mkcherrio

[mkcherrio]

no one asked but i answered so here's a gay short story

Title: Warm Coats

The subway screeched into the station just as I stumbled in. I seized the brief moment I had for the doors to open and leaned against a bench to regain even a small amount of energy. Bundles of people stood packed together in the overcrowded area. Many of them were wrapped in thick woolen jackets, knitted gloves, and even full-length blankets to combat the biting December chill. Boston was not kind to its residents in the winter. Me, I had long since conceded to my ragged Boston University hoodie, patched-up leather work pants, and construction uniform to keep me from succumbing to hyperthermia. The construction company I worked for kept us on site for far longer than city law allowed them to, claiming they had adequate protection from the elements. If a five-minute break underneath a Walmart heating lamp was protective, I didn’t want to know what was unprotective. Every week or two in these cold spells, a body would turn up on whatever site we were working on at the moment. Their skin was frozen and tight with ice, and their lips cracked with colors ranging from pale blues to bruised purples. We each sunk deeper into our flimsy clothes as if they were the barrier between our mortality and the wretched state the body was in.

Eventually, when I was able to push past the mass of people, I scanned the subway car eagerly for an open spot. Of course, there weren’t any, and generally, it didn’t matter to me. However, an eight-hour shift lugging around solid timber in continuously plummeting temperatures sapped most of my stamina, and the scraps of it I had left over were used to sprint to the station. I gripped the smooth metal pole near me and leaned my head against it. My eyes felt almost bruised from the lack of rest.

“Excuse me?” a quiet voice spoke, snapping me out of my stupor. Flicking my eyes to the source, a woman looked up at me from a seat, a small smirk playing on her full lips. 

“Erm, hello?” My face pulled into a grimace at my ineloquent response. The fatigue really was getting to me. “Sorry, is there something I can do for you?”

“What you can do for me is to sit down.” She gestured to an empty spot that went unnoticed during my initial search. “You look dead on your feet.” 

My mouth pulled into an exhausted smile and I slipped next to her. “Thank god.” 

Her warm mahogany-colored eyes cut across my slumped form and I found myself straightening underneath her gaze, heat rising up my cheeks and up to my ears. It had been a while since I’d gotten flustered by another pretty woman. It had been a while since I felt anything relating to romance at all. Constant work and eight-hour shifts didn’t sustain a relationship. The friends I had were in the same sinking boat as me. Along with the harsh cold, the frostiness of solitude was another thing I didn’t have a thick enough coat for. 

“Your jacket is horrible,” she said bluntly. 

I laughed and looked at her barely patched-up leather jacket. A long tear on her right sleeve showed she wore nothing but a thin long-sleeved shirt underneath. “Yours is too. No doubt you’re freezing right now.”

“Well, we aren’t talking about me now are we, dead girl?” 

“Nicknaming the stranger without asking for the name?” 

Her eyes brightened even with how cold she must’ve been. A fire blazing in a snowstorm. 

“Sorry, I’ve been rude. What is your name, dead girl?” 

“Sarauniya, just call me Uni. You?” 

Her smile could’ve melted the ice clinging to the windows. “Alika. Are you Nigerian?” 

I smiled when I heard her name. The weariness steeping my bones was curbed by her friendliness. “Yeah. I’m assuming you are.” 

She nodded. “My grandma had your name. It means queen.” 

“Yours means beautiful. I think it fits.”

“Flirt.”

“I prefer chivalrous, thank you.”

Her laughter resonated like cymbals colliding together, forming a quick yet bright sound. “Christ you sound like an English teacher.”

 “I was a creative writing major so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh? A writer in construction?” 

“I like to build things as well. Though in usually better conditions.” 

“You went to Boston University?”

“Yeah, I just graduated. You?” 

“It’s my last year; I’m a music major.” My eyes trailed down to her hands which were folded in her lap. Hard callouses lined the tips of her fingers.

“You play guitar, right?”

