He shrugged his shoulders, “It got me sympathy points and my first boyfriend, so I can’t be too mad.”

“You can, if you choose to, but if you choose not to, I support that. It’s up to you.”

He looked at her and she seemed genuine. She seemed nice, despite him knowing that she was definitely on a murder team. “Okay, so if you’re not threatened or whatever the others are, why’d you come after me?”

“I didn’t come after you. If I had come after you, you’d be in the Field of Nulls. I gave you a chance to be free from that kind of destiny. It is never pretty. Never painless. Never without every bit of suffering that can be provided, and the death is slow and potentially terrifying. It’s death sentences that only the worst kind of scum gets to endure… You seem like high level scum. Just because you have poor impulse control, bad judgment in romance and a passionate death wish doesn’t mean you deserve what we do to people. And Grace shouldn’t have to worry about you, either.”

“The Field of Nulls,” Simon repeated.

“I think you know what that is.” She wasn’t smiling. In fact, she was staring at him with a threatening expression. “Personally, I’d have called it the Wormfood Wonderland. So far, only the Apex and the nulls know what it is. And you know what we do with the nulls.”

“Is that another name for your Xs?” This man’s curiosity blew her mind. She couldn’t tell whether he really was so curious about learning more secrets or if it was a defense mechanism to avoid fear of danger.

“Yes,” She said.  

He started to ask something else, but she waved a finger and said, “Aht aht aht. Have a good day, Salmonella.” 

“I refuse to answer to that one!” He said and huffed a little bit as she got into her car, which looked like a ladybug… like it was one of those red bugs, and she’d added spots, headlight eyelashes, a sunflower on the head, and various bumper stickers of witchy stuff and pro vagina sentiments… He furrowed his eyebrows at the I Heart My Vagina one and really wondered who the hell this woman was. Maybe he didn’t understand her at all… and if he couldn’t understand her, that would certainly make it harder for him to win her over or overthrow her. Either way… when her car started, some loud female rap music began, she tossed something out, and she took a few moments getting settled before she actually drove away. Simon watched her pull away and then looked down at her litter… It wasn’t litter. That was why she left it. He picked it up. It was a flier from his mom’s bistro and in curly q handwriting a message: “I SAID stop,” with a smiley face sticker.

He glared at the direction the car had gone in. She wouldn’t. They couldn’t. What would she do to his mom? Nothing. He didn’t believe her. His mom was an upstanding citizen in two countries, a local feminist icon, in a way - single mother and business owner who frequently allowed gatherings for rallies and stuff in her place of business, and a good, wholesome person. They didn’t even hurt that killer’s wife. There was no way that they would hurt his mother… But… He couldn’t risk it. He backed down. He wasn’t going to press Sunny. She was too mysterious… He… was afraid of her. Unlike the others, even Xander, whose weaknesses he saw, understood and could exploit in the face of danger.. He just couldn’t figure that out with Sunny.

From everything he took note of, she had… he didn’t know how to word it… nothing of value to her. Of course, she seemed like she loved her family and her friends, and the kids, but… she just read like an empty vessel, mimicking a loving daughter, friend, mentor. Even when she was around the yoga students that she seemed to genuinely like, he just felt like her energy wasn’t decipherable enough to throw caution to the wind. THIS. Was definitely a threat. 

He was frustrated after that. He went to the gun range. He spent a few days on a “detox” of sorts. He stayed away from Grace’s friends. He went to practice shooting, visited his mother, got chewed out by his literary agent, and went back to the bookstore coffee shop to try to focus on his book again. All he had at this point was a title: Beauty, Like the Knight… and the tentative synopsis that he bullshitted to Chloe, “She’s an avenging angel who slays child predators and stuff.”

“HOW is that urban?” She had demanded.

“They’re in a fucking city, Chloe,” he’d said, with a low coldness in his voice that she wasn���t used to and he certainly had never used that type of language with her before. The silence between them tipped him off that she was shocked and potentially upset, so he chuckled awkwardly and said, “I haven’t had coffee today, but I’m in the coffee shop. She’s on a quest to end a trafficking ring in an urban setting and… I don’t know, Chloe… I’ve got a lot of notes. I’ll produce an outline today.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay… Simon, are you okay?”

“I went through a recent breakup… Should fuel my soul for creativity.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize that you were involved with anyone. Well… I look forward to seeing what type of urban magic you create.”

He nodded and hung up. Urban Magic… He tilted his head at the screen. Maybe he  should add magic to the story. He shook his head. They didn’t WANT magic from him. Magic wasn’t selling recently. Maybe if he lollygagged long enough, he’d miss this wave of everybody trying to pretend to care about diversity by lazily including POC here and there or telling a tone deaf story, but dipping the language and/or characters in a little bit of color/culture that the writers didn’t understand or know… He sighed… And why did he even care to stay relevant in writing if he was going to be writing crap that he didn’t even care about?

But… he did care about her. He cared about her life. He cared about her story. He missed her and he missed the rush of having her there. But, he knew that he had to make the choice and currently, that choice was that he loved his mom and Grace refused to be around him. Her friends were keeping them apart, but if even one of them would hurt his mother in the process, he had to let go of this remarkable fantasy where this beautiful deadly knight falls in love with a sensible prince, no matter how much he was willing to give to her in the process. Besides, he’d never done this before - let himself be so taken up with someone that he shirked all reason and rationale to know them and to love them… So, Simon decided to move on.

It “worked” for a little while. For a few weeks, he stopped following them, stopped watching, and even got back into the habit of focusing on work and stuff. He was sending Tulip massive therapy checks and whenever his 26th birthday rolled around, he tried to enjoy himself. He and his mom went to Minnesota to visit Tulip and her mom for both his birthday, Christmas and New Year, since those were all three so close and the Olsens were like their family. He opened his social media back up and was regarded with a lot more online love than he had for the weeks he had been set to private, hoping to weed her out. She was gone. He had to just accept it.

