#tried bantu knots and they came out well

[solianapaeris]

[tamakishoochie]

Demons to some, Angels to Others

CW: BDSM, NSFW

18+ MDNI

Word count: idfk

The next few fics I post are from my Horror AU from my old blog. Enjoy 👯‍♀️✨

Pinhead!Aizawa x Black!Reader

You were a hobbyist that collected anything and everything horror related. From GhostFace’s infamous scream mask to Chucky’s notorious pair of Good Guy overalls. If you��ve seen it, you most likely had something that came from the movie. Recently, however, you discovered the horror film “Hellraiser” for the first time, and it did not disappoint! The storyline, the characters, it was all perfect! You didn’t know why, but in a sick and twisted way, you found the Cenobites strangely attractive. Was it the monster fucker side of you?

Perhaps..

But anyway, after witnessing the masterpiece that was ‘Hellraiser’, you decided to search for the main object that stood out the most in the film: the Lament Configuration Box

You needed that little box to complete your horror collection, and you wouldn’t eat or sleep until you had it. Carefully taking your bonnet off, you retwist your Bantu knots, slip on your favorite (insert favorite horror movie) tee shirt, throw on a pair of sweats and slides before grabbing your purse and making your way towards the front door of your apartment. There was a comic shop not too far from where you lived that also sold figurines and collectibles, so you started your search there.

As soon as you step foot into the shop, you head straight to the back towards a mini section of the shop labeled ‘collectibles’. You were on a MISSION.

You skim through the many items they offered, searching and digging from shelf to shelf, but couldn’t find the item you were looking for. Sighing, you trudge back to the front of the shop and right before you walk out, your eye catches the very thing you’ve been looking for placed right next to the cash register. The cashier was in the middle of giving another customer their receipt when he saw you practically run over to him. The look of pure obsession and desperation on your face creeped him out.

“Hello, um, is that box for sale?” You peeked over the counter at the box, eyeing it as if you were a predator eyeing its prey. Your eyes dart up at him, waiting for his answer.

“Uh, well, no. It’s for display only-“

“I’ll literally give you my entire wallet.” You deadpan, holding up your tattered, brown wallet in your left hand and the box you snatched up in the other.

There was a weird glint in your eyes that made the man shudder.

“You know what? Just take it…”

You smile and bolt out of the store with the box in your hands. Finally, it’s yours!

After making it back to your apartment, you plop down on your couch and waste no time in trying to solve the small puzzle box.

You spent the entire evening trying to solve it, a twist here, a little rotating there, and BOOM, you were stumped… AGAIN!

Your eye began to twitch from how annoying this was starting to get.

“Come on, bro…”

You tried solving it again for the 6th time and there was a click from the box, signaling that you did something right. With a few twists here and there you finally solve the damned thing.

“FUCK YEAAAAHHHH!” You scream out in victory, raising the box in the air as if to say ‘fuck you’ to a non-existent being.

Your little 5 minutes of triumph is interrupted, however, when your entire apartment starts to shake. Looking around frantically, you watch as your belongings fall from their respective shelves.

“What the hell is happening?!”

You quickly get down from the couch and crawl underneath your coffee table.

“This has to be an earthquake…”

You assume, bracing yourself for the worst. Right then and there, your floor began to crack open with smoke emitting from the large cavity that’s been created in the middle of your apartment.

A man emerged from the newly made portal and you could feel your heart drop to your ass. Other than the fact that he looked like he worked as a dominatrix, the thing that stuck out the most to you were the pins lodged in all over his face.

His eyes and hair were coal black and his skin was a pale, ash-blue color. With the bags under his eyes, he appeared to be sleep deprived.

You cover your mouth with one hand, trying not to make a single sound so that you wouldn’t give away your position.

“I know you’re here somewhere, you summoned me, after all..”

the man spoke, his voice deep and gritty.

You were shitting bricks from how absolutely TERRIFIED you were, but you didn’t want to wait for this stranger to find you.

Slowly, you crawl out from your hiding spot and you make sure to keep an eye on him.

“Who..”

You started to speak but the fear in your voice would be too easy to identify.

“Who are you?..”

The man stared you down HARD, his gaze never wavering. The two of you maintained eye contact for a while until he finally spoke again.

“I like to think of myself as an explorer in the further regions of experience. I may be a demon to some and an angel to others..”

You blink stupidly at his response. WHAT?

“Okay…but do you have a name?”

The man, rubbing the stubble on his chin, paced around your living room while a dark, disturbing aura surrounded him.

“My last victim gave me an interesting nickname. Pinhead, is what they called me, but if I can remember correctly, my real name…is Aizawa.”

He took a couple of steps towards you, making you back up in response.

“Why are you here?”

Aizawa points to the very thing you’re clutching in your trembling hands.

“Because you solved the lament configuration box. I’m here to take you back to my domain and torture you for all eternity.”

Looking down at the box, you look it over a few times before putting your focus back on Aizawa. He’s gotten dangerously close now.

“But I don’t understand, it’s just a stupid puzzle box!”

“No, my dear, it is a means to summon me. I came so now you must come with me. Taste the pleasure I have in store for you, please~…”

With an outstretched hand towards you, he beckons you to come a little closer to him with a small smirk on his surprisingly handsome face. The scar on his upper right cheek didn’t help either. You were a sucker for scars.

“Is this some weird sex thing?” You accused, pointing rudely at him.

“First you wanna torture me and now you want me to experience pleasure with you! You’re a total sadist, dude..”

Taking his hand back, he stares at you curiously. A sadist? Is that what he is? Hmm..

He didn’t know what it was, but something about you made his heart thump a little harder. He could tell you were gonna be defiant, real bratty, but he knew how to deal with people like you.

“You won’t be coming with me then, I presume?”

Aizawa concluded while you sat back down on your couch with your arms crossed.

“Not a chance, Pinhead.”

Oh this was going to be fun

“Suit yourself~..”

You smirk, thinking you’ve bested the BDSM demon but then you feel something wrap around your wrists. Before you can even process what was happening, you’re being hoisted up and suspended from your ceiling, swinging around and being supported by a weird looking scarf. The material was wrapped around your waist with your arms tied tightly behind your back.

“Wha-“

“You stay right there. There are certain...items…I need in order to tame that attitude of yours~..”

Aizawa gently slaps the side of your cheek before disappearing back into the same portal he crawled out of. You were left hanging there in your living room, legs kicking to keep yourself from spinning around.

A few hours later, he comes back with a large, latex duffel bag and a sadistic smile on his face. Placing the bag down on your coffee table, he spins you around so that your ass is facing him. With large, calloused hands, he hooks his thumbs on the hem of your sweatpants and pulls them down along with your panties.

Heat began to rise from your neck all the way up to your cheeks.

“What are you doing? I-I’m a virgin!”

You blurt out in hopes to cease whatever the hell he was planning.

“Do not worry, I’m not here to deflower you, little one. All you need is a little..correcting..”

Licking his lips, Aizawa kneads the brown, smooth flesh of your ass in his hands. It’s been centuries since he’s felt the skin of a woman and his cock twitched just from the very thought of leaving scars and bruises on you.

The sick and twisted being inside him was barely being kept down. He didn't need anything more than to screw that perfect, tight pussy until you were unable to say your own name, yet you had to be taught a lesson first.

He began to dig in his duffel bag, rummaging around through the many ‘correcting’ items he had stuffed in there. You, on the other hand, continued to run your mouth absentmindedly, not knowing you were in for a rude(maybe even pleasurable?) awakening.

“Ah, this will suffice.”

Aizawa muttered as he pulled something that resembled a belt out of the bag. Your eyes widen after you realize he was being serious about this. A little spark started up inside of you and your heart thumped loudly.

For a while now, you’ve been trying to find someone to do this sort of thing with, but couldn’t find anyone. This might be a one in a lifetime chance to indulge in your kink, even if it had to be with a sadistic dominatrix demon.

“Jokes on you, I’ve been wanting to do something like this. In fact, this was all apart of my plan. I have you exactly where I want you.”

You spoke to the demon confidently as he tucked his fingers over the buckle to ensure the metal wouldn’t strike you.

He wanted to hurt you, not harm you after all. You were far too interesting to harm. For now, anyway.

“Is that so?~..” Aizawa was intrigued at your sudden boost of faith. He was gonna have fun with you.

“Yep. I can take whatever you’re giving.” You smirked, clearly bluffing, but you wouldn’t let him know that. You were too stubborn.

You continued to run your mouth while Aizawa tilted his head to the left a bit to get a good angle on your ass. God, he’s never seen a woman with an ass like that in AGES. It was a good thing too, just the right amount of fat to keep him from hurting you TOO badly.

“And another thi- OW FUCK!” You were cut off by the black, leather belt striking you hard against your ass. You swung slightly from the impact with your head hanging forward, gasping out a sob.

“Aw, what happened? Cat got your tongue?” Aizawa hummed before digging in his bag again before pulling out a small, slender vibrator out from his bag and slipping the cold object inside of you. It slipped in easily because of how wet you already were. Heat rose to your cheeks from embarrassment.

“That fucking smarts..” you mumbled, and swallowed. You weren’t going to break so easily, though.

“L-like I was saying-HNG!!” You bit your bottom lip hard as he gave you another lash on your other ass cheek.

“Sorry, can you repeat that last part? I didn’t quite catch it~..” Aizawa flipped on the vibrator and your thighs clenched together immediately.

“I wonder how well you can speak with a mouth full of my cock. Keep it going, little one~..” he rubs the already former welts on your ass with his cold, large hand while he snakes the other one down to unbutton his pants.

You could hear the zipper of his pants being undone and you quickly looked down between your legs, seeing his massive cock just dangling there.

Aizawa took notice.

“Like I said before, I’m not gonna fuck you. My word is bond, I assure you.” He gives your ass a few loving kisses before making his way around to face you. Lifting your head up, he makes you look him in the eyes. His cold, black eyes.

“If you need a break, just let me know, okay?” His voice sounded so serious, as if he actually cared about your well being.

You give him a nod, but then another smirk spreads across your face.

“For the record, you hit like a bitch~..”

You saw his eye twitch before giving you a genuine laugh. Who knew demons were so whimsical?

“You know, you ought to watch your mouth, sweetheart..”

Grilling a handful of your kinky curls, he sighs after releasing a few more giggles.

“That’s alright, I’ll watch it for you~..”

With another wack from his belt against your ass, you scream out and suddenly feel your mouth being filled. You felt the tip of his cock prod against the tight muscle ring of your throat, but he was not satisfied with just that. Another loud, hard smack and your scream opened your throat just enough for him to push farther forward, making you choke.

You were only three-fourths of the way down his shaft but he wasn’t going to stop there.

[redgillan]

Under Pastel Skies - 6

Sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Modern!AU Bucky doesn’t need anyone, especially not a sugar baby. He isn’t that desperate… but she smiles so sweetly and she’s endearingly awkward, and he’s so lonely. She’s an artist, a painter, the type of person who always puts others before herself. Throwing caution to the wind Bucky offers her a place to live, a place where she can finally paint whatever her heart desires. He doesn’t need much in return; a friend, a muse.

Word Count: 4,327

Warnings: panic attacks, Bucky recalls his accident

A/N: I don’t have much to say, Bucky’s real emotional in this one. I hope you enjoy this chapter :’) 

Wannabe sugar daddies don’t interact, idc if you have money, eat it and leave me be.

Everywhere Bucky looked his eyes and ears were assaulted by a cacophony of sounds and colours. Red and green baubles hung from the ceiling, shimmering like disco balls and sending sparkles around the mall.

The air smelled like pine and cinnamon, something he usually liked, but it was so pungent and unpleasant that it made his stomach churn and bile rise up his throat. He tried to breathe through his mouth, forcing oxygen into his lungs.

Flashes of silver and gold momentarily blinded him, and as someone walked past him, their shopping bag knocked against his leg. It didn’t hurt but it made him seethe with misplaced anger. Beads of sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

Christmas carols played over the mall speakers, more specifically Jingle Bells which they played three times in less than an hour. Enough, enough, enough. He was suffocating, unable to breathe. He felt too big for his own skin, he needed to escape.

Then he felt your hand at the small of his back, guiding him toward what looked like a furniture store. He followed blindly, his vision blurry and unfocused, and sat down when you gently pushed him down onto a sofa.

Bucky shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushion. A woman came up and asked if you needed help but you told her that everything was fine. The buzzing in his ears made the voices around him strangely soothing, as if he was underwater. Now that he was sitting down, he felt a lot better.  

You didn’t try to touch him, something he was very grateful for. He could feel your weight shift next to him and knowing you were there was enough. He focused on you –your heat, your voice, the smell of your shampoo- and his breathing slowly returned to normal.

“Sorry,” he breathed out with a small smile, his head lolling to one side to look at you. “I ruined our shopping spree.”

The fear and panic had dissipated, leaving him cold, exhausted and craving skin to skin contact. He took your hand and linked your fingers together. Your hands were freezing cold.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I did.” A sad smile curved his lips, he needed to change the subject. “Do you celebrate Christmas?”

You sank further into the sofa cushion sitting shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.

“We celebrated so many different holidays,” you said. “Perks of growing up in a multicultural family. Christmas was wild though. One tree, five kids. That poor thing never stood a chance. Now I don’t really celebrate anything. December used to be so much fun, now it’s just not the same.”