Her brows furrowed and the corners of her lips quirked up. “How’d you know?” 

“I play and you have the hands.” 

“Oh so you do everything at this point,” she smirked, “what can’t you do.” 

“I’m not aware of anything, but if you can come up with something let me know.”

Alika opened her mouth to respond but a sharp voice cut across the overhead speakers and informed us that the trip would be delayed due to maintenance issues. The unified groan in the subway car was palpable. 

“Are you actually kidding me?” I murmured, glaring at the speakers as if they were the cause of the wait. 

“You have someplace to be?” Alika asked.

“The store. I was going to pick up something to eat but now everything will be closed by the time I get home.” 

“I think you’d pass out in the store even if you did have time. I genuinely thought you were about to fall over when I saw you.” 

“Hardy har har. I was merely resting my eyes.” 

“Sure.” She glanced at the rough stone of the tunnel we were bound to through the ice tipped glass windows. “Looks like we're stuck here for a while.” 

A shaky laugh escaped my lips. No longer in the throat of our original conversation, lead filled my eyelids and they struggled to stay open. “I guess we are.” 

Her face softened and she nudged my shoulder gently. “You should sleep a little bit. It's not like we’re going anywhere.” 

“No it might start again and I don’t want to miss my stop.”

“Then I’ll wake you up. Please you might fall into the street if you stay up for any longer.” 

With, albeit more aggressive prodding, I conceded and slumped deeper into my seat. Her arm rested on my curved shoulders and when I shot her a questioning look through my sleep-lidded eyes, she smiled. 

“Well, I don’t want you to actually die from the cold, dead girl.” 

Warmth sat on my skin as if I wore something thicker than my old hoodie and cheap construction uniform. The deep, nearly unrelenting chill of loneliness sunken in my bones lessened ever so slightly. It was smothered with a jacket sewn with just a tinge more care than usual. Another coat added to my small collection.

And I could always do with more coats.

[mkcherrio]

THE DRUG DEALER'S DAUGHTER / SIAARA FREEMAN

[mkcherrio]

Understand My Blood

I remember, vividly, being made fun of for my silly african foods 

Little white boys and girls snickering at smells and the tells that told them I wasn’t one of them 

Eru, fufu, plantains. Delicacies my grandmother, with hands telling a million stories, prepared for me so I could be someone who carried on her legacy. A baton of poverty and suffering and sweltering under a hundred degree heat for water that ran through their taps like liquid gold. 

My grandmother prays too. She prays to a god colonizers enslaved our ancestors with. She begs for guidance and repentance to a god whose answers sound like a whip against skin. Her cries drown out the sound of our ancestors pleading with religions washed away by one considered pure. Our gods erased by a man fixed to a cross we praise yet no one worships the nail holes in our history. 

They don’t hear the music. They don’t hear the dance and song burning through our beings like fire in blood that was spilled. They don’t understand the whips and chains and fight to control our brains can’t remove the music. The stories. The dance. From the continent, to the caribbean to the americas we never die. From Nigeria, to Haiti, to Brooklyn, we never die. Your knife cuts through everything, slices and dices the natives of america, the mayans, actezcs of Mexico and central America, the tainos in the caribbean islands, the tribes of africa. Yet they are here. We are here. I am here.

You don’t hear my music. You don’t understand my food. But I will make you understand my blood. 

Slam poetry I made because I'm cool.

[mkcherrio]

emo bitch niko in the flesh

[mkcherrio]

Maybe my mother will understand that smacking the shit out of me won't make me better. It won't make me perfect. It won't make me everything she wanted when she had me. It'll just make me hate myself more than I already do.

[mkcherrio]

The perfect sunset

I want to find the perfect sunset. 