Except… he couldn’t deny himself one indulgent little search. It was his birthday, and he had resisted for weeks! That was very big of him, considering that most of his year had been spent focused on her and her alone and this was ONE day where he should have been able to just try to peek and see if anybody saw what she was doing on today… And… she was back…

He saw an account come up in her name on one of the social media platforms “Grace St. Catherine Artwork” and… he was now scrolling through her photos while everyone was having cake… She had artwork she was posting. The Saint and The Shadow… They seemed to be foils, but no… no, no… He understood it better than most of the people giving the works likes. That static figure in the background of the heroine in these images wasn’t an enemy, lurking around her… it was an extension of who she was in the light… and some of them even had a face… His face. She was really good, even though she “dabbled,” according to her. But, she “dabbled” in a lot of things that she wound up being pretty good at. He wanted to go through and like them all, but he was so afraid she might vanish again… and even though he was supposed to just be checking, a small indulgence for his birthday… he knew the moment that he saw a video of her drawing vigorously while Hazel walked around on the desk and read the caption, “Thinking about my ex on his birthday and making what I would have given him. Not gonna show you all, but that’s what I’m doing. 😝” and he noticed that it had been posted today… he felt like he was falling down a dark chute that led him directly back into his deepest feelings. 

“Oh, he’s on Grace’s page,” he heard his mother say and it snapped him back into the room. He looked up and Tulip was staring at him in concern, Mikayla, in confusion and Aunt Meg gave him a sympathetic look. His mother kissed him on his hair and squeezed his shoulder, “We can do gifts later.”

“No. No… I’m good.” He smiled and Tulip noted that it was a different one than the one that he had earlier. She couldn’t tell which one was more painful to look at, that empty one from when they arrived, or this one laced in emotion that she just… worried about.

Whenever she found him later, she reminded him, “You said that you two were over.”

He nodded, “We are,” he said and Tulip knew that he never lied on purpose, but he sometimes… lied to himself and fully believed it. It was fine before Grace, but all she could do now was be afraid for him and his… delusions of grandeur.

“I thought she gave up social media.”

“I guess she felt comfortable enough to return. It’s just a business page, though. Well.. An art page. But, it looks like she sells her work. That’s cool. Good for… good for her.”

“Simon, please promise me that you won’t get yourself entangled in this woman again…”

He frowned and turned to look at her, “No.”

“Simon.”

“I’m not going to promise you anything about her. I can’t. I don’t like to lie, and… I just don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do when it comes to her. I never meant to become obsessed. I’ve never stalked anybody. I never… was the person that my emotions for her turns me into. I can’t make any promises anymore, Tools. Not about her.” She sighed and wanted to cry, but also didn’t want to in front of him. He patted her on the back, absentmindedly and went back inside. 

After the holidays, whenever he got back into town, he’d successfully been ONLY watching Grace’s one art social media page (not officially following it, either) and had been “off” of watching her friends or engaging in their business for almost two months! He was proud of himself. He wondered if that was why when he got home, there was a jumbo envelope outside of his door with no postmark and HAPPY BIRTHDAY in big letters and familiar script. He picked it up and opened it before even unlocking his door, neglecting his luggage bag now to see this artwork, drawn onto cloth, of him curiously reaching out for a rose, meanwhile its thorns were wrapping around him and even cutting into his flesh. His face is enamored and the rose is wilting. He looks like if he can just touch it, he believes that at least one of them, or perhaps both might be saved… Or… maybe he looked like if he could just touch it that one of them or both might perish… So, he didn’t really know what message she wanted him to comprehend from it. He guessed that would depend on perspective, and in either… he still needed to touch her. 

.

Simon messaged the art account, “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to me? I stopped. I left you alone. I let you go… Why are you torturing me? Is this what it felt like to you? Are you punishing me for wanting you too much? For giving up on you and moving on? Please… just… tell me what you need me to do…”

Sunny sighed and held her forehead, then looked at Xander, “What is it that you need him to do?”

Xander rubbed his hands together, thinking to himself, then said, “Arrange a meeting for him, in the Field, since he fucking knows about it now. Make him come alone and… I’ll handle it from there.” Sunny bit her lip and stared at the screen. “Come on, Sunny. You’re the only one that might be able to fool him. He’s too skilled in Grace for any way that I might type it up to actually sound like her. You capture her perfectly. He obviously believes that this is her page.”

“That’s mostly on the strength of Xandria copping her art style. This just… This is going further than what you initially said we were doing, which was figuring out if he really had moved on or if he was just waiting for an opening to come for her again… It feels like we CREATED an opening that he wasn’t waiting for. If you would have told me about the birthday present, I never would have agreed to this.”

“Sunny…” Xander kneeled in front of her and cupped her face, “I would never ask you to do anything that you don’t believe in and I won’t ask you to do anything else for me, ever. But, I  have to protect her and I have to protect all of us. He’s dangerous.”

“I don’t think that he is, Xan…”

“He IS!” He rolled the chair aside and began to type, hoping that maybe Simon was too shaken up to note any differences. “I think we need to face each other and finally settle things, good or bad… I’m not going to live in fear. I’ve done that already.”

Simon wiped away tears, “There’s nothing to fear. I just… Okay. Let’s meet, then. Remember our last date night?”

Xander blinked and looked at Sunny, “Do you know what that means? Is this code? Did she have CODE with him???”

Sunny shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, “He was her official alibi for a few months, just in case, so maybe it’s something to do with that. She’d definitely remember though, and he’ll definitely know that she wouldn’t have forgotten a detail like that.” She folded her arms and watched Xander type.

“I do. But, that’s not what I want. I want it on MY terms. You’ve controlled enough without my permission. Meet me in the place that you weren’t supposed to be.”

Simon suspiciously looked at the message. That could mean anything and while Grace was very vague at times, he usually knew exactly what she was vaguing about... “Your apartment?” he asked. “The storage unit? Where is this place that you’re talking about?”

Xander frowned, “I think he’s made me. Sunny… You have to help.”

“I literally don’t.”

“If he figures out that this is a set up, he’ll react and it’ll be bad.”

“Then just say “Sorry, I can’t do this. I’ve gotta go,” and leave him the fuck alone.”

“NO! I can’t do THAT.”

Sunny rolled the chair back in front of the computer and typed out, “Huh. I was told that you and my Left Hand discussed this place whenever you last saw each other. She was… compelled to give you some advice on the subject.”

