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andiandyandee · 4 years

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We Are Going to Be Friends Pt. 4

Okay I’m going to apologize in advance for this chapter It’s like the third saddest chapter in this whole story and the next one is even worse.

Tag list: @datfearlessfangirl @cas-is-a-hunter @princemesscharming @illogicalthinking

Here’s the last part if you missed it and heres the whole series on Ao3

Here’s the Story:

True to expectations, Remus arrived twenty minutes later, looking tired and slightly upset. He ordered a drink, stood at the counter until it was made, then headed over to the table. He glanced around, looking for an available seat, and perked up a bit when he saw the one between Roman and Logan was open. He dropped down in the chair, not saying anything, but fluffing Roman’s hair as he sat. Roman rolled his eyes, but looked at his brother with a questioning look, that clearly conveyed ‘you okay?’. Remus nodded, then said in a hoarse voice,

“Dr. Picani wants to try a new med. Says the current one doesn’t seem to be working right.” Roman winced sympathetically.

“Did you already pick up the new prescription or do you want to walk over to the Pharmacy?”

“I have to pick it up, but I can go by myself, I know you still have homework left.” Logan glanced over at the two, debating whether or not to say anything.

“I don’t know if it’s a great idea for you to walk over there alone, Re. You don’t look so great.” Remus went to argue, gesturing at Roman’s half-finished homework when Logan interjected.

“I can walk with you, if you’d prefer. I’ve finished my homework for the day.” That wasn’t exactly true, but he had finished most of it, and he could do the last few questions when he got home. Roman nodded encouragingly at Remus, who glanced at Logan and gave him a small smile.

“That sounds great, Logan. Thank you.” Logan just nodded, standing up with Remus. He dropped his mug off at the counter before following Remus out the door.

The walk was mostly quiet, Remus humming what sounded a lot like the villain song from The Princess and the Frog. Logan was shrinking more into his jacket with each step. Was this a bad idea? Did Remus not want him to come? He should have realized that Remus wanted to be alone, or wanted one of his actual friends to come with him. Oh god, did he already ruin his first actual attempt at friendship-

“Thanks for coming with me,” Remus mumbled. “And thanks for not asking.”

“Asking?”

“About what the meds are for. People tend to ask, and it always sits weird with me.” Remus shrugged, pulling the pharmacy door open for Logan. “I don’t mind talking about it but I hate the way people look at me when they ask.”

“Remus.” Logan placed a hand on the older boy’s arm, stopping him from walking forward. Remus looked at Logan, confused. “You don’t need to thank me for respecting your privacy, and you don’t owe anyone, including your friends, or family, for that matter, answers to questions that make you uncomfortable.” Remus paled, glancing down to his feet. “And, for the record, if anyone makes you feel like you have to tell them, or like you have to do anything you don’t want to, let me know, and I’ll kick their ass for you.” Remus laughed at that.

“Thanks, Logan. You’re a good friend.”

“Damn right, I am.” Logan grinned, pretending to not be shocked by the softness in Remus’s voice. Or the sincerity.

When they got back to Starbucks, Roman was arguing with a barista. The barista looked amused, arguing back casually while making drinks. When he saw Logan and Remus come through the door, he grinned brightly. “See! I TOLD you I have a twin brother!” The barista looked up, then groaned.

“Okay, fine. So you haven’t had three drinks in an hour. You’ve still had TWO, which is more sugar and caffeine than and one person should have.” Roman pouted at that.

“Ugh, fine. Are you ready to go? I think we’re going to head home and chill for a bit.” Roman asked, looking at his brother and Logan. “Oh, uh... I guess I didn’t actually ask if you wanted to come, Lo. Do you want to-” Logan bristled at the way Roman hesitated before asking.

“No, thank you, Roman. I think I’m going to head over to the mall.” Remus glanced between his brother and Logan, obviously trying to figure out where the sudden tension had come from.

“Oh, are you sure? We have plenty of room-” Logan shook his head, grabbing his bag from where he had left it when he went with Remus and waved casually as he left the building. Clenching his fists and rolling his shoulders, trying to push down the wave of disappointment at Roman’s hesitation. It made sense that Roman wouldn’t want Logan around, but it still hurt a bit to have his suspicions confirmed. He wondered if Roman had only sat with him out of pity. Poor Logan, he doesn’t have any friends, we should try to include him like some weird, ugly duckling adoption program. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the oppressive wave of apathy that was settling on his shoulders like a protective blanket. Better to feel nothing than to be drowned in disappointment, right? He walked into the mall, nodding at his brother as he passed the food court kiosk that he was working in, and wandered towards the hot topic. He wasn’t thrilled about buying anything from such a corporately owned establishment, but he figured if nothing else, they would be playing halfway decent music. He wandered around for a few minutes, finding a Nasa tank-top he actually liked on sale, and setting it up on the counter. The cashier, a teenager probably L’s age, smiled at him.

“Is this everything for you?” Logan didn’t answer, just nodded disinterestedly. Her smile faltered at his dismissiveness, so she rang him up and told him his total- $9.10- and handed him his bag. He nodded at her, wanding back through the mall, quickly letting his brother know he was just going to head back to their parent’s house. Not home, never home, just “Mom and Dad’s place”. His brother nodded, telling him to be careful, and Logan left the mall quickly.

With his headphones on, and his eyes trained on the ground, he didn’t notice that the crowd of preps that seemed to be everywhere he was (Perks of a small town, he supposed. It was hard to miss a crowd of twenty teenagers.) were all sitting in a yard to his left. He also didn’t notice the way several of them called him over, or the way they looked both confused and mildly offended when he walked right past them without even acknowledging their existence. He turned the corner at the end of the block, cutting through his parent’s yard and onto the porch. He hadn’t even made it through the door before he could smell marijuana and alcohol. He groaned, knowing that while his father would almost certainly be calmer now that he was high, his mother would be drunk, which meant she would be far more aggressive than typical. He opened the door and started coughing at the smoke. His father raised his head, vaguely acknowledging his son. Logan looked around, trying to figure out where his mother was, only to figure it out when what was at one point a beer bottle shattered against the wall directly behind him. He jumped forward, turning towards his mother, astonished.

“What the hel-” He started, but cut himself off. His mother was standing, swaying a bit on her feet.

“Where’s your brother?” She was slurring her words.

“He’s at work, mother. He told you that before he left.” He could feel his throat tightening when she stepped towards him. His boots crunched glass as he stepped away from her, his back now against the wall. He was trying to figure out if he could make it out the door before she made her way to him when the second bottle came flying towards him. It, like the first, hit the wall, but the glass shards flew into his face and neck, most of them harmlessly hitting him and falling to the ground, but a few scraped him, and even fewer stuck into his skin.

“Don’t talk- don’t talk back to me!” Logan swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am.” She nodded before coming forward to stand in front of him. Her eyes narrowed, and before Logan could apologize again she slapped the side of his face that didn’t have glass in it. Logan, who was admittedly not expecting that, fell at the impact, his hand that reached out to catch him sinking into the glass. “Fuck!” He groaned, the combination of blood and beer on his skin made him feel nauseous. Or, perhaps, it was the pain. His mother had already left, going back to her previous seat in the kitchen, and Logan was left on the floor, bleeding and trying to keep himself from crying.

#logince #punk au #logan sanders #roman sanders #sympathetic remus #remus sanders #logan sanders needs a hug #I'm so sorry #thomas sanders #Logan is a punk #sanders side fic #my writing #abuse mention #abuse description #ask to tag #ask to be tagged //

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quakerjoe · 4 years

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In the end, not even the Progressive Bernie Base showing up for Hillary in larger numbers than her own supporters did for Obama in 2008, could prevent the inevitable. A massively flawed candidate who failed to electrify the Democratic base and make the case to Rust Belt voters- why she is the better option than the Populist candidate spraying out anti-trade rhetoric.

Blame whatever you want. The blame rests squarely on all of us. But there is so many lessons to learn from the 2016 Primary and General Election. Populism and Progressive policy became the central topic. Healthcare is a right. The ultra-rich are KING in America, and they must be reigned in. Primary process should be more fair. Flowery platitudes aren’t enough to generate excitement for the poor to turn out, etc.

Literally ZERO of these lessons were learned. Even in the face of an ACTUAL Corona-virus pandemic, with over 30 million unemployed, more and more uninsured at the time of writing this- the Democratic party has done nearly nothing to fix the problems from 2016. Actually, in all my shock- they’ve made them worse. The Democratic party pulled every string it could. Bent over backwards to not only stop Bernie Sanders, but stifle Progressives and our policy agenda. All in an orchestration to crown their nominee just years after a 2016 lawsuit said the DNC can meddle how ever they like in their own “Democratic process”. All to push a man who did next to no campaigning in any states past South Carolina. A man who didn’t actually work for your vote, but instead- coasted on “Hope and Change” establishment nostalgia, for when times weren’t so chaotic.

So for pragmatism sake, let’s push all that aside for just one moment. We can debate all day about how “fair” Joe Biden’s path to the Democratic Nomination has been. But let’s view Biden on his own merits for his candidacy’s sake. What’s the incentive for Progressives to vote for Joe? Well- unless you’re sticking to the concept of the very first paragraph of this article, the answer is: There isn’t one.

If Hillary Clinton were a flawed candidate, Biden may just be the worst nominee in history. A long history of terrible behavior including coddling racists, racist behavior, repeated threats at slashing the safety net, warmongering for a devastating Iraq war that’s helped kill endless innocent civilians all based on a lie, the nomination of Justice Thomas and controversial treatment of Anita hill, the Obama administration’s failure to even pass a Public Option with a Super Majority government, while pushing a healthcare plan that was little more than barely a small step in the right direction.

Now- Biden stands as the presumptive Democratic Nominee, and with a sizable Progressive Bernie Base up for grabs, what has Joe Biden done to earn our vote?

Answer: Nothing. Well, at least nothing significant.

Three items come immediately to mind on what Joe Biden is doing to “reach left”.

1: Joe wants to lower the Medicare age to 60. By comparison, Hillary Clinton wanted to lower it to as low as 50.

2: Joe Biden wants to eliminate student debt for those making under $125K. By comparison, Bernie Sanders wanted to eliminate it universally.

3: Nebulously- Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders have created “working groups” on various policy issues focusing on education, criminal justice, climate change, immigration, the economy, and health care policy. As of yet, nothing has come of these “groups” on policy.

As the Primary was coming to a close, I as a Progressive- was completely open to Joe moving (not reaching) left on policy positions.

Overwhelmingly, if you ask Sanders supporters what they care about most, it’s Policy.

What will you do for the underprivileged working class people of America?

What will you do for my children and grand children facing a Climate Change future?

What will you do for your Mass Incarceration mess, ending the drug war, legalizing Marijuana, and freeing non-violent drug offenders?

What will you do for the upwards of 45K people who die each year because health care is not affordable?

The 67% of American bankruptcies being due to health care costs?

BUT. Sanders supporters also believe in principle. Consistency. History. Fighting for change. Decency. Human rights. We’re also majority young people (a group Joe Biden did not do well with). Perhaps these things could be talked out. But now there’s a bigger elephant in the room. One that establishment Democrats and Joe’s supporters are ignoring.

Joe Biden was credibly accused of rape.

Democrats spent months yelling about “Believing Women” during the Kavanaugh Confirmation hearings. Rightfully fighting for Christine Blasey Ford’s story to be heard- knowing it would be a fruitless task at the hands of a twisted Senate Republican majority. Now, establishment Democrats are making the media rounds with Biden campaign talking points with denials and every attempt to downplay Tara Reade as not a credible accuser, even as several corroborations of her story have surfaced, 1 of which was an archive video of who Tara Reade alleges is her mother discussing the issue with Larry King on CNN in 1993. Meanwhile, Joe Biden’s campaign has it’s surrogates and supporters on news networks shielding Biden. Nancy Pelosi downplays the accusations, Kirsten Gillibrand (who helped cancel Al Franken) is downplaying the accusations. Alyssa Milano, prominent #MeToo voice, who made a performative appearance at the Brett Kavanagh hearings, now wants to “change the rules” on the movement in favor of a sort of ‘Due Process’- a process that many perpetrators cancelled by #MeToo never got, in favor of protecting Joe Biden.

What this means to me is that Democrats think it’s perfectly fine to be selective on who and who doesn’t deserve to be heard and taken seriously, based on who’s on your team. As if it should be that easy to just shed your principles like Snake skin, hypocritically protecting one predator, while gunning for another that doesn’t fit with you politically.

In 2016, I was perfectly fine voting for the “lesser evil”. Now that the party has loudly stated that not only does my values, principles, and policy demands for the poor and sick of America, not matter- I should fall in line with a candidate that has helped endless innocent people die overseas with America’s imperial military reach, helped endless people die at home because they cant afford a doctor, said that he has “no empathy” for young people- the same young people that have to live and suffer under the conditions of Climate Change while he’s dead and gone, sexually assaulted and violated multiple women, said that nothing will fundamentally change for the same rich people who are now gaining BILLIONS under pandemic conditions while their workers get sicker, if they’re even employed at all.

Moderate establishment Democrats and voters tell me that Trump is the number one threat. That we need to “vote blue no matter who”. Just how “blue” is Joe biden? Just how dissimilar is Joe Biden and his supporters from Trump and his following? For all of the cries of the “angry Bernie Bros” online, I see countless accosting and abusive discourse examples from Biden supporters calling any dissenters “Russian Bots”, or “MAGA Hats”. Being told that I’m somehow a Trump voter by default, for not immediately supporting Biden. All this when all I’ve ever seen from “the Bernie Bros” is aggressively holding smear artists to facts and truth in a thick environment of misrepresentation of Bernie Sanders and his platform.

So- Why shouldn’t Progressives vote for Joe Biden?

This Democratic party doesn’t give a damn about you. Nor does it care about Progressive policy. The party and its supporters spend all this time, smearing Sanders and his base as “Not democrats”, angry “socialists who want free stuff”, “How are you gonna PAY for it?!” etc etc, all while claiming to support SOME form of our policy, and then dropping it the second it doesn’t feel politically advantageous. This party threw everything it could into stopping YOU. With tactics like voter suppression, using a silly app suspiciously funded and supported by shady actors in Iowa, taking WEEKS to give final results, running Super PACs against Bernie and our movement, fear-mongering about Bernie when he did win states, gas lighting the public on “elect-ability”, using a literal pandemic against Bernie to guilt him into dropping out while attempting to blame him for continued spread of COVID-19, while they sent voters to the polls and we didn’t.