I want to take every shade from the mix of light and cradle it in my palms. A sunset that pulls every hue and turns the sky into a canvas filled with living color. Vibrant oranges like sweet mangos picked from the tree. Purples and pinks spiraling out of the sun rays and smiling with a lover’s lips. And the sun. Ah yes, the sun. Its brilliance powered the thing so close to my heart. It’s waves of warmth softened even the thickest of ice. So beautiful. So utterly radiant. 

Could we share this sight, my love? Could I pull and bend these rays of light and mold them into a bouquet for you? This beautiful sunset; can it be ours? The sweet oranges, the pinks and purples, the sun. Can I share it with you? 

I want to find the perfect sunset for you.

[mkcherrio]

tlou tv show shit

As a person who has never actually played the game but who has watched five different playthroughs, the show is the greatest thing I've seen in my life.

Anyone who disagrees can argue with the wall

[mkcherrio]

currently my book is just emo bitch Niko getting into a lot of trouble

[mkcherrio]

The wooden boy with the borrowed soul 🌱 Amento is the character I play in our Curse of Strahd campaign. He’s a wooden puppet druid - who apparently wasn’t a puppet at first at all! He is looking for his druid master Vladislava who disappeared one day leaving only her cloak and hat behind. Amento didn’t remember anything about his past at first, and the memories he is now getting back are making him just more confused. 💦

I got a drawing frenzy last weekend and drew Amento in so many outfits! His normal outfit consist of a cloak and a hat that were left behind by his master when she disappeared. Under the cloak he has his own Vistani clothes that he doesn’t remember where he got from. The night gown Amento borrowed once from another player when his own clothes were soaked, and the jester costume I drew because we found out that Amento was a jester in his previous life - it’s also what mini-Amento wears. 

I’ve been enjoying this campaign so much 💖

[mkcherrio]

dialoge practice

 We sat next to each other. No, not next to each other. That was too simple. We sat across from each other in fluffy red armchairs. He was stiff in his chair, his legs crossed and his fingers intertwined in his lap. Two glasses of untouched red wine sat on the table between us.

He stared at me, his eyes harder than I’d ever seen them. Anguish crept up my chest and clenched my heart. Why? Why did I ruin us like this? 

“Markus,” I whispered. He flinched at the sound of his name on my lips. My mouth was dry. I did not know whether or not it was from dehydration or something else. 

I tried again. “It’s been long, hasn’t it?” 

“So it has,” he replied. His tone bore none of the affection I’d cherished once before. Cold harshness filled it, and it hurt. God, did it hurt. 

“How is Myles?” The memory of our son’s smile did nothing to ease my heart, for it was tainted with the memory of his screams and tears. 

“Now you speak his name?” Markus snarled. “It’s been years. I’ve raised that boy on my own for a decade, and now you decide to show up?” 

“I beg of you, calm down. I am not here to start a fight.” 

“Then what are you here for? After-" He choked on his words, and my heart nearly broke. “After all this time. Where were you? I struggled and worked like a dog day and night to provide for him. Where were you, Carlos? Where were you when he cried for you and I couldn’t do anything about it because you were gone!” 

“I-I tried, I-” 

He cut me off. “Like hell you tried! Where were you when we needed you? Where were you when I needed you?”

I couldn’t hold his gaze. Tears streamed down his dark face; his hands were balled into tight fists. I watched his chest move as he breathed, his body filled with pain that I had caused. 

“Markus. I won’t hold you any longer, I just--I wanted to give you this.” I fished through the pockets of my winter coat and handed him a slip of paper. 

He frowned at them. “I don’t want your money,” Disdain curled around his words. 

“It’s not for you, it’s for Myles. Ever since I left, I’ve been saving money for him to go to college. Tomorrow is his birthday, correct? Give it to him then.” I took a deep breath. “You could even tell him it’s a gift from a relative.” 

I forced myself to look at him; to see the wrinkles in his brown skin. To see the face of the lover I had left behind. I was the wound in his heart, and coming back had ripped it open again. 

He looked between the check and me with an indescribable expression on his face. “Why?” He whispered. 