“Oh…” He frowned. If she wanted him to come to the Field of Nulls, maybe he understood this drawing, after all… She didn’t think that she could come home unless he was gone. She intended to kill him. He let tears fall down his face. She betrayed him. He knew that she was upset and that she wanted distance, but he never would have thought she would take it this far. He responded, “I don’t like this Grace. It feels like I’ll be harmed. I’m going to have to set up some insurance. If something happens to me, I’ll have to have someone… release things. Are you okay with agreeing to this?”

Xander hissed, “Shit!” Sunny stared at him. At any moment, he could just admit defeat, confess to Grace and work on fixing her anger about it. “Reply something, please?”

She sighed and typed, “Do whatever makes you feel safe. You should know that I wouldn’t hurt you, but I understand why you’re leery.”

This was… oddly trusting, but suspiciously selfish. Grace would begrudgingly agree to do their last Date Night alibi and take upon the potential danger to her group all on herself. As much as it hurt him to know it, she would NEVER allow even the idea of putting them in danger, not for anything, not even him. And… to just contact him and then do so, out of nowhere, when he hadn’t been bothering any of them or her in months? He looked at the artwork again. He began to look through artwork that he had salvaged of hers and he found one that he remembered, of him. He checked it against this one and wow, this was elaborate as hell of a plan and ALMOST got him, but… that wasn’t Grace’s work. It was beautiful, and he loved the whatever the message was or the warning… but, somebody else had made this. He wondered if they had forged the “Happy Birthday,” or if Grace had actually written it, and if she had, had it been for this? That didn’t seem likely. “If you don’t meet me at our last Date Night in 30 minutes, I’m going to set the wheels in motion.”

Sunny tossed her hands in the air. “He made us. You’d better come clean to him and to Grace.”

“It’ll take me less than 30 minutes to get to his house and kill his ass,” Xander said, grabbing a bat with nails hammered into it.

“You can’t be serious. Grace is gonna…”

“Forgive me! Grace is gonna forgive me for fucking up and fixing my mistake!” Xander fussed. Sunny tried to stop him and he snapped at her, “You’re wasting my time! He’s gonna rat on us to the police!” She moved aside, hurt and scared, but when he pulled off, she called Grace. This was going too far and even if he DID successfully kill Simon, he was going to definitely be fucking arrested and thrown into prison for the rest of his life. 

“Grace, this is an emergency. Xander is going after Simon.”

Grace KNEW it was true, because even though Sunny was playful, she wouldn’t play like this and this was the first time that she had ever said his name right. “Warn him,” Grace said first. Sunny typed it into the messages, as Grace added, “And explain it to me.”

After the 15 minutes it took Sunny to explain everything, from the warning Simon to stop, Xander being paranoid that he was still out there, watching and waiting, the fake art page, the gift, the ruse and tonight’s messaging, Grace was already heading for the airport. Xander was going to lose his shit, but Grace was losing hers and Sunny could tell that there was gonna be hell to pay whenever she got back. 

It was hours later that Xander came back home, and Sunny wasn’t there. Jalicia was asleep, but he woke her up and went over it with her. He had gotten a call from Grace. She found out about him spearheading his first executive decision to take Simon out while she was in Canada and she was on her way… She pulled rank on him, and she was probably going to kill him… to… to actually choose this null over him… “She’s unfit to lead, right? She’s… she’s fucking lost it, right? RIGHT?”

Jalicia pulled him into a hug and let him cry on her, “Grace would never hurt you, Xander. Your paranoia is just messing with your mind. Grace would never, ever hurt you.”

“She’s choosing him over us. He threatened us. He said he would turn us over and she’s going to give him what he wants? She’s going to just LET him use her like a puppet? She’s let him void out every part of her that has made her the champion we put all of our trust into!”

Jalicia knew Sunny’s routine enough to remember which tea to make, which grass to smoke, which songs to play and Xander eventually fell to sleep in her bed, crying over it all.

.

Grace called Simon and he picked up, while at her old apartment. “It's me,” she said.

“Hey… Was it you? Before?”

“No, but I’ve been caught up to speed. Where are you now?” He said the address and she froze, “My old apartment?”

“Yeah. I figured that 808 would be less likely to set my headquarters on fire if they were here. The damage that might be done to uninsured neighboring apartments and all that. The thing is that I was trying so hard to get over you and to give you space and they just… didn’t let me. This shouldn’t be allowed. They shouldn’t be allowed to do this to me…”

“Well… Let’s call it even for your previous violations.” They were silent. “Please, Simon. If you ever cared about me, don’t hurt them…”

“Why does..?” he groaned so loudly it scared her. “Why does EVERYONE act like I’M the dangerous person? I’m THE ONLY person in this entire situation who ISN’T fucking dangerous!” He took a deep breath and shook his head, “Sorry, that was unfair, and I’m sorry.”

“You said that you were going to turn them in if I didn’t come to see you.”

“I knew that wasn’t you. They… still don’t know you as well as they think that they do and if they do know, they certainly can’t translate it properly. I wouldn’t hurt them or you, I was just testing to see if they would tell me the truth.” He heard a knock on the door and he froze. 

“Are you gonna let me in?” she wondered. He thought about grabbing his gun, just in case she didn’t believe him and in case that wasn’t her and she had actually sent Xander, after all… but… why go through all of this for that? He looked through the peephole and she was there. He wanted to open it and throw his arms around her, but what if she wasn’t alone? What if she had a syringe and the van was right around the corner? Oh God… He was doubting her. He was afraid now. Xander had won, in a way. He didn’t want to open the door. “Simon, are you in the apartment, or not?”

“How do I know that you aren’t coming here just to finally get rid of your stalker problem?”

“I guess you don’t know that anymore than I know if tomorrow morning, I’ll have a bigger stalker problem than I had yesterday. It's up to you whether you trust that I’m here to try to fix things or whether you break my trust and hurt my friends.” He opened the door and glanced up both hallways before stepping out, but she pushed passed him and went inside of the apartment. It was similar to the storage, but somehow more haunting in a home setting. Her face everywhere and all of the information and surveillance reorganized. She sat on the couch with the Grace mannequin/doll.. Which was now more detailed than before and also now wearing clothes she’d left behind. She raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

“I was never going to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. 

“I… don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I did this. Why I took it so far.”

“I do.” 

