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paisholotus · 11 months

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Zintandathu

Present Day-2018

Narrative

"My Prince, coming up on them now." Okoye told T'challa, sitting in her lotus position.

T'Challa stands and moves to a sand model of the convoy down below. Okoye gets up out of her chair and grabs her spear off the wall. She moves towards the back of the craft towards T'challa. "No need, Okoye. I can handle this alone." He tells her.

Okoye pauses, then returns her spear to the wall. T'Challa closes the model and steps to a marked circle on the floor. "I will get the women out as quickly as possible." Okoye places six kimoyo beads into T'Challa's gloved hands. "Just don't freeze when you see her." She said, smirking at him. T'challa was confused as to who she was talking about; he rolled his eyes and picked up his helmet. "What are you talking about? I never freeze."

T'Challa slips on his helmet, revealing himself to be the Black Panther, and folds his arms over his chest. Okoye opens her closed fist, dropping the Panther out of the aircraft. The Panther hurdles through the clouds and throws the spheres toward the cars below. The spheres change shape into edged discs that follow through the air as they zip forward.

The discs mount themselves to the hoods of all the vehicles, sending a sonic ripple through them, stopping the convoy in its tracks. The militant leader riding in the front watches as the driver looks around, confused.

He tries turning the key to start the truck up again, and nothing happens. The militant leader grabs his AK-47 and climbs to the front of the truck. He spots the disk mounted to it and tries pulling it off to no avail. He raises his fist.

"Defense position!" The militant leader slips down a night vision monocular as the other militants echo the call and begin to fall in line.

Inside the truck are several Nigerian women. The young soldier exited the vehicle as the goddess watched closely.

The pickup's driver climbs out, cocking a submachine gun, and looks into the forest in the wrong direction. Slowly approaching, the militant leader points to shifting foliage in the direction of the Panther. The militants nod, and the militant leader covers them while they go off into the grass.

The militants move slowly, following every sound. They point their guns at the base of a tree, but it's just a stray dog. The gunmen approach the tree, eyeing around, then look up to find the Panther stalking them like his prey from the treetops. The goddess climbs out of the truck, carefully leading the other captive women out of the truck.

"Come in! Come in!" The leader yells into the radio. We hear a faint struggle, then a militant body is hurled into the side of the pickup truck as the other militants look on in horror. The gunners and all of the other men in the convoy blindly opened fire into the trees.

Then the Panther emerges from behind them, flipping into the truck bed and slashing clean through the base of it, then taking the gunner out with a single blow. Slipping behind a militant, the goddess pulls water from the trees and encircles the man, knocking him against the tree and knocking him out cold. She leaps onto a second militant, easily taking him down and striking him in the throat.

The four men don't see the Panther coming and executing a barrage of punches and kicks; the Panther viciously dispatches them. He spots the young militant firing at him, then slashes through a car door and throws the door at a militant behind him, taking him out.

In a moment of desperation, the young militant rushes out, firing at the Panther to no effect. Then, as the Panther walks towards him, the Goddess dives out, kicking the young militant's gun from his hand and grabbing him in a necklock. Swinging around, the Goddess pushes the Panther in the chest, stopping his momentum. Caught off guard, the Panther freezes.

"Stop! Him just a boy. He got kidnapped too." The goddess pulls the wrap from the young militant's face, exposing his pre-teen expression. She walked towards him, smirking and crossing her arms. The Panther stares at her for too long.

"Lua, I... I... I wanted to." T'challa stuttered but was cut off by Lua smacking his arm. "Yuh, mess up my mission! Wah yuh doing here?" She asked him, playfully glaring at him. "My father is dead, Lua." He sadly told her.

The news devastates her. Tears welled in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered how sorry she was. T'challa held her tightly, nuzzling into her neck. "I will be crowned King tomorrow, and I wish for my other family to be there." Lua looks at T'Challa deeply and nods, kissing his cheek. She then turns, catching eyes with one of the Nigerian captives as Okoye brings them from around the truck.

Lua walks towards the women and tells them that her guards will take them home. Okoye also made sure to let them know not to speak of what they saw tonight.

-Time Skip-

The Royal Talon Fighter heads for the Royal Palace, a magnificent building at the center of the city, and touches down on the landing pad. And right behind them, landing beside them, was the Royal SC Nightfall.