And after zero policy concessions, zero good will, repeated demands we fall in line after more than a year of being slammed and disrespected, showing up for Hillary Clinton and then being blamed for her loss anyway, which is inevitable again if Joe loses? Are we just going to keep allowing that? Just how long do we have to hold our noses, voting for Moderate do-nothing lite Republicans who would sooner see you die, than provide you affordable and universal healthcare, because a Billionaire would stand to lose money. Even NOW, during a Pandemic this party has done next to NOTHING to secure the livelihoods of American citizens, as more and more die, get furloughed, and cant pay their bills. All while Trump and Republicans take credit for pitching more common sense plans (even though they want to send us all back to work/school to feed the machine).

This- is the “resistance” party? THIS is the best we can do? Performative rage against a fascist clown while propping up an accused rapist warmongering corporatist with cognitive decline and previous racist tendencies? THIS is what the party keeps telling us we better support or be shamed as somehow supporting the “bad guy”?

Listen, #NotMeUs- this will never stop. This party will NEVER stop using us as a prop for our ideas and passion, then throwing us under the bus when they think they no longer need us. They cannot continue to be allowed to drag us further to the right with guilt trips and shaming. They will NEVER take you seriously unto you take serious action. We’ve been preaching about “action” this whole campaign. Why should that “action” stop in the ballot box? Have some foresight for just a moment and envision how this plays out in future elections, unless you stand up and make them WORK for your vote.

I, for one will not vote for Joe Biden. But I wont shame you for your vote, no matter who it’s for. Why? Because the party did a terrible job at earning -your- vote. I’d maybe only criticize you if you don’t show up at all. There’s so many down-ballot candidate who need support. Even if you leave the President box unchecked, at least show up for the other races.

But consider: There are other options that have been stifled for way too long. Perhaps its time we give them a shot, no? Green Party is running Howie Hawkins and a platform that is much closer to our principles that Biden would ever try for. Justin Amash just jumped into the race if you’re a little more on the Libertarian side. Jesse Ventura is also discovering running on the Green ticket as well. Just imagine Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura on the debate stage with Donald Trump? Popcorn for DAYS.

In order for us to be taken seriously, we must prove that we’re capable of holding the party accountable. Not voting for them is the ultimate accountability, and you get to keep your principles intact.

Now- to the ultimate argument you’d inevitably get: “You would be helping Donald Trump secure 4 more years”.

My response? You don’t have to bare the blame for that. You wont be at fault for Joe Biden losing any more than those who chose not to vote at all. It’s on the party to earn these votes. That’s how elections work. If you hate the candidate and don’t feel good about them as a person, why is it your responsibility to put them in office? To me- one of the most personal things a person has, is their vote. Not their dollars, or their Tweets. It’s checking a box for the person YOU chose to represent you. If that person doesn’t believe in hardly anything you personally believe in- why is it that they deserve your vote, again? How is it that they’re are somehow entitled to that vote? They don’t, and they aren’t. I’m looking at you too, Republicans.

In closing…

Progressives, I’m sorry to break it to you but- Medicare For All is not on the ballot. Taxing the rich is not on the ballot. Ending corruption and crooked politicians is not on the ballot.

But- ending a terrible two-party system IS on the ballot. Taking your personal vote back, IS on the ballot. In my opinion- the only wasted vote, is the one you were demanded in giving up to what you don’t believe in.

-LZ

https://medium.com/@legacyzero/why-sanders-supporters-should-not-vote-for-joe-biden-a9146bee189b

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pettishrew · 5 years

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MIND MY WICKED WORDS AND TIPSY TOPSY SLURS; I CAN’T TAKE THIS PLACE, NO, I CAN’T TAKE THIS PLACE.

𝖖 𝖚 𝖔 𝖙 𝖊 𝖘

i don’t feel very human anymore. —7:59 pm 4/28/15; l.m.

Where did you get those big eyes? My mother. And where did you get those lips? My mother. And the loneliness? My mother. And that broken heart? My mother. And the absence, where did you get that? My father. —Inheritance, Warsan Shire

“And I’m a master of speaking silently—all my life I’ve spoken silently and I’ve lived through entire tragedies in silence.”— The Meek One, Fyodor Dostoevsky

How do you move on? You move on when your heart finally understands that there is no turning back. —J.R.R. Tolkien

“There are no permanent friends, only permanent interests”

UNTIL LIONS HAVE THEIR OWN HISTORIANS, THE STORY OF THE HUNT WILL ALWAYS GLORIFY THE HUNTER.— Chinua Achebe

“Self-hatred is only ever a seed planted from outside in. But when you do that to a child, it becomes a weed so thick, and it grows so fast, the child doesn’t know any different. It becomes as natural as gravity.”— Hannah Gadsby, Nanette

You got to take a deep breath and give up. The system is rigged against you. Bo Burnham

𝖇 𝖆 𝖘 𝖎 𝖈

NAME: Peter Thomas Pettigrew NICKNAMES: Pete, Wormtail, or Wormy AGE: Twenty BIRTHDAY: August 22nd GENDER: Male PRONOUNS: He / Him

𝖋 𝖆 𝖒 𝖎 𝖑 𝖞

MOTHER: Enid Pettigrew. 47. Alive. FATHER: Sean Morivan. 52. Status Unknown. SIBLINGS: None

𝖕 𝖍 𝖞 𝖘 𝖎 𝖈 𝖆 𝖑 𝖆𝖙𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖇𝖚𝖙𝖊𝖘

FACE CLAIM: Alex Wolff BUILD: Moderately Overweight HAIR: In need of a haircut. Curly and unkempt. HAIR COLOR: Brunette. In the summertime, it gets a golden, almost colorless hue. EYE COLOR: Brown SKIN COLOR: Light with olive undertones DOMINANT HAND: Right ANOMALIES: He has a birthmark on his left shoulder. His skin freckles in the summer. He also has faint scars on the inside of both of his forearms. He also has a small tattoo on the outside of his right thigh. Peter got it on a dare and it looks like ( x ) SCENT: He often smells like chocolate or peppermint. Mostly because those are the last things they would have eaten. ACCENT: British. More of the cockney nature than anything else. ALLERGIES: He is moderately allergic to dairy. Not enough to stop him of course, but enough to make him uncomfortable if he eats too much of it. DISORDERS: N / A FASHION: Peter wears whatever is comfortable and fits for the most part. He does tend to stick to neutral colors, like black, grey, and beige. He doesn’t like to draw attention to himself. NERVOUS TICS: He stutters when he’s nervous. He also rubs the back of his neck when he’s uncomfortable. QUIRKS: His quirks are identical to his nervous tics. One doesn’t often happen without the other.

𝖑 𝖎 𝖋 𝖊 𝖘 𝖙 𝖞 𝖑 𝖊

RESIDES: Plainview Point Apartments BORN: St. Mungo’s RAISED: A little outside of London PETS: A Tawny Owl named Eros

CAREER: Obliviator EXPERIENCE: 2+ years in the position EMPLOYER: The Ministry of Magic

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: The Order BELIEFS: Peter doesn’t believe strictly in anything. MISDEMEANORS: None FELONIES: None DRUGS: None SMOKES: Tobacco, and occasionally Marijuana ALCOHOL: Infrequently DIET: Poor

LANGUAGES: English, Welsh, and some Italian

PHOBIAS: Death or Serious Injury. HOBBIES: Reading and Baking. TRAITS: { + }: forgiving, analytical, easy-going, optimistic { - }: fearful, cunning, indecisive, meek

𝖋 𝖆 𝖛 𝖔 𝖗 𝖎 𝖙 𝖊 𝖘

LOCATION: Anywhere that is small, where Peter feels like no one can get to him. SPORTS TEAM: Ireland GAME: Wizard’s Chess. MUSIC: He doesn’t care much for music. If he does listen to it it’s softer sounding music, that’s almost wistful. MOVIES: Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope 1980. Alien is a close second. FOOD: Anything sweet. Peter’s sweet tooth is insatiable. BEVERAGE: Pumpkin Juice or soda. COLOR: Pale Yellow

𝖒 𝖆 𝖌 𝖎 𝖈

ALUMNI HOUSE: Gryffindor WAND: UNICORN: Unicorn hair generally produces the most consistent magic, and is least subject to fluctuations and blockages. Wands with unicorn cores are generally the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts. They are the most faithful of all wands, and usually remain strongly attached to their first owner, irrespective of whether he or she was an accomplished witch or wizard. Minor disadvantages of unicorn hair are that they do not make the most powerful wands (although the wand wood may compensate) and that they are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may ‘die’ and need replacing. FIR: My august grandfather, Gerbold Octavius Ollivander, always called wands of this wood ‘the survivor’s wand,’ because he had sold it to three wizards who subsequently passed through mortal peril unscathed. There is no doubt that this wood, coming as it does from the most resilient of trees, produces wands that demand staying power and strength of purpose in their true owners, and that they are poor tools in the hands of the changeable and indecisive. Fir wands are particularly suited to Transfiguration, and favor owners of focused, strong-minded and, occasionally, intimidating demeanor. 9 1/2 Inches and unyielding. AMORTENTIA: Chocolate, Peppermint, Garlic, and Old Books. PATRONUS: He cannot produce one. BOGGART: Prior to the war it had been his mother dying. He truly doesn’t know what he would do without her. However, since the war has begun his Boggart is Lord Voldemort.

𝖈 𝖍 𝖆 𝖗 𝖆 𝖈 𝖙 𝖊 𝖗

MORAL ALIGNMENT: True Neutral MBTI: INTP

INTPs are often thoroughly engaged in their own thoughts, and usually, appear to others to be offbeat and unconventional. The INTP’s mind is the most active place, and their inward orientation can mean that they neglect superficial things like home décor or appropriate clothing. They don’t tend to bother with small talk but can become downright passionate when talking about science, mathematics, computers, or the larger theoretical problems of the universe. Reality is often of only passing interest to the Architect, as they are more interested in the theory behind it all.INTPs are typically precise in their speech and communicate complex ideas with carefully chosen words. They insist on intellectual rigor in even the most casual of conversations, and will readily point out inconsistencies of thought or reasoning. Social niceties may fall by the wayside for an INTP who is more interested in analyzing logic, and they may offend others by smallmitting their dearly held values and beliefs to logical scrutiny. Trivia: - more likely than other types to study a foreign language - most frequent type among college students committing alcohol and drug policy violations - have the lowest level of coping resources of all the types - one of the types least likely to believe in a spiritual power - highest of all types in career dissatisfaction in school have lower grades than would be -- predicted by aptitude scores - more likely than average to complete engineering programs - personal values include autonomy, freedom, and independence - Overrepresented among working MBA students - Commonly found in science and technical occupations - famous intps: albert einstein, abraham lincoln, marie curie, and charles darwin

MBTI ROLE: The Architect or the Logician ENNEAGRAM: Type Five ENNEAGRAM ROLE:

The Observer: Fives are alert, insightful, and curious. They are able to concentrate and focus on developing complex ideas and skills. Independent, innovative, and inventive, they can also become preoccupied with their thoughts and imaginary constructs. They become detached, yet high-strung and intense. They typically have problems with eccentricity, nihilism, and isolation. At their Best: visionary pioneers, often ahead of their time, and able to see the world in an entirely new way.

TEMPERAMENT:

Melancholic. The melancholic temperament is fundamentally introverted and thoughtful. Melancholic people often were perceived as very (or overly) pondering and considerate, getting rather worried when they could not be on time for events. Melancholics can be highly creative in activities such as poetry and art - and can become preoccupied with the tragedy and cruelty in the world. Often they are perfectionists. They are self-reliant and independent; one negative part of being a melancholic is that they can get so involved in what they are doing they forget to think of others.

WESTERN ZODIAC:

Leo With the Sun approaching the end of Leo, August 22nd has its peak in creativity and our childish need to present our inner being and express ourselves. This is an emotional date when passions need to be calmed in order for us to swim out of them with a clear mind and a plan we can hold on to, so our dreams can be reached. Those born at this time are connected to others on a different level than the rest of Leo representatives and feel a constant need to set free from ego battles and follow their hearts.

CHINESE ZODIAC:

Year of the Rat The Metal Rat are honest, frank, and optimistic, and will not get depressed no matter how terrible the situation is. They have a quick respond and strong environmental adaptability. They treat people kindly. But most of the people born in 1960 year of the Rat are self-centered. They always think of themselves first. They are impatient, suspicious and kind of vain.

PRIMAL SIGN:

Otter: Social, funny, and outgoing, those born under the sign of the Otter use their warmth and charm as their primary tool in navigating life. Like their animal namesake, members of this sign are clever, feisty, and gregarious. They usually spend a lot of time grooming themselves for their looks are of great importance to them. They are not terribly territorial either, preferring to sleep where their adventure takes them for the night. A nice home will eventually be required, but a young Otter can travel the world for years without getting too homesick. Otters like to be in charge. This way they can not only get what they want, but receive attention and respect while doing so. They can occasionally behave somewhat self-centered and egotistical, but are usually smart enough not to push their self-proclaimed authority too far. Otters want to be the best, and they understand that being the best takes work. As long as they get to do thing their own way, there is little they won’t undertake.Members of this sign have a sense of pride that only a few other signs can top. They absolutely hate looking unintentionally foolish (though they will act the part of the fool if it gets them a good laugh) and have little tolerance for those who don’t respect this important (if unspoken) rule. They like to be seen as evolved, wise, and powerful, which they often are, but this can sometimes cause them to hesitate trying new things. Above all things, Otters don’t like to live by other people’s rules. As long as they keep life in perspective this shouldn’t be a big problem, but out of perspective Otters risk becoming greedy and narrow-minded and there is always a chance that they will take what they want if nobody is willing to offer it up to them. Members of this sign can also be a bit judgmental of others, particularly those who are less successful than they are at that point in their lives. As they mature they tend to realize that everyone operates differently, and will slowly come to accept this, especially if they have a hard road to reaching their goals.

TAROT CARD:

The Fool: The Fool, at its core, represents the unfettered soul. Free of experience and prejudice, they are also free of fear, and therefore come into new events without the trepidation often experienced by those that know what they might expect. This is both a benefit and a detriment to the Fool, their eyes are on the path ahead, or on the sky, but not at what is right in front of them. This can make the Fool easy to trick, to persuade, or to side-line. But they also do not know what others believe is ‘NOT’ possible, and this makes them capable of greatness, new ideas, and innovation. They do not know a thing cannot be done, so they merrily set about to do it anyway. Sometimes they succeed.

TV TROPES:

All the Other Reindeer, The Chessmaster, Cornered Rattlesnake, Dirty Coward, Fair Weather Friend, and Opportunistic Bastard

SONGS:

- Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons - If It Kills Me by Jason Mraz - Sinner Man by Idris Elba - Creep by Radiohead - The Devil You Know by X Ambassadors

IDEOLOGIES:

- Beer is the scum of all the alcoholic beverages. He think it tastes akin to piss and doesn’t understand why anyone would opt to drink it willingly. - Peter has never had a pet aside from the owl. And doesn’t understand the want to keep things in captivity for your own benefit. This principle extends to muggle zoos as well. - Chocolate frogs are the best candy that Honeydukes sells, this is not a matter of discussion that he is willing to hear. - Peter believes that if something is easier done through violence than diplomacy that in those instances the people should be empowered to pursue violence without diplomacy first. - Wool is a terrible fabric and he won’t wear it. It’s itchy.