He sat down between her and the mannequin, “Because I let you and I encouraged you. I wasn’t sure, but I surely had my thoughts and I liked them. I liked my thoughts of you being so into me that you would follow me around or watch me for a long time, even obsess over my photos and hang on my every word. I don’t know what the fuck love is supposed to look like, in a normal setting. I thought maybe that was one of those things… that this was how it was supposed to be if he was really into you and then, I indulged in the thought of somebody loving me and wanting to serve me, not because we had endured shit together, or because I pledged revenge in their name or I saved them, but just because I’m me. I wanted to be special. I’ve always wanted to be the love of somebody’s life. Even when I was little, before I… before the Apex…. The FIRST Apex, I never had the love that I craved and thirsted for. I suppose those years didn’t teach me much. Because I still managed to get inside of a pretty carriage with a nice man and head directly into disaster.”

“It's not your fault. You didn't ask for anything, and even if you wanted me to... I made a choice and you never knew for sure how far I took it all. But... Please tell me you don’t think that I’m so bad? As that man? That this disaster is like that one...” He looked like he might cry and she reflexively took his hand. They smiled at each other. He exhaled and squeezed her hand, “I found him,” he said.

“What?” she asked, laughing a little and confused about the random turn in the conversation. 

His face turned serious, and hers followed, matching the expression. “I  found  him.” She was still confused, but suddenly apprehended by stress as Simon moved to grab an envelope much like the ones that she got from the flower shop, like the one that he gave Jalicia. He was saying words that didn’t make sense. Stuff like, “Outside of their territories, city limits, neighboring towns news,” and so on and as she pulled out a mugshot of a man who obviously had seen better days, a flood of emotions came rushing over her. This man in the photo, years older, and a lot of stress later, but it was undeniable. She had forgotten certain details, but her body had definitely remembered them in the trauma it stored. If she took off some years, added some money, and a big bright pinky ring, it was him. This was the man that took her. 

This was the man that stole her life and gave her this awful destiny that made it so hard for her to love… She looked at Simon, and he helped her flip through the pages, because she couldn’t. 

This man was arrested not too long after she disappeared, and whenever he got out, he went to a half way house and reentered society… all in a span of time before she ever got back home… He had moved on and lived past it while she had still been in it. The sound that erupted from her was terrifying, but Simon refused to react to it.  Instead, he set the information aside and took her hands into his. 

“I was going to give it to them and try to lure you back to me, but whenever they threatened my mom, I,” he sounded ashamed to even admit it. “I chose her…” 

“They threatened your mom?” Grace asked. “God, Xander spiraled…”

“No, not him, the girlfriend.”

“Alexandria? She’s been out of the…” She stopped, seeing something regretful in his face. Her heart broke. “Sunny?”

“I didn’t know if she meant it, but I couldn’t take the chance. It wasn’t like she knew that I had this, but I wanted to avoid something happening to Mom. I love my mom.”

Grace shook her head, “She wouldn’t have, but, she might have let Xander, if he went for it. She’s… she wouldn’t have, but she didn’t tell me… She told me everything, I thought, but she left that part out. Would she have?”

“Xander making murder attempts, Sunny making immoral threats, do they even… still acknowledge you as their leader, or has the mission changed?” He asked. He wasn’t being manipulative, this time. He was actually very concerned. Because, if the Apex thought that Grace was turning on them… If they thought she was a threat to everything they’d built, or unfit to lead… if they thought that she was a danger to them all…

“I have to go…” She said, collecting the information and leaving the apartment. “Don’t follow me,” she said. “I mean it.”

“I’ve learned my lesson,” he said, choking down the anger of rejection and the disgust of her rushing into potentially dangerous arms with what he thought might be the most important thing she had ever been given in her life! 

Her eyes were soft upon him as she hugged the information to her chest. “Thank you, Simon.”

His anger was gone. He came over and gave her a hug. “You… remember our last Date Night, don’t you?”

She scoffed and laughed, “Duh. That romantic ass shit. Why?” 

“I just… hoped you had.” He smiled at his feet, “You didn’t tell them.”

“I mean, I didn’t tell them any of them. It would be easier to just tell them if the need arose, than to give them several to potentially stumble over. To be honest, it was a shame it was fake. That’s the kind of thing…” She bit her lip and now she looked at their shoes. “That was around the time that I knew how I felt about you.” She turned and left quickly, not offering how she felt. She… knew that he probably knew. He knew everything else about her.

.

Grace felt like an outsider here. Maybe it was the time she spent in the safe house, maybe it was the fact that two of these three people had kept secrets from her and tried to lie to her, whether in her personal interest, or theirs… she hated it, but she also would forgive them. They were held together by interweaving threads. Even if she didn’t fully trust them right now, what could she do? Do this shit without them? Unlikely. And there was the whole matter of Simon. She hadn’t seen him since she had been back. Sometimes, she thought that she felt him watching, but she was always too afraid to turn around to check. More afraid that he might not be there than the thought that he might. 

The X was taking the trash out in the alley, the way he tended to do around this time at the place that he worked as a custodian. Sunny felt conflicted about it, since he hadn’t been a criminal in years. Jalicia felt like the group needed to heal before trying to do a job like this. Xander was willing to do anything to get into Grace’s… well… her good graces. Grace was out for blood and feeling betrayed that only Xander seemed as bloodthirsty about this as she did, and that even this seemed fabricated for her pleasure! 

They had gone over Jalicia’s tactical plan, and it should have been a breeze to pick him up, but whenever Grace got out of the van and to wait and the van was still, in the darkness, the man was cautious. There were no businesses doing anything in the alley at this time of night and he knew that a van meant criminal activity. He didn’t want to get involved and tried to rush back in. Grace knew that the door would lock, so she rushed upon him and when she did, he was prepared and shot her right in the abdomen. 

Should she have known to not rush him like that? Of course. Could she rationalize in the moment that she did? Not really. And whenever Xander started the van, Sunny opened the door to try to grab Grace, but the X was pointing the gun at the van now and Xander swerved out of panic and Sunny couldn’t catch hold of her. The other shots fired and Sunny screamed, unable to see behind the van, but presuming of course, that he finished Grace off, unless he had been firing at the van and simply missed every shot. She didn’t know what the hell had just happened, but Xander was still driving and crying, and not seeming to turn around and mow that motherfucker with this thing. 

.