Walking down the strip, T'challa and Okoye waited for the Adamu family to exit the aircraft. When the doors let down, Lua, Yarri, Aja, and Erik's mom, Tasha, began walking towards them. Waiting up front were Ramonda, Shuri, and Erik. On each side were Ayo and Aneka.

Lua sped towards Ramonda, opening her arms to hug her. "Hey, mama." Ramonda wrapped her arms around Lua and kissed the side of her head. They pulled away, and Ramonda gave her a teary smile. "Lua, it's so good to see you, my child." Lua placed Queen Mother's hands against her lips and gave her hushed condolences.

Lua let go of her hands and went to hug Shuri and Erik, but he playfully shoved her off, saying she was being "too mushy."

Erik threw his arms around his mama, asking how she was and kissing the side of her face. She smiled big at him, giving him a kiss back.

It was Aja's and Yarri's turn to hug Queen Mother, then on to Erik to his dismay, causing Yarri to smack her teeth and smirk, saying, "Oh, you don't want to hug me?" Yarri, being the same height as Erik, smacked him upside the head and hugged him anyway, causing him to chuckle and hug her back.

Shuri looked at Okoye, then back at T'challa. "Did he freeze?" She asked Okoye, causing T'challa to look at her, offended. Erik snorted, crossing his arms and looking at his cousin. "Hell, yeah, he froze." Erik said, cackling. "Like an antelope in headlights." Okoye added, causing everyone to laugh, except for Lua, who had a small smile on her face.

She thought T'challa looked extra scrumptious in his suit. "Are you three finished?" T'challa playfully asked them.

Okoye slams her spear into the ground, signaling the rest of the Dora to follow her off, along with the Adamu family. T'challa watched Lua leave with a small smile on his face and turned to Shuri, who was watching Aja with a shy smile on her face. He smirks at her but doesn't tease her like she did.

"I was so surprised that my little sister came to see me and her cousin off before our big day." Erik rolled his eyes and went to stand next to his older cousin. "Nigga, ain't nobody want to come see you." T'challa glared at him and shoved him, causing Erik to buck at him. "Bantwana! Behave, nceda," Ramonda told them sternly.

"Don't y'all start! Today's a good day." Tasha said, pointing her finger at them. Romanda nodded in agreement, smiling at both boys.

They both pouted, and Ramonda shook her at her son and nephew. There's nothing that's going to change about them; they were still little boys at heart. "You wish I was here to see you. I'm here for the EMP beads; I need to update them." Shuri told T'challa.

"Update? No, it worked perfectly." He said, shaking his head. Shuri rolled her eyes and scoffed. "How many times do I have to teach you? Just because something works doesn't mean that it cannot be improved." She said, smartly.

"You are teaching me; what do you know?" He asked her. "More than your noodle head ass." Erik said, under his breath. Causing T'challa to glare at Erik again. "N'Jadaka!" Ramonda warned him. Erik mumbled a sorry, looking at Shuri, who was trying not to laugh. Shuri holds out her hand, and T'Challa drops the beads into her hand, and he watches her turn around to leave.

"How are you feeling today, mama?" T'challa asked his mother. Ramonda smiled sweetly at her son and cupped his cheeks. "Proud. Your father and I would talk about this day all the time. He is with us, and it is your time to be king!" She then looked over to her nephew and cupped his cheeks, causing him to give her a big smile. "I am most proud of you, Umlilo Wam." She said, giving him a teary smile. "Your father would be extremely proud of the man you've become, and now it is also your time to be the Jaguar!" She said, smiling brightly.

"Ouu! I'M SO PROUD OF MY BABY!" Tasha said, walking over, squeezing Erik's cheeks with happy tears in her eye's.

Erik looked down, feeling his own eyes well up. T'challa looked at his younger cousin with pride and patted his back. "Kulungile! Let's go. We have family waiting for us." Ramonda said, hurrying both young men back into the palace.

Taraji P Henson as Tasha Stevens

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duchessanon · 2 years

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Who’s who in this blog : the fandom version of the rf

For any newbies, I usually don’t like explaining the joke but here u are! These are essentially over exaggerated versions of how the fandom has characterised the rf and supporting characters over the years.