#dulcetask #TASK: 001 #▲ ĸιlled мy old ѕelғ вυт тнe new мe ιѕn'т мυcн вeттer ( peter hc )#tw eye gore #// kind of #// it's a black eye

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nutbrain · 5 years

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The Usual

The next part in the kindness war with @kiruuuuu Little bit of Coffee Shop AU Bandit/Monty :)

Special thanks to @blitznbandit for all the help!!!

The door chimed as Dominic was wiping the counter, glaring at the dried syrup that was proving impossible to remove. Eyes flicking up towards the sound, he spotted blond hair and chiseled face plastered with a crooked grin that Dominic would love to smack off. Gritting his teeth as his frown deepened, Dom made his way to the register, elbowing Chelsea out of the way as she attempted to start flirting with the police officer who’d just walked in.

“Donuts again today, Officer Kotz?” Dominic asked, painfully fake grin and falsely cheerful voice painful to his own ears. Across from him, Elias Kotz tried to maintain a straight face as he took in the new aprons they’d been given; their hearts and upbeat sayings clashed heavily with Dom’s usual aesthetic. His coworkers had poked fun, but he’d refused to buy two given how horrendous this one was.

“Ahh, no. I’d better pass. Can I get a large latte, extra shot?” Dom reached for the hot cup and started writing the order across the outside. “Wait, can I get that iced instead?” Dominic’s face dropped into a flat affect as he stared and blinked. Elias at least had the decency to look sheepish as Dom reached for another cup to write the new order on, maintaining eye contact as much as possible.

“Will that be all?” Dominic asked, voice deadpan as Chelsea attempted to kill him with her gaze alone. Elias nodded quickly and moved as far away from Dom as he could, and Chelsea began apologizing on Dom’s behalf as soon as Elias moved to near the waiting area. Dominic rolled his eyes. Currently, his only job was not to get himself fired, which was shaping up to be harder than he thought. Unfortunately, there was no way Elias was about to complain. Though if he did, Dom would openly invite the opportunity not to be forced to be here anymore.

Dominic entertained himself with wiping the dust off the register while only half listening to Chelsea’s attempts at flirting and wondered if he should just fake his death and change states. His skills were transferable and it’d be less of a headache than dealing with his current coworkers. Likely sensing she wasn’t wanted, Janet materialized from the back, hoping to swoop in on Elias should Chelsea fail. Dominic smirked as the other man attempted to extricate himself from the conversation, far too nice to simply excuse himself, and he glanced over at Dom for help.

Served him right. When Dom was offered the opportunity for an undercover job, he never expected this. Take down one of the biggest drug smuggling rings in the city, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Dominic had jumped at the opportunity to get out from behind a desk. When he became a detective, he expected it to be much more exciting than sitting around and filing reports with his partner, one Elias “Blitz” Kotz, who was still stuck flirting with the baristas next to him. He enjoyed working with the man immensely, but his current situation was the highlight of his day so far, watching him act so awkwardly as the two women fawned over him. It looked like they’d now made him an extra drink for the squad car to “make up for their coworker’s sour attitude.” Dominic barely resisted the urge to flip them all off.

The door chimed, distracting Dominic from his half-hearted cleaning job to look up. Pushing through the door was a mountain of a man, dressed fashionably in dark slacks, button down shirt, and long dress coat, messenger back slung across his shoulders. His eyes scanned the coffee shop, quickly meeting Dominic’s and smiling brightly, which complementing his already handsome features. If Dom had any less self-control, he’d be a small puddle on the floor. Turns out he had a new highlight to his day. “Good morning Gilles! The usual?” Dominic asked cheerfully, smile reaching his eyes for once. That caught Elias’ attention, as he glanced over with a knowing grin. Dominic ignored him.

“If you would. I like your new apron. It looks nice on you.” Dominic laughed, holding his tongue while he rung up the black coffee with his employee discount. Gilles Toures had been coming into the shop since before Dominic had started, but they’d quickly hit it off. Dominic had been here a month, and most of what he’d learned was information about the man across from him (which Elias kept reminding his was decidedly not his job, but Dominic couldn’t care less). Dominic was intrigued with the other man, who was the sort of man to work from home at a coffee shop, claiming the soft lighting, muted browns, and soft sounds made it easier to focus. Some checking into his background (which was rendered entirely unnecessary as Gilles happily told him when he finally asked) revealed that he was a book editor at one of the more prestigious companies in the city. Gilles of course downplayed his accomplishments, incredibly humble in everything he does.

Gilles hovered around the cash register as Dominic poured his coffee. He smiled warmly and nodded to Elias before making his way to his usual seat up against the windows. Dom could feel eyes on him and looked over to find Elias still smirking at him, ignoring the conversation that was happening in front of him.

“Officer Kotz, was there something else I can help you with? Or are my tax dollars paying for you to stand there?” Two sets of eyes turned to glare at him. Elias did his best not to look relieved as he grabbed his coffees and made a quick retreat.

“Really Derrick? Just because you’ve been at odds with the law doesn’t mean the rest of us are.” Dom rolled his eyes. It’d been Monika’s idea to use prior convictions (illegal possession and selling of marijuana) as a cover story for why he was here. The leads they’d gotten pointed to the coffee shop hiring minor offenders as baristas only to have them wind up as street dealers of much more hardcore drugs months later. So far, aside from being a front for several backroom activities, no one had approached him about doing anything darker than cleaning the men’s restroom (and to be honest, Dominic would rather take the drug peddling).

At least when the people involved in shadier deals would order coffee, they always left a nice tip. Unlike Elias.

Dominic was still scrubbing the syrup off the counter hours after the sun had long gone down and Gilles finally got up to leave, staying almost until closing. Two large men pushed through the door, one in a fuzzy hooded coat and striped pants while the other wore only a striped blue and white t-shirt with jeans. Chelsea peaked out from where she was closing in the back and quickly retreated.

‘Great. The Russians.’ Timur and Maxim according to the files he’d pulled on them, though they went by different names professionally. They glanced at GIlles as they pushed past, but paid him little mind. Seeing the concerned look on Gilles’ face, Dom waved him off, wishing him a good night before turning to his new visitors.

“How can I help you?” Ice blue eyes appraised him, before settling on his apron and chuckling. Timur said something to Maxim in their mother tongue before they both laughed. Dominic maintained his smile, though the urge to strangle them both with the garment increased. Not that he’d make it that far, he may fight dirty, but Timur alone was twice his weight.

“We’ll take large coffees and whatever scones you still have.” Timur said as Maxim started to examine the décor before chiming in with, “You look like child in apron.” Dom gritted his teeth and gave him a strained smile as Maxim smirked.

Dominic rung them up, careful not to completely turn his back on them while he poured their coffees. While he was busy, they each dropped something into the tip jar, sound echoing in the otherwise quiet shop. Dom clenched his jaw, knowing those coins meant they’d each completed whatever job they’d been assigned. Somewhere in the city some poor beat cop would be filing reports on the dead bodies these two were piling up. But they were neat assassins and it was unlikely the murders would ever be connected to either of them.

Dominic gave them a tight smile as he passed off their order, breathing a sigh of relief only after he’d locked the door behind the two. He worried one of these days his name, his real name, would be added to their list. Chelsea peaked around the corner.

“I’m glad you were upfront and not me. Those two give me the creeps.” She said with a shiver. At least she had good instincts.

Gilles looked relieved to see him the next day, which was always nice.

“I’m not going to lie, I half expected to see you with an empty cash register and a black eye.” He laughed. The manager, Tom (definitely mob, usually here when they needed to clear out early for a meeting), gave him side eye. The piqued interest made Dom ansty, so he did his best to play it off.

“Nah, they were just here for coffees. They left a tip, so that’ll be nice to see on the paycheck.” He laughed, relieved as Tom turned his attention back to the clipboard he’d been staring at for the past hour. Dominic rung up one coffee, mildly disappointed that he’d be unable to give Gilles a discount with upper management lurking.

“I’m glad they tipped coming in that late. Oh, and can I get a small latte as well? Nonfat milk with that.” Dominic was taken aback and tried not to show it, changing the total. He passed the latte off with a slightly strained smile after it was done. If Gilles noticed he thankfully didn’t comment on it.

Not ten minutes later, a petite woman stepped in, dressed in a form fitting dress and a loose bun. She radiated confidence as she entered the building and Janet greeted her. She gave Janet a polite smile and scanned to room, finding Gilles who stood up to pull out her chair. Dominic stared at the two as they talked with easy familiarity. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he could feel jealousy growing in the pit of his stomach as he watched the two talk. He probably would have watched the two for their entire visit, but Janet asked that he get the bathrooms cleaned instead of staring like a creep.

Dominic hated working with Janet.

The next day when Gilles stepped in, he smiled at Dominic the same way as always. Dom had tried not to dwell on the fact that the man who made his heart rate pick up was probably dating a woman who was top of whatever industry required you be that poised. What could a detective turned barista do to compete with that? They exchanged the usual pleasantries, but Dominic couldn’t resist bringing it up.

“Did you have a nice date yesterday?” He received a confused expression in response before realization grew and the editor laughed.

“You mean Manu? That’s my publisher. We had to discuss work and she wanted to see why I spent so much time here.” Relief hit Dominic like a truck and he probably covered it up poorly; his poker game was always rubbish when he had a crush.

“Did she enjoy it here?” Gilles nodded, letting him know he’d done a good job on the latte. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom emerged from the back hallway, staring at them both before walking over.

“Derrick, why don’t you go clean some tables? I haven’t spoken with our favorite customer here in a while.” Dominic swallowed thickly, nodding and doing as he was told. Had he somehow slipped and now Tom was trying to figure out how much Gilles knew about him? Dominic ran through his past interactions, nothing notable recently outside of the Russians’ presence. He took his time busing, waiting to take a stack of plates back until they’d finished their conversation and Tom had given him a nod before he retreated into the back again.

Dominic waited a bit before feigning cleaning a new set of tables to wander over to Gilles. He figured that’d be normal employee behavior if Tom asked later.

“What all did Tom have to say?” Dom asked as he finished a few tables. Gilles blinked at his work a few times before glancing up; usually Dominic tried not to bother him if he was working.

“Oh, nothing much. Gave me a free drink card for coming here so frequently. Asked about what I was referring to with the empty cash register. Don’t worry, I explained I was just nervous about people coming in that late. You never know in New York what people are up to.” Dominic nodded at this; it was a nicer neighborhood, but not without its issues. There weren’t any other customers, so Dom kept up their easy conversation forgetting entirely that Gilles was here to work.

Gilles didn’t seem to mind.

The next time Gilles walked in and ordered an extra drink, Dominic was horrified at the order. Gilles had pulled up his phone and squinted at it, looking sheepish and apologizing before getting started. The monstrosity that slowly took shape on the side of the cup was one Dominic had hoped to never see. When he finished Dominic was left staring at the cup, contemplating the meaning of life and what kind of person enjoys this type of drink. It took him longer to finish than he would have liked given that he had to recheck the order and puzzle out what five shots half caff meant. Gilles was at a loss as well and opened his wallet to drop a ten in the jar.

“Alright Gilles, one large, five shot half caff, blended mocha with nonfat milk, extra mocha sauce, two pumps strawberry syrup, ten pumps of regular syrup and extra whip on the top of the straw.” Dominic hoped he hadn’t missed anything as he placed the drink on the counter.

“You’re a saint Dominic. Thanks, I know it was a lot of effort.” Dominic waved it off, now incredibly curious as to who was visiting Gilles, as the man took the drink to his usual spot. His answer came after about 30 minutes later (Gilles had ended up making an exasperated phone call) when a young man in tight dark pants and a red and black flannel shirt came bouncing in from the rain. He adjusted his black slouchy beanie and wiped his uggs on the carpet at he searched the establishment. Eyes finally settling on the large man by the window, Rook gave Dominic a cheerful look as he made a beeline for Gilles.

“I got lost in work! Ooh, coffee. It looks good, but it looks like the whipped cream on the straw has melted.” Gilles nodded, pointing out that the young man was late. Dominic watched as the newcomer pouted, Gilles finally getting up to take the drink bank to the counter.

“Difficult client?” Dominic asked as he put a dollop of cream on the straw.

“Diva author, Julien Nizan. Brilliant, my favorite to work with, but still a whirlwind disaster sometimes. I owe you dinner sometime for putting up with this” He laughed, thanking Dom for the help as Dom tried not to blush brightly at the joke. He watched as the Gilles set down the drink as the young man gestured wildly, energy only increasing as he consumed his nightmare fuel.

Julien reordered his drink twice while he was there.

Dominic had now won Employee of the Month three months in a row. Dominic suspected it was largely from Gilles filling out comment cards after nearly every visit, but he wasn’t about to complain if it meant upsetting Janet. The activity he’d noticed from the gang had been minimal, occasional early closing for meetings sprinkled throughout. The only reason he was still here was the increasing frequency of appearances from the Russians. Timur and Maxim were the usual late-night appearances, their visits correlating with a body found with a clean head shot or a slit throat within the next day or so. Always members of rival gangs, always clean of evidence.

Dropping off coins wasn’t enough to bring anyone in for questioning, but Dom hoped that they’d slip up with how frequently they’d been performing hits. Elias had to stop visiting as much, Monika worried that he might draw attention to Dominic. The last thing he need was to come home to a Russian assassin sitting on his couch. He highly doubted he’d be there for coffee.

Bandit was spacing out and startled violently when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Gilles looked sheepish. How someone so big could move so quietly, Bandit would never know.

“Okay this is an odd question so bear with me.” Bandit looked at him with trepidation. What constitutes as a weird question for Gilles? “Do you think centaurs crawl like insects?” Bandit blinked at him.

“Do what?” He had to have misheard. There’s no way-

“Crawl like insects? Julien seems to think that because they have six appendages, they’d…crawl. Like insects do. You know what, now that I say it out loud, I think I have my answer.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and started to walk away.

“Are they insect sized centaurs or are they like…horse sized?” Gilles squinted at the manuscript on the tablet he was holding.

“Uhhh, pigmy horse sized. But they wear cute boots apparently?” Bandit tried to imagine a miniature centaur crawling across the ground like some sort of giant cockroach dressed in uggs and shivered.

“Was - no offence to him - but was he a bit high when he came up with this?” Not that Dominic was about to report him, but was honestly curious about how this made an appearance. Gilles laughed.

“No, he better not be. My boss will have both our heads. She runs a tight ship. He tends to get a bit wild with his ideas when he’s running on a few hours of sleep.” Gilles thanked him and went back to his table. Tom was hanging out around the register again, now looking very interested in Gilles. Dominic shivered, hoping that if he had any issues, the blowback didn’t affect Gilles.

