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h-sleepingirl · 5 years ago

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EEEHU + Scenes From A Hypnotic Skype Call 3/29/20

This is a writing about my weekend. This is a writing about EEEHU, and a writing about a Skype date. They are very different in tone, but inevitably interconnected. This is a writing I debated on doing -- on how to express it, and whether or not I should share it.This is a writing that starts very hard, but gets easier.

I was a part of two classes on Saturday. I thought that would be easy; I had been kicking myself for not submitting more and was very close to deciding to put on an unconference class.

It was not easy.

I didn't sleep well that night, and haven't been sleeping well in general. Since shifting my work, I felt like my sleep should be pretty stable, since I work on my own schedule now. But I've been staying up late and waking up early. It's a bad pattern, and it was the second day in a 5hr sleep cycle.

I was already drained, and I had a lot to juggle to get everything running smoothly Saturday morning. It was taxing and I was exhausted. I was snapping at stupid things, uncharacteristically. I kept saying, with forced glee, "It's just like a real con! I'm sleep deprived and stressed!"

But once we got started, the first class with MrDream went well, and I enjoyed it. The audience was incredibly generous towards both him and me. I was so pleased at how many people were getting information and how many people said that they loved my trance face, although I had to force down a little bit of juvenile bitterness that we couldn’t just monopolize the class with play and go as hard as we usually do. There were 140ish people in the class -- a lot. We did Q&A to wrap up, and then I had to run to do tech testing for the podcast.

What I couldn’t do was give MrDream a hug after the class. What I couldn’t do was walk down the hotel hallway to see him and decompress. What I couldn’t do was hang around and chat with attendees in the lobby and in the con spaces.

I felt that immensely, stinging, but I had to push it down, because I had more to do.

The podcast, despite some inevitable technical issues, went well enough. By that point, I was feeling incredibly drained, and hadn’t been able to eat more than some yogurt for the majority of the day because of feeling crappy from not sleeping. It went for 2 hours -- very long, and we had no breaks. I was on autopilot. I had a good time, but felt almost dissociated, far away from myself.

I turned off the meeting, and I was suddenly in my bed, alone, just with cc, waiting for the audio to save.

I could not go see MrDream. I could not go see my friends. I could not get a hug. I could not text someone to ask where the party was and then stay up until 4am doing hypnosis and talking bullshit.

I started crying -- not weeping, not choking out tears, but wailing, hard crying.

It was the build-up of nearly a month of not processing that life, right now, is different. I cannot see my loved ones. I cannot see my community. EEEHU was a monstrous effort by its organizers which I applaud, and am so dearly happy that so many people enjoyed it, but for me, it was a harsh reminder that it was not a con in the way that I needed, and that I will not get that in the foreseeable future.

And I can’t see MrDream.

Our 2-year dating anniversary was just over a week ago. We would have had a date, riled up from not seeing each other for a month, meeting near the vernal equinox, the change of seasons having become important to us. And then we would have seen each other at NEEHU, a week later.

Now I don’t know when I will see him again.

After keeping that fact so distant from myself, taking one day at a time, I was slapped in the face by it.

I cried. I cried so hard. I have not cried like that in months, maybe a year. It was the rawness of isolation, the feeling of tragedy, of separation.

After a few minutes of it, I stopped, because I didn’t want to dig myself into a hole I couldn’t get out of. I saw myself in a mirror, and saw the mascara running in streaks down my face -- an effect I’ve tried hard to achieve for kink and in scenes for my partners who enjoy tears.

I took out my phone and snapped a picture -- the picture I take for MrDream every day of myself when I feel particularly brainwashed. If this wasn’t such a clear sign of how brainwashed, how dependent, how addicted, how in love I am, then I don’t know what is.

He responded well.

I went to bed early, feeling like I had immensely screwed up in everything the entire day. Again I had trouble sleeping, but I was comforted by the knowledge that I would talk to MrDream on Skype, and woke up feeling still drained, but less raw.

Our call was, of course, what I needed.

It was not the kind of call where we dove headfirst into trance. We spent time decompressing and talking, the sort of relaxed conversation I’ve missed so much since not having long time together.

But when he shifted his tone, when I saw his eyes change so subtly, I felt it all, and I felt everything melt away, helpless to it.

This trance is so overwhelming, the lowness of his voice, the feather-light touch of it makes me feel as though this is so much more powerful than aggression, as though I am a fluid which yields so much more softly when given the most gentle pressure, and how weak I feel to that.

He talks about how I can feel myself melting into him and suddenly I feel it, I feel the way his body feels. How much he wants me. How much when even I think about him from far away, he feels it, unconsciously, the force of our connection, we can smell each other, we know the weight of each others’ bodies.

Sinking into him. Filled with him. Empty. Deep.

Going through vivid memories of us together, flashbacks to dates that I suddenly am able to access more effectively.

I weep in trance at how precious that is. I weep while aroused as he controls me, even as I feel myself totally slipping away. The tears stop quickly, leaving me with his control.

He is calling back to the podcast that I know he was there to listen to, using my words, using my ideas, the recognition that he is always paying attention.

When he snaps me up, I am a hypnotized wreck, I can’t talk. He has to snap me up again.

“My shoulders are doing the thing,” I say, smiling, finally. “My brain is doing the thing.”

Loosened, relaxed.

We talk about how much we miss each other. He future paces gently about what it will be like when we finally see each other. I cry a little bit again, and it’s the first time I’ve acknowledged this thing with tears in front of him.

We banter Erickson at each other -- our ultimate love language.

I’m amazed how quickly I fall away when his flirting shifts intent just slightly. I have been going deeper, I have been going away so much further and faster.

He turns me into a cow, all body, no brain, taking over everything. Dumb cow braincells making me all mouth, all pussy, all tits. Calling back to my fey memories, how holographic they are.

Flashback to his apartment and cumming on top of him.

“Feeling the way the light feels,” he says, and it triggers the exact memory of my thought, in his room, when he took something away from me permanently -- ‘I will never forget the way the light looks in this room at this moment.’

“And then fading away even from this much comprehension into the deepest trance.”

Just hypnosis, just mind control. The absolute feeling of that, the way it drugs me.

I am so close to nothing, he is draining me away… Again I have that sense that if he just pushes a little more, I would go, something would happen, I would be totally gone forever… Again, I flash back to another date, the solstice that I did not share, and how close I was…

“You’ve always been a dumb little girl, wanting this so badly…”

Another flashback…

And he wakes me up, and I just stare at him. He makes a whooshing sound.

“Boy, do I miss this,” he says, all low, so turned on. “Gonna shred you so bad.”

I say his name.

“I’m… somewhere,” I manage, softly.

“Me too,” he says.

I’m so completely focused on his face, so completely keyed into his expression, his eyes, just like I would be if we were together, just like I’ve been learning how to do over Skype after all this time.

“Are we just going to spend 15 minutes staring at each other now?” I whisper, locked onto him.

“If we were alone, do you think we would?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

We fix on each other, silently, and it is just like we are.

He makes another whooshing sound, and it breaks, and we both laugh a little.

“Well,” he says, “that was two minutes.”

“As if a candle can tell that it’s melting.”

I become an object, melting itself, lit by him, finally no longer a person, finally even more easy to exist as a vessel for his control.

“As if you are a candle in the dark night, dripping wax into your hand, thinking about spells and magic…”

Flashback to Samhain, and the frustration.

“Who we are when we are alone, when we are together, even if there are people around, no matter where, we are always in this other world where magic is happening to us both. Knowing we are always connected, knowing we always have this thing, and no one can stop it.”

Flashback to DMDW.

Flashback to flashbacks of DMDW.

Weeping, again, in deep, deep trance, feeling the magic bubble in my body and bubble where the air meets my skin, just for this one moment, so long since I’ve felt it and never over distance like this -- the magic that I will always question, the magic that seems unquestionable when I feel it and then dreamlike, it fades...

He counts me up, and I feel a tightness, and before 5, I whisper his name and ask to stay here, at 4.

I have looked at the picture of myself ever so often. The enormous emotional outpouring feels more distant now, and more manageable, but I don’t ever want to forget how hard that day was for me. I don’t ever want to take things for granted ever again.

It makes me so happy that I was able to have meaningful conversations and input at EEEHU, and help people learn, and watch people having fun. I wish I could have been more present, but I know I was doing the right thing by being at home, and not “at the con."

The hypnosis community is so incredibly important to me. I dedicated my first book to it, and surely I will do the same with my next. I believe I was meant to be here. If I believed in destiny, which I do not, I would say that it has been my destiny since I was a tiny little girl, confused and barely conscious of myself.

All I have to say is this: Take care of yourselves. Stay strong, but know you will fail sometimes. Cry. Laugh. Keep in touch.

I will be here.

@hypnokinkwithmrdream

#my writing #eeehu #neehu2020 #hypnosis #hypnokink

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bakugouscentedcaramel · 5 years ago

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So there's something that's been praying on my mind for a while now. We've seen Bakugo grow, he's shown us he's not just some arrogant asshole, and we've seen a deeper part of him. But he obviously still hates Deku he's said it time and time again, and although I think their little battle after the licensing exam gave Bakugo new respect for Deku I still don't get it. In the training camp arc, if Bakugo hates Deku, and Deku actually "makes him sick" then why did he say "stay back?" as if he cares

Kfkejdjdjjd my time to ramble about my BakuBoomBoomExplodeInMyAssNapalmLookinChihuahaMan has come

Be warned, I wrote this at 4am so I'm sorry if this seems scatterbrained

So imma be honest, at first I didn't really like him, like at all (but look at me now collecting bakumerch and having a Bakubitch body pillow whoops)

I felt like he was a dick and honestly he reminded me of my countless of bullies over had in school. But as I kept watching I would notice tiny little details.

Val's hot take: He's a borderline Tsundere type/ (Val's term) Pit Bull

In this (hopefully) short essay I will explain my thought process and dissection of our Grenade Boi

(Spoilers, it's long)

---

So obviously at first glance he's a loud, obnoxious, vulgar prick. Who bullies sweet boy Izuku (yes he does, I ain't going to sugar coat anything).

To me this is just someone who has been given a rare opportunity and has let this pseudo superiority go to their heads.

(Small derailment but i promise it'll make sense)

I don't know if I ever said this before but my father was in the Marine Corp for 16 years, making yours truly, a military brat. Because of this I had to move around every 3 years like clockwork, making me a prime target for bullies and other foul tempered peers. I personally have been in Izuku's shoes around 4 times. One of those times I actually befriended a Bakugou type by just teasing back. Obviously it was a slow process but we eventually got along really well. So I'm using these past experiences for my analysis.