I gave him a watery chuckle. “Because that is my son. And no matter the distance, I will never forget him. He deserves everything more than what I gave him.” I looked away. “You do as well.” 

I stood up from the chair, brushing imaginary dust off of my coat and fixing the collar. “Goodbye, Markus.” I hesitated. “You might not want to see me again ever, but finally, I have a door for you. You can open it if you want to.” 

“Goodbye, Carlos.”

Not that good but i wanted to play around with some angsty shit

[mkcherrio]

little niko stuff

extremly good at guitar and singing, like its almost funny how good he is at it for his age

has his guitar from his abuelo who bought it for him and shipped it from puerto rico

favorite food is mofongo

knows a little bit of italian because 1. it's oddly similar to spanish and 2. his mentor/surrogate dad speaks italian

listens to christmas songs with his mother when its like February

scared of heights

really good at baking

has like 20 cousins on his mom's side alone

has a stuffed tigger he got when he was little because he really likes winnie the pooh

[mkcherrio]

AFRO LATINO PERCY DAMNIT. Everyone besides Jason in the seven are poc's argue with the wall

Okay but with the afro-latino!percy headcanon, imagine Leo meeting Percy’s mom for the first time and he has no clue Percy could speak any Spanish until his mom says something in perfect Spanish and Leo goes !!! and completely hits it off with her. Percy just sits there trying to follow along with what Spanish he does know (which isn’t as much as he’d like to because Gabe wouldn’t allow them to speak spanish when he was around) as it finally occurs to him that he’d had someone to speak Spanish with the entire freaking quest and he’d been too busy to realize it. From then on he and Leo speak Spanish at every opportunity.

[mkcherrio]

absolutely

percy jackson is afro-venezuelan. this is canon i was there when this was written down, annabeth is also afro-chinese and frank and her bond over feeling like they've disappointed their family/parents in some way or another

[mkcherrio]

a little excerpt

Often, I wonder what the wind thinks. What the breeze between my fingertips notices about the world it inhabits. What the gusts that followed a rainy day regards of us. Why did something with no mind of its own and no limbs move freer than most humans? Why did something with no feeling express more emotion than me? The wind is its own entity. It traveled higher than we ever could and at the same time stayed so close to the ground. It kissed the tops of trees and skated along sidewalks and paved roads. It walked across oceans and hiked mountains we dreamed to reach. In many myths, we made the wind our god. It worked in the seasons, sending waves of air in the spring through thunderstorms and rippling through blizzards in the winter. It is a merciful god and a cruel devil. It played with the things it destroyed. It spared and murdered in the same breath. It is something to be feared and something to worship. But then again, we love to honor things we fear. Perhaps that’s why we made it our god. Perhaps that’s why it was so close to us. What must I do to understand the wind? Should I understand it because it seems to understand me. The wind is everything I aspire. Destructive and free. Dangerously beautiful. Was that so bad? Maybe it is just me wanting to become a god. Not necessarily one to be worshiped, but one who is an angel and a devil. A giver of cruel mercy.

this entire thing was written based off of a writing prompt

[mkcherrio]

I think one of the greatest writing tips I've heard is just to straight up write down every idea you have. It never has to be a good idea but good ideas can stem from silly ones. So put down a story idea you came up with in the shower or in a dream because even if it sucks it can give birth to something amazing.

[mkcherrio]

MILES IS MY BEST FRIEND ISTG

By the way, Kenneth’s pronouns are They/Them! 😌

[mkcherrio]

little Sage things

she's got a billion hair products because black girls gotta black girl(same lol)

she's a really good painter/drawer although she hasn't painted for a year or so

is like oddly good at caligraphy

hates harry potter

her best friend was her girlfriend in freshman year and they broke up because she couldn't handle Sage's trauma no matter how hard she tried to hide it

learns a new braiding style whenever her sister asks

really good cook

her favorite color is yellow

actively seeks out south African food and snacks because she is LACKING