Liz - RIP’d queen, often disrespected by her grandsons & their wives. Ignores everything that she needs to fix in her fam. A icon none the less

Philpot - RIP’d duke of edin-burg. Occasionally racist. Generally admired. Name is Phil & despot together bc he may have RIP’d Di.

Chuck - current king. Desperate for attention, sensitive, adulterer, and ready to throw his (RIP’d) wife and sons to the wolves

Camilla - one time respected/tolerated, now beloved for making Henris bedroom into her wardrobe

Di - RIP’d princess of hearts. Press feeding, monarchy loving, but also an anarchist and destructor of the monarchy. Only has one son, who he is depends on who u ask

Ghost Di - appears in the form of leopards, elephants, cows etc. Blesses u with fertility and revenge for ur enemies

Anne - a hardworking, unbothered legAnned. Likes horsey stuff

Tim - lusted over husbAnned. Drama free

Andy - sicko. Never a good word said about him unless ur also a sicko or Fergie.

Fergie - chaotic queen of flower crowns. Messy for defending Andy. But so batshit, u can’t be mad, u just roll with it. Part time author of smut.

Eddie - dramatically unveils plaques

Soph - Liz’s fave. Probably an asshole in secret. Her fan account turned against her out of nowhere one day. Still don’t know what she did

Willy - heir with no hair. BULLIAM. Celebrated for it. Lusted over by a minority. Often lazy. Often adulterous. Takes a bad photo. Family man. Simp.

k8 - the main fandom girlie. Loves kids and shaping their brains. Often lazy. Baby brained, cheated on non stop, but also Machiavellian (Bitch k8). Also boring. “Great gowns, beautiful gowns” (sometimes).

Henri - Named Santa Henri bc of his Saint like status in pre-2016 fandom. Now a todger loving, traitorous, self obsessed, disrespectful, bewitched by meg dumb dumb. Also a brave, rebellious, normal blokey soldier. Loyal husband and father.

Meg - that bitch. Narcissistic, philanthropic, disrespectful, title obsessed, overthrower of the colonialist monarchy. Bad friend and daughter. Kindest person alive. Never done anything wrong, at fault for everything. Hounded by the press but it was all her fault anyway.

Peter - used his royal name to do a milk ad

Zara & Mike - get away with doing magazine deals bc they’re not working royals. Relationship with Willy and Henri used as proof that either brother is better bc they must be great if they’re close to the tindalls

Eugbea - daughter of fergie. One person. The true blood princess

Eugbea husband - just there

AK-47 - Angela Kelly, Liz’s secret lover who denied meg a tiara

Jason Knife - staff. Twisted the knife in megris back

JLP - the og staff dude

Cam Tominey, Dicky Palmer, KT nichol, the two Vickis, Roya, Danny Wooten, Piers Morgan, Emily Andrews, Becky English, that Jack guy, Val Lowe - EVIL press, revealers of the TRUTH

Omid - best selling author. risked it all for Megri. Court jester

Carolyn - also best selling author. Missing since 2021

Cress and Chelsea - long suffering exes

Carole - the queen maker

Mike - drug smuggler. Pilot

#lmk if I missed anyone obvious

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bespokeprovocateur · 3 years

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4-Tier Survival.

The tiers are as follows:

TIER ONE: This is your everyday carry (EDC) on person. You should have this with you 24/7 or as close to 24/7 as possible. Basically, if you have pants on, you should have these items with you.

TIER TWO: This is your EDC bag. You should have this with you or within reach 24/7. Take it with you to work, the grocery store, running to the gas station, etc. If you walk out the door of your house, it should be with you.

TIER THREE: This is your 72 hour kit, bug out bag, SHTF bag, or any of those other catchy names for them. At a minimum you need one. If you only have the funds for one, so be it. But, eventually I would suggest having one for the house, the vehicle and possibly at work if you have the space to store one.

TIER FOUR: This is for long term preparedness. This is long-term food and water storage and procurement methods. Always prepare your home to shelter-in-place first. Then, if you have a secondary bug out location, prepare it. Depending on the disaster or emergency you may or may not be able to bug out. On the other hand, you may be forced to evacuate or bug out.