Back onto the topic at hand, BakuBitchMan.

Let's be honest here, Bakugou has been blessed with an amazingly powerful quirk, one with countless of uses and one that opens nearly all the roads to any path in his life. (I mean just look at M****a)

His quirk is in a way like Todorokis where it's a hybrid between both parents, as taken from this fandomwiki page on the gremlin himself

"...allows him to secrete nitroglycerin-like sweat from his palms and detonate it at will to create explosions. The more Katsuki sweats, the stronger his explosions become."

Here are his parents Quirks:

Mitsuki: Glycerin

"Mitsuki can secrete Glycerin from her skin. Because of its moisturizing effect, she has great skin quality, which she maintains despite her age"

Masaru: Oxidising Sweat

"His palms can secrete acidic sweat with combustive and explosive properties. If he rubs his hands together he can create explosions, but unlike his son, he cannot forcibly secrete it, and it comes out like normal sweat"

His powerful quirk paired with his ideology of what it takes to be a hero can completely explain why and how he is the way he is. Katuski sees heroes like we would see an honorable knight/warrior. Always fighting at their maximum to protect and serve the people, only ever falling when they are defeated. Honorable, powerful, and fighting villains with a sort of bridled passion. Katsuki hones in on All Lights strength and prowess in battle where as Izuku focuses in on the character of All Might.

To put it simply, Bakugou sees Heroes as Warriors and Midoriya sees them as The Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman

So whenever Midoriya would ramble about being helpful and outspoken about kindess it peeves Bakugou because he sees heroes as something Prideful, and being helped isn't very good for that knight image. So he rejects any form of that behavior and in turn treats Izuku like a pawn to bully. To me a childish tactic to something they don't like.

As for him continuing to treat him like shit later on in highschool both pre and post One for All. I feel like it's just one of those "I've been doing it for so long now, I have no idea how to change it" kind of things. Mainly because he doesn't treat anyone else with as much severity as he does Midoriya (albeit name calling but I'd consider that banter like me calling my friends bitches)

As for him not caring for Izuku but still telling him not to come find him I just don't see it that way.

Bakugou has a lot of respect for Izuku and there's a friendly bond between the two of you dig deep enough.

For example:

Let's take this whole scene into account. He knew he was being targeted and pretty much thought "Ah finally a time to show how much of a good fuckin hero I'll be, I'll fite every single one of these villains like they're everyday thugs"

Until he really saw the gravity of the situation at hand. Seeing Deku completely destroyed and having to be carried by Shoji because he can't even move because of a fight made him take Midoriya as serious as a heart attack. To me if he really hated Izuku he would've just been like "nah fuck yo bones, fuck yo orders, fuck yo chicken strips, I'mma fite anyway"

Like he knows Izuku is smart and can acess situations and find the most logical and successful approach, he in a way respects that part about him.

As for him telling Izuku not to come when he was being taken hostage I feel like that was so laced with love and concern for Midoriya bc he knows for a fact Izuku will try to save his ass no matter the cost bc that's just how Izuku sees heroism

He didn't want Midoriya to get even more hurt than he already was bc he is still figuring out just how powerful he is with One for All.

Then this brings us to the infamous scene.

After not only being saved, but actually seeing All Might, his childhood hero and whole reason for even training to be a hero, brutally get weaker and weaker to the point of near death, effectively ending his hero career, his world was shattering.

He was already conflicted about Midoriya all of a sudden having a quirk and climbing the ranks nearly instantly whereas he felt like he earned his place with his quirk and his sheer skill. But now his idol is falling, all because he got held hostage but some everyday looking villains. (To him)

Not to mention Katsuki only ever shows these raw unfiltered emotions around Izuku, so I reeeeaaaally don't see him downright hating Izuku. Because why would you spill personal tea with someone you hate?

I coin this type of personality a Pit Bull

They're tough, they're loud, they're mean, but they have a softer side only few people get to see. They seem brash and rude but their intentions have a deeper hidden meaning.

For example my father is a prime example of that, he'll bitch and coddle me about things in a way that sounds aggressive and kinda hard to listen to but he means well.

To me Katsuki is competitive through and through, and had no one to put him in his place. Now Midoriya has a quirk that can challenge his and he wants to see who is really better. He sees Midoriya not as a threat but as an opponent for the #1 hero slot and he wants him to be at the top of his game so it's obvious who will turn out on top.

I honestly can't wait to see where his character development will go later on with Izuku's. It's such an interestingly complex relationship and I love rambling about my head Bitchmanboomfist

#valvent #ask val #sorry if this seems unorganized #i was bouncing ideas off of the ask and just expanding on them

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dramaqueeenamby · 6 years ago

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4AM: Please

A/N: This.....turned into a whole damn oneshot that I really hope you guys like. 😭😭😭😭I am tired, so I will proofread tomorrow. 😭😭

Words: 3.6K

Warnings: Angry T’Chanos and Inebriated Horny Bashira

Please

“Are you sure we shouldn’t have waited for T’Challa?”

Ode rolled her eyes as the two made their way through the boisterous crowd of intoxicated and dancing wave of individuals, her friend staying close behind, nearly holding onto the back of her denim shorts.

“Yes, mom.” She rolled her eyes and giggled when she saw Bashira glare at her. “It will be fine. We’re here to have a good time.”

Bashira wasn’t even attempting to hide her nerves. “You know that this isn’t my scene.”

“But it is when your big, bad fiance is here?”

“You did not just say that.”

Ode frowned. “You’re right. Bast, I have to stop accepting all of these missions in America.”

Bashira laughed as they reached the VIP section, courtesy of her being royalty, and also pulled up her top. “I swear, my breast are going to pop out of this thing at any moment.”

Ode raised a brow. “Let us not blame the top.”

She faltered with her response. “I…...do not like you.”

“Yes, well they sure seem to like you.” Ode snickered as Bashira looked over to see a group of men ogling her like it wasn’t a universal fact that she was literally engaged to the crowned Prince of Wakanda.

“The feeling is not mutual,” she rolled her eyes as Ode reached her a glass of what was probably an alcoholic beverage. “You know I don’t drink.” Ode pouted. “Ode, no.”

“It will help loosen you up.”

“You got me to go to a club, Ode. I cannot get any more “loose” than that.” She commented dryly as her friend gave up and shrugged.

“More for me.” Bashira watched the woman gulp down her drink and the one originally intended for Bashira. Before she knew it, she’d snatched the glass from Ode. “Hey!”

“Good Bast, woman, you have a problem.” Bashira shook her head and started to place the drink down somewhere but paused. She was a bit tense. One drink couldn’t be too bad….right?

------

“Who is that?” Sadiki asked his good friend as he brought his bottle of alcohol up to his lips.

Erik looked away from the ebony beauty he was trying to convince to come home with him in order to find out who his fellow War Dog was referring to. When he did, he smirked. “You know Bashira.”

Sadiki’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “No.”

Erik chuckled. “Yup.”

Sadiki raked his eyes over the princess frame as she danced with her friend. “You mean, Behati finally loosened the reins.”

“Something like that,” Erik shrugged. He truly was in no mood to go into the whole, she’d been chosen by Bast explanation. “Yo. Where you going?” He asked as he noticed Sadiki had discarded his glass and was moving to walk away.

“The princess came out to play,” Sadiki smirked. “Let’s play.”

Erik shook his head. He’d sent the video of Bashira to T’Challa just to fuck with him, but he was pretty confident that his cousin was on his way, if not already there. “Man, leave her alone. She’s T-” When the prince saw that Sadiki was long gone, he decided to go after the man but decided against it. Sadiki would have to handle the repercussions on his own.

“Princess?”

Bashira turned around with a smile that faltered slightly as she saw the man who she’d noticed was hanging out with Erik the whole night.

She hated to judge, but nine times out of ten, Erik’s friends weren’t the kind you wanted to have very much interaction with.

“Hello,” she mustered a small greeting. “Can I help you?”

Sadiki licked his lips. “I just thought I’d tell you how beautiful you looked tonight.”

It didn’t escape Bashira how his eyes were glued to her chest as he delivered his “compliment.”

“Yes, well, thank you.” She went to push her hair from her eyes, praying that he noticed the large engagement ring on her finger. However, she would have guessed that he already knew of her engagement to T’Challa and simply didn’t care. “I should get go-”

“A dance?” He moved in front of her, placing both hands on the counter of the bar. “Just one, your highness?”

Her smile finally dropped. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His smile also fell. “Why?”

Bashira found herself growing irritated. “You know that I’m engaged, right?”

Sadiki’s face changed at that announcement….and not for the better. “Dressed like that?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You look like a whore, princess.” Consumed by the small amount of alcohol that invaded her senses, she lifted her hand and smacked him across the face.

“Don’t you ever speak to me again,” she hissed, pushing on his chest and weaving her way through the crowd to get as far away from him as possible. Deciding to go to the restroom to check her makeup, Bashira was in the dark hallway that led to the restrooms when she was roughly grabbed from behind.

“Hey!” She shouted as she was shoved against the wall, her arms pinned above her head. “What-”

“You entitled little bitch,” Sadiki sneered as he stared down at her, his eyes gleaming with both lust and anger. “Who do you think you are?”

“Get the fuck off of me!” She grunted, trying to pull her hands free, only causing him to squeeze harder. “He’ll have you arrested for this!”

“You think I give a damn about your father?” Sadiki smiled sinisterly, bringing one hand to roughly grabbing her chin, applying unnecessary pressure as his other hand continued to hold both of her hands above her head. “You’ve certainly grown in terms of boldness,” his eyes fell to her heaving chest. “And other areas as well.”

“Please! Get off of me!” She again struggled, her eyes starting to water from how tightly he was squeezing her wrists. It was almost as though she could feel the bruising starting to form. “You’re hurting me!”

Sadiki said nothing, simply lowering his head to kiss her when she decided to use another method to get away. Collecting her saliva, she spat in his face, smartly using the second he used to pull away and wipe at his eyes to run away.

Not even looking back, she hurriedly made her way back over to the VIP section where Ode was talking to some guy, her eyes quickly falling over to her friend. “Hey, I was just about to come looking for you.” She studied Bashira’s flushed face. “Are you alright?” She pushed the guy over to the side to walk over to the princess. “You look-”

“I’m fine,” Bashira forced out, ignoring the unpleasant memories that were starting to return of Thom pinning her to her wall when she was a teenager. “I just-I need another drink.” She called over a server and took two glasses, dowing the shots in a matter of seconds.

“Are you sure?” Ode eyed her skeptically. Bashira didn’t even drink like that, if at all, yet she was taking shots like she was a pro.

She nodded, praying that her friend couldn’t see through her frazzled manner. “Let’s dance.”