“We should create our own holiday,” Bucky suggested, squeezing your hand.

“Aren’t you going to see your family?”

“Nah,” he replied with a yawn. “My sister is taking her kids somewhere warm, and my parents are traveling the country in their RV. You can invite your siblings if you want.”

“They’re not available.”

Bucky tried to decipher the expression on your face. Every time you talked about your siblings, you had a faraway look in your eyes, as though you were reliving a memory. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking but your face twisted into a painful grimace. Then suddenly it was gone.

“I want a tree.”

He watched you with a lazy smile. “I’ll get you a tree.”

You pulled him up to his feet and decided it was time to go home. Home. It still made Bucky weirdly warm inside when you called his apartment ‘home’. You crossed the mall, your arm looped through his as you walked, and took a cab to Brooklyn.

He almost fell asleep from the gentle rocking of the car moving through the streets of Manhattan. When he glanced at you, you were looking out your window watching the snow fall.

You’d been living together for almost two months now and Bucky couldn’t have picked a better roommate. He liked the way you sang in the shower, loud, cheerful and most definitely off-key. He liked that you had more pyjamas than every day clothes. He liked watching you paint from the living room, and it always made him laugh when you added weird things to his grocery list.

He could go to bed and sleep the whole night without waking up, feeling safer knowing someone else was there. Of course, not everything was perfect but it was close enough.

He woke up on the sofa a few hours later, still dressed and with a fluffy blanket thrown over him. The sun was setting, painting the sky with reds and oranges. He basked in the setting sun, a content smile on his face, before he sat up.

The TV was on, the volume low, and you were sitting cross-legged on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table going through a bunch of old photographs. Bucky looked around the room, taking in the new furniture and decor.

There was a comfortable armchair in front of the gas burning fireplace. Your book was resting on the seat of the armchair. You had also bought a lot of decorative pillows, some were pretty funny like the one that looked like a giant cookie.

“Whatcha doing?” he asked, his voice gruff with sleep.

You looked over your shoulder at him. “Hey, you’re awake! I bought some picture frames. I thought it’d make this place look less like a high end furniture store.”

“I liked it better when you thought this apartment was amazing.”

You laughed. “I still do, but it’s a bit... soulless.” You tilted your head back, looking at him upside down. “Sorry.”

“Gotta call a spade a spade,” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “All right, well, while you do that I’m going to start dinner.”

He pushed off the sofa but you caught his wrist before he could leave. “I���m already done. I’ve left some frames for you.”

“I already have lots of pictures upstairs.”

“I know, but no one ever goes upstairs,” you replied, letting go of his wrist. “And you’re not in any of the photos.”

Bucky’s eyes were drawn to the picture you were holding. It must have been taken on the day of your high school graduation, you were dressed in a cap and gown, smiling with your whole face. He’d never seen you smile like that. He recognized Peggy Carter right away, her hair was more silver-white than brown and there were deep wrinkles around her eyes.

Your mom wasn’t looking at the camera, she was scolding the young man who was giving you bunny ears. The man was grinning mischievously at the camera. Bucky couldn’t tell how old he was, he appeared to be either twenty or fifty.

There were two other women wearing sundresses, one had long brown hair, the other had twisted her hair into Bantu knots. A young man with dyed silver hair and dark roots was squatting in front of you, his arms crossed over his chest à la Backstreet Boys.

“You should frame this one,” he said, sitting on the floor next to you.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. It makes me kinda sad.”

Bucky learned not to dwell on the past. It hadn’t been easy but it would have been impossible to heal without the support of his friends and family. Grief manifests itself in a number of ways, it’s raw and complex, and comes from your soul. 

Bucky had a deep love for his childhood, especially his college years, but while he would cherish this time forever, he had accepted that he was a different person. He wasn’t the same naïve, youthful man he used to be, and it wasn’t a bad thing.

But he also knew that some people live in the past. It makes them feel alive.

“Y’know,” he started, meeting your eyes with a smile. “My hair used to be pretty long. I think I still have some photos in a folder somewhere.”

You clasped your hands together in a silent prayer. “Bucky, I’m going to be honest with you,” you deadpanned. “I need to see those pictures. I need them now. It’s a matter of life and death.”

He rolled his eyes while he got to his feet. “You’re so dramatic. I’ll go get ‘em.”

Bucky took the stairs up to his office and came back a few minutes later with a laptop under his arm. He sat on the floor next to you and set the laptop on his lap.

“You promise you won’t make fun of me?”

“Absolutely,” you replied, mimicking a Cheshire cat grin.

He sighed and tried to look stern but it was nearly impossible. You were too lovely, and he couldn’t help but smile. He opened up the laptop and glanced at you from the corner of his eye; you were practically vibrating.

He started going through the photos when he found one of himself at a party. He was in his early twenties, slumped in a chair, his eyes glassy and unfocused. In the next one he had been joined by two equally drunk women, and he was now roaring at the camera.

“Early twenties, two arms, and not a care in the world,” he said with a little sigh.

You leaned forward, your elbow resting on the coffee table. “Looks like you were having fun.”

“College was a lot of fun,” Bucky said, grinning to himself.

“What was your major?”

“English,” he replied. “I was a really good student, I could have chosen anything but there were more girls studying literature so I enrolled as an English major.”

“Wait!” You recoiled as if you had misheard him. “Did you really choose English because there were more girls?”

He made a funny grimace, and his nose scrunched up a bit as he mulled it over. “Yeah... my priorities were a bit mixed up. Hormones and all.”

You lowered your face into your hand and laughed. When you looked up at him, he was sporting his boyish grin and you shook your head at him.

In the next picture, he was clad in a black university graduation gown standing next to a blond man also dressed in a black gown. They were smiling, sunglasses perched on their nose.

“When I graduated, I had no idea what to do with a BA in English,” Bucky said after taking a long look at the photo. “The thing is, I never found my life’s calling. In high school I didn’t know what job I wanted to do, or what really motivated me, and to be honest I never really thought about it. I figured I’d find my passion in college but...” he trailed off with a shrug. “You’re lucky to have found your passion.”

“Is that why you want to help me?” you asked. “Because I found my calling and I wasn’t pursuing it.”

He tilted his head to one side, considering. “Yes, I guess that’s part of the reason why I want to help you.” He took a shuddering breath.

“Turns out I wasn’t the only one struggling to keep my head above water.” He pressed his index finger to the computer screen. “This is Steve, my oldest friend. He had just started working as a professional freelance photographer. I had nothing to do so I decided to help him build his portfolio. You’re an artist, I’m sure you know that a portfolio will make or break you.”

“It shows what you’ve accomplished, the skills you mastered,” you said, nodding. “Your potential employers will want to see your portfolio.”

“Exactly, and you have to show them your best work. In Steve’s case, it meant taking risks. No matter how talented you are, no one’s gonna pay you for a shot of the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s gorgeous but it’s not rare.”

“So what did he do?”

“We decided to climb Mount Everest.” He mechanically rubbed his stump and your eyes followed his movement. “It might’ve been the dumbest idea we’ve ever had but it sort of made sense at the time. Steve needed a challenging project and I was trying to find my purpose. We trained for a year, put money aside and took a loan. We were young, we thought we were invincible.

“The thing is,” he continued, “Mount Everest is the most famous mountain in the world. It’s crowded and only half the climbers reach the summit. A lot of people die.” He took a small pause. “Sometimes they can’t remove their bodies and they become landmarks. Our Sherpa told us about this man, they call him Green Boots. He’s sort of curled up in a fetal position near what they call Green Boots’ cave. When you walk past him, it looks like he’s just sleeping and because it’s so cold out there he’s actually well-preserved.”

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah, it’s awful,” Bucky let out a small, humourless laugh. “When I fell, I dislocated my arm and it pinched my axillary artery completely closed. It cut off circulation. That’s why they had to amputate. I was just lying there, too weak to call for help, watching people walk past me. They thought I was dead. And I remember thinking, ‘I’m going to die here. I’m going to die here and people will refer to me as Blue Jacket.’ Then Steve and the Sherpa found me, and Steve carried me on his back until they found a shelter. When the rescue team arrived, it was too late to save my arm.”

He went through the photos in silence and glared at the screen without really seeing it, his mind far away. On the screen, there was an endless stream of blurry smiles and blue eyes but he couldn’t look away. His thoughts cleared up when he felt the back of your knuckles along his cheek and jaw.

He unclenched his teeth, feeling the pain in his jaw. You brushed your fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. You mindlessly played with the curl on top of his head and raked your fingernails gently over his scalp. When you spoke, your voice was just a soft whisper.

“Come back to me.”

Bucky forced his eyes shut and swallowed past the lump in his throat, tears pooling on his lower lashes. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. After a moment, he felt his body beginning to relax.

“How do you do that?” he asked in a pleading voice, turning his head to look at you. “How do you quiet the noise in my head?”

The question caught you off guard but you recovered quickly. You took his arm and draped it over your shoulders. “I don’t know,” you said, snuggling into his side. “It’s your second panic attack today. Did I push you too hard?”

“No.” His response was immediate. “I don’t like winter. It’s freezing cold and it gets dark at three thirty. Not my favorite time of the year.”

“But this helps, right?” you asked, waving your hand back and forth in the space between you.

He chuckled. “Yeah, it helps a lot.”

“Good.” You snuggled a little closer.

“But since you’re hoarding my arm, you’re gonna have to go through the pictures yourself,” he added, grinning down at you.

“Sorry,” you laughed. You reached out and slid two fingers over the touchpad guiding the cursor over the arrow icon. “So where are those pictures of you with long hair, uh?”

He knew you were trying to distract him but still made him blush. Those photos were in a folder titled: recovery spring 2010. He gave you directions to find it and waited for your reaction, wondering if you would burst into laughter at the sight of him with long hair and a lot more weight on.

“Wow.”

Bucky turned his attention to the screen to see which one had caught your interest. It was a selfie Steve had taken one sunny afternoon after he had forced Bucky to go out with him and Sam. They were sitting outside drinking iced tea.

Steve’s smile was blinding. He was wearing that stupid baseball cap he loved so much. Bucky sat hunched over in his seat behind Steve, his smile small but genuine. It was the kind of smile that said ‘my friends forced me to join them but I’m secretly glad they did’. Sam was leaning sideways against Bucky, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

“You look like a completely different person,” you said. “So... strong.”

“Hey!” he gasped in mock offense. “How dare you? I’m still strong.” He removed his arm from behind your shoulders and raised it to flex his biceps. “Look at that!”

With a roll of your eyes, you let your hand roam over his muscular arm slightly squeezing his biceps. “Okay, I’m impressed.”

“Ah! Thank you,” he said with a pleased smile. “Now, c’mon, s’ time to eat.”

Bucky got to his feet and extended his hand to help you up. You trailed behind him as you walked toward the kitchen. “I bet Steve could rip a log in half with his bare hands.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Where is he?”

“Hard to say. He works for National Geographic now. I think he’s supposed to be in Siberia.”

You spent the next few days like tourists. You showed Bucky your favourite museums, stayed way too long in front of several artworks but he never complained. Bucky took you to the movies. You sat together in the dark for several hours watching foreign films, and you only fell asleep once. Then the two of you would walk around Manhattan speaking in a made-up language and pretending to be characters in a movie.

Bucky couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so carefree. A little voice in the back of his head kept repeating ‘enjoy it while it lasts’ but he chose to ignore it.

“Thanks for helping me with this,” Bucky said, gesturing at the tree in the living room. “She went to the store to buy some ornaments.”

He handed Sam a bottle of beer which he took with a smile before tipping it to his lips for a long drink. Bucky hit his beer bottle on the counter to uncap it and followed Sam into the living room.

“She’s excited, uh,” Sam said with a grin. “You guys are spending Christmas together?”

“Liss,” Bucky replied after taking a swig of beer. “We’re celebrating Liss this year.”

“’The hell is that?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s an old word. It means comfort, happiness.” A respite from pain. “We decided to make our own holiday. We’re going to spend two days in our fanciest loungewear, eating junk food and playing board games.”

“Cute,” Sam drawled out. “When’s the wedding?”

“Don’t say that.” Bucky glared at him. “Why do you always do that? I finally feel at peace with myself. I’m happy, I’m ready to take on new challenges. Why do you always have to make fun of me?”

Sam’s eyes widened at this. “Woah, I’m joking. It’s what we do. You tease me, I tease you. C’mon, I know things have been hard for you. I’m proud of you,” he rushed to say, afraid he might have hurt his friend’s feelings, but then he caught Bucky’s barely concealed smirk behind his beer bottle. “You’re messing with me.”

“Of course, man. Can you say ‘I’m proud of you’ again? Wanna make it my ringtone.”

“Screw you.” They sipped their beer in silence, each deep in thought. “But you like her, right?”

Bucky twirled the neck of the bottle between two fingers. “I do, she’s nice.”

Sam shook his head like he was frustrated with the answer “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not in love with her, Sam.”

“I never said anything about being in love.” He was silent for a moment before he added, “Beside there’s an entire world between like and love.”

Bucky caught a glimpse of hurt and fear in the depths of Sam’s eyes. He reminded him of Steve: strong yet vulnerable, generous and righteous. Bucky had a feeling Sam wasn’t talking about you.