Three and a half months in and Dominic finally got something out of this job. He’d been over clearing Gilles’ plate when he heard some of the backroom regulars discussing plans to move merchandise. Dominic hung back and struck up a conversation with the editor, asking him what he was working on now and paying him no mind as he listened to the two thugs converse. To any of the patrons, their merchandise was just that, so they felt free to talk about the details. The shipment was small and would have just a few people there, making it perfect for a bust. Plus, it was doubtful any of this could be traced back to Derrick the barista. He was simply entertaining a customer while it was discussed.

Dominic found out very shortly that it wasn’t Derrick he should have been worried about.

The bust went smoothly, five men being taken down and the small shipment confiscated. Dom had been worried that it was some sort of setup, but everything had gone surprisingly well. Elias stopped in to congratulate him on “employee of the month” and order his extra shot latte (this time hot after Dominic had grabbed a cup for iced coffee). Dominic carefully kept further interaction to a minimum as Tom had materialized from the back, casting suspicious glances at the police officer. It wasn’t hard since Chelsea was on and happily talked his ear off as usual. They were still talking when Gilles came in, face red from the cold and looking excited.

“Good morning Derrick! I have excellent news. Julien’s latest book’s is being printed and the reviews are looking excellent.” Gilles smile was bright and Dominic could help but grin with him.

“That’s great! I’m happy to hear it.” Dominic said, looking down as Gilles passed him a small card with business information.

“Wait, Julien Nizan, author of the Rook in the Tower series?” Elias gasped as Gilles looked mildly surprised. “That’s my favorite book series! I’ve reread them all eight times.”

Uh oh, Elias was gushing now and Gilles looked more than happy to entertain him. As the morning rush picked up, Gilles offered to move their conversation over to the tables and Elias happily followed. Dominic quickly pocketed the card as he got to work. The rush was real as he and Chelsea were swamped, Tom refusing to do much more than clear a few tables.

By the time Dominic finally got a break, Gilles and Elias had both left. Dom tugged out the card from his pocket, giving it a look and admiring the series’ namesake bird on a background of various elements. He was glad he flipped it over.

Call me, I owe you dinner :) - Gilles was written, followed by a neatly printed number, area code and all.

Dominic was a coward and still hadn’t called Gilles. He’d hoped to talk to him yesterday, but the man hadn’t shown up. He needed time to talk to Elias about it, worried that ‘Derrick’ would bring trouble knocking on Gilles door. With two assassins on the prowl across the city, he really didn’t want to risk it. But boy had he fallen hard now that dating was an option, and dinner with Gilles was something he’d been thinking about for a while (among other things).

When Gilles had come in today, it’d been far too busy to have a decent conversation, Dominic had seen him come in, but Janet had insisted on ringing up drinks rather than making them, leaving Dom to make eye contact will Gilles and roll his eyes as he hurried around. The big man relaxed at that, waving as he headed to his seat. It was cold and windy outside, leaving the shop bustling until closing and giving Dom no time to talk to Gilles, who waved before he stepped out into the night.

Dominic was nearly to the subway when he realized he’d forgotten his stupid cheerful apron at the shop. It needed washed after Janet created a powdered sugar explosion from the pastry display box (why did she think blowing the extra sugar would be a good way to clean it up?) and Dom had still refused to purchase an extra.

Sighing and cursing himself, he turned around and walked back towards the coffee shop. He had the key to the back door into the staff cubbies and there wasn’t a meeting that he knew about tonight, so he should be safe there. The snow made the walk miserable, flurries swirling around him as he trudged back, kicking himself for being so distracted as to forget it. He missed the car he and Elias used.

Thirty minutes later and Bandit was back at the cursed place, shuffling down the alley to the side door. He fumbled with his keys and managed to squeeze through the door, shutting it softly behind him. As he moved to turn towards the staff area, Dominic heard voices from the other end of corridor.

“Just tell us who you work for. Cops? FBI? DEA?” It sounded like one of the Russians. Bandit froze. If they caught him here, they were unlikely to let him live. The question is, what poor idiot did they have? Bandit put his phone on do not disturb and sent a quick message to Elias, praying it wasn’t him down the hall.

“I told you, I’m an editor. I have any idea what you’re talking about.” Oh. Oh no. That was Gilles’ voice. Bandit realized quickly why Tom was so interested in their conversations, why those two had been discussing plans next to Gilles. He’d thought that Gilles, constant customer and workaholic had been the snitch. He sends another message to Elias, letting him know who it is and where he’s at before moving forward to peek through the door.

He snuck forward as quietly as possible, peering around the frame and trying to stay out of sight. Within, Maxim is seated on a stool, toying lazily with a knife that he flips through his fingers. Gilles is tied to a chair, thankfully looking mostly unharmed, though his clothes were a bit disheveled. The man appeared more upset than anything else, hiding the panic that subtly seeped into his voice.

Dominic bit his lip, retreating slightly to check the messages from Elias, who said he’d called in back up and to wait. It was a sound plan, but there’s no way Maxim would wait long enough to confront them and Gilles would be a witness he’d be unwilling to accept. The only problem was that he had no idea where Timur was. It’s possible that it was just Maxim, but he didn’t trust it. Dominic snuck back to the staff room, grabbing one of the large thermos’ that Janet kept her soup in, before checking the hallway and walking back. Maxim was still occupied with Gilles, knife dancing in front of his face now as he questioned the poor editor. Focused as both of them were, neither heard Dominic walk up until he’d swung the thermos against Kapkan’s head, sending him sprawling seemingly unconscious. Dominic smacked him again for good measure, grabbing the knife and doing a quick pat down of the assassin, finding a PMM that he quickly pocketed.

“Derrick? What are you doing here?” Gilles looked so incredibly relieved that Dominic knew he’d chosen correctly as he set about cutting the duct tape that had been used to restrain the larger man.

“Forgot my stupid apron. We need to go. Was it just him or is the other one around?” Dominic asked as he pulled him to his feet, pulling out the pistol and chambering a bullet.

“There was the other guy as well. I don’t know where he went.” Dominic nodded, telling Gilles to stay close and keep quiet. Dom stepped out into the hall, clearing both sides and seeing no one. Motioning for Gilles to follow, he held the gun at the ready, checking the alley for hostiles as he stepped out. A slight sound from the hall sent his alarm bells off and he tugged Gilles out after him, unbalancing the man and sending him sprawling into the snow as bullets ricocheted off the metal frame where Gilles’ head had been. One glanced across Dominic’s upper arm as it pinged off the metal, easily cutting through the thin jacket he was wearing. Gilles pulled his feet out of the way so Dom could kick the door closed and looked up at him with wide eyes. Hauling Gilles to his feet as best he could, Dominic put himself between the editor and the door, pushing him forward as he kept an eye and his gun behind them. When it started to open, Dominic fired a round at it, likely causing Timur to recoil as the door halted its movement.

Sirens wailed down the street, squad cars rolling to a stop as the officers popped out and demanded they put their hands in the air. Gilles looked a bit frantic, following Dominic’s lead in complying immediately.

“Detective Dominic Brunsmeier, NYPD. There’s a gun in my front pants pocket. We’re being pursued by an armed assailant.” Gilles looked at him like he grew another head as the officer’s approached, finding the gun as promised and quickly cuffing the both of them while they called it in. Elias arrived shortly after, flashing his badge. After a bit of arguing, Dominic and Gilles were released and waited while the SWAT arrived to get organized enough to clear the building. They found a bit of blood on the concrete in the room where Gilles was held, but it appeared that both assassins had fled. An APB was put out for them both, but it was likely they’d be underground already with how long it took them to sweep the building.

Area cleared (after about eight years in Dominic’s opinion), the EMTs came in to check them out. Gilles was okay’d, Elias was able to ask what happened. Gilles apparently had gone with them relatively easily after they’d ambushed him outside the alley, hoping that they just wanted his wallet. He’d finished with Elias’ initial questions by the time that the EMTs were finishing patching Dom up. The laceration on Dominic’s arm was shallow, stopped mostly by his coat, so they disinfected it and cleared him. Monika was furious when she arrived, having heard he’d acted without backup.

“Protect and serve, Mon. It’s part of the job.” He said with a lopsided smile. She rolled her eyes, calling Marius (who unsurprisingly still wasn’t out of his apartment) to let him know their fellow detective had made it out okay.

“Ah, disappointing.” He’d joked, Monika’s volume up enough for Dom to hear. Dom shook his head, suddenly dreading the amount of paperwork this would be, especially with the Russian’s knowing who he was. He imagined it was even more stressful for Gilles though, and sought him out, finding him in the back of a squad car, wrapped in an orange shock blanket.

Dom tapped on the window before opening the door, asking Gilles how he was doing.

“I’m doing okay. I’m fine thanks to you, Detective.” Dominic snorted, playing with the edges of his now ruined jacket, wishing he’d taken the stupid blanket as the cold ate through the material.

“It was my fault they suspected you to begin with. I guess this means you don’t owe me dinner anymore.” Dominic looked everywhere but Gilles’ eyes. Gilles hummed in thought.

“I think that means I owe you two dinners, at least if you enjoy the first. I need to get to know my hero, Detective Brunsmeier.” Dom smiled in surprise, face going a bit red, which he hoped could be attributed to the biting cold.

“Dominic’s good. Or Dom, whichever you prefer.” He said, offering his hand. Gilles took it with a smile and a nod.

“It’s a date then.” He said, Dom’s heart skipping a few beats as he processed.

Gilles made good on both dinners.

#r6s #rainbow six siege #r6s bandit #r6s montagne #r6s blitz

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dupswriteblr · 5 years

Text

There’s Something In The Woods At Camp Goodwill

tw: gore, body horror, vague, non-explicit implications of consensual sex, brief mention of sexual assault.

if there’s anything else youd like tagged, please let me know!! stay safe

Seventeen-year-old Katie Nicolson was not the first person to fall for Zediah Rennel, and she was sure that she would not be the last.

He was something of a catch, she thought. He was slender, long-legged, with deep-set eyes, a square jaw, and full lips that Katie very much wanted to kiss until they bled. His torso and some of his face were marked with pale, crisscrossing scars. They made Katie think of a roadmap that told a story of knife fights or broken shards of glass or...something similar, she thought.

Lost in her thoughts about the beautiful boy dozing beside her, Katie absent-mindedly began to run her thumb over the skin of his pale cheek. Her thumb grazed against one of the scars. The old wound felt like sandpaper against her thumb, a ravine carved into otherwise impeccably smooth skin.

His eyes—a startlingly pale green, nearly silver, soul-searching—fluttered open, and he smiled up at her.

“Hello, doll,” he said, smiling with all of his teeth. “That’s my job.”

Katie giggled. She giggled like she was supposed to, and let him cup her cheek with one calloused hand, sighing contently as he mimicked her affectionate gesture.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, mostly to himself, and that was how Katie knew he meant it.

The wind howled outside their tent, owls called out into the night, wolves howled off in the distance, and thunder rumbled from some kilometres away, deeper into the woods, beyond Camp Goodwill.

Goodwill was a camp that prided itself on being a place where youth offenders went to reform, a glorified boot camp, really, taking the form of a summer camp.

Zediah was there on charges related to… possession of marijuana, if Katie remembered it right. Something like that. He certainly didn’t act like a pothead, Katie thought. After all, he was a conventionally attractive rich kid who came from fucking Wellington, of all places.

Katie had been sent to Camp Goodwill for beating the shit out of one of her classmates. The bastard had tried to stick his hand up her skirt. The kid was an asshole, served him right, really. The teeth Katie had apparently knocked out were just comeuppance, just an Asshole Tax. Naturally, neither the cops nor the school administrators had believed a word of her story. As was the norm for cases like Katie’s, the smarmy, snivelling brat had gotten off scot-free with some bullshit about this or that, she didn’t remember.

Zediah wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in close. She hummed contently and buried her face in the pit of his chest.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“I’m with you,” was her only reply, and Zediah’s smile lit up her world. She folded her knees up and threw one arm over her...boyfriend? Oh, she hoped so. She hoped this wasn’t a one-time thing.

There was a heavy sounding thump from outside, and Katie sat bolt upright. Zediah laughed softly in response.

“Scared, babe?” He asked, sitting up with her and flinging his arms over her neck, letting his clasped hands dangle over her chest.

Katie snorted. “Hardly.”

Still, though, she got off the slightly too small bed and stumbled across the tent on wobbly legs, grabbing Zediah’s hoodie from the floor and throwing it over herself. Zediah was slim, yes, but he was tall, with broad shoulders. Katie was no slouch in a fight, as evidenced by her reason for attending Camp Goodwill, but she was still short and built like a bloody willow branch. Zediah’s hoodie swallowed her.

He laughed from the bed.

“Shut,” Katie hissed, although her cheeks reddened and her eyes danced with mirth. “I’m gonna go check what that was. Maybe one of the bear bags fell down.”

That would be a problem, she thought as she pulled back the tent flap, Zediah’s hoodie hanging over her knees. There were bears in the woods.

The wind was strong, shaking the trees surrounding the campsite and pulling Katie’s bleach blonde hair in front of her face, the winds carding long fingers through her pale locks.

Thump.

Katie picked up the flashlight she’d left just outside Zediah’s tent and turned it on, the blessedly powerful beam sending rays of light across the forest floor.

She ran the beam over each of the bear bags, still hanging from their places up in the branches.

Thump.

Katie’s breath caught in her throat, and she found herself holding the heavy-duty flashlight to her breast like a baseball bat. The wind stopped tousling her hair with all the care of a lover and started to slice at the exposed skin on her face and legs with frigid cold needles.

She bit her tongue to keep from calling out hello? That was how people died in horror movies. “Katie.”

“Fuck!” Katie spun around to where the voice had come from—just to her left, close enough that she should have been able to feel hot breath touch her skin. “Who said that?”

There was nobody there.

“Katie?” Her heart flooded with relief, and she took a step backwards, one of her bare feet crumpling the material of the tent just below the zipper.

A freezing cold hand clamped over her mouth and nose. Katie screamed into the damp, cold palm, dropping the flashlight to the ground where it spun and sent bright light cascading around the campsite in a dizzying circle.

“I’m fine. Just putting the bear bags back up,” said the thing gripping a struggling Katie, in a perfect imitation of her voice. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

“Zediah!”

Katie’s scream for the person who lay just a metre away from her went unheard, muffled by the hand of whatever the fuck made the woods surrounding Camp Goodwill its home.

It wasn’t a fucking bear.

The thing pressed its face close to Katie’s cheek. It did not breathe. “You say a word,” it hissed. “And I will cave your skull in. Is that clear?”

Katie nodded. It let go of her face, and Katie pulled in a strangled breath.

It gripped her shoulders and yanked her away just as she turned back to the tent.

Oh god, its face.