------

“So what is going on with you and Bashira?” T’Challa looked at W’Kabi, his oldest and most loyal friend since they met as young boys in primary.

The prince’s face remained unchanged. “Nothing worth discussing.”

“Oh, come on now.” His other friend, Ishaq, smiled mischievously. “You spend almost all of your free time with her.”

T’Challa rolled his eyes. “Do not exaggerate.”

“Last week, you were supposed to hang out with us, but you canceled.” Obasi pointed out.

“I was busy.”

“You were with her,” W’Kabi smiled.

T’Challa was growing irritated with the conversation. “We had to go approve the wedding venue.”

The three men laughed. “Oh yes, because such a decision absolutely required your presence.”

“And what about two weeks ago? When we were scheduled to train together?”

T’Challa shrugged. “She needed a ride.”

“So call Uber.” Obasi said as if it should have been obvious, not even cringing at the ‘really?’ look that the prince sent his away.

“All I’m saying is that you sure have been doing a lot with a woman who you barely even acknowledged for a majority of your life,” W’Kabi noted. “More time than you ever spent with Nakia.”

T’Challa’s gaze darkened. “Nakia was never my fiance.”

“But you loved her, did you not?”

He shifted his shoulder at Ishaq’s question. “Yes.”

W’Kabi decided to take a chance. “Do you think that your feelings for Nakia have now shifted to her sister?”

Coincidentally, the prince’s attention was directed elsewhere as a message from his cousin came in.

“Is this your girl?” --- The captions read as T’Challa opened a video that showed a visibly Bashira dancing provocatively to YG’s “Pop It, Shake It” while adjusting the top of her skimpy top.

“Damn,” Obasi commented as she came over to see what the source of the noise was from. “Is that Bashira?”

“Wait, she’s already there?” W’Kabi questioned.

“Yes, she is,” Ishaq muttered darkly, his eyes glued to her sizable chest.

T’Challa sent the man a death glare before closing up the video and heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” W’Kabi called after his friend, all three jumping as the door slammed.

“I’m guessing the club,” Obasi said after a few minutes, earning hits on the arm from the other two. “Wait a minute….he was our ride!”

“Damn.” W’Kabi paused for a second before. “Challa’, wait up!”

“Should I call Uber?” Ishaq asked sarcastically, earning groans of complaints from the men. “I’m just saying.”

------

Bashira was standing on the balcony of the VIP section with Ode, both girls recording on Snapchat as they rapped and sang along to the Plain Jane remix. The princess had forgotten all about her encounter with the aggressive man, the alcohol doing its job both with pushing away the bad memories and allowing her to “let her hair down.”

“Rap bitches, they gotta check in with the queen,” they shouted loudly while laughing in the video. “I’m the alpha, the omega, everything in between.”

As the end of the verse, Bashira jumped as she felt arms snake around her. Fearing it was the man from earlier, she spun around and went to jab him with her elbow only to be met with a familiar smoldering gaze.

She let out a breath of relief and smiled shyly. “Hi.”

“I thought I told you to wait for me,” was the first thing he said as he took in her appearance. She truly did look magnificent, but he could literally smell the alcohol on her.

“Here we go,” Ode moaned and rolled her eyes as she set her gaze on Ishaq. “I’ll be right back.” She mumbled with a sultry smirk, strutting her thin but curvy figure over to the prince’s friend.

“We got tired of waiting,” she shrugged, turning back around to start up a new video, a small smirk playing on her face as she pushed her ass into him. “But I can make it up to you.”

Though T’Challa’s expression didn’t change, he couldn’t deny the massive amount of self-control it took to not allow her plump derriere pushing on his crotch to make him drag her to the back and show her just how much he wanted her to “make it up to him.”

She continued to twerk on him when his arms secured around her waist when the song went off and another one came on.

Bashira squealed, something that damn near pierced his ears. “This is my song!” T’Challa saw her lift her arm to get a better angle (one with him in it) as she started to rap and dance along to the tune.

“Stack my money, fast and go. Fast like my Lambo.” The prince mostly kept his poker face even as she looked over her shoulder to try to get him to react, which he did, as he lifted his arm across her chest, his large hand holding her left breast to stop the shaking and rip the view of her sizable cleavage from the viewers' eyes.

Bashira rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Too much, your highness. Too-”

“What is that?” T’Challa’s voice broke through her statement as she turned around in confusion.

“What is wha-” she stopped as he grabbed her forearm and lifted her wrist, showing her the large and dark bruise that was undeniable. “Oh….that.”

Fire filled the prince’s eyes as he looked to see that the bruise was on the other arm as well. “Who touched you?”

Her mouth faltered. “I-”

“Who fucking put their hands on you, Bashira?” He raised his voice, drawing the attention of his friends, Ode and Ishaq included.

“Wait. What?” Ode sounded, walking over to them as Bashira kept her head down, her eyes falling on the bruise. “Oh my Bast! Bashira, what happened?”

“It was-I don’t know his name, okay?” She said in a voice full of frustration. “He got upset with me because I slapped him-”

“So he fucking hurt you?” T’Challa hissed, none of his friends even bothering to say anything else as they realized there was no calming him down when he got like this.

“Wait. Why did you slap him?” Ode pressed.

“He called me a whore-”

“WHAT?”

“Bashira, either you point him out to me now, or I swear to Bast, I will have every fucking person in this club jailed tonight until I find out who.”

The princess gulped. She’d never seen T’Challa so upset. “I-I-told you. I don’t know his name. I just know he was with Eri-”

T’Challa lifted his eyes, immediately focusing in on the other side where Erik and his friend were.

That was all he needed.

“Wait, T’Challa!” Bashira called after him as he quickly sped off to make his way over to the culprit. However, when she went to leave, she looked back to see W’Kabi restraining her. “What are you-”

“It’s best you stay over here, princess.” He advised as she whipped her head in her fiance’s direction.

Erik sensed his cousin coming and slyly put distance between him and his friend, moving just in time.

“You son of a bitch!” Was the only thing Sadiki heard before being grabbed by the collar of his shirt and thrown to the ground. Screams were heard from around as the prince went to raining blows on the War Dog who had absolutely no chance to fight back.“You fucking put your hands on her?”

“Told ya!” Erik called out, wholeheartedly unphased at the vicious beatdown his cousin was giving his friend as he downed the last bit of his drink.

“T’Challa, stop!” Bashira shouted as she approached the violent assault, her eyes widened with horror as she watched him savagely beat the other man. “You’ll kill him!”

“I don’t care.” He replied darkly, a sense of fear taking over her as she watched him stomp on the man’s chest, most likely cracking a rib. Or two.

Ode slammed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Deal with him, please!”

W’Kabi decided to try and reason with his friend, trying an approach that would either work or exacerbate an already difficult situation.

“T’Challa, you are frightening her!” He warned in Xhosa, taking a sharp breath as she saw T’Challa pause mid punch, nodding toward Bashira who, thankfully, got the hint.

She walked over to him, grabbing onto his bicep, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Please.” She begged, her heart thumping as he reluctantly ripped his eyes from Sadiki to look down at her. “Let’s just go.” She reached up to place her palm against his cheek, taking note of how his eyes closed at her touch. “Please.”

T’Challa stared at her, the sincerity in her eyes despite her inebriation. He didn't want to scare her. He never wanted to scare her, but the fact that he possibly was frightening her….it was enough to get him to stop before he truly did murder the man.

Bashira watched him carefully remover her arm from his bicep as he lowered his body to mutter something to a nearly unconscious Sadiki. However, she was unable to listen as she a nauseating feeling overcame her.

Clamping her hand over her mouth, she shook her head and grabbed her stomach. “I’m gonna be sick.” She managed to force out before turning around and dashing toward the restroom.

“Bashira!” Ode went after her as Obasi shook his head and watched Ode’s retreating form.

“Call me!”

------

“I think I’m done,” Bashira mumbled as she walked out the bathroom after brushing her teeth following another bout of vomit, hopefully, her last. “Maybe.”

T’Challa stood up from his seat on the edge of her bed and walked over to her, easily reaching out to hold onto her waist as she swayed.

“I don’t suppose I can take a shower…..”

He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

She pouted and then looked up at him over her lashes. “But I can get out of these clothes.” His gaze darkened as she purposely took her time to unbutton her jeans, sliding them over her ass, hips, and thighs before stepping out of them. Bashira brought her orbs to match his as she reached behind for the ties of her corset, prompting the king to turn around to give her privacy…..even though he wanted nothing more than to watch her undress.

However, she was drunk, and he would never take advantage of her like that. Or any other woman.

T’Challa tensed when he felt her front pushed against his back, her erect nipples stabbing into him, testing his self-control.

“I need a shirt,” she spoke into his skin, reaching for the hem of his top, tugging upward. He reluctantly lifted his arms, allowing her to commandeer his, shutting his eyes as he felt her hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to turn back around.

“I’m decent,” she shrugged, his shirt stopping right above her knees, her breast pushing against the fabric. “You’re staying the night, right?” Bashira didn’t necessarily give him a chance to respond as she pushed on his chest, toward the bed, her eyes glued to his as he fell back on the mattress.

He watched her trail her fingers down his bare chest, stopping her when she went for the buckle of his pants.

“Bashira….”

She rolled her eyes. “You can’t sleep in jeans.”

He relaxed but continued to monitor her, lifting his hips to help her help him remove the item of clothing. His eyes finally shut as she laid down on him, her head resting in the crook of his neck.

They rested in silence for a good five minutes before she spoke, his fingers lightly trailing across her body.

“I don’t think I should wear that top again.” She yawned. “It was….rather revealing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You should and will wear whatever you wish to. No one has the right to put their hands on you or say hurtful things just because they do not like the word do.”

“You make a good bodyguard.” She smiled softly, tightening her arms around him. “Hopefully, the same will be said once you become a husband.” He started to say something when he saw her lift her head, her eyes glistening with something he typically didn’t see in her.

Lust.

“Bashira-”

“Shhh,” she brought her index finger to his lips and brought her mouth to the side of his head, her tongue gliding across his earlobe.

“Stop, Bashira.” He said in a pained voice, tightly fisting the blankets on the bed. Her soft lips nibbling at his ear, creating a strange but pleasurable sensation distracted him from her hands running down his chest, stopping when they reached the outline of his large manhood.

She gasped and lifted her head with a confused look. “Did it get bigger?”

“Bashira,” he released a shaky breath, grabbing her hand and pulling it far away from his growing erection. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re hard,” she giggled, chewing on her bottom lip. “I can fix that.”

He shook his head and lightly pushed her off him, moving her to the side, ignoring her small groan of disappointment.