“Is this about Natasha?”

Sam hung his head and stared at the beer bottle he rolled between his hands. “Sometimes I feel like it was inevitable. These sugar daddy relationships are complicated; at first it’s fun and easy, we both get what we want.” He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “And then it changes, so fast you barely see it coming, and it becomes the only thing you look forward to.” He took another swig of beer.

“These few hours with her mean more to me than anything else in this goddamn world. But it’s not real, none of this is real.”

“How do you know it’s not real?” Bucky asked, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“I pay her.” Sam gave him a sad smile. “She spends time with me because I pay her. Sex wasn’t part of our deal but it came naturally. It’s going to end, one way or another. And If my time with her is limited, why make things complicated, y’see?”

An uneasy feeling gnawed at Bucky’s stomach, taunting him, trying to make him see something he wasn’t ready to see yet. “What if she feels the same way ‘bout you?”

“I don’t know,” Sam sighed. “To know that I’d have to talk to her, and I’d rather not take my chances. I’m happy with the way things are right now. It hurts, but I’m okay.” He leaned back and made himself comfortable. “You gotta be careful, Bucky. I see the way you look at your angel. You’re skating on thin fucking ice.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Like, love,” Sam said, weighing the two words. “And everything in between.”

They mulled over Sam’s words while they finished their beer. A million thoughts raged through Bucky’s head, circling around like wasps, buzzing and annoying. He was relieved when he heard the front door open.

“Italian leather loafers, mmh is Sam here?” you called out from the kitchen where you set your shopping bag down on the table before you joined them in the living room. “Hey guys! What’s the matter? You both look like someone kicked your puppy-OH MY GOD! LOOK AT THAT TREE!”

While you ran across the living room, Sam cast Bucky a look. The message was clear; be careful. They got to their feet and acted like nothing happened. Sam put on his coat and gave you a quick hug before he left.

Bucky was silent while you were decorating the tree. He let you decide where you wanted to put the tinsel and baubles. He just sat there with a vacant look in his eyes, handing baubles. A smile curled his lips when you cupped his cheek and ran the pad of your thumb along his cheekbone. He looked up at you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Bucky said with a small smile. “Just old and moody.”

You laughed. “Come here, help me with this. It’s actually super boring when no one’s fighting for the baubles.”

“Oh, you wanna fight, angel,” he said with a smirk while he played with a tinsel garland. “Ok, let’s fight.”

You took a step back. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Too late!”

You shrieked when he launched himself at you. He wrapped the tinsel garland around you, loosely pinning your arms to your sides. You laughed so hard your eyes watered and your shoulders shook. He used it to his advantage and looped two baubles over your ears like giant earrings.

Still laughing, you tugged one of your hands free and threw a handful of tinsel all over Bucky before you ran away. He chased you around the living room, using one of the fairy lights as a lasso.  

Soon, the living room was a giant mess. There was more tinsel in Bucky’s hair than on the tree, and you had managed to wrap the fairy lights around his body. You look pretty ridiculous with your giant earrings and dishevelled hair.

You and Bucky collapsed on the floor, out of breath and euphoric. The sun was starting to set behind the skyscrapers casting a warm golden glow over the room. You turned on the fairy lights and burst out laughing when Bucky sparkled like a tree.

He found his phone on the sofa and handed it to you. You opened up the camera app and nestled closer to him. The first photo was blurry because you couldn’t stop laughing. Bucky thought the second photo was nice but you didn’t like it.

“My smile is too wild,” you said.

“You look beautiful,” he argued. “I look like a Christmas tree.”

Bucky felt a pleasant stir in his belly when you placed your head on his shoulder. Be careful. He could practically hear Sam’s voice in his head. His chest was hurting. It wasn’t unpleasant, just peculiar and unexpected. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek on top of your head.

“Bucky! You have to open your eyes,” you scolded him after looking at the picture, unaware of his inner turmoil.

He wasn’t sure he could; tears were welling up in his eyes. He was terrified of his feelings for you, but his body was screaming at him to stop burying his head in the sand. He didn’t want you to see the tears in his eyes, he didn’t want to alarm you, because the truth was, he hadn’t been careful.

“Can’t. I’m comfy,” he replied, masking his true feelings behind a joke.

“Open them or I’ll tickle you.”

He chuckled. “Okay, okay, no need to use force.”

He soldiered on and opened his eyes, smiling at the camera. He liked you, and he promised himself he would never tell you. His feelings didn’t matter, it wasn’t part of your deal.

Part 7

[militantinremission]

All 'Skinfolk' aren't 'Kinfolk'

I begin this 'rant' by stating that I identify as Pan Afrikan, & as a 3rd Generation Garveyite. I love my People throughout The Diaspora, even though I KNOW that many of them don't like me. I wasn't really aware of just how many held this 'dislike', until Black America started talking about Reparations specifically for American Descendants Of (Chattal) Slavery. The last 2 1/2Yrs have been eye opening, to say the least, as a Hidden Agenda is literally appearing before Our eyes .

Since Antonio Moore & Yvette Carnell sparked the (current) discussion, the loudest & most dismissive critics of Reparations, have been Descendants of Black Immigrants. Our Immigrant Family in Politics & Mainstream Media have made their thoughts known early & often. Joy Reid for instance, literally led The Anti- Reparations Charge, by regularly referring to Us as 'Russian Bots' on MSNBC. Not to be outdone, Roland Martin called Us 'Xenophobic Race Purists', & tried to rationalize why people like him deserve a seat @ Our Reparations Table.

Around the same time, Hollywood began to carpet bomb Us w/ Black American Narratives featuring Black Immigrants w/ limited knowledge of Black American/ ADOS History. Despite a history of showing contempt for Black American Culture, & a possible family link to Slave Trading, Cynthia Erivo is 'cherry picked' to play Harriet Tubman AND Aretha Franklin. Meanwhile, a 31Yr Old Daniel Kaluuya is also cherry picked to play 21Yr Old Fred Hampton.

Despite the complication it presented in choosing a [realistic] Cast & telling a credible Story, Producers thought Kaluuya's 'Star Power' would overcome any inconsistency. In the end, Erivo & Kaluuya's performances were less than memorable, but they allowed Hollywood to present a watered down portrayal of Black American Icons to global audiences. It's really no different from the 'King Tut' (Tut Ankh Amen) Mini Series featuring Arabs (& Ben Kingsley) as Ancient Egyptians/ Kamau.

I understand, & can appreciate on some levels that Our Immigrant Family are living Their American Dream. That said, i'm starting to get annoyed by the NEED to point out that Their 'Dream' came @ the expense of My Ancestors HERE. My ADOS Progeny continues to fight & die for Rights that are shared w/ Immigrant Family w/ NO SKIN IN THE GAME... Where is the Respect? All I hear, are insults & White Supremacist stereotypes. Some have the audacity to say that Black America/ ADOS is 'lost' & has No Culture, while emulating the Fashion, Style, Language, & Music of Our Culture. The subject of Nicki Minaj caught my attention, because She plays a role in the blatant disrespect of Black American/ ADOS Culture.

Watching Joy Reid's 'plea' to Nicki Minaj got me thinking- Why is Joy acting like Nicki Minaj has enough influence to persuade Blackfolk not to take the COVID Vaccines? It's not like she's relevant in Pop Culture, or some kind of Health & Wellness spokeswoman. It looks like she's trying to stay relevant. Nicki Minaj JUST called out Michael B. Jordan for Culture Appropriation. He & his Partners were naming a Brand of Rum. The Tens of Thousands of people that sided w/ her was sobering.

Meanwhile, many of the same people criticized Black Americans for speaking out on Adele wearing 'Bantu Knots'. Black Americans/ ADOS aren't anglophiles, so We didn't understand the pushback on Adele. We understood the pushback on Michael B. Jordan even less. What exactly did he & his Partners appropriate? What made Nicki Minaj of all people, think that She should speak on it? If We 'went there', We can SHOW how Nicki Minaj could be a Poster Child of Black American/ ADOS Culture Appropriation.

She took advantage of Affirmative Action Programs that wasn't meant for her, when she went to Private School. She appropriated the Style & Demeanor of Lil' Kim- who referred to herself as the 'Black Barbie Doll'. Nicki even calls her fans 'Barbs'. Very original. She first repped The Bronx, then Jamaica, Qns (The SouthSide), but has no community activism in either 'Hood'. In the name of 'Girl Power' she sends a message that extreme plastic surgery, wretchedness (ratchedness), & 'Babydoll Talk' are The Keys to Success.

It's more than curious that out of All of the Lady Emcees & Female Rappers that gained success, how Nicki Minaj & Cardi B are the only ones to get major endorsement deals. They both present an image that contradicts Black Excellence & Elegance, but they're not Black American/ ADOS. Watching Joy Reid do her 'Sistah, what are U doing?' thing over Nicki's anti vaccination sentiment is comical. What I saw, were two Black Immigrant Women that made their careers off of The Black American Experience, now trying to herd Black Opinion under their Collective umbrella. It reminded me of all the Dept. Of Health commercials featuring Black Immigrants telling 'Black People' to go get vaccinated... Nice try, but No Dice!

It's a sad affair to watch Black Immigrants as they follow Hispanics, European Jews, & Poor Whites in choosing a 'Come Up' over Solidarity w/ Us. It must be a genetic memory thing, because Blackfolk KNOW that concessions made will be taken away, if those groups conflict w/ White Society's Agenda. Miami's Little Haiti, is a good example of what They will face. As I said before, this is a Collective Dynamic. There are allies among Our Black Immigrant Family that stand w/ Us, but it's pretty clear that there is a large segment that believes they are in competition w/ Us. It's time to shine some light on Their Agenda.

White Supremacists have tried to eliminate their 'Black America Question' for over 100Yrs. If a group of anglophiles & francophones that fled their Home Country think They can succeed in supplanting Us as 'Black America', in a land that We Built, they need to take another look @ American History. Any support that they get from White Supremacy, is part of a larger plot to marginalize Us, before eventually marginalizing them. Our Immigrant Family (collectively) act like they will be the New Boule, but can't see that it's yet another case of 'diamond cutting diamond'.

-I think that the general lack of Love for Us as a People, & the lack of Respect for Our Role in their ability to immigrate here, is the saddest part.

#GlovesOff

#ADOS

[midnxghtsunwrites]

LAID OFF

PAIRING —

Andy Barber x Black Reader

SUMMARY —

You get fired from your workplace of eleven years and Andy tries to comfort you.

WARNINGS —

Just good ol' fluff and angst, ignorant people doing ignorant things — yakwtfgo

It was midday when Andy received a text from you saying that you were on your way home from work. As far as he knows, your workday definitely does not end at twelve pm. Immediately, he called you and the conversation went as vague as he expected.

"Why are you going home, sweetheart? You okay?" He questions. You can't see him but you can tell that he has those crinkles in between his eyebrows that usually come with concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Do we have anything on our grocery list? I'm gonna stop by Walmart on the way home." He doesn't have a chance to answer before you cut him off, "Never mind, I'll just go to the house and grab it."

"Y/N —"

You hung up.

A day of shopping went by with you trying to take your mind off of what happened just hours before. Your boss of eleven years called you into his office, handed you a termination packet, a crappy explanation, and a company pen.

A pen.

"It has your name on it," He'd quipped.

As you now stand in your bathroom, twisting your hair into bantu knots, you wish you would've stabbed that motherfucker in the eye with that pen. You're absolutely taken aback by his audacity — it followed you throughout the day.

Even when your son came home from school and greeted you. You were in the kitchen at that point, aggressively stirring up some chicken soup — your comfort food. He gave you the weirdest look and retreated to his room.

During dinner (without Andy) you listened intently as your son recounted his day, trying to get your mind off of how much time you'd wasted in that company.

Now, you can hear the security system speak that the front door is open. Andy's home.

You try not to think about the packet you left on the bed — he has to know somehow and you don't want to say it out loud. Part of you feels he'll be disappointed in you.

When he enters the bathroom, the packet in hand and a thoughtful look on his face, you try not to let it faze you and get back to spraying leave in conditioner in your hair.

You can feel his stare burning into the side of your face.

You blink and meet his eye in the mirror, "I don't wanna talk about it."

"We have to talk about it." His voice is calmer than you thought it would be.

"No, Andy, we don't have to do anything — I, on the other hand, have to finish these bantu knots that I started way too late in the day. Should've done this tomorrow. Not like I have anything else to do —"

Andy scoffs, "Y/N, stop doing your hair for a minute and talk to me."

"What?" You question, beyond irritated, "What is there to possibly talk about? Huh? I wasn't good enough at my job and I lost it. There's not much else to it, Andy."

"Y/N —"

"No." You deadpan, slamming the bottle down on the granite counter top and turning to face your husband, "I gave eleven years of my life to that place. Just to get a letter of termination and a pen. A stupid pen? Is that what my life has come to? They could've had the decency to send me to fricking Jamaica or some shit — they're good for it."

Andy leans back against the wall and watches you as you rant.