TIER ONE: On-person EDC

Blades/Tools

Quality folding knife of your choice.

Quality multi-tool.

Lock picks/Bogota

Small compass.

Pen and small notepad

Small survival whistle.

Cotton bandana.

P-38 can opener.

Cell Phone.

Cordage

550 Cord. There are lots of different, creative ways to carry. There are bracelets, key fobs, zipper pulls, belts, even lacing your boots/shoes with it. Learn how to braid your own items.

Fire

Small brand name lighter

Small firesteel.

Tinder. Could be a magnesium rod, dryer lint, or any brand of quick tinder that is out on the market now, you should know what works.

Firearm

Light

Small flashlight.

Keychain LED light.

USB Drive

I use my USB drive to store all types of important documents and other information I run across and want to save. I have encrypted my USB drive in case it falls into the wrong hands. (I strongly suggest doing this.) Also, save the information under nondescript names. In other words, don’t save the file as: “Insurance Papers” or “Social Security Cards”, etc.

Birth/Marriage Certificates

Social Security Cards

Driver’s License

Insurance Policies/Cards

Vehicle Registrations/Insurance

Medical/Shot Record

Recent Check Stubs/Bank Statements

Stocks/Bonds

Property Description

Another option/addition to this is online file storage. There are many places available on the internet to store files on a remote server and be able to access from any computer or cell phone with internet access.

TIER TWO: EDC Bag Tier two is going to contain pretty much everything from tier one except bigger and better.

Blades/Tools

Quality fixed blade knife of your choice. Again make sure it is sharp.

Sharpening stone.

Quality multi-tool. I would look at one to complement the one from tier one. A little larger and possibly features that the other does not have. I personally wouldn’t want the exact same model from tier one. Look at the ones that have the screwdriver possibilities.

Small entry bar or pry bar.

Larger more reliable compass. Possibly a GPS system if you are so inclined. If you are in a large urban environment, I would have a city map in my EDC bag.

Pens and notepad again. Plenty of pens and permanent markers.

P-51 can opener.(A scaled-up version of the P-38.)

Cell Phone/Communications

This is where I would keep a wall charger for my cell phone.

I would also think about one of the emergency chargers that run off of batteries at this point.

I also carry a pay-as-you go phone in my EDC bag. On some occasions when one service is down, others are still up and running. It’s a cheap insurance policy.

Radio of some sort. Depends on your location and abilities.

Cordage

I would carry no less than 25 feet of 550 cord in my EDC bag. The more the better. Again, options here, braid it to take up less space, key fobs, I’ve seen some braided water bottle carriers.

I would toss in some duct tape and electrical tape here. You can take it off of the cardboard roll and roll it onto itself and it takes up very little room.

Possibly some wire, picture hanging wire works well.

Possibly some zip ties. Various sizes as you see fit.

I also have a couple of carabiners clipped to my bag.

Fire

Another cheap lighter.

Larger firesteel.

More tinder. Personally I prefer the magnesium, but whatever you are comfortable with.

Firearm

I would however warrant the carrying of at least two spare magazines for the handgun in tier one.

First-Aid

Basic first aid kit.

Package of quick slotting agent.

Basic EMT shears.

Basic pain relievers, fever reducers, upset stomach tablets etc.

Small bottle of hand sanitizer.

Baby wipes.

Food

I always carry a couple of energy or meal replacement bars in my bag. If nothing else, I may have to work through lunch and need a snack.

Some people will toss a freeze-dried meal or MRE if they have room.

A small pack of hard candy.

Light

I personally prefer a headlamp at this stage. You can use a headlamp as a flashlight; you can’t use a flashlight as a headlamp.

Extra batteries. On the subject of batteries, do your best to acquire electronic items that use the same size of battery.

Another keychain light. I have one attached to the inside of my bag to aid in finding items inside in low-light situations.

Some people carry chemical light sticks in their EDC bag. I have found battery operated light sticks that also have a small flashlight in one end I prefer to carry.

Shelter

I keep a packable rain jacket at all times and depending on the weather a packable pair of rain pants.

I also keep a couple of “survival” blankets in my bag.

I keep a couple of contractor style garbage bags as well.

Water

I have a stainless steel water bottle that stays in my pack at all times. If I am traveling longer than my normal commute, I will toss in a small collapsible water container.