“I should go-”

“No!” She called out and crawled to the edge of the bed as he stood. “I’m-I’m sorry. I just….” her head dropped and her eyes watered. “I wanted a distraction.”

His eyes squinted. “From what?”

He watched her fiddle her thumbs, her eyes glued to the mattress beneath her. “Tonight….it scared me.”

His stomach dropped. “I truly did not mean-”

“Not you,” she quickly objected. “When he….when he grabbed me….I felt like that teenage girl who was stuck in a room with a man in his twenties, pinned against a wall, no one there to get him off me….”

“Stop,” he closed his eyes. Thom. She was talking about Thom. The prince suddenly had a burning desire to track down wherever the fuck Sadiki was a crack every bone in his body. “I’m-I’m sorry. I should have made it there sooner.”

She wiped at her eyes and reached out her eyes. “Just stay….please?”

He stared at her hand, not even thinking twice as he accepted her invitation back into her bed, this time wrapping his arms tightly around her as she buried herself in the safe confines of his chest. No words were shared between the two. They didn’t have to be.

T’Challa didn’t dare try to fall asleep. No, he waited until he felt the soft and consistent breathing pattern that indicated she was sleep. He looked at her face, her mouth formed into a slight pout as she rested in her slumber.

The prince couldn’t resist running his fingers over the hand that was on his chest, dropping down to the bruises that, though he couldn’t see in the dimly lit room, he knew to be ever-present.

Bruises he never again wished to see on her. He never wished to see her in any sort of position that even remotely hinted at there being danger.

He waited a while before allowing himself to sleep, finally joining her in her slumber, but not before W’Kabi’s question from earlier invaded his thoughts.

“Do you think that your feelings for Nakia have now shifted to her sister?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

But he did now.

—

TAGLIST: @texasbama@profilia@90sinspiredgirl@msincognito67@janellemonaenae@onyour-right@beautifulbashfulblackqueen@skysynclair19@ilcb7@theresnomoregoodones@siriuslycollins@kumkaniudaku@inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove@theunsweetenedtruth@chi-chi97@aieyr@sarcastic-sunshines @chaneajoyyy @airis-paris14@karensraisns@cockyboysandsugarism@siriuslycollins@sisterwifeudaku@issa-melanin@babygirlofwakanda@niecey4cocaine@gibunpa@ashanti-notthesinger@idilly@wakandawinning@autumn242@chaneajoyyy@SUNFLOWER-HOE@palmsofgranate@lavitabella87@purple-apricots@missumuch1918 @simplyjaydaa @-harmonytbh@simplyyamberr@melanisticroyalty@forbeautyandlife@fentybabyy@amethyst09@ilcb7@maliadestiny@blackpantherimagines@heyauntieeee@youcantkillamutant@tadjoa@mejustme06@bugngiz@aieyr@bamakakechick@blackbypurpose@yourwonderbelle@multipersonalitygirl@chefjessypooh@hamato-rue159@blublubleu@elaindeereads@girlie94 @nubian-queen18@autumn242@romanticcandle@msblkshot710 @nubian-queen18 @romanticcandle @girl-with-the-pen@headhunchess@afraiddreamingandloving@thatbish27@almostpurelysmut @halfrican-heat@blkintrovert@xxthotii@marvelislifemarvelisbae@muhhhkrysta@dreamlloudly @k-o-jass@yoyolovesbucky@kileynoelle852@mademoiselleoya@supersizemeplz@violet-ines@silentlikethe-g-inlasagna@brianabreeze@bezzywazhere@beautifulbashfulblackqueen@halfrican-heat@marvelislifemarvelisbae @xxthotii@blkintrovert@indieee-vibeees@bluesaladexpertpsychic@queennanayaa@thegirlwithoutaname87@dreamlloudly@supersizemeplz@violet-ines@SHAELYN102@redbutterfly330@who-wants-toknow@abena-aa@bossyboyd03@phambili-myking@esther-adri@bluesaladexpertpsychic @vibranium-soul@yoyolovesbucky@nycoledon@syreanne@disneysdarlingdiva@dameshaemonique @girl-with-the-pen@klaine15689@jessyalmighty@im5ftbutmythroat66 @amore-fiore@thekinglai@ellebosemanduke@ovohanna24@takanoriwatasdeliciousstreetkidcroissant @esther-adri@chereedrop619@vibranium-soul@bossyboyd03@brianabreeze@jamesbarnesappreciationsociety @ugngiz @wakandankings@stringgeek13 @chaddaddybose @mdoll97 @derangedcupcake

#black panther imagine #black panther fanfiction #fic: 4am #t'challa #t'challa x reader #t'challa x black reader #t'challa x oc #T'Challa x Bashira #black panther

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8utternut · 7 years ago

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Scary Encounter

Alright. Beware. This shit is spooky. I almost nutted a couple times reading these entries. Disclaimer. None of this is actually mine except for the few changes in transcript i did. Enjoy

Here we go bois

During the summer of 2003, events in the northeastern United States involving a strange, human-like creature sparked brief local media interest before an apparent blackout was enacted. Little or no information was left intact, as most online and written accounts of the creature were mysteriously destroyed.

Primarily focused in rural New York state and once found in Idaho, self proclaimed witnesses told stories of their encounters with a creature of unknown origin. Emotions ranged from extremely traumatic levels of fright and discomfort, to an almost childlike sense of playfulness and curiosity. While their published versions are no longer on record, the memories remained powerful. Several of the involved parties began looking for answers that year.

In early 2006, the collaboration had accumulated nearly two dozen documents dating between the 12th century and present day, spanning 4 continents. In almost all cases, the stories were identical. I’ve been in contact with a member of this group and was able to get some excerpts from their upcoming book.

A Suicide Note: 1964

"As I prepare to take my life, I feel it necessary to assuage any guilt or pain I have introduced through this act. It is not the fault of anyone other than him. For once I awoke and felt his presence. And once I awoke and saw his form. Once again I awoke and heard his voice, and looked into his eyes. I cannot sleep without fear of what I might next awake to experience. I cannot ever wake. Goodbye."

Found in the same wooden box were two empty envelopes addressed to William and Rose, and one loose personal letter with no envelope:

"Dearest Linnie,

I have prayed for you. He spoke your name."

A Journal Entry (translated from Spanish): 1880

"I have experience the greatest terror. I have experienced the greatest terror. I have experienced the greatest terror. I see his eyes when I close mine. They are hollow. Black. They saw me and pierced me. His furry hand. I will not sleep. His voice (unintelligible text)."

A Mariner's Log: 1691

"He came to me in my sleep. From the foot of my bed I felt a sensation. He took everything. We must return to England. We shall not return here again at the request of him."

From a Witness: 2006

"Three years ago, I had just returned from a trip from Niagara Falls with my family for the 4th of July. We were all very exhausted after a long day of driving, so my husband and I put the kids right to bed and called it a night.

At about 4am, I woke up thinking my husband had gotten up to use the restroom. I used the moment to steal back the sheets, only to wake him in the process. I apologized and told him I though he got out of bed. When he turned to face me, he gasped and pulled his feet up from the end of the bed so quickly his knee almost knocked me out of the bed. He then grabbed me and said nothing.

After adjusting to the dark for a half second, I was able to see what caused the strange reaction. At the foot of the bed, sitting and facing away from us, there was what appeared to be a hairy child, or a large fuzzy bathmat of some sort. Its body position was disturbing and unnatural, as if it had been grabbed by the ass to hard or something. I could hear the soft obesity induced wheezing from the animal. For some reason, I was not instantly frightened by it, but more concerned as to its condition. At this point I was somewhat under the assumption that we were supposed to help him.

My husband was peering over his arm and knee, tucked into the fetal position, occasionally glancing at me before returning to the creature.

In a flurry of motion, the creature scrambled around the side of the bed, and then crawled quickly in a flailing sort of motion right along the bed until it was less than a foot from my husband's face. The creature was completely silent for about 30 seconds (or probably closer to 5, it just seemed like a while) just looking at my husband. The creature then placed its furry hand on his knee and ran into the hallway, leading to the kids' rooms. I screamed and ran for the lightswitch, planning to stop him before he hurt my children. When I got to the hallway, the light from the bedroom was enough to see it crouching with its menacing moustache, hunched over about 20 feet away. He turned around and looked directly at me, covered in blood. I flipped the switch on the wall and saw my daughter Clara.

The creature ran down the stairs while my husband and I rushed to help our daughter. She was very badly injured and spoke only once more in her short life. She said "he is here".

My husband drove his car into a lake that night, while rushing our daughter to the hospital. They did not survive.

Being a small town, news got around pretty quickly. The police were helpful at first, and the local newspaper took a lot of interest as well. However, the story was never published and the local television news never followed up either.

For several months, my son Justin and I stayed in a hotel near my parent's house. After we decided to return home, I began looking for answers myself. I eventually located a man in the next town over who had a similar story. We got in contact and began talking about our experiences. He knew of two other people in New York who had seen the creature we now referred to as him.

It took the four of us about two solid years of hunting on the internet and writing letters to come up with a small collection of what we believe to be accounts of him. None of them gave any details, history or follow up. One journal had an entry involving the creature in its first 3 pages, and never mentioned it again. A ship's log explained nothing of the encounter, saying only that they were told to leave by him. That was the last entry in the log.

There were, however, many instances where the creature's visit was one of a series of visits with the same person. Multiple people also mentioned being spoken to, my daughter included. This led us to wonder if he had visited any of us before our last encounter.

I set up a digital recorder near my bed and left it running all night, every night, for two weeks. I would tediously scan through the sounds of me rolling around in my bed each day when I woke up. By the end of the second week, I was quite used to the occasional sound of sleep while blurring through the recording at 8 times the normal speed. (This still took almost an hour every day)

On the first day of the third week, I thought I heard something different. What I found was a shrill voice. It was him, the Lorax. I can't listen to it long enough to even begin to transcribe it. I haven't let anyone listen to it yet. All I know is that I've heard it before, and I now believe that it spoke when it was sitting in front of my husband. I don't remember hearing anything at the time, but for some reason, the voice on the recorder immediately brings me back to that moment.

The thoughts that must have gone through my daughter's head make me very upset.

I have not seen the Lorax since he ruined my life, but I know that he has been in my room while I slept. I know and fear that one night I'll wake up to see him staring at me."

#scary #stories #lorax #the onceler #the rake #scary stories #creppy #spooky

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davidfostercomedyblog · 5 years ago

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My 2nd Trip to Paris: The Strike!