"If I'm that replaceable, why the fuck didn't they just fire me ten years ago when they saw what a crap job I was doing?" You know you're a great employee but the rage is pouring off you in waves, "I was sacrificing my weekends with family to go to that bum place — for terrible fucking pay, mind you — and this is what they do? This is how they pay me back for wasting a decade of my life? I'm just so —" A frustrated groan finishes your statement.

"And I know you're disappointed in me. You're disappointed in the fact that I didn't work hard enough. I didn't fight hard enough. Well, fuck that. I'm fucking over it."

"Are you?"

"Yes, I'm over it." You reiterate.

Your husband knows you too well to think that you're over it. He counts down from five in his head.

Five..

Four..

Three..

Two..

One..

"Is it because I'm black?" You ask, suddenly.

Right on cue. Andy whistles lowly, proud of himself.

"Fucking hell," You scoff as if just realizing something, "I knew there was some shady shit when they took us to a damn plantation for a mixer and only asked me to bring food."

Your husband's head shoots up in surprise, "Wait, they did that? Why didn't you tell me?"

You shake your head, "I wasn't thinking too much of it. Plus, it was like six years ago — I was naive as hell."

Andy furrows his brows in thought, "What was the reason they gave for firing you?"

"My disruptive behavior. Apparently, they don't like when someone accidentally drops their stapler." Saying it out loud pissed you off even more.

"Those assholes." Andy comes to your defense, biting his bottom lip, irritated. Finally, he nods, "Okay. We'll sue for wrongful termination. I'll call someone in the morning so we can get this sorted out."

You pause for a moment, glad your husband is there to fight by you and defend you. A part of you is tempted to do just that — get a couple thousand from that hating ass job. But no, you don't even want to think about them anymore.

Begrudgingly, you shake your head, "Nah, baby, I just wanna wash my hands of them. I'll send out my resume in the morning and I'll probably take a couple more days to mope, but I don't wanna think about them anymore. Just the fact that I'm jobless."

"There's my girl," Andy jokes as he wraps his arms around you. Your hair is haphazard on your head seeing as you haven't finished the knots yet, but Andy doesn't care. He's obsessed with you either way. "And I'm not disappointed in you, Y/N. You're the best at what you do. Them letting you go is their loss and they'll definitely realize what they're missing out on when you're out there doing your own shit. We have enough in our savings to spare — you can start that restaurant you've been dreaming about."

"And you'll be my greeter when you're not putting criminals in jail?" You ask, sweetly, a bright smile growing on your face.

Andy pecks your glossed lips, "Wouldn't have it any other way." He taps your ass, "Now, how about I help you finish your hair, we can drink some hot cocoa, I can give you a massage. Plus, I can take tomorrow off, we can pull Y/S/N out of school and we can go on a hike to clear your mind."

You almost cry at how much Andy is willing to do for you.

"Ugh, how did I get so lucky?" You rest your hand on his chest, right where your name is tattooed and pull him down to kiss you.

He pulls away, slightly, his beautiful blue eyes lighting up with such joy and admiration, "I ask myself that everyday."

general taglist : @gwenspacy @saccreigns @complacentviawattpad @rosenoirwrites @random-ficreader23 @kyla-queen @neealicious @islandgyalwrites

let me know if you'd like to join any of my taglists! feel free to like, reblog, and comment! also, my asks are open — and im taking requests!

[slasherscream]

A/N: slasher fandom seems so white but i just know it isn't because nobody is 100% unique on this bitch of an earth and if i'm a black girl that likes gross slasher dudes??? there's like a million more of me. so here we have it!

     billy loomis x black fem!reader x stu macher        ft. that's it... that's the whole concept

                                                     ——————– 

First thing they notice about you is that hair. It's so fucking pretty and unique. Doesn't matter what style it's in. Braids? God yes. Dreads? Oof. Bantu knots? Choice. Afro? Stop it already they're gonna lose their minds.

Got on weave? Wig? Hair relaxed? Uhm you still look real fucking nice ... please come walk their way. 

Despite them living in cali they live in #White People Cali. There are no .... or very few other black people around. So you're just ... super noticeable right from the start. 

It's your personality that draws them in of course, though. You're just being organic, free-range, 100% you all the time and they fucking love it. 

You have to drive so unnecessarily fucking far to get to a black hair store. You want to die going on every trip. Eventually your boys ask you where you go that takes all day on some weekends (aka why are you not paying attention to them? what dumb activity is cutting into them time?). You tell them and now they're curious and want to go with.

You take them along and other than the fact that Stu is a driving hazard to have in the car with you it's so much more bearable. Stu asks a lot of questions when you get there because he's #Curious George.

Billy is curious to but Stu asks enough questions for the both of them. He's like the dumb kid in class who takes the L for everyone and just asks all the "obvious" shit and you all pass the final because of it. Doing God's work.

Actually isn't offensive about it though. Is using his one brain cell to ask you the questions carefully. Also he's very genuine so even if he says something a little off one correction and he's golden. 

Billy drives on the way back and doesn't complain that now you don't want to listen to anything but R&B and the Hip Hop station. It's your tradition        you've gotta. Also he was outvoted because Stu listens to fucking anything at all. Also he's just whipped (and so punk rock boy is staying blessedly quiet for once).

You eat soul food? Island food? African dishes? Holy shit please. They wanna try some whatever it is! Whether you make it yourself or just know really good restaurants please-

Found out you went to that #One Place you all really love alone and didn't bring them back anything and they had never felt so betrayed. Icy silence for fucking hours. They're fucking ridiculous. You wind up just going out and getting them some of it and all is forgiven. They're suddenly cuddle bugs again. 

You meet Stu's parents who are actually very sweet and his Mom makes mac and cheese for dinner. The boys know you super well so they can see on your face that you are struggling. Stu is not offended he's laughing his ass ofF. His parents never did find out why he had the giggles that night- 

One time some annoying bitch touches your hair at lunch and asks "is this really your hair?"

You slap their hand away so hard it turns red in seconds and go, "Yes it's mine I paid for it." THEY LOSE THEIR FUCKING MINDS. 

Think it should be mentioned that they love your brown skin. Dark brown? Light Brown? Somewhere in the middle? They just love it. The way the sun hits you and just lights you up? They’re having a heart attack. Sometimes they turn to each other and they’re silently asking “do you see this shit, man?”.

You’re so just beautiful they can’t help it. They’re also both gross and we cannot forget that fact so ... highkey? They want to see how blood (that’s not yours!!!) would stand out on your skin but they’re just gonna keep that... to ...themselves.

If it's movie era you don't mind watching horror movies but you do comment on black people's place within them. Billy .... never noticed tbh and now he's got his head buried in his hands every-time a black character comes on screen and you call out "oh I wonder whose going to die first". He's laughing but it's also that "I was once a clueless, white guy" shame laugh.  

He tries valiantly to find horror movies with black people in them and some of the movies are so bad y'all just watch them to the end to talk shit the whole time. He does find a couple of gems though and is very proud of himself for finding some horror movies that his babe can really sink her teeth into. 

Modern day? WheN MOTHERFUCKING GET OUT DROPPED? FUCKING .... WHEN FUCKING ??? US DROPPED?? Y'all were just casually watching tv and an ad came on and you started to ..... scream. Mr. Peele??

They were excited to see you so excited and also just excited cause the movie looks good. They both love the more traditional slash-and-dash horror movies but they still enjoyed them. Loooooved how much you loved them though. One of them probably becomes part of every movie marathon as a must watch (tbh it's us because there's more like....actual killing in that movie and less psychological horror). 

Love when you get up in class because it's your turn to read/do a report/presentation and you get up there ...... and       well jinkies y'all! Jaws dropped that day. If you ever get sent to the principal's office they go with you out of solidarity. Also they probably kill your teacher. Don't worry about it, babe. 

                                                     ——————–

[omgviolette12]

After hours- Chapter 4 A professor Loki Fanfic

Previous Chapter

Summary: Evelyn Monroe has been a TA for professor Laufeyson’s Calculus course for four months now. He was known to be quite strict, but that never deterred her from applying for the position in order to be close to the man she had been secretly pining for. One evening, she returns to his office after opening hours… and with her bountiful luck, she walks in on something not meant to be seen.

Chapters: 4/?

Words: 2105

Tags: @milkymaidme @dangertoozmanykids101@alexakeyloveloki  @little-moonbeam-666  @marvel-ous-fics@clovermariear @lynnesm@bitchyikes@moon-child-of-a-poet, @allthecraftandthings@bubblegumspitt

If you’d like to be added, let me know. I’ve also posted this on AO3

________

If Evelyn thought she would get a wink of sleep that night, she was sadly mistaken.

Her thoughts were insistent on replaying certain scenes inside her head, which led her to overthink many things regarding Professor Laufeyson.

She would get flustered when she thought about how nice it felt to sit in his lap, then she’d remember how good he’d smelt. Then the next moment, she’d want a dark hole to swallow her up when she thought about how she ended up there, and why he even bothered to hold her.

In addition to that, she also spent the majority of the time thinking about the woman he was with. While there were many striking similarities between them, there were also differences. The first being that she was much more…voluptuous.

Before the woman could hide the entirety of her lady bits behind her professor’s desk, she saw that her breasts were larger by a considerable margin; While Evelyn wasn’t small-chested, her boobs weren’t nearly as large. The lady’s backside was also quite round and plump, taking the blows of her professor’s…paddle… like jelly.

In simpler terms, the woman was thick. With not one, but three C’s.

Evelyn refused to be a hater and assume she had some work done on her assets, but she wouldn’t deny the possibility.

She continued to compare herself endlessly to the woman - and what she thought her professor’s type might be.

The woman seemed much more mature, experienced, and desirable. And unfortunately, the more she focused on those differences, the more she found the similarities to be mere coincidences.

Evelyn even began to think that she probably did mishear her name. After all, why would he say her name, of all things? Although they had grown comfortable with talking to each other over the past year, he still treated her like all his other students.

He was more attentive for sure, but she attributed that to the fact that she was just slower than the rest of her peers.

And just like that, her insecurities continued to eat at her throughout the night, and well into the morning.

Crushing on a professor really sucks ass…

Evelyn was practically dead on her feet as she went about her day - she opted to stay home and laze about, neglecting to work on her art assignments. She’d curse herself tomorrow when she has to play catch-up, but she didn’t care at the moment as she curled up on the couch to watch her favorite cooking channel.

“Eve! Come do my hair!” Candice came bouncing into the living room, hair wet and comb in tow, “Cmon, get your lazy ass up and help me.”

Evelyn did not bother to raise her head as she replied, “Leave my lazy ass alone and do it yourself.”

“Pleaasee! You know I can’t do hair…”

Candice continued to pester her until she finally gave in, “Okay! Fine! But just know you’re cooking today.”

“Yeah yeah…” Candice plopped her butt unto the couch, handing her the comb, “Bantu knots, I want my curls like yours.”

As Evelyn began to part through her hair, Candice snapped her fingers as if remembering something, “Oh..! You still a TA for professor kinkster or nah?”

Candice yelped as Evelyn combed her hair a bit too roughly, “Prof…Professor what now?”

“You know…whack whack, paddle-waddle. Professor Laufeyson, duh. Did you give him the letter?”

Evelyn gave her elder sister an exasperated look, “Can - can you not call him that? Where did that come from…”

“Eve, you said he was tenderizing some booty with a paddle. He’s kinky as shit!”

“Is.. is that a bad thing, or..?” Evelyn never questioned the oddity of what she witnessed until now, as she thought that everyone did that sort of thing during sex.

“Nah.. it depends on what you like. Some people are into it, but not me.” Candice began to casually munch on some chips that had been left on the coffee table, “You should Google it - Bondage, whips, crazy sex toys, etcetera. Like I said though, not my thing.”

“What.. what in the world are you talkin’ about?” Evelyn was flabbergasted, and it showed clearly on her face.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he’s a freak in the sheets. End of story. Now did you give him the dang letter or not?”

Her head was still reeling from what she was just informed of, but was focused enough to answer her question, “Yeah… I gave it to him.. But…” Her dark skin began to flush red as she once again recalled the events, “I kinda like…passed out? Then woke up in his lap…”

Candice began to choke on her chips, “You.. you what now..? Like…how?!”

“I mean, I didn’t really eat much that day, and then he got too close -“

” - So because he got close…you fainted? Then you woke up…in his lap? His lap sis? Don’t you think that’s a bit…intimate for a teacher to do?“

Evelyn paused, resting the comb in her hair, "Yeah, but… it didn’t really mean anything right? He was probably just worried…”

“Evelyn. Come on.” Candice turned around to give her a pointed look, “Now I know you’re not this stupid…”

“Well, apparently I am! What am I not getting here?”

Her sister looked at her oddly, “Man…mama sheltered your ass to the max. Are you actually this naive?”

Evelyn crossed her arms, a frown coming upon her brows, “Instead of patronizing me, tell me what the hell’s so wrong?”

“Eh… you’ll just get mad. Forget I said anything.”

“Tell me Candice…or you can just finish your damn hair yourself.”

Candice kissed her teeth, “Tsk, don’t get mad, okay? He just seems like…hmm… how do I say this…”

She paused, considering her words carefully, “Like he’s the type to…you know, fuck his students on the regular…have hoes on call, you know the works. Just warning you, I don’t want your feelings hurt.”