“There is not,” the thing that was not a person hissed, cupping her face in one hand in a gesture that almost mimicked compassion. “A person in the world who will save you.”

Katie whimpered. “Please,” she whispered. “Let me g—”

SNAP.

“Hey, babe?” hissed a voice that was almost Katie’s. “Could you come out here for a second?”

____________________________________________________________

The last person to wake up the next morning, oblivious to what had occurred the previous night, was Merrilyn Rakes, a familiar face to the managers of the camp. Her most recent stunt was breaking into her ex’s house and smashing his copy of that Empire game he’d been so obsessed over. Served him right, she thought, swinging herself up and out of bed, hopping off her lumpy and uncomfortable mattress. Stretching, she planted her feet on the much too thin sheet that offered a flimsy separation between her feet and the ground. Stones stuck up from beneath the mat and Merrilyn winced as she pulled her socks and shoes on.

There was some sort of commotion going on over at the guys’ neck of the woods. People were screaming bloody murder, Merrilyn could hear the shouting even through the tent and across the thin stretch of woods that led to the guys’ camp.

She didn’t even bother to change out of her tank top and shorts. She just shrugged her jacket on so fast she missed the left sleeve and left her coat hanging off her right side.

“What’s going on?” She said, sliding to a stop in the camp.

Kegan Merritt, an archetypical tough guy with a rap sheet a mile long, pointed one shaky finger at whatever people were screaming at. He was ghost white, although there was a faint green tinge to his skin. He then placed his hands on his knees and vomited all over his Nike Cortez shoes.

Curiosity got the better of her and Merrilyn pursed her lips. She started to walk towards the gathering. She covered her ears to drown out the screams about things bending in ways they were not supposed to bend. She tried to block out the sounds of nauseous gags and unanswered pleas for somebody to please call 111, there had to be a landline at the camp entrance if somebody just ran there oh god.

“Shut up,” Merrilyn hissed, and pushed some guy out of the way, one of the younger campers who seemed all too glad to be shoved out of the action.

Oh.

OH.

The first person Merrilyn saw was Katie Nicolson, lying...crumpled on the ground. She was nude, a hoodie that looked far too big for her lying beneath her head, folded neatly as if it were a makeshift pillow. There was nothing remotely attractive about the nudity. Katie lay on her side, bent fully in half. Katie’s arms reached outward as if to grasp at some aid that hadn’t come for her, her head resting by her feet. Her face was frozen, eyes wide open and bulging, jaw hanging loose. Dried blood and spittle pooled on the forest floor and at the corners of her lips.

A couple metres away was Zediah Rennel, also nude.

His torso and right arm had been crushed, blood and viscera pooling around his body. Merrilyn didn’t want to linger on the fact that he was looking at Katie, that his mouth was hanging open, not in a scream but a marker of his last, whispered word. She didn’t want to think about the undamaged arm. The arm that reached for Katie.

But she couldn’t tear her eyes away, even as her stomach flipped.

Somebody stepped forwards. It was Kegan, still green and shaking, but moving with a strange sense of purpose.

He removed the hoodie from underneath Katie’s head and shook it out to its full size like he was unfurling a beach towel. With all the care in the world, he laid it over the poor girl’s body like a burial shroud. “She doesn’t deserve this,” he whispered.

Merrilyn took off her jacket and covered Zediah’s corpse with it.

The campers calmed down somewhat, and one of the kids ran to get the counsellors. Everybody else sat tight and waited for their “supervisors” to arrive.

They knew the drill.

One of the counsellors arrived some minutes later, a scrawny, gaunt young woman with a round jaw. There wasn’t even a hint of green tinging her skin when she saw the two corpses. Worse, her admittedly already pale skin did not pale further when she removed the makeshift burial shrouds. There was a nametag on her plaid shirt, peeling off at one end. In faded text, it read: Counsellor Raine ツ

Her hair was cut short, trimmed into a neat, blonde bob. She smoothed out her slacks and wrinkled her nose at the sight before her as though it were a pile of foul-smelling garbage and not the corpses of two innocent teenagers.

“Well,” she said. “That’s a grisly sight.”

She removed her walkie-talkie from her belt and spoke into it, voice flat.

“We’ve got another one,” Counsellor Raine said, glancing at the bodies. “Two, actually.”

There came a garbled mess of words and frustrated exclamations from the walkie-talkie, and Counsellor Raine walked away, talking animatedly with whoever was on the other end.

“Another one?” Came a high-pitched voice to Merrilyn’s left. “What does that mean? Oh my god, what’s happening?”

Merrilyn stepped forward and wrapped one arm around a shaking girl. One of the newer campers, she thought, one who hadn’t seen this before. Chelsea, her name was, or something similarly youthful.

“C’mon,” Merrilyn said, pulling the quivering girl into a one-armed hug.

“Let’s go down by the creek, okay? I’ll explain everything once we’re there.”

Chelsea glanced up at her with wide, trembling, chestnut eyes, and the two of them staggered down to the creek, just a five-minute walk from the campsite.

They turned back only once, just in time to see a small group of counsellors removing the bodies and cleaning the gore as best they could from the forest floor. Chelsea whimpered from beside Merrilyn.

“What are they doing with the bodies?”

“Packing them into trash bags,” came Merrilyn’s terse reply. “And burying those bags deep in the woods.” “Oh,” Chelsea said, her eyes devoid of any spark or life as she stared down at the slow-moving waters of the creek. “Who...what killed them?”

Merrilyn sighed. “This is the part that gets a little...unbelievable.” “That girl—” Chelsea said, pointing one shaking finger towards the camp. “Was snapped in half from the inside. People don’t bend like that. Not unless their fucking spines are broken and their organs are shuffled around. And the boy—” She turned slightly, pointing at the approximate location of Zediah’s body. “That boy had his torso and right arm crushed so bad they looked like hamburger meat. Tell me it’s aliens from space, swear to god, I’ll believe you.”

Chelsea shuddered, her voice softening. “No animal I know of could do something like that.”

Merrilyn raised an eyebrow at the girl’s burst of anger and subsequent—and rapid—cooldown.

“Katie Nicolson and Zediah Renner.” “What?” “Those were their names.” Chelsea mouthed those words over and over again as if she were trying to commit them to memory.

Maybe she was.

“Now sit,” Merrilyn said, and swallowed, wetting her lips to prepare for the rather long, incomprehensible ramble she was about to spit out.

“It’s about the size of a bear,” she began, tapping her finger against her thigh. “You can mistake it for one if you’re not careful. Its skin melts and regrows rapidly, and you can tell where it’s been because it leaves oozing clumps of skin and flesh behind everywhere it goes. It’s like…” Merrilyn swallowed. “It’s like it’s constantly falling apart and then putting itself back together. Its face—” Merrilyn wrung her hands and rubbed the side of her neck. “Its face is all wrong. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s almost...it’s almost human, but the rest of it isn’t human at all, not even when it stands up. It just looks vaguely…bear shaped? Not quite, though. it’s shaped like something and the something is a little bit bear-shaped. It doesn’t look silly, it’s not like—” Merrilyn laughed despite herself. “It’s not like a human head on a bear’s body. It’s an animal's head, but it’s like if somebody stretched a human skin mask over it. The proportions look human, but stretched and warped. It doesn’t really...look like a bear, not up close, anyway. It has hands, for one thing, but they’re all wrong.”

Merrilyn ran her trembling hands through her hair. “That’s as much as I can tell you about its appearance.”

Chelsea crossed her arms. “How do you know all this?”

Merrilyn huffed, her temper rising. “You said you would believe me—” “I do believe you,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes and leaning forward to poke Merrilyn in the chest, punctuating each word that followed. “What I asked was how. Do. You. Know?”

“Because I saw it!” Merrilyn said, her usually flat, relaxed voice spiking into a shout. “I saw it, and I survived it, and it should not be a thing. It’s all wrong, Chelsea!” Merrilyn ran her hands through her dark hair. “It’s all wrong.”

Chelsea’s shoulders slumped. “You can call me Chel,” she said and shuffled around so that she was sitting beside Merrilyn. “Do you...do you want to talk about it?”

Merrilyn took a deep breath. “It was a couple years ago,” she said. “I was fourteen, fifteen, ish? Your age.”

Chel nodded. “Go on—I mean—if you want to, that is.”

“I do,” Merrilyn said, pulling in a deep breath and sitting up as straight as she could. “I don’t even remember why I was here—god—something stupid. It was one of those things where you only get sent to a place like this if you’re young. If you’re older, it’s just acting out. I think I stole a bunch of shit from a grocery store or something like that. Sweets? Might’ve been books. But—” Merrilyn waved her hand in the air. “That’s besides the point. I was going for a walk around the area, ‘cuz I was bored. I think I was just sort of...stewing, y’know? I heard some weird sounds, but—well—it’s the woods, in the middle of fucking nowhere. You’re gonna hear some weird noises, so I ignored it. And then,,,” Merrilyn went very quiet, only then noticing that she’d pulled up several fistfuls of grass, the vibrant green blades now laying in her lap.

“It’s okay,” Chel said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to keep going.” “No—” Merrilyn said, rather abruptly, as she realised when Chel flinched. “No—I—I want to get this out there. I want to talk about it, tell somebody.”

She coughed. “Somebody who won’t think I’ve lost my mind.” “I believe you,” Chel said, looking directly at Merrilyn, eyes firmly set. “I believe you.”

Merrilyn hummed—a thank you, of sorts.

“I don’t think I need any more background. It came crashing out the woods, broad fucking daylight, mind, and slammed me up against a tree so hard my head spun. I saw stars and I bit my tongue and shouted real loud, kicked and screamed and clawed, but it did no good. That thing...it’s built like a wall, honest to god. It got real close to my face, and its breath was disgusting. Candy canes. A kind of artificial, overpowering, minty smell. Like cold. I don’t know how something can smell cold, but it smelled cold. And liquor, too. It was like mint crossed with liquor, that’s what it was, and its breath was so hot, even though it smelled so cold. There was drool spilling out of the corners of its mouth and landing on my shirt. Its eyes were a pale, pale blue, and there wasn’t anything animalistic or feral about them. Its eyes were its most human feature, and they were filled with intelligence, and clarity, and morality.”

Merrilyn swallowed. “So it was real close. Then...then it ducked its head so its mouth was right next to my ear and it—it told me that it was gonna—that it was going to tear my heart out, right out of my chest. It rested the almost-hand that wasn’t pinning me up against the tree on my ribs and I felt it puncture the skin like it was made of paper and it smiled.”

Merrilyn looked skywards, letting her mouth twitch into a satisfied smile, only dimly aware of Chel’s shallow, rapid breaths. “And its face was right next to mine and it was smiling and I was so angry, and my hands were free so I grabbed its face and I jammed my thumbs into its human eyes and it screamed and stopped its torturously slow process of tearing me open. And it dropped me, and I fell real hard, smacked my head again, scratched up everything that could get scratched up. I bit my lip real hard, and I’d already bit my tongue, so there was a fuckton of blood in my mouth, and the thing kept screaming, so you know what I did, Chel?”

Merrilyn ripped her gaze away from the sky and stared at Chel. “What did you do?”

“I laughed. I laughed and then I ran like hell. I was spitting blood as I went and I guess I’d knocked a tooth loose, either when I hit the tree or when I hit the ground because I spat my last baby tooth out that day in the woods. And I ran all the way back to camp and told everybody I’d taken a bad fall. Got stitches for the little slice on my torso. And that was that. That fucker never bothered me again.”

Chel sat back with a shaky breath. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, with that tone of voice that indicated there was more to the story than that. “But..”

Ah. There it was.

“So this thing snapped Katie in half, tried to rip your heart out, and crushed Zediah? What—” Chel wrung her hands. “Where’s the pattern?”

Merrilyn cringed. “I don’t think there is one. I think...I think it’s experimenting, trying to find out what it likes best. Or maybe it just wants to spice things up, I don’t know.”

Chel’s shoulders slumped. “Experimenting.”

“Or for fun,” Merrilyn added. Chel stood up and off the ground. “Who’s next?” “Hmm?” “Who’s it gonna kill next?”

Merrilyn stood up with a cackling laugh. “Stick with me,” she said, wrapping an arm around Chel. “And it ain’t gonna be you.”

Chel smiled something fierce. “It ain’t gonna be me,” she parroted.

“And that’s all you can hope for at Camp Goodwill,” Merrilyn said as the two of them walked back to camp. “That it won’t. Be. You.”

#horror #my writing #writers on tumblr #writers #short story #body horror #cw gore #tw gore #cw body horror #tw body horror #stuff in the woods #monsters #monster #original fiction #writeblr

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uzumaki-rebellion · 5 years

Text

Black Boys Bloom Thorns First: Volume 2 Chapter 20

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Your girl, she go hard in the baste Swangin' on them, swangin' on them, swangin' on my ways Swangin' on my ways Swangin' on my ways I've been thinking like, "Ayy, yo" And I've been thinking like, "Ayy, yo" (Sound of rain helps me let go of the pain) And I've been thinking like, "Ayy, yo" (Sound of rain helps me let go of the pain)

Solange—"Sound of Rain"

Ungubani?

Who are you?

I asked this question of myself many times. Often times, I do not know. But I do know I am no longer the man my country knew. Maybe love? My son?

It has all changed me. T'Chaka must see what we can do, how we can change the course of time for the people who struggle so much in this land. Strangers to me, but my brothers and sisters still. How can I look at them, with the same skin as me, stolen from the same place I came from and not reach out to them? How can I sit idly by and watch in pain and return to Wakanda as if there was nothing to see at all?

Who am I?

A war dog who will not leave the lost tribe behind again. Who are you, my son? You will ask this one day and know the answer: N'Jadaka, son of N'Jobu.

My son.

###

My woman is in pain. We have been back home for a month since Lia's death, and I am set to leave for Wakanda and I am frightened. As a family, we have gone to three sessions with Dr. Davis. I thank Bast that children have the resilience to bounce back from tragedy. Our son struggles. He has good days and bad days, but most of his bad days come from his worry over Califia.

She is not faring well.

She has lost weight from not eating and she suffers from insomnia. She has taken leave from work and spends days in bed. The most that she allows me to do for her is to hold her at night and look after Erik. She self-medicates with edibles so that Erik won't smell marijuana smoke on her.

Lia's family has planned a private memorial for her, and I do not want Califia or Erik to go. She is furious with me, even though Lia's entire family and her own family agree that she and Erik should stay in the States for now. There are plans for a large public memorial next year. There have been protests and marches throughout Brazil and other parts of the world in solidarity with Lia's memory. Califia's pain and anger and lack of concern for her health make me question whether I can trust her to care for Erik when I am gone. Dante and Nana Jean have made plans to step in for me along with Rolita. Dante questions why I have to leave for a month when Califia needs me and the only thing that saves me from his questioning is that I tell him I must work to cover the bills since Califia isn't working.