Mamidou worked the night shift at the front desk of L’Empire Hotel, and it was his job to open the doors for us when we stumbled drunkenly home from our nights of Parisian gluttony. He’d originally grown up in Senegal, but “lived many years in U.S.,” having split a decade between Brooklyn and the Bay area of California.

“I prefer California,” he said. “New York too cold.”

I just laughed, which is my default response to anyone expressing any kind of preference over New York. It’s like someone saying they didn’t like The Godfather. I know we don’t see the same world, so laughter keeps things amicable but logically distant.

One of the things we enjoyed about Mamidou, besides his joyous demeanor in response to our drunken faces at the door, was his nightly rants against French people. “They don’t wanna work,” he’d yell. “French people do not work… and they want to work even less than that! They don’t know how good they have it.” In retrospect I think Mamidou may have been as drunk as we were.

His monologues were in response to the national strikes going on, supposedly driven by the goal of longer and greater pensions upon retirement. “France is ‘the country of strikes,’” Mamidou explained. “You didn’t know that?”

We do now, as our arrival in Paris this time was not without a hitch.

“Should we take a cab?” my wife (who was a mere fiancée for the last trip) asked after we retrieved our bags at the airport.

GPS indicated the difference in time of arrival to be negligible while the price gap was huge. We’d relied heavily on the train last time in Paris and came to fall in love with it relative to the MTA, the way a woman does with her new boyfriend that treats her well after decades of neglect in an abusive marriage.

The train platform was crowded. After a few moments loud announcements came (in French only) over the speaker. The locals looked displeased and a few of them departed back up the escalator. If not for the language barrier I’d have thought I’d never left New York and we were stuck at Columbus Circle.

Apparently there was a strike affecting the train operations on a national scale. Eventually we all left the station, forced to climb broken escalators, some of us sacrificing the future of our rotator cuffs to be gentlemen, carrying old ladies’ suitcases up the non-functioning escalators. My wife and I were sweating, confused and exhausted – that barely-any-sleep-on-a-red-eye-exhausted, angry– and it looked as though this trip would not be nearly the success of the previous one. Thankfully, there are few things that cannot be cured by a nap, alcohol and good food with your best friends. Next time you feel horrible I highly recommend this 4-part prescription.

My best (wo)man from my wedding and her husband were in Paris for their anniversary. Their last two days were our first two, not coincidentally of course. Since our first trip my wife seeks any excuse to go to Paris; so if you know us and we’re even peripherally friendly, by all means let us know if you’re planning a trip. We’ll meet you there.

NIGHT 1 was dinner at Bon Georges, followed by Moulin Rouge, then cocktails at the Little Red Door, followed by another dinner and more cocktails at some wherever-the-fuck, dope Parisian late night corner spot filled with beautiful, thin people drinking, eating cheese, and smoking cigarettes.

We arrived at the restaurant too early, which is always a good excuse to grab a pre-dinner drink. Jillian and I sought espresso, still running on jet-lagged fumes, but our dates were (understandably) ready for wine. We went around the corner and spotted Bo Man Café, which looked nice enough.

The first red flag should have been when they were “out of espresso.” “Out of espresso?” Where are we? Are we absolutely sure the plane ever took off from JFK? Are we in Long Island? Fair enough. “We’ll have the $6 glass of Cotes du Rhone.”

This might sound cheap, but we’ve had many a brilliant $6 glass of wine in France already. Unfortunately this experience would bless us with a joke that would kill in a black comedy club of wine aficionados, nicknaming it: “Cotes du Wrong.” It was the worst glass of wine we’d ever had in the nation of France, also the worst Cotes du Rhone we’d ever had. It wasn’t corked. It just sucked. Do not go to Bo Man Café.

Bon Georges was excellent. The artichoke puree soup with truffles blew everyone’s mind, as did the filet mignon special and my roasted pork chop with roasted onions that reminded me of a fancy version of how the west African restaurants do fish in Harlem. Although Paris is best known for duck and red meat, my experience thus far is to never skip the soup if and when it appears on your menu, as it’s always been incredible. Do skip the frog legs, as they were a bit too oily, and I’ve had better even in Chicago. We did only one bottle of Bordeaux, followed by a couple of single glasses, as we were in a rush to go see the tits.

Moulin Rouge, unfortunately almost ruined tits for me forever, as tits lose their luster when you’re looking at 48 of them at once, from 50 feet away, all of identical (B-cup) size and attached to 24 bodies doing the Can-Can. I never thought I could be less turned on while looking at naked French girls in their physical prime. As the saying goes… too much of a good thing… Though maybe this degree of exposure is part of the reason European culture tends to be less sexually repressive than ours in the west. In any case, you could never have told me I would see so many boobs in a show and my favorite part would be the contortionist and shirtless, diesel, yoga balancing guy. You equally could never have convinced me that my least favorite part would be the champagne (in Paris). Yuk! Higher quality drinks were in order immediately afterwards.

The Little Red Door was a revisit from last trip – a lovely creative cocktail lounge that attracts the local sophistos, hipsters and tourists. It wasn’t as crowded as last summer, but the bigger difference this time was it did not mark the end of our evening. We left hungry and drunk and it was 1:30am in Paris, which in real world terms is only about 9pm. The night was young! My friend, Daniel, craved a slice of pizza because he, like us, is from New York. Instead we found another restaurant still bustling with locals smoking cigarettes, surely prepping for the five-hour work day that lay ahead for them to start around noon. Daniel ordered what I imagine to be the Parisian counterpart to pizza: French fries. I got another full meal: Burger, pommes frites and a burrata caprese, and plenty of beer. We got to bed at 4am.

DAY 2 was Angelina’s for brunch, followed by the Catacombs, then dinner at Pottoka and drinks at Le Fumoir.

Angelina’s was our 9:30 breakfast reservation, and I honestly never felt so good after five hours of sleep after a night of drinking after a two-hour sleep red eye the night before. Paris man…Situated almost directly across the street from the Louvre, Angelina’s is an iconic brunch spot (and set to open a new location in NYC, God help us). I thought I was being less of a tourist by getting the eggs benedict, but it didn’t much match the restaurant’s décor, upscale crowd, or awesome coffee. Instead I spent most of my (hungover) breakfast picking as much as possible from my wife’s plate: The greatest French toast either of us had ever tasted. On brioche bread with the perfect amount of sweetness and an ever so subtle taste of rum, it was just divine. A bit more of a Beverly Hills-type crowd than either of us would prefer, and if not for the shit bag, overcast weather I’d have thought we were back in rocky-ass Nice. Nevertheless, the service was lovely - even uncharacteristically diligent. On the way out we were advised to get the hot chocolate, which tasted good, but was more like a hot melted fudge in a coffee cup. It was insane. You could’ve cut it with a knife, and in spite of its reputation, I do not recommend to anyone baring any consideration for their A1C.

Next we crossed the street to the holiday market. We’d already had breakfast, so it was apparently time for shots of cognac and cups of mulled wine, which worked out perfectly, as it helps to be intoxicated while watching the wife shop. If I don’t get at least one son or tomboy I’ll surely be joining some kind of men’s club.

The Catacombs is a “museum,” as the French call it. What it actually is is a dungeon of a cemetery five stories under ground where six million broken up skulls and skeletons lay buried from times of an epidemic hundreds of years ago. It is… fucking… creepy. As we wound down the tight spiral staircase, floor by floor, we eventually wondered if it would ever end. The walls were covered in graffiti, which in most cases of urban environments makes the atmosphere more intimidating. In this case it actually had the opposite effect. People got dizzy as the air got colder and staircase narrower, so when I saw next to other scrawled marker on the wall: “Astoria 19thSt.,” it had a great calming effect for me. Other douche bags from New York had been here – guys I’d probably call friends – and momentarily, Catacombs seemed not so scary, humanized, ironically.

Minutes later was a completely different story. I was in a dimly lit hallway about 100 yards long with ceilings only 6-12 inches above my head, lined on either side with literal skulls and crossbones (actually bones laid mostly parallel, but “cross bones” sounds cooler). Some hallways were longer and quieter than others, and a few times I genuinely looked over my shoulder for the sole purpose of making sure a ghost wouldn’t tap me on the shoulder from behind and in the process ruin my vacation and change my life forever more. I was hung over and probably still drunk and just not ready for such an experience. I made it through. I checked it off my list and took a bunch of pictures, although not every one that I wanted to. There were bars over cages in front of pitch black spaces, and I was so shook by a few of them that I resisted taking a picture for fear of the flash revealing a demon skeleton that would lunge forward and growl as if from some horror movie and my brain would be fucked forever. It should be noted that one of my flight movies on the way over the day before was Pet Sematary.Who knows how much this may have played into my comical levels of cowardice and paranoia.

After climbing the five stories of spiral staircase back up to reality I figured I could finally catch my breath and relax. The drama was over. No one had tapped my shoulder, no demon ghosts had appeared for my eyes only. I could return to great food and fine wine, unnecessary beers and one too many espressos… right?

Wrong. Supposedly there was an international scare happening. We were told because of the strike that flights were being canceled and my (Jewish) wife had entered an all-out panic that I couldn’t help but find the irony in. “You’re afraid of being trapped for an extra day in PARIS?Things could be worse.”

Believe it or not nobody was trapped (unfortunately). Life went on, all flights were on time and it’s flowin’ like mud around here, you know what I’m sayin’?

Pottokawas a dinner recommendation from the same person who’d recommended Derriere, which was our best dinner of the entire first trip, but ironically our worst (lunch) of this trip. Pottoka is on the lesser frequented left bank of town, offering an unplanned second visit to the Eiffel Tower, and this time we got to see its lovely flashing night lights, albeit engulfed in the overcast sky.

Pottoka ended up the all-star MVP of the trip, and arguably the greatest dinner I’ve ever had in my life. Although chicken generally gets ignored on Parisian menus for the beef, pork and duck, my wife and I looked at each other at almost the same time after reading over it and said we were considering the chicken. It was a farmed breast stuffed with chestnut and beef, served with pumpkin, black garlic and ham foamy, cooked to crispy, juicy perfection of course. “What is ‘ham foamy’ you ask?” I have no idea how or what it is. All I know is the plate featured a dollop of foamthat tasted exactly like ham and went nicely with each bite of chicken, and it was definitely the best chicken I’ve ever tasted. Not to be ignored were the other plates: A beef cheek with bacon, shallots, anchovies and macaroni gratin, preceded by a farmed foie gras with cocoa nibs, pickled mushrooms, remoulade celery and chestnuts soup poured over all of it at the table by the server. The whole experience was completely insane. And you’re insaneif you go to Paris and don’t go there. Actually you’re insane if you don’t go to Paris soon with the explicit intention of going there. Go there. We only did one carafe of red wine, but that’s because we were meeting friends for cocktails later on at a lovely spot near our hotel, Le Fumoir. One night there we had one of the loveliest servers in all our time in Paris. Another time was the complete opposite, but the drinks and atmosphere are definitely can’t miss.