“What - No! I mean I get why you think that, but he’s… he’s not like that at all… he apologized to me, and when I asked about the girl, he said she wasn’t a student -”

“ - So she’s his girlfriend then?”

Evelyn was stumped, “No…? I mean… he didn’t really clarify…”

Candice sighed, her expression bordering on pity as she looked at her, “Look, I’m saying this for your own good…but don’t get your hopes up with this man. First of all, he’s your professor who’s like, 13 years your senior? And then -”

“ - It’s just a damn crush, it was never that serious. Drop it.” Evelyn’s voice was cracked with emotion, almost yelling.

“Okay…okay… I’m sorry. You do you.”

Candice grew silent as Evelyn rushed to finish her hair. After that conversation, she just wanted to be alone.

_______________________

It had been a few hours since Evelyn hid away inside her room, sitting at her work desk. She was upset with Candice not only because of the condescending manner in which she spoke to her… but for what she assumed about the professor that she’d come to know.

From what she’d learned about him, Professor Laufeyson was anything but a womanizer. He had good looks, but she has never seen him interact with or entertain any female on campus unprofessionally - and they threw themselves at him in literal droves.

Well, until that night that is…

Evelyn wiped her eyes in frustration, as she tried to push Candice’s words to the back of her head. Sometimes she was helpful in her bits of advice, but today it felt extremely unneeded.

She opened up her laptop, intent on sucking herself into a black hole of memes and mindless entertainment to get her mind off things.

That was until a loud ping! notification flashed at the side of her screen.

It was from her outlook account, where she had set up her school email address. She had neglected to check it in the week she was absent due to a certain someone, and she regretted being so childish now. She probably missed out on a ton of important emails from her other professors, and Evelyn hoped there wasn’t anything urgent.

But when she logged in, she did not expect to see three unread emails from professor Laufeyson, the third sent to her inbox just yesterday.

Laufeyson, Loki                         Fri 4/12 TA position Evelyn, it was a very pleasant surp…

Laufeyson, Loki                        Thur 4/11 Office visitation: Please stop by at your earliest convenience

Good morning, I understand that due to certain circums…

Laufeyson, Loki                         Wed 4/10 Important: Regarding yesterday’s incident

It is imperative that we discuss…

Seeing three emails in a row from professor Laufeyson really knocked her for six. Whenever she had questions and decided to email him, he would never reply- only answering them when he saw her in person. She found it to be counter-productive, but never really dared to complain about it.

But considering the circumstances, she guessed it was understandable - he probably thought she would go around blabbing his business, so he took to damage control. Regardless, her heart started to race as she opened the email from earlier on in the week- opting to read them in order.

Laufeyson, Loki                         Wed 4/10 Important: Regarding yesterday’s incident

It is imperative that we discuss what transpired. Please visit my office at the earliest opportunity, around 11 am. I hope to see you tomorrow, and promptly.

Sincerely,

Loki Laufeyson

It was short and sweet, as Evelyn expected it to be. She suspected that even if she saw that email at the given time, she wouldn’t have budged from her bed in the slightest. Clicking out, she moved on to the next one.

Laufeyson, Loki                        Thur 4/11 Office visitation: Please stop by at your earliest convenience

Good morning,

I understand that due to certain circumstances, you are hesitant in discussing matters with me. I have much to make clear with you, in addition to making several apologies. I would like to discuss this in person, Evelyn. It is very… unbecoming, and I do not want this situation to compromise any academic priorities you may have. If you would feel more comfortable speaking over the phone rather than in person, I will attach my number. Please, I implore you to make good use of it.

Best,

Loki

Evelyn found this one to be much more sincere, to the point that she wanted to hop down to his office right away - even though it was the weekend. She once again mentally slapped herself for acting immaturely, instead of facing the situation like an adult. She could only sigh as she opened up the latest email, which she assumed was sent after he dropped her home.

Laufeyson, Loki                         Fri 4/12 TA position

Evelyn, it was a very pleasant surprise, although in a rather odd position, to see you at my office door. I shall once again apologize for startling you, as I was unaware that you were faint of heart. Despite that, I hope that I have managed to clear the air so that we can re-establish our relationship to its previous state. Although, I am aware that you may still be uncomfortable working together with me. We will discuss things once more if that is the case, so that we may come to a resolution regarding your grade.

If you would still like to retain this position, please attend my lecture this coming Monday - I am in need of assistance, and I would love for you to take this responsibility. I will also reiterate what I said yesterday evening. I value your presence, as you are one of my most favored students.

Have a lovely weekend,

Loki

At some point in reading that email, Evelyn’s heart had turned into a beating, mushy mess. He called her his favorite student, and Evelyn was practically mind-blown with this newfound information. She knew that he found her tolerable, more so than the other students in his class - but not to this extent.

Evelyn came to a decision. Although things might still be pretty awkward with this professor of hers, she’ll make an effort to get over it, and get back to how things were. He had even attached his private number to his email, something that she never thought he would share. 

They were both adults, so she’ll try to treat the situation as a minor embarrassment. She would attend the lecture on Monday and pretend like the entire thing never happened.

But little did Evelyn know… that things were forever changed between her and professor Laufeyson, and that they would never be the same again.

_________

A/N: Hey guys, please let me know what you thought, what you think will happen, etc! Things will be picking up next chappie, if you know what I mean. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

I’ll try to get another chapter out before I leave for sleep-away camp for work on June 20th(No longer 15th, thank goodness), as I’m not sure about the internet reception there. I sincerely hope there is, since my contract ends on August 11th. I need to update! grrr! Thank you guys for reading, and I sincerely appreciate very comment. Like seriously, they make my day!

[terrablaze514]

Amethyst Necklace (CIYS Sidestory) *Erik x Reader*

A feature presentation: With Love, From Wakanda (hosted by @hoopshoney and @purple-apricots ). This is my *headdesk* late *headdesk* submission. I'm steadily getting my life back, so all hope is not lost. This is based on the Crawl Into Your Sleep series (there's a time jump). Hope you all enjoy it.

“Are we on a date right now?” (Prompt #4)

Rated M (for brief mentions of violence and attempted assault)

Disclaimer: Black Panther belongs to Marvel. I don't own the other fandom that's mentioned, either.

*******

It's been ten weeks since you've crossed paths with Erik. The first few moments were random, albeit sudden - you still couldn't believe how well that first shopping trip went. The instant messages on your school D2L account, the anxious coffee shop meetup, and a fierce ride in his Mercedes-Benz to hit up the mall did things to you. For the record, his swagger switched your senses on no matter how many times you've tried to avoid it.

The way he'd given Dresden a beatdown, accompanied with his “evil twin” Adonis and fellow trainee Viktor… three versus five grimy trifles had presented a gut wrenching experience. You didn't watch the scene, but the terrifying sounds of breaking bones and curdling screams had prompted a random witness to call the cops, since your trifling ex had the audacity to confiscate your phone. Yet, he had intentions to do a gangbang train on you, so in a sense, it’s a great thing Erik and his entourage appeared on the scene before your ex’s friends had a chance to rip your jeans off at the library parking lot.

~°~°~

Erik also had a strange way of blocking thirsty traps on multiple social media accounts you own, especially Instagram and Facebook. The ladies who interfered with him, M'Baku and T'Challa were also blocked in a flash, and they came banging on your door this one fateful night. Half of them were another set of thirst traps from school; a combination of Churchians and R. Kelly sympathizers. You weren't in the mood for their bull, and proceeded to call the cops when your speed dial activated at the press of nine.

“What's going on?” Erik had asked, the racket downstairs noticeable. His voice never failed to melt you, but there were troubling matters at hand.

“Some angry ladies from school, they're at my house, armed with baseball bats and knives…”

“Okay, don't panic!” He commanded. “Remember that amethyst necklace I bought you two weeks ago?”

You've raised an eyebrow when shattered glass is heard from the living room.

“Y-yes,” you whispered.

“Put it on, and don't forget the mace!”

You did as he told. The beautiful gem hung low on your bust. “So, what difference would a necklace make?”

You could sense Erik's smirk. “Make an X with your arms.”

“An X, what for?”

“Y/N, you don't wanna die! I'm all the way on the opposite side of the city, and it’ll take me an hour to physically reach you. So do as I say, okay?”

Another glass shatter, and the door bangs are even louder and pronounced. Expletives that attacked your character were heard with more clarity.

“Do you believe in Wakanda?” Erik probed, bringing you back to focus.

“I do, but that's-”

An attempted disarming at the front door caught your attention.

“Do you believe in Wakanda, babe?”

You took a deep, albeit shaky breath.

“Yes.”

“Then make an X with your arms.”

Both arms did as he commanded. The gem on the necklace glowed and brightened your bedroom, where you're currently occupied.

“Now break it!”

You did it. Golden flashes zapped through the walls and wires of your house, and ultimately knocked your threats ten feet away from your house. As you exited your room, the voices of angry women were gone. Despite the broken window, the warm breeze engulfed your body. There were no crazy ladies in sight. The only display was a pile of bats, knives and Prada bags.

Another thing that caught your attention were the cars. Most were parked at their usual spots, but only two looked totalled, with broken windows and headlights.

“Wow,” you breathed as you processed this lovely aftermath. “All this unnecessary drama, because of social media. It doesn't make much sense, but it must be a good thing, right?” You poked the gemstone on your necklace. “This thing literally saved my life.”

~°~°~

Your phone and laptop alarmed at the same time. A message had arrived from Erik, encouraging you to change and worry about the house damage later. You've selected your favourite evening combo, along with a hat and silver hooped earrings. White tank top, a short silver jacket worn over it, followed by jaguar designed tights, a black skirt and tall black boots. Erik's car had pulled and he hopped out in an instant, surveying the aftermath of the crazies who came for you earlier.

A low whistle left his lips as you descended the staircase. You couldn't help the warmth rushing to your cheeks.

“Look who's glowing this evening!” he began as he opened the door for you.

“Thank-you,” You replied, settling in and buckling up. “So where are we headed?”

Erik entered his side of the car. “Straight to your necklace.”

You peered at it. “My necklace? Why?”

Erik started the engine and, as the car sped, he held the gem. “Just place your hand over mine.”

This is the second time he'd requested a strange favour from you. Strange in your eyes, because of the necklace. What's so special about it?

There's no such thing as magic in Wakanda.

“It will take forever to get there and back if you don't.”

You rolled your eyes as his dimples complimented his smirk.

“Or should I form an X and knock you out of here?” Your sudden confidence boost didn't go unnoticed. Erik chuckled; he liked it when life didn't weigh heavily on your well-being. It's allowed you to spread your wings. To get you out of your shell more, he’d let go of the gem and kept his eyes on the road. Meanwhile, this didn't help your curiosity.

“Well, which one is it?” You pressed. “What's so special about this necklace?”

“That is entirely up to you to decide, but there's someplace special I wanna take you to.”

You cocked an eyebrow in response, “and this is supposed to help us get there?”

“Depends on what you think. I know its location is several hours away.”

Erik's signature smirk had returned, yet this time, you've also noticed a knowing glint in his eye. You needed answers, and you’re gonna get them now.

“Are we on a date right now?”

Erik chuckled, “Of course!”

“Then why haven't we arrived? And why is this necklace so important?”

Just as Erik entered the freeway, he took your necklace and held the gem one more time.

“Just take my hand and we'll get there.”

Alright, alright. Let's see what this can do.

Without blinking, you held his hand and the scenery changed. You were no longer on the freeway in town - the roads looked more sophisticated with pebble tones. Neon lights shone brightly around the cars that drove now. You’ve also noticed that these drivers, well, the majority, were Black.

Your ride entered a bridge, and as you peeked out your window, the ocean below sparkled like stars. It's sunset time and the hues of orange, bright red, pink and fuschia accented the cascade of clouds in the sky. Birds flew across it.

Your hands rummaged through your purse for your smartphone to take photos of these beautiful sights.

Erik smiled, silently thanking Bast for granting his cousin Shuri the ability to create such technology, and for enabling this Pen Pal Program to happen.

~°~°~

Without missing a beat, you both arrived at your destination a few moments later. Krispy Kreme was the hot spot, and you've noticed multiple people walking in as well. Once the guards had verified your IDs, Erik linked your arm with his as one braided guard escorted you both to the VIP floor.

Upon entry, All the Stars by Kendrick Lamar and SZA played in the background. You both took front row seats. As Erik ordered drinks, a young lady with Bantu knots and a sparkly brown dress entered the stage and made an introduction.

“Good evening everyone, this is our Open Mic Night. Thanks for coming out! So settle in, let go of your worries, and enjoy our relaxed atmosphere. All are welcome to participate - the mic is yours. Poetry, song, storytelling, cypher… is entirely up to you.”

At the end of her introduction, your drinks arrived and a variety of performers, known and unknown to Wakanda, owned the mic. By the time the sixth performer of the night closed her song, a round of applause rolled through the atmosphere. You loved every minute of this so far. The overall vibes were cool and collected, warm and welcoming.

That’s when Erik stood and took your hand, escorting you towards the stage.

“Wha- what are you doing?” you whispered.

“It’s our turn,” he said.

Our turn?

Without hesitation, the crowd whistled and made bullet signs - a sign of respect for the Wakandan prince. A handful of young men hollered, “All hail King N'Jadaka!”

... until another set shushed them.