I have been bringing Erik over to my apartment to give him some semblance of a normal home life and to also give Califia privacy when her crying gets bad and she begs me to take our son away so he doesn't have to see her. On those days I call Rolita to watch her, and I make the time alone with my son the best that I can. James hangs with us a lot, and he has been a source of strength when I can't speak to Bakari. Erik is crazy about James, and they spend a lot of time playing video games together and streaming anime.

Erik is asleep in my apartment bedroom and I write this on my couch. Tomorrow we will go home to his mother and I will cook for both of them. I miss my woman so much. I miss touching her in that way. I miss kissing her. I miss her laughter. I miss her being that incredible mother to my son. I miss us.

###

This man Klaue will meet with me in the Netherlands. Sita has found a safe place for us to interact. A place that we can control access to. When I return to Wakanda I will know for sure who I can count on among the war dogs. I will also have to gain all access codes in order to lay my hands on the Vibranium I need. I have someone in place that I have turned who can help me. I just have to keep T'Chaka off of my back. He has been very open about keeping me close to him on this trip home. Zinzi has been cryptic about what's been happening, so I suspect she is being watched carefully too because of our closeness.

My meeting with Klaue has to go off without a hitch because my only chance to see him without surveillance right now is when I fly home. I made sure to choose a flight with a long layover in Northern Europe. I will have six hours to feel this man out. If I can use him, I will. Sita was right about him in one respect; he is a little whore for money. My research on him tells me he is willing to do anything for it.

###

N'Jobu dressed in warm layers and kept his dark glasses on when he entered the small villa in Amsterdam. He made sure to enter the country under an alias and not as Prince N'Jobu so he wouldn't have to bring any Doras with him. Sita came as his personal guard and even though she had secured the property and hired extra protection under her control, she was still wary of Klaue. Klaue was told to come alone and was watched and followed to make sure he did what he was told. N'Jobu gave orders to kill him on site if he did not acquiesce to all of his demands for secrecy. N'Jobu would not reveal his identity to the man. All that he was told was that some goods would need to be secretly couriered out of the country in the future and there was a handsome reward for his services if he should be used.

The semi-detached modern-styled steel and glass villa had plenty of open space surrounding it to give N'Jobu's people eyes on the meeting at all times. Snipers were in position, and if the meeting went left, Klaue would be disposed of and N'Jobu would go home and find someone else to ferry the Vibranium out.

Sitting at a small table facing the main glass entrance, N'Jobu and Sita watched a lone brown Mercedes meander up the winding driveway and park.

A short messy brown-haired man in an ill-fitting suit stepped from the driver's door and scanned the villa. One of Sita's hired hands stepped forward and patted Klaue down while another kept a gun trained on him.

"Great welcome committee!" Klaue shouted out loud enough so that N'Jobu could hear him.

Stepping into the villa, Klaue had a nervous swagger about him that was more bravado and posturing rather than real confidence. The Black faces that stared at him as he stood before N'Jobu had the man second-guessing who he was fucking with.

Klaue smelled of an over-dosing of expensive Italian cologne and poor personal hygiene. His greasy-looking hair and body odor offended N'Jobu. The poor-fitting suit was expensive but not tailor-made and looking at the man from head to toe, the watery light eyes, the liver lips, and a hodge-podge of tattoos on his arms, he could tell the little man was new to expensive tastes. N'Jobu's nose crinkled and he pointed to the chair seated across from him. Klaue sat down.

"Well, I'm here. Let's talk," Klaue said, "Mind if I smoke?"

N'Jobu gave a slight nod.

"I'll take that as a yes then," Klaue said slowly reaching into his suit pocket. He lit up a spicy-smelling thin cigarette.

"Ashtray?" Klaue asked.

Sita placed a glass of water in front of him.

"Wakanda," Klaue said.

N'Jobu stayed silent. This made Klaue even more nervous.

He studied the Afrikaner a little more. The future of his immediate family, Califia and Erik, depended on this thin rat-looking thing sitting before him. The only way N'Jobu could help the Black diaspora was through getting his hands on enough Vibranium to support a world-wide revolution. And the irony of it all was that a racist White South African was going to help jumpstart that revolution. And unbeknownst to Klaue, helping N'Jobu would usher in his own demise, the end of White Supremacy and the end of all of those who supported it, even other Black and non-Black people of color.

Sita stepped forward and handed Klaue a small satchel. The man opened it. His eyes seemed impressed.

"Just for showing up? Twenty-Five thousand in U.S. dollars?" Klaue said.

N'Jobu nodded. When he felt the man was going to burst if he didn't speak soon, N'Jobu folded his hands in his lap.

"Your record is clean. And when things have gone awry, you disappear. I like that."

"He speaks!" Klaue exclaimed, holding his hands up and looking around the room smiling hard. Not one Black face gave him warmth.

"This is just part of a retainer. If I like what I hear, then you will receive another seventy-five thousand to help collect your team within the next year," N'Jobu said.

Klaue leaned forward while listening to N'Jobu's voice. He pointed to N'Jobu's face.

"You're…you're not just some radical. The way you talk…you are a higher up—"

"Who he is, that is not your business. You are here to listen and do what we ask," Sita hissed, moving closer to him, her hand on a gun holstered to her hip.

N'Jobu whispered to her in Wakandan to chill. The three other war dogs in the room along with the three hired hands stepped closer, letting Klaue know to watch his mouth.

"I get the feeling that what I am asked to retrieve aren't just some priceless artifacts," Klaue said, the smile sliding off of his face, "Human trafficking?"

This was the part of the conversation N'Jobu was waiting for. The part he wished he didn't have to divulge, but he had to because even though Vibranium was undetectable to outside modern metal detectors and such, it wasn't stable, and Klaue would have to be shown how to smuggle it out safely.

N'Jobu motioned with his fingers for Sita to bring forth the sample of Vibranium enclosed in a protective capsule.

The luminous electric blue glow mesmerized Klaue's eyes. The man's mouth slipped open.

"Fuck it to hell…" he said standing up when the phosphorescent capsule was placed in his hand, "is this really…is this-?"

"Vibranium," N'Jobu said watching Klaue closely.

"I'm in—"

"We still have to discuss my terms and timetable—" "I don't care! I am in. Whatever your terms or timetable. I already know you will pay me well."

Klaue regarded N'Jobu with gleaming eyes. Sita took the Vibranium from Klaue's fingers and he tracked the luminous glow as she placed it in N'Jobu's hand.

"That small amount right there is worth millions. How much more do you have?" Klaue asked.

"Let us speak about your operation. How quickly can you organize a retraction team?"

Klaue took the hint that he would not be told more about their holdings. It was all need to know moving forward.

"Three to four months tops."

"Understand, I will wipe out you and your people if at any time I suspect chicanery."

"I am a professional. I do thorough background checks on all my people. You've done your homework, I'm sure."

"Talk to me," N'Jobu said leaning back in his seat.

The greasy-haired man in the ill-fitting suit leaned forward, a full smile widening his mouth and showing the glint of cheap gold-rimmed teeth.

"I will tell you all that you want to know," Klaue said.

And he did.

###

On the ride to the airport in the secured SUV, Sita kept staring at N'Jobu's face.

"What do you think, Your Highness?" she asked.

"We should not trust him at all, but he has the juice to get what we need to be done completed."

"Will I see you again on your way back to the States?" she asked.

"Yes. D'Beke will join us and we can begin."

Sita's face looked pleased. She even gave him a smile.

"What is happening at home?"

Sita's smile faded.

"The King….your brother…he has been putting dissenters in jail."

"What?"

"There have been political protests taking place in several Birnans. There's a new spiritualist cult that has had some major growth in followers who have been causing problems. Some protests have become rather violent, and King T'Chaka has taken in leaders and incarcerated them."

"What are they protesting exactly?"

"The lack of democracy in a monarchy. What else? The lack of freedom they have to practice their religion—"

"The Udaku family has never shunned nor stopped religious freedom from marginal religions—"

"Maybe in the past. Maybe when your father was King. But King T'Chaka…he is not so tolerant these days. He claims it is an affront to the crown, a wedge issue to fracture the power of his throne."

"You believe this, Sita? Speak freely."

"I believe what I see, and I have seen even moderate dissenters vilified by your brother."

"But jail-?"

"There was talk that one of the incarcerated planned to assassinate the King."

N'Jobu's body jerked when he heard that. His kimoyo beads heated up and N'Jobu tapped his earbud.

"T'Chaka," N'Jobu said.

Sita remained quiet while he took the call by audio only.

###

Califia carefully flipped over the waffle she made for Erik onto a plate.

"JaJa!"

She heard her son's feet running down the stairs, and by the time he reached the kitchen, she had his plate on the kitchen table next to a glass of grape juice.

"Hot off the griddle," she said.

Erik studied her face and she gave him a healthy smile. His face relaxed and he sat at the table.

She passed him the butter and syrup and helped herself to a piece of sausage. Erik watched her plate.

"Got my appetite back," she said.

He gave her some dimples and she forced herself to eat even though she really didn't want to. She made up her mind to force herself through this pain. She was hurt when N'Jobu told her that he wasn't sure that she could handle their household while he was gone. She counted on him to care for Erik while she fell apart, but it fractured their relationship when he treated her like an irresponsible child. Calling people to watch her and Erik when he left the house. Each time she cried, the look on his face made her feel like he wished she could just get over what happened to Lia quickly so that she could cater to him once more.

Their last night together before he left for Wakanda was pleasant, almost their regular interaction as a family. She worked hard to show him that she was capable of being present for their son. It was also the first time they had sex together since Lia's death, and she only did it to please him, to make him feel like she was okay even when she didn't feel okay. It took her a long time to get self-lubricated, but their kissing took up a lot of time and allowed her body to ease into sex before he could notice that her senses were not in tune with his.

N'Jobu kissed her mouth for a long time before his hands even reached for her breasts or even tried to touch her between her legs. He was so happy and touch-starved for her that his focus was on sections of her. Her lips. Her tongue. Her throat. The tender spots behind her ears. The space between her breasts. Her nipples. Her belly. Her inner thigh and hips.

He kissed and licked her vulva as if it was his first time being down there, and by then, she was wet enough to accommodate his desperate erection. The moans and raspy grunts that fell inside her ear as he pumped in an out of her pleased her. She could still take care of him physically even if she wasn't really there emotionally for him. She opened her legs wide and when she looked up into his face, it was contorted in deep pleasure. His forehead creased tighter and he was exhaling hard pants.

"Califia…Califia…"

Back in Brazil she was depressed, anxious, and scared about his leaving, hungry for any physical contact with him. But now? She was ready for him to leave. She needed to grieve longer without the judgment in his eyes, without him making her feel guilty if she broke down in the middle of the day.

She put her pussy on him thrust for thrust and held his shoulders, her breath coming out faster as she felt him reaching his peak.

"Daddy—"

N'Jobu's lips thrust out when she said that.

"You ready for Daddy to cum?"

"Yeah—"

"Tell Daddy you want him to cum—"

"Jobu—"

"Tell me Califia…baby…tell me…"

He was gasping, twisting her leg to get leverage for more friction.

"…this pussy…" he growled in her ear.

"Yeah," she exhaled.

She could feel the solid fullness that his dick always filled her up with, but she wasn't really feeling anything, not in the way she wanted to but could not reach because of the trauma she was clinging to. She wished she could let go like him. Use sex to get a mental release. Her body wasn't giving her any signs of wanting to orgasm. And N'Jobu's dick was going at her hard as fuck. Their bed was shaking.

She wanted this to end before she started crying in the way that would upset him. She cradled his head and pressed her lips close to his ear.

"Cum in your pussy, Daddy…"

She dragged out the word Daddy so that it sounded reckless and raw and she felt her man seize up tight then thrust his hips into her hard, his voice gone. The swelled pulses coming from his dick only secured the knowledge that a flood of hot semen was coating her insides. She would still be dripping his seed even when he was flying across the Atlantic. And a nut that good to him would only encourage him to seek more.

He kissed her lips and along her neck, and when he pulled out of her, his mouth sought to eat her folds to make her cum. But she pulled him back up and hugged him. Once he realized she didn't want any more sexual contact, he held her tight and rocked her in his arms.

"You okay?" he asked, kissing her cheek.

"I'm fine. I just want to make you feel good."

"Let me take care of you, baby."

"You did," she said playing with the thick ejaculate spilling from her pussy. His eyes watched her fingers and he stroked his dick.

"I'm going to miss you," he said, his voice getting tight from seeing her shove her fingers inside her pussy.

"I'll miss you too," she said.

She played with her pussy lips for him until he lost it.

"Look how you make me nut!" he cried out, shooting cum on her fingers as she held her labia open for him. He had soaked up their sheets with his sweat and cum, but he held her on top of him until he fell asleep. When he was softly snoring, she crawled off of him and showered. Cleaning her body, she let her tears fall with the warm water flowing over her.

Her thoughts snapped back to Erik, and she surprised herself by eating more than she thought she would. Maybe her appetite had finally returned. Maybe she could get it together while N'Jobu was gone.

"We're going to see Grandpop and Nana Jean today," she said.

"Cool," Erik said stuffing his mouth with waffle.

"Baba, leave a voice message yet?" she asked.

"No. He texted that he made it to Atlanta. I missed the call on my phone," he said.

Califia had checked her phone, but nothing was there. He probably thought she was sleeping in again. At least he texted. She knew he was in Amsterdam for a layover. He always sent an email from a burner account when he made it to Wakanda.

Erik was watching her again.

"What?" she asked smiling at him.

"Nothin'. You look happy."

"I am happy."

Erik picked at his plate unsure of something.

"We're going to be okay, baby."

"I know you miss Auntie Lia, Mom. I miss her too."

The sound of her name still hurt and Califia felt her eyes prick with water. She fought to be strong. Their first day alone together and she didn't want her son to feel unsure of her. She crammed a sausage in her mouth and picked up a glass of orange juice.

"Nana wants to know what you want for dinner."

"Pizza—"

"Pizza? Nana said she was cooking and you want pizza? Boy, are you crazy!"

Erik giggled. He drank his juice and pushed back his plate.

"Enchiladas."

"That's better," she said.

After she cleaned up the kitchen, she drove them over to her grandmother's and as they walked up the hill to reach the house, they found Dante inside the garage working on his latest project; restoring a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle, midnight black, a pure brute swinging 450-horsepower battle axe.

Dante was on a roller under the car when they saw him.

"Hey now!" he said.

"Grandpop!" Erik squealed.

Dante rolled out from under the car and picked Erik up. He gave Califia a kiss on her cheek and patted her shoulder.

"Looking good, Cali," he said.

"Thank you, Daddy."

"There's my baby!"

Nana Jean walked out from the front porch.

"Nana, stay up there, we'll come up," Califia said heading toward her grandmother.