Finally the night was over, and for literally the first time in the 21stcentury I slept for 11 hours. I usually sleep between 5-7 hours, the former side of which is obviously pathological and frankly, the bane of my existence. I woke up and looked at my phone and it said11:03am. I figured it must be a mistake. I figured there was a better chance of evil spirits in the Catacombs having somehow scrambled the visual cortex of my brain into reading numbers inaccurately than there was of my sleeping 11 hours. Fortunately I woke my wife up and she saw the same digits on her phone. They were the same on the TV, and in a glorious storm of prolonged jet lag, alcoholism, and the de-stressed mind of vacation, I set my adulthood record for sleep. I was elated, on cloud nine! My wife, on the other hand was immediately panicked that we’d missed the continental breakfast and actually had to move urgently to make lunch. I gently reminded her: “Fuck the continental breakfast, babe. I just slept 11 hours. Also, we stayed out late and woke up late. I mean, are you Parisian or not?As the wife now deeply covets the status of honorary Parisian, this is a card I can always pull. She calmed down and we went about…

DAY 3: Lunch at Derriere, followed by Musee D’Orsay, an Italian dinner at Norma and drinks at Lavomatic.

Derriere was the star of our previous trip – sadly, the flop of this trip. It was nice that our friends, Daniel and Yael, joined to say goodbye on their way to the airport, but the soup was cold and taste of the food mediocre. Go for the dinner!

Museum D’Orsay was situated conveniently about a 15-minute walk from our hotel. It had been closed the day before due to the national strike, and today only the ground floor was available for viewing. This meant no Van Gogh, which initially gave my wife pause: “Do we still want to go with no Van Gogh?”

“Yes, I replied. We’re on vacation and time is at a premium. We can’t afford to get off the itinerary, lest we sacrifice some amount of food or wine, which is not an option.”

She agreed, and agreed further upon realizing midway through the walk in the museum: “Ya know, I don’t think I like art… I don’t understand it.”

I love my wife. She and I possibly share less in common than I have with anyone I’ve ever met. We like almost none of the same TV shows, movies or music, and she hates sports almost as much as I do her two religions,General Hospital and Disney World. But the one thing we do share in common is an equal disinterest and ignorance around politics and paintings (not counting graffiti).

D’Orsay was okay. There were plenty of boobs and penises, but it didn’t compare to the Louvre, nor do I think it would have even with Van Gogh. When it was 16 minutes before closing time we were rather aggressively ushered out, which perpetuated the semi-sour experience and brought on thoughts of how we’d calm down and de-stress: Wine.

Norma wasn’t part of the original itinerary. We had one night to improvise dinner and wanted something close to another recommendation for drinks, Lavomatic. Norma was Italian food, but being in Paris we were sure to order the fried squid appetizer. It was the best calamari we’d ever had, and instead of marinara sauce, they served it with mayonnaise, much to my pleasure and my wife’s dismay. She kept dipping pieces in the burrata caprese tomatoes and I kept looking around to see if anyone noticed. The basil pesto gnocchi with burrata cheese was the best gnocchi either one of us had ever tasted, and the wine in spite of being not French, was excellent. The server didn’t speak a word of English and we didn’t give a shit.

Lavomatic is a functioning laundromat situated underneath a speakeasy cocktail bar in the heart of where the riots for bigger pensions and less work had taken 11 lives the night before. My otherwise wonderful bride, who is more or less ruled by the fear emotion, expressed reticence about going; though I would hear nothing of it. “The riots were yesterday. That’s like a lifetime ago. Nobody got killed today all day.”

On our way there we passed a historic monument with graffiti scrawled across it: “C’EST NOUS LES BRAVES!”(Translation: “We are the Brave!”) I’m not sure if “brave” is the adjective I’d use to describe a determination to not over-work, but whatever it is, is a quality and goal I admire. We are lost in the west.

We knew we’d reached our location when we saw a young, strapping man in a long, black coat standing conspicuously on the sidewalk in front of a door as the only person on the quiet block. We were already a bit drunk and unsure of how to proceed. Somehow I felt like Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shutso I figured best to just show my ID. He enjoyed that very much, getting a good laugh: “That’s OK, man, this is Paris, I don’t need that.” We laughed, which encouraged him further: “But thank you, I couldn’t tell. What is that, powder on your face there?” He gestured to my mostly white 5:00 shadow, mocking my pathetically wishful idea that someone might ever ask for my ID again.

“Wait right here,” he told us as my wife attempted to collect her hysterics at me.

He let us in to a small foyer of a space with one locked door and two giant washing machines. I tried pulling and pushing the door.

“No, no,” my wife said. “It’s a trap door, you know?”

“A trapdoor?!”

“No, not a trap—you know, like a trick door. We have to open the washing machine!”

Quick reminder: She’s a doctor and I have a Master’s degree in Chinese Medicine.

I turned to ask the bouncer outside how to get in but he just smiled and turned away. It was futile, like asking a Chinese acupuncturist a question about our medicine. Figure it out for yourself, is the general maxim in Chinese Medicine, which is an utterly moronic tradition in my opinion, and one that leads me to drink hard liquor in Laundromats.

The western MD figured out how to open the washing machine and we walked up two flights of stairs to a tiny bar in the attic that resembled a popular teenager’s basement hang out. The ceilings were low and the crowd was young, probably just post-college, poised to enter the grueling work force of 25-hour weeks and greater pensions. There seemed to be a lot of dates happening, legs crossed and angled towards one another on small loves seats or bar stools, and it had a distinct Williamsburg feel, logically. “Affirmative Action” from Nas’ second album in 1996, came on shortly after our arrival and it reminded me that God is always with me.

We broke from the vin to humor the mixology and sat enjoying two cocktails each. My go-to is scotch-based and I think Jillian leans towards vodka. At one point an older couple came in, thankfully then stripping us of the title, and were seated just next to us at the bar. Is this like the opposite of the kids’ table?

The first thing my wife noticed was the aromatic cloud of cigarette that followed them in. She made a face and whispered to me the way irritated wives do, then for a moment showed relief when the smell dissipated. Unfortunately, olfactory reprieve was brief, before she was re-assaulted by their even more offensive body odor.

“Well… Paris, babe.”

Jillian shook her head, and I swear to you a moment later went aghast for a third and final time. Another lean in: “Oh my God, she just farted. She just basically farted on me.”

“Oh.”

We moved our seats, finished our drinks and made our way back downstairs, probably wishing we could have thrown our outfits in the washing machines. We drunkenly enjoyed laughing at ourselves with the bouncer on our way out. It was fun. No one got killed.

Day 4: Finally the continental breakfast! Another shopping day in Little Israel, then a huge dinner plan SNAFU turns magical and we close with Hemingway.

L’Empire Hotel had a lovely front desk staff and the room itself was totally fine. We were pleased with its convenient location being almost immediately halfway between the Louvre and a lot of our chosen shops and restaurants, especially since the trains were closed due to the homicidal riots. Finally, it was beyond sweet of the staff to give us a complimentary bottle of wine for our (mini) honeymoon stay. However, in my now half decade of (arguably) over-indulging in the grape’s finest contribution I’ve never seen a screw go directly through the middle of the cork to the other end after having not been able to pry it out even half an inch using all my strength. We tried pouring some out through the hole in the middle just to sample, but it was to no avail, and surely not worth the effort. Safe to assume it would not have been to our liking.

The continental breakfast staff was not as lovely as the front desk (separated only by 20 feet) and the food actually didn’t compare to that of Villa Opera Drouot. Instead, the highlight of our morning eggs cheese and baguettes was the rather short, gentle-looking Italian man who sat alone at the table next to us in the humble dining room. He’d already taken his plate from the buffet, ordered his espresso, took out his phone and made a call. It was the angriest I’d seen anyone since we left New York. A true travesty that neither one of us could follow his Italian, but we definitely each caught a “mafankulo” and “bafangu,” respectively. He was mustering as much a whisper as was possible, but anger is anger and ours’ weren’t the only heads in the room to turn. We were both concerned for the immediate future of the person on the other end of the phone. He hung up and enjoyed his espresso and cured meats and left quickly, before we did.

When we left it was on to more shopping Christmas was three weeks away. Why not bring to our loved ones gifts from the city of love? We shared a falafel sandwich and it was the best falafel we’d ever tasted, but made a point to eat very little in preparation for our final night of great gluttony.

Before dinner was a mission of vindication. We’d never made it on our first trip to the highly recommended Hemingway Bar in the Ritz Hotel and were determined to make it this time around. We arrived at opening time, 6:00, and there was already a 40-minute wait to get in. The cozy bar was full, and the elder, English maitre’d with a warm face kindly advised us to wait on the lobby couches and he’d come get us as soon as there was space. “It could be sooner,” he added. “But I’d count on 40 minutes.”

We figured that was fine. It would give us time for one drink before dinner, which at 30 euro/drink would suffice.

40 minutes came and went, as did 50, as did we. We informed the maitre’d we had to leave, who again kindly recommended we try again after dinner and he’d skip us to the front of the line. He was so nice.

Terres du Truffes was one of our favorite experiences from our summer trip to Nice. They put truffles on everything! Black truffles, summer truffles, even white truffles, and served us what at the time as the best Margaux we’d ever had. As it turned out they had another location in Paris, so we were sure to make a reservation for our sequel. Unfortunately, as is the case with most sequels…

We got there at 7:30 and the restaurant was empty. Maybe a reservation wasn’t so imperative after all. They sat us in front of the window (as restaurants do to give the illusion to the street that there are actually people dining there) and it was chilly. The menu didn’t reflect what it had online, nor what we’d had in Nice. Where was all the duck? It was mostly egg dishes and cold fish… in December. As we sat there being ignored for five minutes we finally called the waiter over to ask if we’d been given the wrong menus.

“Is this for brunch?”

“No, no, this is the menu,” he replied in an accent noticeably thicker and more broken than that of the staff in most of the more reputable venues thus far.

He didn’t ask if we wanted anything to drink, alcoholic or otherwise, and after five more minutes of being ignored I peaked around the corner to note a table full of bread baskets surely awaiting the dinner rush. But, what about us? We like bread.

I had an impulse and we walked. No goodbye, no oi revoir or merci. We just bounced.

We were hungry, tired and cold, the trifecta of adjectives to describe Jewish; but sadly no longer anywhere near “Little Israel.”