“So what’s your plan?” You mouthed.

“I paint, you speak.”

Well, if this isn’t nerve-wracking. But, I’m here. So here it goes...

You recalled the day your professor had graded you horribly, then the words came.

“How many more times should I feel,

Misunderstood?

How much longer before the world could hear my plea?

This forged, silent treatment had left me in chains,

Chains of choices, between the innovator and the warrior.

When can I rise? When can I fly? When will it be my turn to spark the flames of positive change?

For a brokenhearted daughter? Or the drifting, confused sister?

Where I'm from, there’s promises of empowerment...

Only to be broken and unfounded.

Then let them take credit, erase your name, your contribution, your standing,

Because your leadership is a threat.

How much longer before I can reclaim my power, spread my wings and fly?

I guess only time will tell.”

At the end of your segment, the audience snapped their fingers, whistled and offered their rounds of applause. You took a bow, and noticed Erik’s completed painting: A group of women, staring out of the jail cell, counting the stars. The bottom part of the picture featured his interpretation of what marginalization and institutional racism looked like, from your eyes.

You couldn’t help the warmth radiating your cheeks. Originally, you liked him. Admired him. Favoured him.

Tonight, you fell in love even more. He gets it.

You returned back to your seats, when your hands caught his face and your lips captured his. Thankfully, no one had noticed. The gem on your necklace formed a shield that barred others from seeing what was happening.

His tongue probed entry, and you allowed it. Although, you’ve noticed something a little unusual. Breaking the kiss, you inquired, “Is that a tongue ring?”

Erik chuckled and smacked your butt. “And what’s so important about that?”

Giggling, you added, “You’re dangerous. Now kiss me silly.”

Your lips locked again.

*******

Taglist: @ljstraightnochaser

@amethystbutterflie

@wakanda-inspired

@eriknutinthispoosy @softnani @princesskillmonger @iamrheaspeaks @muse-of-mbaku @destinio1 @airis-paris14 @blackpinup22 @bribrisback @supersizemeplz @thadelightfulone @epicyaoibamonbear @sisterwifeudaku @myareadinglist @kaytauru @phoenixgalaxy @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @im5ftbutmythroat66 @chaneajoyyy @rayraynddem @cancerianprincess @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove @jozigrrl @itsrenaemf @theogbadbitch @steampunkprincess147 @eyeknowmywrites @annastaia @mbakusmbitch @thehomierobbstark @desertfyre @unholyxcumbucket @kissmyafropuff @forbeautyandlife @lifelover4u @yoyolovesbucky @purplehairgawdess @whoawhoababywhoa @animefun16 @blowmymbackout @itreywalk @msblkfire84 @mellifluousbabe @killuzumakii @hairhattedhooligan @marvelpotterlove @hearteyes-for-killmonger @to-the-water-ixazaluoh @yaachtynoboat711 @faatassbitch

[bastionkeeper]

Hey I am the same guy who requested the tennis ask. I had another weird dream where Lup's hair becomes fire and they can't put it out, do you think you could write somthing for that?

I think I can do something along those lines for ya ;)

Over forty years, un-aging, undying, and the only constant in their travels seemed to be that at the end of every year they’d have their old bodies back without a scratch on them. 

Everyone used this to their advantage when it came to personalizing their look. Magnus shaved his head one year, Lucretia tried bantu knots. Merle and Davenport got matching tattoos, Barry dyed his hair a few times, and everyone pierced everything they could think of. 

Lup and Taako, always the showmen, took things a step further with the help of a little transmutation magic.

“Well, I think I look hot,” Lup smirked, resting her chin gently on her hand. On her head her undercut was blazing away quite literally. A fire burned, apparently safely, on her head leaving no smoke and no sign of hurting her.

“Sure, you look hot, but I’m cool as fuck,” Taako answered, running a hand through his own hip length hair which he, not to be beaten, had transmuted into flowing water. 

“... do you think a fish could live in there?” Magnus wondered aloud, poking at Taako’s hair and shaking his finger when it came back wet. 

“I mean maybe... we’d have to run a few tests,” Barry said, nervously eyeing up the twin hairdos. 

Davenport entered the room at that moment and upon seeing the respective fire and drowning hazards gave a firm and pained: “No.”

[ramenfallsbutnotudon]

Let me be problematic about Black Panther for a second...

I wanna tell you all about a little mental journey I took this past Saturday.

I have a problematic thought process.

Early saturday morning on my commute to work I was putting in applications for a new job via linkedin. One prominent ad agency I’d seen a panel on at this networking event had an opening for a receptionist (context: I have a degree in Cinema Studies and I’m currently working at a Japanese company.)

I was trying to speed-run the applications with Linkedin’s ‘Easy Apply’ feature but had to go to the Ad agency’s website. Time consuming, but I still had a bit of commute left. 

I get to the final portion of the application and I see this shit:

For those of you who couldn’t catch the tea on the first glance, notice how the section about “Black people” is different than the rest. No “original peoples”, no ethnic groups listed like the rest. It’s not standard, but we could have had “original peoples of the west indies, african continent, afro latinx” or something to that effect. Or just “original peoples of Africa”. I read that and literally went - Damn. We can’t even have fucking Africa anymore.

Disgusted, I cancelled my application. 

I started searching indie movie clips on the youtube app on my phone and seen some generic white films, something with Dylan Sprouse playing a psycho, a nice period film with Jack o’Connell (Skins) and Holiday Grainger (The Borgias) (I love British period films or British tv in general...to my own irony). I then came across the Marvel Black Panther trailer. Now to be honest...I don’t give a fuck about superhero movies or superhero comics. Each year at Comic Con I manage to ignore 90% of the comic culture that surrounds me, I hate that the studios are trying to protect their expiring copyrights to the products and people are eating it up, I hate the social commentary that American society is fixated on a superhero to save us all when in reality nothing exists and this in a sense is a false hope. All of that aside- I do not fuck with comic books. I know Black Panther is well...Black. Black excellence. Afro-futurism. Cool shit. I didn’t care.

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vt9UZo32KMk?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

I watched the trailer....and it was fire.

So here is where I become more problematic as I’m honest about my thought process unfolding.

I was pissed off. Frequently I’ve been pissed about social injustice-but I was just already pissed. 

I’ve always found Lupita Nyong'o attractive, but her features always put me off. Mainly, her cute but short hair. I’ve had natural hair almost 2 years now but for some reason I wished her hair was a bit longer. Does it need to be longer? No. Is this an effect of the european standards of beauty being shoved down my throat? Maybe. Is this because I usually don’t see African features - real, authentic African features- in the media I consume? Probably. Can I work harder to find African and Black shows and films? Yes. Do I? No. Why? I think it’s too much of a hassle - and that is problematic on my part.

To continue with my mental process. I start looking up things related to the production. 

Chadwick Boseman decided not to speak with any european influence on his accent for his character T’Challa/Panther. Neat. Wakanda is a super advanced nation. Neat. The lighting is really great on these promotional photos. Neat. (Sometimes Black people - especially of darker skin tones have shit lighting when these white ‘professionals’ don’t think to give them the same attention they would mary sue with ivory complexion and green eyes.). The cast is mainly dark skin. Amazing. Michael B Jordan is playing the villain - it’s fitting to me since he had the nerve to do Fruitvale Station and then get his coon ass on snapchat and say “All Lives Matter”. It hurt me deeply. He is now in the same category as Kevin Hart for me in regards of midly tolerated coonery. Either way I’m not checking for you.

Even more problematic -  I find Letitia Wright absolutely stunning. I google her and see other shows she’s been in. I find a Vanity Fair article of some producer calling her the next Leo because he thought she was good enough to play a role originally cast for a white woman. I mean roles of color are regularly given willy nilly to whites but I digress. This does not diminish her talent. I add Urban Hymn to my to-watch list along with Time Wasters. 

I start googling photos of her.

In my mind: “Oh, this one has bad lighting - I can’t see her features. Oh, this is at a weird angle. Oh she looks nice here - wait it’s too light. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I nit-picking her photos looking for flaws? I already think she is attractive. Who is the last dark skinned woman I was consciously attracted to? SZA? But that was only recently...this is terrible of me...It’s not a fetish if we’re both black, right? I have a long way to go”

I watch the trailer again. Lupita’s hair is amazing. I’ve been trying other styles out, and I’m wondering if it’s bantu knots or something else. That face paint is also on point, I remember seeing stuff like that at Afropunk. I wonder what it means - or what tribe or ethnic group it’s inspired from. I wanna do something like that. But why do I wanna do it now? Would they know I’m a poser? Does that make me a poser being interested in a pan-african cultural practice? Is it pan African?  Africa is a huge continent, can I just google generic face paint? What if the search results are all white from like those lame ass festivals where they cultural appropriate native and African wear? Wow look at the color scheme for the film. Oh I see what they mean about his accent. “Don’t Freeze...I Never Freeze”. Hmm. Maybe I should buy Black Panther. I think there should be some copies at Midtown Comics - I don’t wanna pirate his shit, I think the artist or at least writer of Black Panther is actually Black. I need to support it.

....

I thought I undid a lot of problematic thoughts and feelings of self hatred as I got older. I started loving my skin tone. I realized euro-centric standards were everywhere and it shouldn’t dictate my attraction. I tried undoing harmful stereotypes and initial thoughts based on appearance. I went natural and fell in love with my natural state of being. But this shit right here? It set me back. Trying to find a reason as to why I was attracted to a beautiful woman who deserves praise. Like really...I really tried to find a flaw in her before I realized what I was doing? That’s some sly shit and I’m not feeling it. I need to change this behavior.

I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but seriously this is why representation matters and is important. I’ve heard this said before and agreed because of course we need to see people like us and people in our “racial category” that have different features but the same sort of base ancestry. But I never realized how deep it ran until something like this happens that resonates with me. 

I’ve always been queer. I’m finally coming to terms with my full sexuality and finding comfort in it despite not having supporting parents or people around me. It truly surprised me just how beautiful dark skin women are when you look without the euro-centric gaze. And that’s the point of representation and decolonizing our minds. To see the truth that was there all along. 

So this is my mini think piece. On my problematic behavior. On being queer. On striving to being black all the time and not when it suits me. On my thought process and dealing with internalized racism I thought I left a long time ago. I will learn from this, and I will grow. I just need some time.

And in February you can be damn sure I’ll be at that premiere to see this fabulous Black film.

-ramenfallsbutnotudon

[twilightpony4]

Ola Americano... Turtle?: 14. Who Sent You

“Aye, I think she’s waking up.” The woman heard a low whisper. She was not quite sure where she was yet remembered what she was doing. For her safety, she kept quiet and listened. “Turn on the lights! Turn on the lights!” A very over eager voice whispered harshly. The bright white light over her head shocked her pupils that were used to the pitch black. Through her squinting eyes, she could see the faint faces of the mutants she was fighting with earlier. One of her bantu knots had come undone, thus flopping in front of her face. Footsteps were heard behind her. She remained still; her head kept low as they came up beside her. It was an orange banded terrapin. His posture was upright as he came around with his hands behind his back. She tried not to stare at him, but it was so hard for a fantastic creature such as him. He was now about-face, glaring her down with a large lower lip. “Who sent you? Who sent you?!” He exploded. The refined posture went out the window as he grasped the handles of the chair she was sitting in and leaned in close. With her hands now tied behind her back, she could do nothing but respond. “Dejar de lado que te sucio animal!” She shouted with fire. The young turtle drew a blank expression. “What the shell is that?” he turned to his family behind him. “I think she's speaking Spanish.” Donnie added. “What the shell kind of black girl speaks Spanish?” Michelangelo’s voice was distressed. He was so ready to play bad cop and now the girl cannot even understand him (and he can’t understand her). No fun. “The Dominican Republic is Afro-Hispanic.” The techie informed. “Tell her to stop playing and talk right!” Suddenly, the woman began to speak rapidly in her native tongue. “You may be speaking gorgeous but I ain't got time for your games!” He retaliated over her, but all they got were two people trying to talk over one another without understanding. “I don't know Spanish.” Donnie shrugged. “At least we know someone who does.” Leonardo nodded when he held his shellphone and shook it in a presenting way in his hand.

Minutes passed as Leonardo tried to catch a hold and fully explain the situation to their Chicana ally. Meanwhile, Michelangelo was trying to cope with the overwhelming language change as the black woman continued to argue him in spanish. “No!” He grabbed her shoulders. She continued to shout, now looking at his large hands grasp her shoulders. “You’re black, stop embarrassing yourself!” He stared into her eyes with the most sincerity. However, she continued to scream. Mikey’s shoulders dropped. He turned his head away and whined in defeat. “I’m so confused by all these languages!” Donatello sighed. “There's just as many of African descent speaking Spanish, French, Swahili, and English.” It was annoying to keep reminding him about the diversity of the world, but it was just getting a little too much for their younger brother. A large hand descended upon Michelangelo’s shoulder. His eyes were watery when he looked up into the eyes of his understanding brother. Leonardo used easy force to tell Michelangelo to get off of her. The turtle complied, but was still upset. To comfort him, Venus took him into her arms. She held him from behind, smiling as he took it all in and used her as his rock.