Erik ran past her and hugged Nana Jean's waist.

"Dayclean make it okay?" she asked.

"Yes," Califia said.

"Good."

Nana Jean made Erik help her fold laundry while Califia cleaned up the kitchen for her grandmother to make her enchiladas later in the day. Keeping busy with her family kept her mind away from sadness and she felt good. Real good.

She went into the small family room to do some dusting of cobwebs and family photos and her eyes caught sight of an old picture on the fireplace mantle of her and N'Jobu on the porch holding Erik when he was a baby and Califia felt her chest grow tight.

Seeing N'Jobu's face took her breath away and she felt guilty. Guilty for not giving all of herself to him before he left. Not just her body and mind, but her spirit as well. Lia was about moving forward, no matter what, and Califia let herself get stuck because of the rage she still felt. Erik was so adorable as a baby and the memory of that day weighed on her. She had sent that exact picture to Lia and Soliel, and Lia had texted her the moment she received it and told her to raise her son up well and strong.

She pulled her cell from her jean pocket and called N'Jobu's burner phone. The voicemail picked up right away.

"N'Jobu…baby, I miss you. Call me when you make it there…when you can get privacy. We're over at Nana's and everything is good. I just…I want you to know that I'm here. I'm here for our son, and I'm here for myself. I'm here for you. I need to hear your voice, okay?"

She wiped away a tear and smiled, still looking at the picture and his beautiful face. Those gorgeous teeth. Those full lips. The lips he gave their little boy. Those eyes that Erik also had—

Her cell buzzed and she recognized the burner number. She swiped her screen.

"Califia."

His voice made her gasp. Erik walked up next to her.

"Mom…"

"It's Baba," she said, wrapping her arm around Erik's shoulder.

"I'm leaving for Wakanda soon. I'm so glad you called me," he said.

"Babe…I've been so lost since we came home. I know you have tried your best to be understanding. I was stuck—"

"I know, my love, I know—"

"I promise you that you can have faith in me getting through this—"

"If I made you feel—"

"I shut everything out and made you take care of everything. It wasn't right. I'm standing here in Nana's family room and she has the picture of you and me when we first brought Erik here. I saw your face, baby…I saw your face and I forgot that you need me too…"

She could hear his voice shuddering over the phone like she had made him cry. He exhaled hard.

"I love you," he said, his voice soft and full of longing.

"I love you too…hey, quickly, talk to Erik before you have to turn your phone off," she said.

She handed the phone to Erik.

"Baba…yes…yes. I will. Uh, huh. They are fine. I know…I will. I love you too. Okay…"

Erik handed the phone back to Califia. She wiped her eyes with her free hand. Her nose felt runny.

"My love. There are some potential problems back home. My brother has some political dissenters, so I may not be able to speak to you as often as you would like. But don't worry. I will text and email you when I can—"

"You'll be safe right?"

"I will be fine. My brother will need me around him more, and because of that, I won't have a lot of privacy for security reasons."

"Okay," she said. He had confidence in his voice, and she knew that once he was in Wakanda, he would have his Doras with him. And those sistas did not play.

"Tell me you love me again," he said.

"I love you…we both love you very much—"

"Bye, Baba!" Erik yelled into the phone.

"Until I see you both again. Be well, my love."

Her lip trembled a little when he was gone. She looked down at Erik.

"Shall we go help Grandpop with the car?"

Erik nodded. He threw his arms around her waist and pressed his head into her chest.

"Don't worry, Mom. Baba will be back soon."

She stroked his hair and kissed the top of his forehead.

###

For security precautions, N'Jobu was escorted into Wakanda over the border of Canaan inside a military Tusk Fighter aircraft instead of one of the Royal crafts. Once he was flown secretly into the country, he was driven by a super discreet convoy with Ometeko and Yejide by his side. His two faithful Doras were thrilled to see him, but also hyper vigilante in watching over him as they moved through several Birnans to get to the golden one of his birth.

His parents greeted him under the cover of darkness as he was ushered into the palace.

His mother could not stop touching him, exclaiming that he looked a bit worn. Lia's death and his family struggles hovered over him, but speaking to Califia and Erik earlier in the day made him feel confident that he could get through this check-in.

As he walked through the palace and headed up to his brother's private suite, he thought of Califia and how their last night together was so one-sided in affection. He wanted her so bad that night.

After he had put Erik to bed and joined Califia in their bedroom, she was fully naked under the covers. He hadn't seen or felt her nude body in so long that the moment he slipped under the covers and felt her naked thigh and hip touch him, the thickening of his penis didn't take long. When she had allowed him to penetrate her, it felt different. She was going through the motions but he couldn't quite get her to connect with his pleasure. They had always had the ability to create a mesmerizing feedback loop in their intimacy, but that time, it didn't happen. Instead of stopping, he became selfish and took what she gave because he missed her sexually. He needed her body. He needed to feel her tight ring of muscles surrounding his manhood. He needed to feel those big tits and see them bouncing. He needed to feel his semen spurting inside of her, his sack draining weeks of build-up. He let his desire for her override any reason to stop and make sure she matched his vibe.

At that moment, the sex was great for him, but it was like the sex he had while in school; all about the pleasure that his dick got without concerns about love or the other emotional aspects of two humans connecting. They didn't make love. He just fucked her. And he was all about the fucking because he hadn't had it in so long.

But talking to her…hearing her tell him that she would be fine…she made him cry. She made him determined to push forth and plan the best strategy to free them all.

The elevator ride up to T'Chaka's suite felt long, but once he stepped out with Ometeko and Yejide by his side, his dip had returned to his step. His entrance into T'Chaka's private quarters was full of confidence.

"Uncle N'Jobu!"

T'Challa's voice surprised him and when N'Jobu turned to look at his nephew, his eyes grew wide for a second at how much older he looked. The twelve-year-old appeared before him in his royal purple pajamas, his once full head of curly hair cut short and tapered. His voice even sounded different. Clearly, puberty was upon him. N'Jobu's heart ached staring at him. He held out his arms and his nephew ran into them, hugging him hard.

"My nephew! What are you doing up so late?"

"I wanted to see you as soon as you arrived. I have missed you so much, Uncle!"

"Oh! How I have missed you too!"

N'Jobu saw his brother enter the room. No smile on his face. Just worry. And something else. Indignation.

N'Jobu saw another young boy standing off to the side, his big round eyes shyly watching N'Jobu as if he were in awe.

"And who is this?" N'Jobu asked, waving his hand for the child to step forward.

"W'Kabi, stop acting scared. It is only my Uncle. Uncle N'Jobu, this is my best friend, W'Kabi," T'Challa said.

"W'Kabi…W'Kabi? Why do I know your name?" N'Jobu asked. He could see the child wearing a blue night robe with the Border Tribe's dark blue sigil sewn into the collar. A horseman with a fluttering blanket wrapped around the shoulders.

"My father protects the borderlands, Your Highness," the boy said. He bowed his head to N'Jobu.

"Tankiso is his father,' T'Chaka said.

N'Jobu did his best to keep his reaction neutral. He knew the boy's father. Tankiso would be N'Jobu's inside man to help him smuggle the Vibranium out of Wakanda and into Niganda with Klaue when the time came.

"Pleased to meet you, W'Kabi," N'Jobu said. He held out his hand to shake, and W'Kabi stared at T'Challa first and then T'Chaka.

"Do not be foolish, W'Kabi, you can shake my Uncle's hand. He is a Prince like me. Not the King!" T'Challa laughed.

W'Kabi smiled and took N'Jobu's hand. It was a firm handshake and N'Jobu was impressed by the confidence he felt there.

"Alright, boys. Off to bed now. Prince N'Jobu and I must talk," T'Chaka said heading toward his private bar.

"Goodnight, Uncle," T'Challa said hugging N'Jobu once more. W'Kabi bowed and N'Jobu watched the two children leave the suite followed by T'Challa's personal Dora.

"They are like brothers," T'Chaka said handing N'Jobu a small glass of plum liquor.

Brothers.

If Erik were here, he would probably join along with his cousin, the three boys staying up late and giggling, maybe even running around the palace in secret like he and T'Chaka did when they were young boys long ago.

N'Jobu sipped the plum liquor thinking of his son. Erik would wear the silk robes of the Golden Tribe, N'Jobu's family sigil sewn into the collar. He could imagine hearing the sound of Erik's sweet laughter ricocheting off the high walls and ceilings of the Eastern Palace. The soft patter of Califia's feet would probably echo in the halls as she would no doubt be the one to hustle the boys back to bed. For a second, N'Jobu closed his eyes and tried to see her wearing his royal robes and returning to the large bed in his suite down below. He so wanted to make real love to her again. Body and soul together.

"No problems getting into the country, Baby Brother?"

"No," N'Jobu said opening his eyes back up and finishing the plum liquor.

"Sit," T'Chaka said.

N'Jobu padded over to the couch near the expansive window that reflected the twinkling of city lights below.

"Things are not well here."

"I have been made aware," N'Jobu said.

"Your thoughts?"

"I am shocked that the one man you have imprisoned, the one they say tried to plot an assassination…what proof do you really have to keep him incarcerated—"

"Proof? Are you implying that I would just throw someone into confinement just on a whim?"

"From what I have gathered on my own there has only been speculation and flexing—"

"Would you have me wait for outright harm to come to me or to someone in our family first?"

"Of course not—"

"Then why question my rule?"

"Will this man have a trial?"

T'Chaka waved his hand at N'Jobu.

"Enough. No more talk of this. It is not your concern."

T'Chaka poured more plum liquor into his glass and he held up the bottle for N'Jobu.

N'Jobu took the bottle and poured more in his own glass. They both sipped and eyed each other. There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," T'Chaka said.

Whoa.

A voluptuous young woman with flashing eyes stepped into the room wearing a long mauve River Tribe styled evening tunic.

"Your Highness," she said, keeping her eyes respectfully downcast when she saw N'Jobu. She was beautiful, her hair tied back allowing her thick braids to fall down her back and N'Jobu knew exactly what she was there for.

"Prince N'Jobu, let us speak more in the morning. Breakfast with Baba and Umama in the sunroom?"

"Yes," N'Jobu said, standing up. He glanced at the woman again and he couldn't help but let his eyes wander over what his brother was playing with at night. He knew for a fact that T'Chaka had several women in rotation for many years. It drove their parents crazy. Umama in particularly hated mistresses being anywhere near the palace, no matter who they were messing around with. Rumor had it that their own father tried to have a young plaything early in his marriage to their mother, but Umama took an ancient knife that allegedly belonged to the very first Black Panther, Bashenga, and threatened to cut off his scrotum and end the entire royal line of Udaku forever if he ever brought another woman into the palace. The fact that he and T'Chaka existed let N'Jobu know that his Baba must've stayed on the straight and narrow. There was no doubt that his mother would kill their father and any woman he had back then or now.

No wonder they wanted T'Chaka married again.

"This is Dineo. She will accompany you to your suite."

N'Jobu's eyes widened.

"A nice homecoming companion for you. It must be tough to find a beauty like this out there," T'Chaka said winking.

Crude. Distasteful. What was this? From his own brother?

Dineo allowed her eyes to rest on N'Jobu's face and he saw her lips part when she got a good look at him.

"Goodnight, T'Chaka," N'Jobu said putting his drink glass on the bar and leaving the room. Dineo followed him and Yejide followed them both.

When N'Jobu reached the private elevator, he turned to her.

"I do not need you," he whispered discreetly so Yejide didn't hear. Not that she didn't already know what Dineo was there for.

"I must accompany you to your suite regardless. The King has demanded this. Please, do not cause me trouble, Your Highness."

Dineo rode the elevator with him down to his suite.

When they reached the outside of his quarters, Ometeko looked shocked to see Dineo at his heels.

"Do not ask," he said to Ometeko as he swept into his space.

Dineo was right behind him when the doors swung shut.

"I am here. You can leave," he said, surprised that the woman even stepped into his private sphere.

Dineo fingered her braids and then allowed her long lashes to flutter as she placed her gaze fully on his face, all pretense of deference gone. She wanted to be there with him. Gently tugging on the clasps that held her tunic closed, the loose clothing dropped to her feet.

Shit.

Her nipples stood at attention as she played with them, and all those curves that the tunic hinted at earlier were more than true once fully revealed.

"I am here for you, Your Highness," she whispered.

"I understand that, however—"

"I hear you are known to make women cry when you make love to them, Your Highness."

He hadn't had sex with a woman in Wakanda for almost a decade.

"Dineo—"

"I have heard all the stories from here to Azania about you. I want you to make me cry," she said stepping toward him.

If this were another time, he would be all over this girl and rearranging her insides. But he had a woman at home that knocked him off of his feet, even five thousand miles away.

He turned his back on her and headed to his bedroom.

"Do not make me have you escorted out, Dineo," he tossed over his shoulder as he pressed his kimoyo beads opening his suite's front doors.

"Your Highness," Ometeko called into the space without entering.

"Please see to it that Dineo makes it back to her own home," N'Jobu said before slamming his bedroom door shut.

###

"N'Jobu."

His body relaxed when he saw Califia's face on his computer.

She was snug in their bed inside their townhouse.

"Erik is still asleep. Do you want me to wake him?"

"No, let him sleep. I sent him a recorded video for him to see when he wakes."

"How are things?"

"I'm still feeling things out. My brother is dealing with some political dissenters, some policy changes...blah, blah, blah." He tried to make things sound mundane to comfort her.

"You're not tired? You should be exhausted."

"I am," he said.

"It's raining here," she said, "a good clean rain. Everything smells so good outside."

"You sound well, my love."

"It's the rain. It makes me feel brand new. But it's not the same without you here to enjoy it with me."

She sat up in bed and he saw that she was nude.

"Baby, really? You know I'm on the other side of the world and you sit up there onscreen with those beautiful tits teasing me?"

She fondled her nipples for him.

"You're killing me over here," he said.

She really was, he felt his cock fatten in his pants.

"Let me really put you six feet under then," she said, peeling back the covers, showing him already plump glistening folds.

"Were you playing with yourself?"

"Mmmhmmm, right before you called," she sighed, her fingers plying her labia open.

"Fuck…Califia…"

N'Jobu groaned loud in his room and yanked down his pants.

Three fingers deep, Califia fingerfucked herself for him as he damn near stroked all the skin off of his dick.

When she came calling his name while staring at him, her legs spread wide, he shot thick ropes of his own cum onto his chest. He fell asleep to the sound of the rain falling on their skylight and her fingers playing with her clit ring, her voice softly telling him she loved him.

It was a blissful rest.

Chapter 21 HERE.

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tinkaranrmozelliny69insuran-blog · 5 years

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louisiana vehicle insurance

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brooksgdgw907 · 5 years

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Know the Conveniences of Cannabis

"Factors to Get a Medical Marijuana card

The Many Uses Marijuana: Do you deal with a degenerative condition? Are you experiencing an absence of rest or chronic pain? Do you make use of marijuana unlawfully and also want to stop risking your freedom and also income buying medications from offenders? If you can respond to YES to any of these, I can tell you that you are not the only one.