We tried walking in at Balaganand they laughed at us like when Patrick Bateman tried getting a reservation at Dorsia. The host was courteous and recommended a market of restaurants affiliated with them just around the corner. We went around the corner and got lost. We saw no market. No restaurants, no nothing. We were growing colder, hungrier, more irritable. Our last evening seemed doomed.

“Let’s just go anywhere - I saw a spot a block back,” I muttered and my lovely bride stood by my indignant side.

A red awning and red seats – it must be good. At the least there seemed to be patrons there. They gave us a nice table upstairs and we figured it would be decent.

Le Castiglioneended up serving us one of the best fucking meals I’ve ever had. We started with a Bordeaux and soups – French Onion (“the authentic kind,” as the menu read) and a pumpkin puree with hazelnuts. We planned on sharing our entrees – the veal Milanese and filet mignon with peppercorn sauce and pomme frites – but Jillian barely allowed me an angle at her veal.

“This is just like my mom used to make,” she raved. “Do you want more?” she contrived an offer, but I was just as fine with my steak. It was perfect. A totally generic-looking restaurant and the steak was on par with any New York steakhouse. For dessert was the coffee crème brulee, and I’d go as far as to say the meal was even better than that of the original Terres du Truffes in Nice. One comes to expect magic in Paris.

Upon return to Bar Hemingway we were skipped to the front of the line as promised. I wouldn’t call it hokey, but it was definitely touristy, filled with mostly attractive young, professional Americans and Brits, yukking it up over over-priced cocktails served by the loveliest of white-coats. The room was brightly lit, as most are in Paris, and there were pictures of the psychopathic, genius, Hemingway, all over the walls; in addition to one of the Obamas at the bar perched immediately next to our seats in the corner. A row of sophistos lined the remainder of the bar seating, and next to us sat three young blonde girls, who seemed to be having a joyous, reunion at the maximum decibel of volume that was still respectful and appropriate, which is no unimpressive feat. Proximal to them was a double date of two gay men along with a straight couple who were no distant second in flamboyance, however still oddly coveted the attention of the trio of girls. One of the gay guys paid one of the girls a compliment on her jaw line that was no less awkward than if it had been delivered by some goofy straight college bro in the 90’s. “Thank you,” the girl laughed in response, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as when the (apparent straight) girl came over in hopes of merging their two tables. It was pathetic. It was like trying to sit with the plastics in Mean Girls, except these girls weren’t mean or plastic. They were just obviously long-time best friends, drunk and having the time of their lives, which is an impossible frequency to penetrate for a complete stranger.

Luckily she got the hint without anyone having to be rude. She made her way back to her double date and my bride and I continued our intoxicated eavesdropping. The complimentary olives and pistachios were as good as any I’ve ever had, although the $30 cocktail was no better than Lavomatics or Little Red Doors’. It was a great experience, but I’d probably only go back if there was no wait.

We woke at some ungodly hour and paid some ungodly expense for an Uber to the airport, as rates were jacked up due to the strike.

“I miss Paris already,” Jillian lamented on our dark, cold cab ride.

“I’m sorry, babe,” I consoled her, and became abundantly aware that we were presently neck deep in the most comical first world problem in the history of mankind. How sad it is, to leave Paris for New York City (for the second time in a year), and not know when you’d be returning.

Wikipedia defines “Paris Syndrome” as a culture shock experienced mostly by Japanese tourists when they visit Paris that can last anywhere from a few days to the rest of their lives. I can’t tell you how entertained we both were to read about this “syndrome.”

For my wife “Paris Syndrome” means something different – something I think more common and understandable. It’s an addiction to Paris – no cheap addiction – and a preoccupation with wanting to always be there. After our first trip she began googling flight deals at the airport gate on our way home, which is obviously what lead to this trip in the first place. After this trip I had to quickly shoot her down like a parent: “No. Please. Just… please… no more trips to Paris for a while.” It’s just not sustainable.

This brings me to my own definition of “Paris Syndrome,” which is no less in love than my wife is, but I’d like to think a bit more optimistic and enlightened.

“We live in ‘Paris,’ babe,” I man-splained to her in hopes of not flushing away all of our retirement and kids’ college funds on steak and wine. We live in New York City – pretty much the only place in the world that Parisians equally admire and crave to see and be a part of. We don’t have to travel halfway across the world to eat incredible food late at night, drink fine wine and be immersed in rich metropolitan culture. We have it right precisely where we both were born! Sure, the food might not be of quite the same caliber and the wine isn’t as affordable, but it’s more affordable than hotels and airfare – that’s for sure.

My “Paris Syndrome” is another kind of beast. It’s a degree of celebratory alcoholism, socializing and gluttony, which is also a seamless transition when you get home two weeks before the holidays. Last time we returned I spent 3-5 weeks of basically pretending we never left. Sure, I went back to work and resumed the responsibilities of a real adult in a world that doesn’t as much value well being, but I went out with friends more often, stayed out later, consumed a bit more, and relished in the incredible privilege of having been born and raised, for all intents and purposes, in Paris. This time has been more of the same. Paris reminds me to celebrate more and stress less. It reminds me to occasionally look at my home through the lens of a tourist, thereby reinvigorating my excitement for home and mitigating the effects of the daily grind. That is what “Paris Syndrome” means to me.