The woman eyed him as he crouched down and put the phone near her. He remained calm in demeanor. “Ask her where Baxter Stockman is hiding.” He referred to the one on the other end of the phone. “¿Donde se esconde Baxter Stockman?” The woman looked up at Leonardo. She appeared lost at first before responding. “¡Usted toda cometiendo un gran error ! Pronto , se le pedía clemencia , Stupido rojo n****! “She said y'all making a big mistake. And one day you'll be begging for mercy. She also said…” They leaned in, waiting for the rest. It never came. “What?” Leo inquired. Still more silence. “Angel, we gotta know everything.” Raphael chimed in. “I don't know man, she used the N- word to you.” “To me?” He shrieked, quite surprised. Must be because he was the last thing she saw. “But she-! Look, tell this piece of s- word that I'm gonna f- her up!” “Raph!” Leonardo scolded. “I ain't sayin it, Angel is!” “Él se llama un pedazo de m***** y se j****** . “¿Me llama un j ****** ?” The assassin repeated with a laugh. “Su madre tiene que j ****** arriba , n**** rojo.” “Did she say negro again?” Raph turned quickly to the phone. This was war now. “Yeah, but then she mentioned yo mama.” “Tell her that her mama’s an ‘H’!” “Raph!” The brute turned to Donatello, quite annoyed. He was expecting another scolding but instead, he got a whispered correction. “I think it starts with a ‘w’.” “‘W’” He corrected. “then her sister and her mama a ‘w’ with a double ‘w’ grandma that makes double cuz she got no teeth! Tell her I said that!” “Veo el c*** lucha sus batallas.” Her voice smoothed out from earlier. It was still harsh, but there was less stress in her throat. “Did she diss again?” “This time she was calling out Donnie for being a word that means ‘cat’.” Offended, Donatello clenched his heart; his mouth gaped open. “Tell her she's an ‘HW’!” He exploded. The rest of the team lifted a brow. Homework (A Donatello-y thing I guess)? “Bro,” Michelangelo spoke as calmly as he could, his body was still engulfed in the female turtle’s arms in which he kept closed with his own hands. “you mean ‘h’.” “Whatever! Call her something insulting!” “Todos ustedes estarán marcados para la muerte cuando Stockman los encuentre aquí.” She gave them an equal amount of glaring, locking her eyes on each individual as she spoke. She was confident and smiled the entire time. “¡Cada uno de ustedes!” “She said you'll be marked for death when Stockman finds out you're here.” Without warning, the red brute kneeled before her. On his knees, he was an acceptable height to come eye-to-eye with her. With him being so large, putting himself between her legs rendered them useless to try to kick him. Of course, what she could possibly reach was all shell.

“Where's Stockman or imma cut your throat and squeeze lemon juice in it!” Raphael was not playing these games. “That's nasty.” Mona cringed. The very remaining chain in her hand jiggled when she shivered from the thought. “Gonna get her to talk! Ain't it?” He turned back to the woman. How much did she want to bop him right there, but her body would not allow her to do so. The terrapin looked her up and down, formulating a plan. “ Let's do it this way.” He nodded, then extended his arm behind him. His hand them flapped his two fingers into his palm like a ‘gimme’ gesture. “Mikey, hand me a shuriken.”

Although a little upset he had to remove himself from the satisfying embrace, Michelangelo brought his hands down and went off to go pick up one of the thrown shuriken. He disappeared into the dark. Moments later, the sound of the air slicing  caught everyone’s attentions. The silver piece came close to the turtle and his captive. Just before it could try to scrape him, Raphael jerked his shoulder down as the piece flew past them. He, the other mutants, and the captive as well all looked in the direction from which it came. Standing in the shadows was the orange clad terrapin. He was completely still as he balanced on one leg and maintain the stance from which he threw the piece. “Oops! My bad.” He apologized quite deadpan. From his other hand was a backup shuriken that he had hoped to keep rather than give it away. The brute scolded him as he walked up humbly and handed it over. “C'mon man, I'm trying to interrogate somebody.” Raphael shook his head disapprovingly as the young turtle backed up into the shadows once more. He kept going until his shell bumped into Venus’ carapace. Quite deadpan himself, he grabbed Venus’ arms and wrapped them around himself. With the metal in his hand, he carefully came closer. When it got near her face, she brought her chin up in avoidance. He stopped just below her chin. If he brought it down, the blade would puncture her throat. The turtle was giving her another chance as he stared her down. “Where's Baxter Stockman?” “¡Màtame!” Her body thrusted forward. It surprised her interrogator, causing him to jump. The woman then began to sob very lightly, catching her breath and her eyes began to water. “What'd she say?” He was yelling to the phone that Leo still held behind him. Honestly, he did not like these types of interrogations. It was unlike his style. Despite that, it wasn’t him doing it and their patience level was already wearing thin in this foreign land. “She said ‘kill me’.” Angel was a little distressed herself on the other side. She was probably feeling the weight of the situation just from hearing it. “Okay, you better tell me something right now.” Raphael threatened. This time, he pressed the blade in the hollow part underneath her chin. With a tad bit more force it would puncture. Her eyes were wide in shock. She stared hopelessly to the shadows as he continued to bark his threats.“ I'll send you to heaven, I don't even care no more! I'm marked for death so I got nothing to lose!”  The chicana on the phone then began to speak in the woman’s native tongue. What they did not know was that she was pleading to her to tell him and that the red turtle means business. “That's right Angel, call the lord and tell him he about to get company. Tell me something!” The woman continued to resist. Her heart beat faster and faster as Angel tried even more desperately to get her to speak. Why would a fifteen year old need to hear a person die? “She's almost done! Forgive me for I have sinned!” “¡Detener!” The woman cried. “She said stop!” Angel screamed on the top of her lungs. Thankfully their outbursts did not move the blade against her throat. He kept the blade there in the hung silence. The woman licked her lips, breathing heavily as she did and looked helplessly into the amber eyes of the turtle. “Es en Barbarella, Rua Ministro Viveiros de Castro.” “He's at Barbarella, Rua Ministro Viveiros de Castro.” repeated. Donatello took note of it, typing it down in his phone and sent it to his personal computer. Raphael removed the blade and got off the woman. She breathed heavily and brought her chin down. He tossed the shuriken to the side. Mona gave him a nod for letting her go. The brute sighed and returned it before turning around to look back at her. “We’ll drop her at the nearest police station. They’ll think she’s crazy for what she’s seen.” He added.

“Thank you, Angel.” Leonardo brought the speaker up to his face. Suddenly, his phone was engulfed by the wanting hands of his youngest brother. He kneeled before him. “Thanks boo.” Michelangelo sang. With that, he blew her a kiss through the phone. Leonardo rolled his eyes, but let the friends have their time. “Anytime Brotha.”

[dryscalpgone]

How to Comb Natural [African-American] Hair without Breakage

See How to Comb Natural [African-American] Hair without Breakage on www.dryscalpgone.com or read the entire post below:

African-American women face challenges when caring for their hair and scalp. This includes how to comb natural hair without breakage.

If you ask someone about their biggest concerns, they will likely tell you that it's hair damage and finding ways to 'correct' the problem. What we found, however, is African-American women may not be using the best way to comb their hair...

Yes, it seems as though there is a right way and a wrong way to comb Afro-textured hair without breaking it. Who knew, right? What some women of color don't realize is that improper combing is the number one reason for a lack of hair growth.

Here is some advice on combing African-American hair without damage...

Avoiding Natural Hair Breakage and Shedding

The more you comb your strands, the more is strain put on the hair, and with this is a high probability of the hair breaking. Experts study the effects of combing the hair. The results are interesting...

Combing the hair can lead to the loss of important proteins. Many believe this is the hair cuticle breaking away. The hair starts to get shorter when it HASN'T been cut or trimmed due to improper combing.

Important: Lawrence Ray Concepts says the common reason among African-American women is dehydration. The hair needs moisture to grow and to stay healthy. Also, some of us are guilty of not giving the hair a deep conditioner often enough.  Dry hair is much more susceptible to breakage.

Common Questions about African-American Hair

Since more African-American women are attempting to make the necessary adjustments to wearing natural hair, it's likely that questions will arise. Here are a few of those topics:

Natural hair breaks when wet.

How much shedding is normal for natural hair?

How many hairs do you lose?

Shedding hair is a normal part of life. What's not normal is breakage. People cause breakage. It's what they do to the hair that breaks the hair off. If three strands break off, that's OK... if six strands come out in the comb, that's okay, too, per Lawrence Ray.

If more than ten come out, especially on wash day, there may be a real problem. Breakage is when you see a little white bulb at the end of the strands. That's how a person knows the hair came from the root and that's the difference between breakage and shedding.

If the bulb is not visible, feel for it. If there's a bump on the end, there's breakage, not shedding. And no, it doesn't depend on the length, of if it's natural or processed hair. Breakage is breakage and shedding is shedding.

Professionals warn against combing hair when it's wet. It's at a vulnerable stage. Try using a detangling system to reduce breakage or a wide tooth comb. Also, sectioning the hair before combing helps. Don't forget to start at the ends and not at the roots to comb hair out.

How to Comb Natural Hair Safely Each Day

African-American women are proud of their heritage and sport larger-than-life Afros! On the same positive note, women are wearing their natural hair longer than before.

However, to have long hair, the wearer must stop breakage. To stop breakage, one must learn how to comb natural hair without breaking it off. Caring for a curly Afro is not much different to natural curly Black hair.

To get the look without the fuss of having to comb out the hair, try this:

Part the hair into sections [Use 4-8 parts if you have shrinkage, extra thick or long hair]

Use rubber bands or hair clips to hold the sections together

Braid or twist up the hair and secure with clip

Allow the hair time to air dry or dry using low settings

When dry, take down the sections and style by running your fingers through the strands and use wide tooth comb if necessary

We recommend washing the hair while it's braided or twisted

Avoid combing the hair just because or without a purpose. Some women want to “play” in the hair and while it may have calming effects or you can learn a new style, it's not very good for the hair. What are solutions to combing the hair without breaking the hair? Let's find out!

Alternatives to Combing the Hair

Instead of combing the hair with a comb, use your fingers! This works well on long hair or preventative styles like buns or Afro puffs. The concept works wonders on little African-American girls with natural hair. It lessens the tears they shed from detangling kinky, knotty hair.

Wearing protective styles help to eliminate the need to comb the hair so often. A woman can keep braids for up to two or three weeks, depending on the quality of the maintenance it receives. Something like using a dry shampoo for black hair in between washings can be beneficial.

When you use a comb, use a wide tooth comb, the widest one available. After detangling as much of the strands as you can use the widest comb, use the next level of combs, an Afro comb. Lastly, use a brush or a small, fine comb to remove all of the kinks in the hair.

Remember to use an essential hair oil to help smooth out the locks and ease the combing process. Use fewer tools and don't over comb. Keep the tangles out by twisting strands of hair into sections.

How to Comb Natural Short Hair

No matter how short, African-American hair is naturally curly, especially when wet. Combing it daily can be detrimental to the life of the hair. Yes, it's true. Contrary to popular belief and practices, daily combing and styling can hurt the beautiful tresses on your head.

How do you comb natural short hair? There are a couple of ways to finger comb locks: roots-to-ends and ends-to-roots.

In either case, you should:

Use a detangler to help loosen the intertwined hair.

If you don't have a detangling solution, water or a leave-in conditioner will help.

Plait, Bantu Knot or braid the hair as it is separated.

Don't use a comb, though, use your fingers.

By the way, your fingernails should be filed smooth, so they don't snag the hair. Have you tried a seamless comb? This comb is larger [and more expensive] than others, but it's gentle on the hair and it has perfect teeth, free of burrs. Well worth the price.

Hair Breakage after Washing

Although it's common to have breakage after shampooing, it doesn't have to be that way. With that said, breakage can occur to dry hair as well, so what's the solution? The hair is flexible when wet, but when it's dry and at its strongest point, it easier to snap and break.

Keep reading to find tips which protect the hairdo, or the hair from breakage. What is important to realize is hair is best combed when damp, not saturated and not dry.

Okay, with that said, here are your tips:

Apply a conditioner to the tresses to help it grow stronger. After shampooing, rinse well. Use cool or cold water as it will close the skin's pores. Keep in mind, stylist's decisions to use cold or cool water will vary. If cool water works for you, do it.  Otherwise, use cold water.

Most women and I suppose men, too, squeeze their hair to remove excess water. The question is, are you using a microfiber towel? Invest in one to help prevent breakage. Additionally, squeeze from the bottom up and use the fingers to comb through the tangles.

When you dry the hair with a towel, make sure to blot, not rub. Don't use rough towels on your hair or the cute towel with the ruffles.

If using a wrap, don't stretch the hair. Lightly wrap a towel around the head to prevent strain.

Decide on an organic or natural leave-in conditioner to use after shampoos. If not that, try a detangling spray or cream. Apply the conditioner or detangling spray to the ends as well as the roots.

Comb your locks carefully after shampooing. Use fingers as much as possible. Remember, the fewer tools used, the better. When using the fingers to help remove tangles, spray your hands or fingertips with the detangling spray. Did you use a detangling shampoo? If not, think about purchasing one.

Using a roller set? Use smooth rollers or cloth rollers. They won't pull or tear the strands like most plastic rods. Spray on conditioner or detangler before rolling and on each section. Don't pull or tug on the hair when rolling it.  The hair is most delicate now, remember?