Simon was out of his car by the time she was shot, his own gun drawn and his heart racing as everything happened much too fast for him to save her from what happened. The first gunshot rang through the night and he watched Grace fall and the van start. They were going to leave her. OF COURSE they were. That’s what they DID. But, he wasn’t going to. He could hardly see the shadow moving and shot him first in the back of the neck, but once the body fell he advanced on him, continuing to fire into him until he emptied the gun and reached Grace. She was unresponsive. It was too dark. He could see a little bit, but the security lights on the outside of most of these buildings hadn’t been changed in a while and the nearest one only gave him a little, so he made sure that she knew it was him. He turned on the flashlight of his phone and found the wound to try to stop the bleeding. He was on the phone and writing something on her hand, and trying to hold it together, but he couldn’t. He was crying and confessing on the phone to having shot someone. They were thinking he meant that he shot the woman he was calling about, but he managed, “No. No… Not her… I love her. I shot him. I’m sure I killed him.” 

He wasn’t crying because he killed someone, though maybe later, that would hit him harder. He was crying because all he had ever wanted to do was help her, save her, protect her, and it was his fault that she was dying in his arms. It was his fault… and she had just gone unconscious...

14. A Shot in the Dark Pt.2

[shorthaircutsmodels]

Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles - https://shorthaircutsmodels.com/zoe-kravitzs-short-haircuts-and-hairstyles/ - Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, You can probably remember many different short routes in the past but this particular fairy looks more modern with a little baby boom. Kravitz often debuts a chop between locs or even platinum blonde do in his long braids. There's nothing he can't really accomplish. Friends and family accept him. Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, Stepfather Jason Momoa commented with the multi-heart eye emoji very cute model designer who used his own heart eyes with Emily Ratajkowski posted a bunch of yes and Naomi Campbell fire emojis. When I get a haircut I don't have that kind of comment on my Instagram from real supermodels. Zoe Kravitz's Short Haircuts Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, returns to her old loot at the Thanksgiving table. The actress shared a photo of a new pixie cut on Instagram with the caption Just hair . A classic Kravitz look when he returns just in time for the holiday season. Kravitz often weathered short hair in the past, often between braids locs or platinum blonde dye work. Even hair deserves to be relaxed during the holidays, right. Zoe Kravitz's Short Hairstyles Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, The new old look is a close-cropped cut that is just shy of a full buzz cut. A layered and wavy piece of hair is Kravitz's signature carefree-cool-chick vibe with the smallest hint of bursting touching her forehead. Big Little Lies star Zoë Kravitz underwent a major hair transformation, swapping her signature long braids for a super short crop of fairies. Zoe Kravitz's Haircuts and Hairstyles Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, The actress took to Instagram to reveal her new look after it was revealed last month. Robert Pattinson will star as Catwoman alongside Batman. She first rocked a pixie cut that Kravitz went for a bleached crop in April 2017 and then wore in a slightly longer brunette style. Zoe Kravitz's Hairstyles Zoë Kravitz's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, You can always count on Zoë Kravitz to inspire your next attempt at effortless cool girl style and her latest hair makeover will no doubt be itching to book a salon appointment stat. But maybe it might take a few days to think about copying that, because it's pretty dramatic and there's absolutely no going back after this cut. Wearing her signature long braids for so long, the actress looked almost unrecognisable in her latest Instagram picture. Zoe Kravitz's Short Hair You may have seen these new box braids on celebrities such as Zoë Kravitz Eva Marcille and Jhené Aiko, but unless you thought of the style as a fabulous weave between goddess locs and box braids. If you want the bohemian look to be shorter than the traditional goddess locs that require braid hair, wrap each braid first with a spinning goddess box of braids may be your answer. It's the shortest thing the Fantastic Beasts star has worn her hair for quite some time but she's no stranger to fairy life. Zoe Kravitz's Hair And yes, in case you're wondering if the Big Little Lies actor is celebrating with a 'new' celebratory selfie. When you have the combined genetics of Lenny Kravitz and Lisa Bonet, unwavering self-expression is rooted deep in your DNA. Plus you know the whole amazing thing. Yet Zoë Kravitz admits she has a rocky road when it comes to locking in her own personal appearance. The daughter of legendary singer Lenny Kravitz and Lisa Bonet, this gorgeous beauty is not only a style icon for many but continues to make headlines with her unusual hair choices. What hairstyle does Zoe Kravitz have? This Naturalista loves to experiment with his tresses and play forever to try something eccentric and daring. From box knitting to fairy brunette Zoe has her own thing and looks to own it all the way! The struggle that the YSL Beauty brand ambassador told us has always been real for me and my hair. When you have a Kinkier texture, the options may seem limited. Note that the operative word has emerged. Zoe Kravitz natural hair Since starting to switch to ordinary natural hair in 2014, the Lolawolf frontwoman and Big Little Lies actress has managed to experiment with an impressive number of styles with box braids. For him, it's a labor of love. She says I really prefer my hair to be natural. Celebrity hairdresser Nikki Nelms, who has worked with Kravitz since 2013, has also noticed a rise in confidence. He's very open to change and doesn't depend on anything Nelms says. Darkening or bleaching to turn length or cut. How do you get your hair like Zoe Kravitz? The same goes for makeup. It shouldn't be something you use to cover up. And I feel like YSL Beauty doesn't want me to cover myself up or be something Kravitz doesn't say. Make-up should highlight your individuality. While Kravitz's philosophy of beauty is good, he can even admit that there was a blast trying that line of reps. the basics are great, he says, and Touche Éclat is like sleeping 24 hours in a pen you can put in your pocket. Zoe Kravitz blonde hair His experiment turned out to be part of a lifelong course. You just have to find out what works for you and what doesn't. Understood. The main difference with Boho box braids is that, unlike traditional box braiding technique, boho braids have a less uniform appearance with wavy hair added to certain points for a finer carefree vibe. From parts to the end the look is deliberately less polished. Kravitz wore accessories with decorations such as hair jewelry and also played with color which spice up this hair. What kind of braiding hair does Zoe Kravitz use? Pulling box braids into a top bun like Zoe usually gives this an added boho edge look. It is well known that box braids and other knitting techniques originated in ancient Africa, where the braids were decorated with Shell feathers jewels and beads. Today boho braids are another reincarnation of our creativity and history. Zoe Kravitz curly hair On Wednesday evening, she revealed she was going for a surprise transformation, returning to her old classic look with a new super short pixie cut. The daughter of the Lenny Kravitz singer and star of the hit series Big Little Lies We are now obsessed with dolls, Zoe Kravitz. One thing we particularly love about her is her attitude towards beauty. She always fascinates us with her constant gaze to try something new with her hair or make-up. Check out his coolest moments here. How do you get Zoe Kravitz box braids? The Big Little Lies actress frequently changes her hairstyles, experimenting with everything from short plants to platinum blonde hair. Tuesday's Instagram however Zoe has long uploaded a photo showing her rocking her brunette braid and posing with her fresh pixie cut. Hair she captioned the snap by adding a scissor emoji. Zoe Kravitz hair cut Zoe did not add further details, but her likely transformation is Matt Reeves's Robert Pattinson with Paul Dano Jeffrey Wright with John Turturro and Andy Serkis in the role of Selina Kyle Catwoman in Batman. The film is scheduled for release in June 2021. Zoe " s post caught the attention of her celebrity followers by adding Charlize Theron looks so good that she's so beautiful Abbie Cornish and Emily Ratajkowski adding Yes with a heart-eye emoji. Summer may be winding down but a protective style is just warming up. What is a goddess braid? Boho box weaves also known as Gypsy or goddess box weaves are officially here and posed to take over if you missed it. While she looks great with literally any haircut, Zoë Kravitz was made for short hair. Or should I say that these trendy short haircuts are just meant for her. Kravitz showed off a new pixie haircut on instagram Part new and part og Zoë got a wavy look. This time, Kravitz has become a close product, with tons of texture on top and a carefree vibe waving forward. They're Baby Bang's baby and she looks beautiful. Zoe Kravitz white hair A question for beauty fans: is there anything more universal than a post-salon selfie? Then a haircut ritual unites hair care aficionados everywhere, if we stop with less light, or a big chop of La Zoe Kravitz's new pixie cut. The Pixie cut continued its reign as the hairstyle of the moment on Sunday night at the 2017 Emmy Awards thanks to Zoë Kravitz, who paired her short-Shagged hairstyle with a fantastic Dior dress. Do you dip Goddess Braids? The Big Little Lies star was one of the best looks of the night. So what's the perfect fairy secret? Hairdresser Nikki Nelms, who has worked with stars such as Janelle Monáe Beyoncé and Kravitz, explains that it all started with a great cut. It really started with a textured cut because it says it's there no matter how the wind blows its texture. Here Nelms talks about the trend and offers her top tips and tricks for designing a fairy cut for a night out. Zoe Kravitz hair braids Zoë Kravitz is a million style icons. Her fearless choices on and off the red carpet encourage black women in particular to take risks with our beauty style and hair. So I was elated when the new brunette shared a photo of pixie cut on Instagram. There is a very narrow definition of beauty for black actresses, who often have long flowing hair. Kravitz often tries new things with his hair and shows the world that there are a Million Ways Black women can look inspiring. Here are 16 of his most iconic hair looks of all time.