The marijuana-for-health motion has actually been expanding in numbers and also it is spreading out throughout the country. Annually, more and more states have politicians lobbying for marijuana reform as well as legislation that brings the healing benefits of marijuana to deserving patients. However that deserves to claim this reward? Can any person truly obtain a clinical marijuana card, or is it just for the seriously unwell and the terminally ill?

Obtaining Medical Cannabis Mistakes and also Misconceptions

Those who are brand-new to utilizing marijuana or are not familiar with marijuana used for legal and also medical objectives are around and also every day more of them are ending up being enlightened concerning the incredible benefits of coming to be a lawful marijuana patient. The first step for anybody inquiring about just how to get a medical marijuana card is to take unique note of the top mistakes made by aspiring individuals:

1. Absence of understanding of Marijuana Laws as well as the states that they apply in

People require to bear in mind that all types of use, property, and sale of marijuana are still illegal in the United States under federal regulation. Nevertheless, if individuals were to read the state regulations as well as do appropriate research study, they would know that state laws use a secure legal sanctuary for those that look for to use marijuana for its medical advantages and are consequently shielded by the state if they comply with ALL CORRECT STEPS.

2. Ambitious patients do not know the system for getting a Clinical Cannabis card

Cannabis itself is one of the biggest agricultural industries worldwide, as well as the branch of medicinal marijuana is massive by itself. This massive-scale company operates an extremely great line when attempting to consider the needs of the clients and the lawmakers. Those that do not understand the stress as well as demands of this sector are going to be rejected as a result of the truth that doctors, growers, 420 small companies, and also political leaders are all individuals pushing for a cause, and also they are really safety of their image. It would look extremely poor if stereotypical marijuana users were boasting to reporters concerning their capacity to rip off the system. Getting a clinical cannabis card in your state shields you by state guidelines making it a process that must comply with the laws.

3. People have no clue where to start

One of the most tough components concerning exactly how to obtain a clinical marijuana card in The golden state, or anywhere else, is starting the process in a correct and lawful method. Making use of a web internet search engine, one can see that a query for medical marijuana brings only a large number of promotions for medical professionals as well as dispensaries selling their items together with a political battleground over clinical web pages to offer strict constraints to their technique and just routine consultations with those who have satisfied credentials standards, while the dispensaries ridicule you with their stunning legal drug! So exactly how do you get this round rolling ...

Coming to be an individual

To get a clinical cannabis card in California or anywhere else, you only must have an accepted factor or problem, see a doctor that is authorized to recommend using marijuana, and then find a person that is legitimately accredited to ""supply"" you(it is unlawful to make money from the sale of marijuana, so collectives and also dispensaries only accept ""contributions"" in exchange for their items). This seems like a straightforward procedure, but it can only be done if you remember to not make the 3 most common mistakes!

Seems easy right?

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The issue is that individuals do not research the process well enough, and wind up being rejected when they go for their very first meeting with a ""pot doc"". Medical professionals have definitely no problem with just rejecting individuals who come in asking for medical marijuana as well as are unprepared. It is necessary that YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH PRIOR TO YOU GO TO THE PHYSICIAN!

I wish all the best to all aspiring medical marijuana patients out there as well as provide the comfort that with appropriate knowledge, you will certainly quickly have the ability to use the medication that you need if you appropriately sciatica relief queensbury inform on your own initially."

#CBD #cannabis #cannabidiol

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emilyzh2019-blog · 5 years

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My Craziest Travel Story

Somewhere In Mexico…

This is the story of how I accidentally wandered into an extremely remote Mexican village that was openly controlled by a ruthless drug cartel — and what happened next.

The other week I was taking an Uber from the airport, chatting with the driver about traveling and working around the world as a nomad.

After asking the standard question everyone asks “what’s your favorite country”, he wanted to know if I’ve ever felt in any danger while traveling.

Sure, I’ve been scared before.

When I crossed the border into Afghanistan by myself on foot.

Balancing on rusty beams 300 feet over a canyon in Spain.

Attempting to wade across a crocodile-infested river in Costa Rica.

Scuba diving without a cage in Fiji face-to-face with bull sharks.

Spending the night on an erupting volcano in Guatemala.

Illegally hopping a freight train while hitchhiking across America.

Yes, looking back, I’ve done some stupid & risky stuff over the years…

But the most scared I’ve ever been — was on a journey through Northern Mexico about 7 years ago. And it’s a story I’ve NEVER shared on this blog.

I wrestled with writing about this experience for a long time.

It just didn’t feel appropriate to share publicly, or even very safe for that matter. I was worried about the possible consequences for myself and others.

Yet I think enough time has passed that I finally feel comfortable sharing my crazy (and pretty dumb) encounter with dangerous members of a notorious drug cartel in the lawless mountains deep within Mexico’s Copper Canyon.

Maybe the story will be entertaining, but I hope you’ll learn something too.

The Sierra Tarahumara Mountains

Once Upon A Time In Mexico…

My tale begins in the Mexican tourist town of Creel. A major stop for the popular Copper Canyon Train which runs from the cities of Chihuahua through the Sierra Tarahumara mountains to Los Mochis on the coast.

After a very scenic (but uneventful) train journey through the mountains, I planned to explore more of this mountainous area on my own. Hoping to spend time with the Tarahumara, a Mexican indigenous group.

While chatting with locals, I learned of small villages at the bottom of the canyon that would present a more “authentic” Northern Mexican experience. Off-the-beaten-path if you will.

These places were not easy to reach, and the drive would take hours on rough mountain roads. I mentioned my plan to a local guy (let’s call him Fede) who I’d worked with earlier, and he offered to take me in his vehicle.

Fede wasn’t just some random dude. I’d already spent a few days traveling with him. Even crashing overnight at his family’s house. He was a well-known local professional. I trusted him completely.

Rugged Dirt Roads in Mexico

Surprises Down In The Canyon

I’m not going to name the specific village I traveled to in this story. However, I’m sure if you dig deep enough, you’ll probably be able to figure it out.

Because it’s not like what goes on down there isn’t unknown within Mexico.

Over the course of our 4+ hour drive down winding dirt roads into the depths of the Copper Canyon, Fede starts to share some unsettling information with me.

“When we get there, you may see some stuff that’s alarming. But don’t worry. They know you’re coming.” – Fede

“Wait, what?! What kind of stuff? Who knows I’m coming?” – Me

“The Cartel. They control this town. But when the guesthouse has a tourist, the owner informs The Cartel. They won’t bother you as long as you don’t do anything stupid.” – Fede

“……….” – Me

The Cartel he was referring to is the Sinaloa Drug Cartel. Aka Cártel de Sinaloa, aka the Guzmán-Loera Organization, aka The Blood Alliance.

The same cartel controlled by the notorious drug lord Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman, who was just on trial in the United States for drug trafficking, murder, and money laundering.

What the hell did I just get myself into?

The Golden Triangle – Drug Production Area in Mexico

Mexico’s Golden Triangle

The Golden Triangle is the nickname given to a remote and mountainous region in Northern Mexico that encompasses the states of Chihuahua, Sinaloa, and Durango.

It’s where Mexico’s powerful cartels have been growing billions of dollars worth of heroin & weed to supply an insatiable demand for drugs from the United States.

Cartels are able to produce drugs in the Golden Triangle because the area is so rugged & inaccessible that it can take hours to reach these small villages on unmarked dirt roads.

Mexico’s Copper Canyon, if you haven’t heard of it before, is a massive canyon that’s technically larger and deeper than the US Grand Canyon. It is the perfect hiding place for fields of illegally grown opium poppies & marijuana plants!

Combine this fact with a desperately poor workforce of indigenous people called the Tarahumara, and you’ve got a Mexican drug lord’s wet dream.

This is where I found myself.

On the edge of the Golden Triangle, in a village controlled by the Sinaloa Cartel.

The Only Bridge Into Town

A Surreal Travel Experience

As we pull into the village, over a narrow bridge, I see a kid talking into a military-style radio. He’s announcing our arrival to the cartel. My heart begins to race.

Further down the road, we pass a group of men dressed in black, armed with assault rifles. I begin to sweat.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all…

Fede notices my apprehension and assures me everything will be ok. I’m not the first tourist to visit this town.

Because the cartel doesn’t want to draw any attention to themselves, they’d never harm a tourist. That would force the military to intervene and ruin everything.

I check into my guesthouse, the only one in town, and we eat lunch at his friend’s place, which is basically a small restaurant run out of her home.

One of the Cartel’s Trucks

Keeping Tabs On Me…

Fede says his goodbyes and leaves town. He has to go back to work. So I’m on my own now. I walk around town. I visit some abandoned silver mines nearby.

I stop into the local museum and sign the guestbook (the last signature is over a month old).

I pass by the group of cartel members I saw earlier. We say hello to each other. While they certainly appear to fit the stereotype of hardened criminals, they seem friendly enough.

I still can’t quite believe this is happening.

My goal for the day is to visit an old Spanish Mission, located a few miles out of town. On the way, I run into a pickup truck with blacked-out windows on the side of the road. As I approach, the driver’s side window rolls down.

“¿A dónde vas?” says a large scary dude in a cowboy hat. There’s a beautiful woman half his age in the passenger seat.

“La misión Española” I reply. He nods, and the window slides back up. They’re keeping an eye on me. Making sure I don’t stumble into their fields of poppy or marijuana.

Friendly Mexican Drug Farmer

This Sack is Full of Weed…

Everyone Works For The Drug Cartel

Over the next few days, I learn that basically the whole town is working for the cartel. They are the sole employer.

I’m not sure if it’s by choice, or by the threat of violence, but growing and trafficking drugs for the cartel is how this town survives.

And some of them are not afraid to talk about it. Growing marijuana is as normal as growing corn. It’s just another crop — only one that pays much better.

After chatting with one local farmer for a while, he takes me up to a small barn behind his house, pulls out a large sack, and offers me two giant handfuls of freshly picked marijuana buds!

I start laughing, thanking him for his generosity, but explain that there’s no way I can bring his gift back into the United States with me.

But… because I’m a polite guy, I accept a few flowers so he isn’t offended.

This man isn’t some murderous cartel member, he’s just a friendly, impoverished farmer trying to make a living for his family with very limited opportunities.

Making Friends in Town

A Very Surreal Experience

So while the whole cartel situation had me feeling pretty nervous, this next part was the scariest moment of the whole few days I was down there.

My comfort level had been improving. I was getting used to chatting with cartel members each day. Maybe too comfortable.

One evening, a young Mexican guy dressed like a rodeo cowboy walks into the home-based restaurant where I’m eating dinner.

He’s wearing a pair of beautiful, very fancy white-handled revolvers on his hip. Like right out of your typical Spaghetti Western movie.

A heavily armed bodyguard wearing a bullet-proof vest waits for him outside.

We happily chat for a minute in Spanish, asking how I like the food, before they both disappear into the darkness of night. Everything is getting very surreal, and I seriously feel like I’m trapped in a movie.

On another occasion, I watch a team of five armed men loading blue 55-gallon drums of something from a truck into a guarded building.

Weed? Opium poppies? Human remains dissolving in acid? My imagination starts to run wild…

Sinaloa Cartel Members (Faces Censored for Safety)

Getting The Shot

I REALLY wanted a photo of one of these guys. No one would believe all this happened to me unless I had a photo!

So the next morning, I cut a small hole into the side of my backpack and tape a GoPro inside. My plan is to use “time-lapse” mode, quietly shooting photos automatically as I walk past them.

However as I approach, I decide to stop and chat. With my adrenaline pumping, I simply ask them directly. Pointing at the camera around my neck. What’s the worst that could happen?

“¿Puedo tomar tu retrato?” (Can I take your portrait?) – Me

“Jajaja… no.” – Cartel Dude

“Please? My American friends back home would love to see your big gun. I can leave your face out of it if you’d like.” – Me

“Jajaja… no. But you can get a photo of my amigo here.” – Cartel Dude

So, without thinking about the consequences, I aim my wide-angle lens at the truck driver sitting next to him. *CLICK*

Cartel Dude is in the photo too, but just doesn’t realize it.

Immediately I start to panic — internally. What if he asks to see the photo? That was so dumb! I’m going to get myself killed. Maybe I can quickly use the zoom button before showing it to him…

Fortunatley he never asks — and just assumes the camera wasn’t aimed his way.

I try to act normal, end the conversation, and walk off down the road contemplating just how stupid that was.

I think it’s time for me to leave this town.

Patrolling the Village

Mexico’s Remote Golden Triangle

Cartel Wars In The Mountains

As someone who has spent almost 2 years of my life both living and traveling through Mexico, I’ll be the first to tell you it’s one of my favorite countries.

I certainly don’t want my story to scare you from visiting Mexico. This is NOT a typical Mexican vacation experience.

I specifically went out of my way to visit a remote area that isn’t very safe. Even for the Copper Canyon itself — if you stay on the normal tourist trail you’ll be fine.

However if you venture off-grid in this region, there’s a lot of sh*t going on.

Mexico is an amazing and beautiful destination, but like any country, it can also be a dangerous one if you go looking for danger.

Golden Triangle In Flames Again (Borderland Beat)

Extreme Race in the Shadow of Extreme Danger (New York Times)

Drug Gangs Delay Sierra Trail Riders (My San Antonio)

One particular story that shook me recently was the murder of North Carolina teacher Patrick Braxton-Andrew, who was visiting a similar remote village in the same region last year.

That one hit close to home. A curious traveler looking for adventure, trying to get off the beaten path, exploring a dangerous area on his own… mistaken for a DEA agent and shot by the drug cartels.

When I first started traveling, I did many risky and stupid things seeking that addictive jolt of adrenaline. Hell, I haven’t completely cured myself of it even now!

Luckily everything has turned out ok so far, and I have some pretty incredible memories and stories to show for it.

But that isn’t always the case for everyone.

My Scariest Travel Story

I’m not sure if there is a lesson in this story. Maybe there are many.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes? Young people traveling with no responsibilities often take unnecessary risks for fun? Don’t be an idiot like me?

I’m sure I’ll be judged and ridiculed a bit for writing about this. That’s ok. It happened, and I have to live with it. I’m probably lucky to be living at all…

Have you ever done anything stupid like this while traveling? Taken on too much risk? Gotten yourself into a sticky situation that you regret later?

Frequent travelers have this insufferable tendency to “one-up” each other’s travel stories — and this one is mine. The one I share at bars after a few drinks.

Now it’s your turn to share.

Take a minute to quickly describe your scariest/dumb travel story.

If only to make me feel like I’m not the only one out there who’s done something stupid on the road…

Maybe we can turn it into a guide on “what-not-to-do while traveling.” ★

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