If the choice is rods or smooth plastic rollers, use pins with smooth ends. Otherwise, use professional brand clips to avoid snagging or pulling.

Another key point is to air dry instead of blow drying. Not only will heat dry the hair, but it can cause damage the strands. However, there are times when blow drying or sitting under the dryer is necessary, use the lowest speed and heat setting available.

Often, we don't think that by combing the hair we are doing damage to the hair, but it happens. Using the fingers to comb and style the hair allows the wearer to become more familiar with each strand.

Being aware of the importance of combing the hair properly is the first step to preventing damage. Realizing wet hair is vulnerable, for this reason, more care is given to protect it.  It's better to finger comb hair when damp.

Use a soft towel to squeeze the hair, starting from the ends of the hair, working up to the roots. Don't rub the hair, rather towel blot. Wrap the hair at night and choose the right pillow cases to help prevent breakage and over-combing.

[noonewantsaduchess-blog]

The real shit you learn during a natural hair journey.

Seriously, none of that googled love your hair, love yourself bull you see on every vloggers channel.  No, how that shit really goes down. 

WARNING!  This is a loooooong rant/truth post.

10. Who understands you, and who will stay ignorant as fuck.

There will be that one friend who will listen to your hair struggles, google the fuck out of your hair type and texture, come back with suggestion (you’ve already tried, but you thank them anyway.) They will compliment the shit out of your hair, they will notice growth.  They will notice health.  They’ll even notice when you’ve done a two strand twist out, or a braid out.  Then there will be the friend that thinks your afro is going to be a phase, they will pass some ignorant, trifling comments like the life-trolls they are.  They will encourage you to straighten, or re-relax your hair.  They’ll try and say shit like, “Oh you looked better when....

You don’t have time for this bitch.  Bye, bye.  Move on.  You have other friends don’t you?

9. The self-esteem hole.

When you first rock your kinks, coils or curls.  It’s the moment of “You’re gonna shit your pants.”

You’re not sure if the compliments are sincere, if that cute guy on the train is staring at you or your hair.  If you can allow one more shit-kicker to ask “can I touch your hair?”

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if what you see in the mirror is what everyone is seeing.  You’re loving your hair, you can’t stop running your fingers through it (when you freakin’ well can). but the way those eyes linger on you.  You don’t know if you should re-relax, or get that weave back in or.....

Woman just leave the house!  You are looking damn fine!

8. The money trap.

You know what I’m talking about.

You’ve scoured the internet.  Watched more youtube vloggers than you have episodes of Friends.  They’re all raving about this one line of products, but when you check out the prices with another tab that’s got google on standby, it costs more than your packed lunch; cue more tabs in your browser of choice as you try to find it as cheap as possible.  You eventually find one seller on ebay that’s selling these products at a reasonable price but your bank account just goes “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!” Even your credit card steps in on the “don’t buy it” argument.

But you NEED to try this golden egg.  You NEED to see if it will work with your hair, so you try the next best (affordable) thing.  They’re so cheap your bank manager is stood next to you giving you the thumbs up and nodding his/her head enthusiastically.  But that expensive, line of hair products that promises queen like status is calling you, but you don’t have the money.  You. Don’t. Have. The. Money.

Seriously, don’t fall into that, just find a line that your hair appreciates.

Speaking of the money trap there’s........

7. The DIY trap

We all know this one as well.

The vloggers that swear by their own homemade products They promise you that it will save you money.  But you work a 60 hour week and you’re lucky if your half hour break is actually half an hour.  They promise that it’s quick and easy to do and all you need is a potato smasher, a wooden spoon, some melted coconut oil, a leaf of aloe vera, toads foot, lizard tongue, a pointy hat and a catchy poem.  Where do they find the time?!?!

You try to make one of these magical potions but you just end up turning your kitchen into a warzone. You attempt to mix it using traditional methods and you end up using more utensils than you use to eat your sunday lunch leftovers. and that shit is still congealed shit.

I don’t know about you, but I can barely find the time to set my alarm for my next shift. When you finally do find the time to concoct one of their magical potions it involves leaving the house and raiding the local farmers market which is two trains, one bus and a taxi ride away, and your day off is too important to go traipsing around in the wonderful British winter, You’ve got a uniform to wash, dry and iron in a 12 hour period and your local laundrette is closed due to “Unforeseen circumstances.”

So damn straight, you’re going to buy cheap and effective if it does the exact same thing

6. The protective styling trap

Real talk.  This was by far the most time consuming, and money draining aspect of my hair growth journey.  I can’t begin to tell you how many hairstylists I visited and grilled and left feeling disappointed, because these bitches just wanted my money and had no idea what to do with my transitioning hair.

When I did (eventually) find a stylist that answered my questions correctly the weave took 4 hours to install and the extensions (box braids/Janet Jacksons/whatever you wanna call them) a mighty 6. In total, the grand sum of my venture into protective styling set me back by £150.  This doesn’t sound like a lot but let’s just say that I ended up finding cheaper ways to get to work until pay day came.  By this time I decided not to go for crochet, and I’ve been caring for the fro myself.

That weave that’s getting you all the compliments, takes too much of your energy to clean, and upkeep.  Those boxbraids, although make you look cool and you get perfect strangers admiring your long plaited locks, you miss feeling the curls, the kinks and the curls.  It’s all been straightened, and plaited into cornrows or individual (depending on thickness) plaits, three weeks in and you want them out, but you go the distance.  You keep them in for 2-3 months, practising patience, caring for that new growth until the day comes for the takedown and it takes for-fucking-ever.  That’s it, a whole day wasted uninstalling that weave, or unplaiting those individual braids (god help you if you take this task up on your own, just remember your fingers will cramp like their having little mini heart attacks).

Because there’s so many protective options, you’re overwhelmed within minutes of conducting the google search, then there’s the style choices......

No girl, find out what works for your hair one step at a time, leave the protective styling for when you really want to spoil yourself.

5. The styling at home trap.

All right.  So.  Protective styling is a bit of a no-no for a little bit, until you've done your homework on all the local stylist/salons in your immediate area.

Let’s try some of this styling yourself.

Well, if you’re transitioning, it’s the two strand, three strand twist out.  Braid out. bantu knot out and so on and so forth, etc, etc.

But learning those skills........youtube becomes your classroom.

Trying that Bantu knot out?  It’s gonna take you 5 attempts to get it right. Gonna try out those flat twists?  Yeah your fingers are going to be confused for a while.  Wanna try some flexi rods/perm rods?  It’s going to take a while to get used to them.  

So while you enter this learning phase, of dealing with your new growth and your old ends, your patience is going to be tested big time.  Every morning you wake up thinking you’ve got it, you’ve mastered this one, this flat twist goin be bomb AF.....no it’s not.  You look like an unsheared sheep, *sigh* whips out same beanie from yesterday.  Gonna have to hid this mess until I get home tonight now.  And that’s a good 2-3 hours you wasted while you attempted to get the products just right, the lighting just right, those splits bordering on perfection, ruined because somewhere along the line you messed up and it’s back to the friggin’ drawing board....again.

Look, if you got it right first time, you wouldn’t be learning anything, so keep saving those youtube videos to your playlist named “tutorials.”

4. The growing trap.

This got to me, big time.  It still does.  I’m gonna call it what I see it.  Iwantherlonghairnow syndrome

You’ve watched so many vloggers with beautiful long, hair as they rave about certain high end hair products and carelessly flick a beautiful lock of hair out of place then proceed to instruct you on how they achieve that bomb looking twist out using only flexi rods after they've told you their entire life story.

I went through this myself.  I started worshipping Nappyfu’s gorgeus 4c hair, FusionofCultures bomb ass 4c hair, Greenbeautychannels ravishing 4a hair, my list goes on.

They start talking about patience, and learning to listen to your hair during your journey, but you want those shoulder length curls, kinks and coils ASAP.  You google all sorts of weird crap like “How to grow hair quickly/How to grow black/afro hair quickly.” Or “How long does it take to grow afro hair.” Or “Hair growth elixrs.”

You find out about the inversion method and you go nuts, you buy every oil you see google suggesting and turn your bathroom floor into an ice rink, you try searching for hair growth techniques, till you find yourself staring at a google images result for the hair growth cycle and your heart sinks.  You find out that you should eat healthy, exercise, drink water avoid junk food blah, blah, blah.  

You do it all, in the name of growth and that monthly length check doesn’t even hit the 1 inch mark, so you end up sitting there staring at the mirror wondering if you’ll have to fake it or just get a relaxer.....

Gurl stop. There’s a reason you’re growing the relaxer out, or if you Big Chopped there’s a reason that TWA suddenly becomes the awkward stage/ Or as I call it, the Dwayne Dibbley era.

3. The Big Chop challenge.

Now, some of us are really impatient, and some of us have bags of patience, on standby.  I want to talk to you impatient lot.

Transitioning was never the best choice, despite what you see during your hours of internet searching.  Transitioning is HARD.  You’re dealing with different hairs, two different textures, two different needs.  You’re dealing evil twin and good twin and you’re on the side of good twin; bad twin....she needs to go, she needs to get out of your life and you want to see her defeated on the floor at your feet begging for mercy.

Some of you transitioners plan to go a year before chopping off your chemical romance, Some of you want to transition for two years and some of you don’t want to transition at all.  I managed a whopping 8 months before I chopped off the evil twin.  Natural hair vloggers such as FusionofCultures transitioned for two years, TWO WHOLE YEARS!  I got fed up after 7 months.  I couldn’t commit for so long.

And now I understand.  Those scissors you found at a bargain price call you, every hour of every day.  They’ve invaded your dreams, and taken up permanent residency on your dresser.  But you made the promise, you made a commitment and you wouldn’t dare break that promise you made to yourself after your last relaxer.  No, you’re going to see this through to the bitter end.

But you’re tired.  You’re tired of flexi-rodding to combine the two twins.  You’ve had enough of hiding the ends in one of your signature “I had two minutes to get this done” looks.  You’re done with washday rolling round the corner and you see your beautiful fro getting weighed down by these straight ended nasties.  You’re finished, you’re out, you’re calling time at the bar.

But you made the promise to yourself, you have it written down in your diary, or it’s one of your things to do on your calender, you can’t disappoint yourself like this?!

Honey, when the time comes, you will know.  

2. The (Creamy Crack) Calling.

Yup.  We’ve all been tempted back.

You reach that 6 month mark, and you reckon you’ve got a few basic hair care regimen techniques under your belt.  You’re working hard on your detangling methods, you tried co-washing, you deep condition like clockwork.  Your strands feel and look amazing, and that supportive friend from number 10 is noticing a real change in the way your hair behaves and looks.  You feel great about your new hair.

Then you have a sudden, almost spiteful urge to sabotage your own journey.  You want your straight hair back.  You want to swish your hair and feel the wind pick it up and toss it about so that you can do your Pocahontas impression.

You’re tired right?  You thought the journey would be easy right?  You thought that in a couple of months you’d have a head of kinks and coils right?  Well think again.  it’s called a journey, not a short cut.

You’re broke, right?  You’ve spent more money on hair products than you have on food, right?  You thought natural hair would be a wise money saving decision but you’re seeing more transactions on your bank statement to “that hair shop in the shopping centre, but you can never remember the name till you see it” taking the majority of your wages.  

You knew where you stood with relaxers. One box of the pungent chemical and your hair was sorted for a couple of months.  You knew what you were doing with relaxers......

Do you even remember why you started this journey sister?

1. The Hair Typing Cycle Of Doom (HTCOD)

Are you surprised this is number 1?  A little bit perplexed even?

It’s an easy number 1.

After the first month you feel the first beginnings of your curls and you start imagining your hair being pretty and bouncy and curly, like those girls in the ads.  

You first start researching how to care for hair, then you stumble across that ONE blog that references the Andre Walker BS and that’s it.  The hair typing asteroid field leading to the black hole begins.

You first start attempting to type your hair in month 2, but there’s not enough new growth to be sure, so you leave it for a little while.  During this resting time, you start looking at different hair textures and refining your google search criteria.  By month 6 you think you’re ready to type your hair again, but this time you have a bit more hair to play with and look at.  There’s that confusing moment in the bathroom when you stretch one of your transitioning strands but you can’t make out if you have coils, or curls or kinks.  You put this little mini project to the side and decide to keep caring for your hair as per the instructions from some vloggers and a few websites that live in your favourites.

By month 8 you know you have enough hair to make an accurate guess theory  discovery of what your hair type actually is.  So let’s go!  let’s follow those instructions, let’s see what section your hair belongs to.  Yay!  Success!  You’ve typed successfully now what?

Are you seriously going to go to every person you meet going “Hi, I’m 4C!” Of course not.  Are you going to learn anything interesting or vaguely important now that you’ve been categorised into an alphanumeric system?  A definite no!

But you’ve seen pictures/videos of other people with your hair type and they don’t look anything like yours, better take that test again, just to be sure...

Hm.  One more time because you’re not convinced.......

No, sweetheart stop wasting your time and learn your hair.

Aaaand you made it to the end.

So which lesson was the hardest for you to learn during your natural hair journey?  Anything you want to add, let me know.

Peace out all!