[beefcakequnari]

Re-Education After Seheron

He sees them everywhere, the hands that deal death; they deal in poison and knives in your back. They deal in traded secrets of their location given up to enemy agents, they are not civilians they are enemies now. No one is to be trusted, none of them are trust worthy, this is their fault- no it’s his fault. He can’t go on anymore, Seheron has finally broken him and it’s on this day that Seheron falls eerily still for the first time, as if everyone knew. There is no question at this time, he is still firm in his faith but he can’t go on anymore. A voluntary turn in to the Re-Educators; asking them that they repair him, or be destroyed as to best serve the Qun.

They come to Seheron to get him, the remaining survivors of his unit are still with him, he’s sitting there a hand clutching Vasaad’s dagger, staring into the fire when they arrive. Gatt comes to him, his temper hasn’t cooled down, he’s angrier now, angry that there was the chance that he might get qamek; but the superiors have already made the survivors write their depositions on Hissrad. 

The re-educators have calming voices, they don’t look as imposing as one might expect. When he stands with the dagger in hand one lays over his and there’s a shake of the mans head. “You can’t take it Hissrad. It’ll harm your re-education. You do want to be a useful part of the Qun again, correct?” He can’t hear the barely contained there anger behind him, holding tighter onto the weapon. The man is guiding him over to the burning fire and glazed eyes are staring at it, as he explains the problem. “You have Asala-taar Hissrad. Having this reminder will only make it worse and then you can not serve the Qun. You will become one of those Tal-Vashoth who did this. Do you want to become the very thing you’ve been hunting?” His hand is shaking now and his eyes close, he hasn’t let it go since the compound, the man is slowly peeling his fingers free and he can hear it fall; can feel the dagger and the last remain of Vasaad leave him. 

He doesn’t remember the trip back to Par Vollen, but he recognizes the barracks that they’re in. When he was younger he had to do a rotation as a guard in the re-education chambers, but that time seems so far away now. He feels like everything before Seheron was a lifetime ago, Par Vollen almost doesn’t even feel like home and it feels wrong.

The first day he’s kept restrained and they say it’s for his own good, so they can go over the depositions before they talk to Hissrad. He says that he understands and he does, he’s allowed minimal water and he could be fine like this; except for the oppressive darkness. There’s no light in there and once the door is shut his eyes fight to adjust, strain and squint, but when there’s no light to adjust to, there’s no point. He assumes it’s only the first day, but without light to keep track he can’t be sure. He tries to use the patterns of guard rotations, but he’s restrained in the furthest corner and the door is too thick, it doesn’t give him any hints. He’s stuck wondering if they’re going to just leave him in here to rot, but no they can’t, he still has a use- he does still have a use doesn’t he?