Ziploc bags.

Two-part chemical water purifier.

Filtering drinking straw.

Toss in a couple of standard coffee filters to filter sediment if needed.

Now, bear in mind, my EDC bag is not for long-term survival. I feel like I could sustain myself for several days if I needed to with the contents of my pack. However, that is not its intended use. All of the tiers are designed to sustain you until you can “make it” to the next tier.

TIER THREE: Larger rucksack or backpack

A lot of people would call this the 72 hour kit. However, I feel that in this stage of the game, you should be able to carry enough to survive indefinitely.

Blades/Tools

Quality fixed blade knife. If you want you can double up from tier two. Depends on your requirements. Remember, two is one, one is none.

Small quality folding shovel.

Quality hatchet.

Small machete.

Some type of saw or saw blades. .

Tools for forced entry if warranted. Pry bars, bolt cutters, etc.

Tool kit. Depends on your location and environment. At the bare minimum carry enough tools to repair anything that you are depending on in a survival situation.

Cell Phone/Communications

Depending on the level of the disaster cell phones may or may or may not be working.

Again, depending on your location and abilities, depends on the type of communications you should carry.

One thing I have not seen widely talked about is two way radios. Obviously this would be if more than one person is in your party. However, now you start talking about batteries and chargers.

Cordage

At least 100 feet of 550 cord.

Depending on your environment, climbing rope, harness and gear may be warranted.

Tape, electrical and duct.

Zip ties, various sizes

Wire, picture wire.

Carabiners, various sizes.

Fire

Cheap lighter.

Firesteel.

Tinder.

Camp stove. Small, lightweight, portable. A lot of good information about this out there. Pay special attention to the type of fuel that the stove you select uses.

Firearm

This depends on the type of situation you are in. I will list the types of firearms I would have, not necessarily carry, and reasons why. If this is a true bug out situation obviously the adults in your party could carry at least one, more than likely two, long guns.

We have already discussed a handgun.

“Modern Sporting Rifle”. Be it an AR based platform, an AK-47, Mini-14 etc. I personally like the AR platform. However, A’s can be a bit finicky if not properly cleaned and maintained. Something you may not be able to do well in a TEOTWAWKI situation. So, I would grab an AK-47. Whatever your budget and preference lead you to.

.22 caliber rifle. There are many options, I personally recommend the Ruger 10-22. There are several collapsible stocks available. This is for hunting small game.

Home defense shotgun. I would suggest a 12 gauge. The options and setups are endless. You can go as mild or as wild as your budget and imagination allow. This is not something I would necessarily always grab. However, this is something I feel that no home should be without. The sound of a shell racking into the chamber of a pump shotgun is a sound that will deter most people without even firing a shot.

Extra magazines and ammunition.

First-Aid

More advanced first aid kit. There are pre-made ones on the market or come up with your own.

Quick clotting agent.

EMT Shears.

Pain relievers, fever reducers, upset stomach pills, etc.

A week’s supply of any prescription medications.

Any supply of antibiotics or narcotics that you can procure.

Knowledge of natural/herbal remedies. Here is a great area where knowledge can help you a lot longer than supplies can.

Food

If you want to put in a three day supply of freeze-dried meals or MRE’s. Go for it. But here is where procuring your own food will come in handy.

I would suggest some type of mess style kit for cooking. Again, your choice.

Fishing kit. Fishing line, assortment of hooks, sinkers and artificial bait if desired.

Fishing “yo-yo” traps. Can be set and left alone to catch fish while you are doing some other task. I feel these are a necessity. They are light and take up little room.

Snare kit. I would suggest several pre-made snares and supplies to create more.

Traps. Connibear style traps, an assortment of sizes. 4-6 is all you should need.

Frog gigs. Could also be used for spearing fish, depending on your location.

You also have a firearm for taking small or large game.

Knowledge of wild edibles in your area or bug out location.

Light

Again, I would suggest a headlamp and extra batteries.

Use your discretion for what else you may want/need.

Shelter

Two changes of clothes. One for warm weather and one for cool/cold weather. Again depending on your environment.

I would suggest at least 3 pair of underwear and 6 pair of socks.

Packable rain gear.

Quality bivy style shelter or tarp.