#paris

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srydcr · 8 years ago

Text

to breathe deep and feel reality

jaal x sara ryder hurt & comfort - ao3 link

Sometimes, Sara was sure that space was alive. Empty- a husk, even- but breathing nonetheless, in a sort of shallow way. It had a rhythm, though perhaps it was simply a single note, held down, measuring beats by the distant pulsing of stars she would never see; it was as much a comfort as it was a tragedy, she thought. Bittersweet. She tried to count the notes, finger tapping in time to a star that glowed a peculiar shade of blue- one, two, three, rest. He’d almost been shot. Sleep evaded her, as always. Lexi tried to help- insistent on administering melatonin supplements, magnesium pills, and even going so far as to demand Sara change her diet- but nothing ever seemed to work, and the Pathfinder would, most nights, remain awake for hours after the Tempest’s lights had been dimmed. To her knowledge, the only other person aboard who slept as little as she did was Kallo. She didn’t mind all that much, if she were to be honest. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams were rarely pleasant; all they accomplished nowadays was reminding her that the throne she sat upon was made of her own father’s bones, and that the title others worshipped didn’t belong to her, not truly. Sara was there for no other reason than to fill his shell. To be something at least reminiscent of Alec. She took after him in more ways than she would’ve cared to admit. God, she missed Scott; they were- and had always been- a single commodity, and separation rarely did either of them any good; there was a balance between them, a sort of scale that remained steady due solely to each other’s influence. Scott was a good, solid mix of soldier and diplomat, and acted as a balancing weight, so to speak, to her hot-blooded nature. She was logical, though, and creative- two things her brother had never been- and helped him consider situations in a different light to how he may have alone. In turn, he acted as 90% of her impulse control. There were nights when she would write him, despite the knowledge he could neither read nor reply; it still felt as though she was keeping him updated, though, and the idea brought her some comfort. He’d want to know what was happening. “Sara,” piped SAM, jolting her out of her reverie. “It is 4AM. Morning alarms are set for two hours.” She sighed, and moved back from the window to take a heavy seat upon her bed, hands running through her hair- the colour was beginning to fade, and Sara wondered if Vetra would be able to dig up some dye. Needed a trim, too. “Thanks, bud,” she said, after a moment. SAM himself had become something of a brother to her, if an odd, clinical one. She already had one of those. “Think I’m gonna get some food. Anyone else awake?” He was quiet for a moment, then replied, “No-one but Kallo Jath and Jaal Ama Darav, Sara.” “Right. Tell me if anyone comes, please.” With that, she made her silent way to the small kitchen just outside her personal quarters, doing her best to remain quiet. A few of her crew slept light, she knew, and Doctor T’Perro and Cora were the worst of them; both of whom would flip if they found her in the kitchen, two hours before wake-up. It was hard to pour cereal quietly, though, and each time one pinged against her bowl she nearly hemorrhaged. It was a weird thought- the human Pathfinder, sneaking into the kitchen in the dead of night to steal Blast-Ohs. It succeeded, however, in reminding her that she was absolutely 100% not cut out for this. Her dad had to have known that, had to have recognised that no, his anxious mess of a daughter was not an ideal leader; hell, her brother wasn’t perfect, but at least he had some leadership experience. Sara was a recon specialist; she knew quiet, she could do quiet, but when it came to loud, apparent, purposeful, she was lost. Scott had always been the loud one, and she his logical voice of reason. He should be here, damn it. Sara’s back hit the wall and slid, until she was curled over herself, head buried in her hands. Scott should’ve been there. Her dad should’ve been alive; he should’ve kept his fucking helmet on and flown back up onto the Hyperion to lead them, like he was meant to. In losing him, the Initiative had lost a figurehead and icon, a dreamer who forged the very foundation of their journey. And she’d lost her other parent. Sara felt like she’d never truly gotten to know her father. She just hoped she was making him proud. “Sara,” said SAM, in their private channel. “Mr. Ama Darav is coming down the hall, towards your location. I have alerted him of your presence.” Sara sighed. She and Jaal were close, but they hadn’t spoken at any great length since the incident with Akksul. It had shaken her terribly, to see yet another person she cared deeply about in danger- the bullet had been so close, and had Akksul not missed, Jaal would be dead. The thought hurt. It had been more harrowing for him, of that she was sure, and the only consolation she was familiar with was space, so that is what she gave him. A deeper part of her, however, knew that she had not been avoiding him for that reason alone- it frightened Sara, how scared she had been. She supposed she was trying to sort out what was going on in her head. Their conversations since had been amiable, yet brief. The metal against her back had begun to seep its chill through her clothes. Everything felt cold, these days; her hands, her bed, her quarters, her demeanor. Perhaps he rubbed off on you more than you thought, came a small yet decidedly spiteful voice. Plenty of those. Her mom used to help, and for a long time they were dormant; Sara’s ‘little demons’, she had called them in that motherly tone of hers. They had come back when she died though, and despite her love for Scott, his consolations were never quite the same, and without even him, her mind had run rampant. SAM and Lexi tried their best, nevertheless, and she loved them for it; Lexi in particular, despite Sara’s complaints, had very much become a stabilising crutch. SAM too, though sometimes he reminded her a little too much of her brother, and that stung. Moments later, a familiar purple head poked its way into the kitchen, scrutinizing eyes running up and down her frame before he entered. Jaal was large, but from her vantage point on the floor, he loomed- all shoulders and arms and narrowed eyes, lips twisted into a frown that looked more concern than anger. “You should be sleeping.” “Yeah.” “But you are not.” Sara gathered her arms around herself a little tighter. “Yeah.” At that, he surveyed her a little harder, mouth pressing into a line and head cocking to the side, eyes darting, likely trying to decipher her body language. He did that a lot, the surveying thing. Initially, it had made her uncomfortable, but she understood, now- he was just trying to figure her out, to decipher why the Pathfinder could possibly be curled up on the kitchen floor beside an abandoned bowl of cereal. A moment passed in silence, and then another, and one more after that until Jaal- instead of leaving- sat down opposite her, mimicking her posture and never once breaking eye contact. “Do all humans sleep as little as you, Ryder?” Sara laughed; a small, bitten sound. “No, not generally. We’re supposed to get eight hours, I think? A night, that is. Some of us have more trouble sleeping. There’s these supplements you can take that help the process, though. Lexi’s got me on them at the moment.” “They do not seem to be working,” he said, giving her a scrutinizing look. Sara reddened. “That was not intended as criticism; I cannot sleep, either.” “I noticed,” replied Sara, giving him a smile. “So, what’s keepin’ you up?” Jaal frowned, as if it were a dumb question. “Thoughts?” The two exchanged a moment of eye contact. They were unsure of what to say- if there was, in fact, anything to be said to that, thought Sara, running a hand through her hair. “Thoughts, hey? Yeah, that’ll get you every time.” At that, he smiled. She liked that smile, even if she didn’t see it all too often; it was gentle- friendly- and soft. Inviting. Sara had been intimidated by him beyond belief, upon meeting him; this towering, broad fellow with spooky eyes, regarding her with distrust, surrounded by others who likely fancied her alien head on a pike. It remained a disquieting thought. Jaal was sweet, though, and she had taken to him quickly. He felt familiar, though for what reason, she had no idea. And when Akksul’s bullet had grazed his head, Sara had felt the devil tear at her stomach. A companionable silence stretched. Both parties were deep in thought, and she noticed his hand twitching a little; it did that sometimes, when he was thinking. Distantly, Sara wondered when she’d picked that up. Her thoughts, however, were drowned out by others, more intrusive and immediate, most of which were of her brother and father. The hole the loss of her mother had left in her was slowly expanding, first with Alec’s untimely death, and then with Scott’s… condition. He wasn’t dead, but God knew sometimes it felt that way. She promised herself she wouldn’t mourn him- he wasn’t dead. Yet sometimes she caught herself thinking of him in past tense. “Do you have family, Jaal?” The question seemed to take him off guard. His brow shot up, and he shifted; momentarily uncomfortable, it seemed, or perhaps just taken aback. “Family? It is part of our culture. We have large families, and we share parents with the community; we all have many mothers. I have a true mother, Sahuna, and many, many siblings. We are… close. We always have been.” That stung a little, but Sara smiled, regardless. She was glad. “And yourself?” asked Jaal, regarding her with curiosity. “I have not heard you talk of your family. Are you close?” “Ah- yeah. We were.” There was a moment- drawn by the peculiar silence that had fallen between them, as if a lack of speech could be a question- in which that was the only explanation she offered. It never got easier, talking about her mom; no amount of therapy or comfort could ward away the odd emptiness inside her the name ‘Ellen Ryder’ wrought, and once the death of her father had finally set in, the feeling had become a chasm. And the name ‘Alec’ was said a lot more. “My mom died a while ago. She was- uh- sick,” began Sara, slowly- cautiously. Jaal was watching her with a tilted head. “And my dad, I… lost recently. My brother’s alive, but there was a technical difficulty when they were waking him up from cryo, so he- uh- only got half-revived. He’s in a coma, but they tell me he’ll be okay.” Jaal frowned, but this time, his eyes were sad. “I’m sorry, Sara.” She smiled at him, but remained silent. She didn’t know what to say. “Tell me about him,” he said, watching her carefully, conscious of a line he did not wish to overstep. “Your brother, I mean. If you would like to.” A small breath escaped her, followed by an utterance of ‘oh’, before she brought up her omni-tool to find a picture in her archives. It was old, but the most recent one she had; they hadn’t taken many pictures, after their mom had died- if felt as if the family was incomplete. It remained her favourite, though, because it was the last one that existed of all of them before her brother dyed his hair green. Sara had hated it, so he’d kept doing it. “That one,” she said, pointing to her brother and shuffling closer to Jaal, so he could see, “is Scott. He’s a dumbass. I love him.” He made a soft, interested noise, and grasped her forearm to gain a better look, sketching Scott’s face with his eyes like he did hers. It made her smile. “He looks like you,” said Jaal, sparing her a smile before returning to look at the picture. His hand brushed the display, from her brother’s face to hers. Sara laughed. “Yeah, he’s my twin.” “And you are close?” “Yeah. We always have been,” she said, fondly. “I miss him. He and I were- I mean, we’re a double package, y’know? A two for one deal, kinda. I think you’d like him; he’s big into guns. And talking.” Jaal chuckled, leaning back to rest against the wall. His thigh brushed her hip; they were closer than she thought. “Is that so?” “I mean, we’re similar in a lot of ways, too. But yeah, he’s a motor-mouth; God forbid he get started on weapon maintenance,” she trailed off with a sigh, smirking. “He used to do it to annoy me. Eventually, it just became habit- comforting for him, and white noise for me. I- uh- miss him. A lot.” “I would like to meet him,” he said, after a small silence. “You speak of him fondly. And those are your parents?” “Oh. Yeah.” Her mom and dad hadn’t looked like that for a long time. In death, Ellen had been frail, drawn. Pallid. And her father hadn’t smiled like that in years, not for anyone. He was a good man, she knew, and a good father, in his own way; it was because of him and Scott and her actually had a chance out here. Well- that she did. Alec had taught her how to shoot, how to assemble a turret, how to hold a biotic barrier in place. Sara had never taken to tech quite like she had combat, though; she was too impatient, her father told her, and ‘thought too broadly’. Whatever the hell that meant. “You and your brother- you look like your father. He… was the previous Pathfinder, was he not? I have heard Cora talk of him.” Her finger brushed the display, over his face. A pit had formed in her stomach, as it always did at the mention of her dad. “He was. The title was meant to be handed down to Cora, in the event of his death. Don’t know why he gave it to me,” Sara paused, and smiled. It was bitter. “Guess I can’t ask him now, though. What’s done is done, though I don’t think I’ll ever really understand.” Jaal cocked his head to the side, and twisted to face her. She felt small under his gaze. “You give yourself too little credit, Sara. I have never thought you out of place; you fit the position as if it were your own skin.” “That’s- kind of you.” He smiled. “You are kind to me.” Sara bumped his shoulder with her own, unsure of how to respond. She could feel a flush coming to her cheeks, though. “You’re my friend. I feel like that’s reason enough not to airlock you, no?” “One would hope, Pathfinder.” “Man, it never gets any less weird, hearing that,” she muttered, leaning back beside him. The clock on her omnitool read 4:40AM. “I feel like it’s still my dad’s title, y’know? Kind of like I’m borrowing it, or something. Everything’s yet to sink in, I guess. Big storm comin’.” Jaal made a noise that sounded somewhat like agreement deep in his chest, and Sara leaned her head into his shoulder absentmindedly; she felt terrible for avoiding him, and even worse for failing to check in- he was her squadmate, and her friend. Sara had to know he was okay. To her knowledge, there remained a rift between himself and her milky way crew, though it was smaller than before. Liam had done his best to make the angaran feel at home, she knew, and he and Cora seemed to be amiable, if not friends. “You really scared me, you know.” He shifted a little at that, twisting in order to look down at her, brow furrowing. Jaal said nothing, though, and instead waited for Sara to elaborate- he looked confused. “The whole thing with Akksul. I- you could’ve died, Jaal. If his aim had been better, if-” The angara heaved out a sigh, which turned into a breathy chuckle as he wrapped an arm around her in an almost-hug. Sara trailed off, instead pressing a palm to her forehead and leaning against him, taking a breath that nearly shuddered, but not quite. The warmth emanating from Jaal’s skin was almost enough to counteract the aching chill had had managed to seep into her bones. She wondered, distantly, if he could feel it. “You worry too much. It’s just a scar; scars heal.” Her lips thinned. “You don’t worry enough. Scars heal, but bullets to the face don’t.” Sara’s voice wavered at that, a dangerous tell-tale sign of things she didn’t want to think about. Jaal seemed to notice, though, and cocked his head to the side, regarding her in that way he liked to. She’d felt so numb, upon seeing that bullet whiz past; her rifle had been in her hands, loaded, and ready to fire, but she’d frozen in place. That all-too familiar fear had gripped her, and rooted her in place. She couldn’t lose a friend, she had told herself; as if that is what she considered him, a friend. “I,” she began, stammering, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady- in vain. “I care about you. You- I can’t lose anyone else.” A large hand settled on her cheek, brushing aside the hair that had fallen into her face- the static on his skin made it stick up in a way that would’ve been comical, if not for the atmosphere. Sara shut her eyes and leaned her head against it- managing a stuttering inhale- and counted the beats of her own heart, which was hammering against her ribs, in her head. “I’m sorry, Sara,” he said, after a moment. His own voice was thick with emotion, and Sara noticed, distantly, that it was now gone 5AM. “You have suffered. I would never wish to cause you additional pain.” She didn’t know when they’d gotten so close, but now their faces were just inches apart, and she could see every fleck of colour in his eyes. He traced the freckles dusting her nose with the back of his hand, running it down the curve of her cheek to her lips; Jaal took a breath, and she felt it stir the hair tucked behind her ear. Sara leaned forwards until their foreheads rested against one another, and pressed a hand atop his, where it lay on her cheek. “You could never.” He seemed to take that as his cue, surging forwards to capture her lips in a very human kiss that expelled any cold that remained settled in her bones. Sara’s arms snaked up and around his neck, fingers running down the peculiar folds of his head before laying flat, trying to press the two closer together, despite the fact that any space between them had been occupied. “Detecting a spike in your vitals,” said SAM, through their private channels. No fuckin’ kidding. Jaal’s lips twisted into a smile against hers, and he pulled back to look at her, a different expression in his eyes than before. Something toeing adoration. It made her squirm and flush, averting her gaze with a muffled laugh. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that, big guy?” said Sara, turning a deeper shade of red when Jaal leaned closer once again, smiling at her. “Because you are lovely.”

It was an hour later when Liam, on a mission for some coffee, stumbled into the kitchen, to the sight of the Pathfinder and Jaal curled up together on the ground, both asleep and nestled against one another. Peebee owed him 20 credits.

#mass effect andromeda #me:a #jaal ama darav #sara ryder #jaal x ryder #jaal romance #me:a fanfiction

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