When the door finally cracks open the second day he squints at the sudden light it hurts. He’s expecting to leave the room but he’s not- instead a chair is brought in and the re-educator sits with some papers. “Do you know why you’re here Hissrad?” “I need to be re-shaped to best serve the Qun.” He replies and the man smiles, jots down something and seems satisfied with his answer. “Hissrad, the assault in the jungle you had no approval-” “It was an investigation.” “Do not interrupt Hissrad. The assault on the stronghold cost valuable Qunari lives. Why did you not get permission from the higher ups to go  assault a stronghold?” “It was an investigation-” The rest of his response is cut off from the man closing the book he had been writing in and standing from the chair. “Lying is not tolerated under the Qun, Hissrad. I thought you were making progress, but apparently you really do stand up to your title.” He grunts but doesn’t react any further, though it seems to be enough for the re-educator. He’s forced to stand next to the table while the two re-educators that got him from Seheron eat and talk like it’s nothing and is given water again for the evening.

It’s sometime around this that they start the wakeup calls- not that he can really sleep well still restrained; but the door opening and slamming every so often at random intervals keeps him on his toes for the next day or so- he’s still not sure about time or how it’s passing.

Day three and the re-educator is back again, sitting down in his brought chair with his book. “Are you prepared to tell the truth today, Hissrad?” “I’m not changing my answer because that would be me lying.” He states firmly and that night the guard ‘forgets’ to bring in water.

Day four and exhaustion is setting in, he’s starting to slump in his restraints and the lack of food and water is starting to take it’s toll on him. When the man comes in again he fights to keep his gaze on him and he’s released from his bindings and falls hard onto the stones. “Do you know why you’re here?” “I need to be re-shaped to best serve the Qun.” There’s almost a pleading to his voice as eyes stare down at the ground. Very light food and water is brought in and he’s allowed to stay unrestrained for the night.

Day five and they show him pictures of slaughtered Tamassran’s and their children, remind him of what Tal-Vashoth really do. They tell him that he was close to becoming one of them, that he could have went rogue just like his commander. He says that he wouldn’t do that and they warn him of the dangers of the Tal-Vashoth, remind him of his mens deaths. He’s given light food and water once more that night.

Day six is spent debriefing, he goes over the story so many times and every so often the man will correct a word here or there. It becomes muddied and difficult and he can’t quite remember which words were exactly his, but he can remember the story. The re-educator seems very pleased when he recites back the events to him and that night he’s given a decent meal. 

The seventh day the re-educator tells him that they are working on finding him a new place within the Qun, that if he will be faithful he can find a place yet again. There’s such relief and so much tension leaves his body at those words that he bows his head for a moment, has to control his breathing. They tell him for him to become whole again they must fix him, that they must make sure he is operational. For that someone comes and looks at the new scars and wounds he got in Seheron; inspects his hands. 

His fingers they tell him will have to be dealt with or they will cause him more pain- one has been cut too far above the joint so it will need to be cut again. They say this is part of the process, that this pain too will be forgotten. It doesn’t hurt the same as when he lost them; but this is not torture after all. But regardless he can still feel the snap of his bone and the loss, the loss hits him right in the stomach and makes him sick. He is bandaged back up and told that he needs to be grateful that they are finding a place for him within the Qun, for he was close to Qamek, he was close to being a danger.

The eighth day passes and he does not see the re-educator and he’s starting to get worried. He hears him through the door though, he reminds him that The Qun will always have a place for those who are faithful and advises him to go over the Cantos and to fast. He knows that he must be firm in his faith to show them that he truly wants to be apart of the Qun, that he wants to still be Qunari. He fasts without complaint and recites cantos in his head and until his lips feel raw.

The ninth day the man comes in and sits a chair in the middle and steps back from it, the chair is facing towards him, it’s back to Hissrad. “The Qun offers a place for all people. Are you ready to take your place back within the Qun?” There’s genuine relief in him, he can feel his shoulders relax and he swallows, hearing his own voice crack. “I want to be part of the Qun.” The man gestures to the chair and for him to finally take a seat. His body aches at the sweet release and comfort. He advises him to stay still as he takes out shears and a razor. 

He starts by shearing off the locs that Hissrad has grown for the past ten years, part of his appearance that he took pride in. It is a slow and tedious process, and after they’re done, the man starts shaving his head until he has no hair left. He stays silent throughout the process, not looking down at the hair that’s covering the floor; he is not that man anymore. For the first time he is allowed out of his cell to be allowed to bathe, he’s given new clothes after and then taken to a new room and gets to sleep on a bed. 

The next morning they bring him to a new room and tell him of his new job. He will have a period of new education and then be sent off; they want him to pose as a Tal-Vashoth within Thedas. Work with a mercenary company, get information on Orlesian nobles and send letters home. Even though he will be sent off again he has use once more, he has been reformed and the Qun has accepted him.

[bizarrebird]

missing him was dark gray

Prompt from @secretlystephaniebrown -  OKAY CAN WE SEE CABOOSE PUTTING THOSE BEADS IN TUCKER'S HAIR IN THE SOULMATE AU BECAUSE THAT KILLED ME

Okay, so I’m not the best at writing Caboose, but I tried. The bead thing was something I was kinda hesitant to put in In Screaming Color, but I’m glad people like it, so here you go!

Also on AO3 here

Warnings: N/A

Rating: G

Pairings: Implied Tuckington, platonic Tucker & Caboose 

“Tucker, look!”

Groaning, Tucker pushes himself up, blinking in the sudden light. He’s pretty sure no one’se ever taught Caboose about knocking before he bursts the fuck in on someone. At least he had just been sleeping and not in the middle of alone time. He’s been sleeping a lot lately. Training the rebels is exhausting, so hell, he’s earned it.

 And when he’s asleep there’s less time to wonder what they’re doing to Wash. To Donut. To Sarge. Except for when his dreams try to fill in the blanks.

He squints a little as Caboose plops onto his bed without so much as an invitation. “Dude, the fuck do you want? Aren’t you supposed to be on  supply run? Did you get me the shit I asked for?”

“No, I forgot your list, but look what I did get!” He shoves a small plastic box into Tucker’s face. The bed is shaking a little with the way he’s bouncing on the spot. Whatever the hell he found, he’s sure excited about it.

That might not be good for him.

Taking the box, he rubs at his eyes. It doesn’t sound like anything is trying to claw its way out of there. He gives it a little shake. Sounds like there’s a lot of… little somethings rattling around in there. Huh.

He sits up, shifting to put his back against the wall as he opens the box. His brow furrows. “Beads? Where the hell did you get these?”

“The supply run. There were lots of stores and no bad guys so we explored and I found a store with lots and lots of them. It took a while, but I got all the right ones,” he says, looking pretty proud of himself.