Quality sleeping bag. Again, do some research. See what fits your needs and budget.

Sleeping pad if wanted.

Possibly a pocket style hammock.

Water

Stainless steel water bottle.

Chemical water treatment.

Water filter/purifier. Again, look at your budget and needs.

Coffee filters for straining out sediment.

Collapsible water storage.

TIER FOUR: Long term preparedness. Even though this is the largest of all the tiers, I will probably go into the least amount of detail. There are many great sources of information concerning long term preparedness, SurvivalBlog.com being one of the best, if not the best, in my opinion.

Blades/Tools

Obviously any blade or tool previously discussed. Except full size versions.

An ax, saws, shovels, garden hoes, rakes, etc.

Possibly a plow, seeder, etc, for planting a garden.

Variety of hand tools.

Automotive tools, carpentry tools, etc.

Sewing machine, needles, thread, clothing patterns, etc.

Begin thinking of ways you can use your tools and knowledge to develop a skill that can be used for trade or barter.

Communication

Short wave radios, ham radios, etc.

Two way radios.

Cordage

Large amounts of any cordage or supplies under cordage already discussed.

Fire

Cast iron stove.

Fireplace.

Begin thinking now about how you will be heating your home in the winter. Think about how you will be cooking your meals. Also, think about how you will get fuel for your fire.

Firearms

We discussed in tier three the types of firearms I felt were needed.

Begin thinking about amount of ammo you can and are willing to stockpile.

Begin thinking about reloading your own ammunition. Begin thinking about stockpiling supplies. This can be turned into great bartering items.

First Aid

Begin developing a large first aid supply. Think about what you will need to do without a doctor present. Suture kits, surgical kit, trauma kit, etc. There will be no running to the emergency room.

Begin thinking about dental supplies. Again, there will possibly be no dentists to go to.

Again, knowledge is key in this situation. There are some good books about this type of thing. Take a first aid class, learn CPR. Learn as much as you possibly can.

Study about and begin stockpiling medications.

Food

There are many more articles to be written and read on this subject alone.

Start developing a small reserve of foods that you eat on a regular basis that have a long shelf life. Start with a week; go to a month, then three months, then a year, then longer.

Begin thinking now about storage. A year’s supply of food for your family will take up a considerable amount of space.

Expand on the amount of items you have from tier three. Increase the number of traps and snares you have.

Think about obtaining a variety of seeds to plant in your garden.

Again, there is a vast amount of information to be found on this subject alone. The main thing I want you to understand is this is doable, on any income. Start small and work your way up to larger quantities.

Do not get yourself into a financial burden by going out and buying a year’s supply of food at one time.

Light

Begin obtaining lanterns, fuel, mantles, etc.

Begin thinking about candles and candle making.

If you are so inclined, begin thinking about solar panels for your home or shelter location.

Shelter

Begin making those small repairs to your home. Things that may be fairly quickly and easily fixed now may not be so easily fixed later. I’m not talking kitchen remodeling; I’m talking leaky faucets, broken windows, drafty doors, etc.

Think about having a metal roof installed if you don’t have one already.

This is the time to think about a secondary survival location. A remote, rural location. Think of this as an investment. It could be used now as a vacation spot. Use it later as a retirement home.

Water

Begin storing water. Think not only about drinking, but also cooking and cleaning.

Again, start small. Begin with a few days worth; then weeks and months.

Start thinking about long-term procurement and storage. Gutters that empty into water storage, etc. Think also about purification on a large scale.

Miscellaneous Things to Thing About

Sit down and make a list of normal, everyday things that you do around your house, cleaning, washing, “personal” business, entertainment, etc.

#home #bug out #shtf #get home #get home bag #bug out bag

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years

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PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 5

Rating: Explicit.

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it's own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV.

Summary: You're Peter's classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don't know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you're lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: Revenge is sweet but a well-timed dick joke is sweeter. xoxo gossip girl. Please supervise one Bucky Barnes on the internet. Questionable music taste. Detention is the price we pay for justice. Bruce Banner is too precious for this world, too pure.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads @hermione-grangers-wife @individualistfem

Beta read by the lovely and patient @miscmarvelwritings ! 🎶🎵I love you biiitch ain't ever gonna stop loving you biiitch 🎵🎶

"Initiate phase one," I added a growly undertone to my whisper, holding my phone inconspicuously, as if I was making a simple phone call. There was no answer but I didn't expect one: I was testing the voice recorder app that I had downloaded for the sole purpose of documenting and relaying the inevitable fall of one Flash Thompson.