Tucker frowns a little. The right ones? What does that mean? He gives them another look. There’s… not a lot of colors. Which is weird for Caboose. Back in Blood Gulch, he had specially requisitioned the biggest pack of brightly colored rainbow beads he could find once Tucker had agreed to let him mess with his hair again.

It had taken quite a lot of convincing after the fire incident. He had mentioned the beads just off hand when he’d been complaining about cutting off the burnt ends and Caboose had just lit up. After that, it had sort of become a thing. A not quite nightly routine of Caboose carefully working an assortment of beads into his hair.

Of course then, even with the ridiculous amount of colors to choose from, he had mostly stuck to the blue ones.

But there’s… not actually any blue ones in there. Huh. It’s not until he’s got a small handful to get a better look at the colors that it clicks and something in his chest curls tight until it hurts. There’s four colors. Pink, red, gray, and yellow.

Tucker’s voice sticks in his throat as he looks up at Caboose. Suddenly, he looks a little sheepish, ducking his head, curls flopping down to hide his eyes. “I know they are not blue, but… I thought they would be nice. I think Donut and Wash and the sergeant would not mind you using their colors.”

It takes him a minute to swallow the lump in his throat before he nods. “Yeah… yeah I bet they’d be cool with it.”

He grabs Caboose’s hand and carefully drops the beads into his much larger palm. Shifting the box closer to him, Tucker turns away, pulling his hair free of the loose bun he’d forced it into earlier. “Go ahead, just try not to pull too much, dude.”

“I will be very gentle,” Caboose says earnestly.

It’s always relaxing to have someone mess with his hair. Caboose’s big, clumsy fingers are surprisingly nimble when they want to be. He carefully works through Tucker’s dreads, Tucker can even feel him carefully tightening up a few locs here and there like he’d shown him ages ago. When he wants to, Caboose can remember things pretty damn well.

“What colors would you like?”

Tucker’s teeth go to his lip and he shrugs. “I dunno, maybe… maybe Wash’s? I can braid some of Donut’s in yours later.”

“That would be very nice.”

Caboose hums to himself, apparently not feeling the slightly heavy silence as it settles around them. Or maybe he does. “You miss Washington, don’t you?”

That lump’s in his throat again and he shrugs. Because he doesn’t want to miss Wash’s stupid self-sacrificing ass and his fucking drill sergeant orders and all the rest of it. But his hand absently goes to the collar of his shirt, knowing there’s that too gray mark hidden just beneath it.

“I sure as hell don’t miss him telling me to drop and give him a million,” he says, snorting. “Or his stupid pacing at three in the morning all the time. Oh, or how he’d never stop giving me crap about the one time I forgot to brush my teeth. Or--”

“Yeah, I miss him too.”

That shuts him up way too easily. Something in Tucker’s chest aches and his eyes burn, so he forces them shut. This is stupid. He can’t get worked up over this. It’s going to be fine. Wash is fine, they’re all fine. They just have to find them.

Caboose’s hand stills in his hair, the other landing on his shoulder and squeezing. “When we rescue them, we are going to make the best blanket fort ever.”

Tucker reaches up and pats Caboose’s hand. “Of all time.”

They keep talking, the pain in his chest easing a little. Caboose apparently has about a million things planned for when they get Wash and the others back. He’s got a whole tour of the rebel base planned, though Tucker tries to talk him out of some parts. (“Dude, they’re not gonna want to see Andersmith’s stamp collection, no one wants to see that.”)

Eventually, Caboose decides he’s done and scoots off Tucker’s bed to sit on the floor. He’s so fucking tall, it’s the only way Tucker can get at his hair. “This is so fucking tangled, hang on, I’ve gotta comb it out first. Have you not been brushing it again?”

“I forgot. Agent Washington has not been reminding me and I have not added that to Andersmith’s schedule yet.”

Tucker freezes where he’s got one hand in the box he’s been using as a nightstand. Fishing out his comb, he lets out a breath. “Don’t bother, I’ll put it on mine. Smith won’t do it right. I’ve got it.”

“If you say so.” But there’s a hint of cheer in Caboose’s voice that wasn’t there before. He mostly sits still as Tucker carefully works the knots out of his hair.

“It’s getting real long again,” he notes, catching a few strands between his fingers, letting them slowly fall back where they curl halfway to Caboose’s shoulders. “You should let me cut it soon.”

“I am waiting for Donut. He cuts it best.” Well, Tucker can’t really argue with that. For a moment, he almost says they have no idea when that’s going to be. That they don’t even know if Donut’s going to be up for that when they get him back. If--

No. No he’s putting the brakes on that hard, so he just nods. “Yeah, okay.”

Once he gets the tangles out, he starts carefully working a few little braids into Caboose’s hair, threading a few pink beads in here and there. “Can you save some?” Caboose asks when he’s been at it for a few minutes. “I think Grif and Simmons would probably like a few beads too.”

Tucker’s pretty sure neither of them would be caught dead with pink and red beads in their hair, though Grif’s is definitely long enough for it. But he doesn’t disagree. “Sure. There’s gonna be plenty left though, you got a fuck ton, dude.”

“I had to make sure there were enough for everyone, Tucker,” he says, faintly shaking his head as he scoffs a little. “Sharing is very important, everyone knows that.”

He can’t stop himself from laughing as he nods. “Okay, yeah, good point. Alright, think that’s pretty good unless you want more.”

Caboose reaches up and feels at his head. After a moment, he nods and stands, collecting the box of beads. “This is good. Thank you, Tucker, I will try to keep them nice until we find the others.”

“Uh huh, sure.” Knowing Caboose, he’s going to have to redo the braids daily, but… it’s not the worst way to kill an hour or two. Tucker throws an arm over his eyes as he flops back on the bed. He’s vaguely aware of Caboose babbling something about going to see Grif and Simmons at him as a large hand pats his knee.

The door to his room opens and closes as Tucker’s hand idly drifts to his own hair. Fingers running over the beads, he shuts his eyes tightly. It’s not enough, and really… it shouldn’t mean shit, but the yellow and gray are so, so like Wash’s colors. Like part of him is still there.

It’s not enough, but it’ll hold him over until Wash is back. It’s only a matter of time.