Making my way through the crowd of students during the busiest time of the day, I made the most intrigued and outraged facial expression I possibly could. Spying my targets, I leaned against a nearby wall, putting a hand over my mouth in fake outrage, keeping my eyes wide and trained on the opposite wall. Just as I had predicted, the two sophomore girls started giving me side-eye by minute two of my staring and finally approached me as I contemplated the wall for whole five minutes.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?" The brunette asked, her blonde friend hanging a step back.

"Yeah, totally," I mumbled. "I'm, like, shook beyond imagination, but nothing, like, bad."

The girls traded a curious look, seemingly coming to some sort of conclusion. The greedy gleam in their eyes had me internally cheering. "What happened?" The blonde one asked, coming closer.

"I'm not sure if I should tell that to anyone," I stammered, watching them bodily move forward. "Well, okay, I can't keep quiet. But you must never, ever speak of it or I'll get expelled or something," I said nervously. They both nodded so rapidly it reminded me of Funko Pop figurines. "You know the senior guy, Flash? Brown hair, kinda hot?" Again, they both nodded, conspicuously grinning. "I think I just saw him in the closed girls bathroom on the third floor with, like, some brunette from Ms. Johnson's History class," They both gasped. Predictable. "But that's not the worst! They were like, y'know," I made an obscene gesture with my hand and they instantly covered their own mouths with their palms in shock. "And the chick was like 'is it in yet?' and he was like 'yah' and I just closed the door and ran, oh my god I hope they didn't hear me," I squealed at the end, playing the part of a mortified teenager.

All three of us giggled uncomfortably for a moment. The blonde girl stared at me suspiciously. "And what were you doing there?"

I faked a nervous stammer, looking around briefly and showing them my lighter for a moment. They both gasped and nodded in recognition. "Don't tell anybody or my mom is going to have kittens," I pleaded. Both of them nodded solemnly, noticing their own group of friends approach. I used the brief moment to get lost in the river of pupils and by the time they turned around to introduce me, I was already at the opposite part of the hallway.

For the time being, everything seemed peaceful. There were a few giggles and side-eyes directed towards Flash Thompson but nothing out of the ordinary. He was disliked by most of the student population even if nobody dared to admit it outright. I took care to walk around without my earbuds for the day and pulled out my phone to record the most interesting conversations around me whenever I caught the tell tale signs of a gossip mill beginning to run its course around the school.

"Oh my god, I heard about this girl that was caught fucking Flash in the girls bathroom and she literally said 'is it in yet', can you imagine the shock, jeez!"

"Some chick literally just rejected Flash because his dick was too small."

"Rebecca from AP chemistry told me someone saw Flash's micropenis. Poor guy!"

"I wonder if his girlfriend dumped him because he can't do shit, I mean, he doesn't look like the type to eat the kitty."

Those were just the highlights of the Friday afternoon. Come the weekend and the news of Flash's unfortunate condition will make the rounds through every single group chat that the school has and by the time Monday rolls around, nobody will have a clue who started the rumour in the first place. I had to carefully select the girls who were to distribute the rumour and I was happy with the outcome: Marissa and Layla with their squad of chatty, bored rich girls were the perfect choice. I thought they would jump at any opportunity to cause drama and I was right.

It was sufficient to say I was bristling with pride as I cut and compiled the audio track from today's school day before sending it to the group chat.

Clint, Peter and Natasha appeared online as soon as the message delivered and I was delighted at their response. Romanoff's kind words, specifically, made me all warm and mushy inside. I didn't resist the feeling, basked in it even as I did a happy dance around my room. Peter's nonsensical string of emojis was another point of laughter for me.

It wasn't exactly the smartest way to go about killing Thompson's reputation... Alas, simplicity is the way to success when it comes to large crowds of teenagers. That tiny little vindictive part of me was very much looking forward to the weekend and the results of the inevitable distortion of the rumour I had started. Who knew, maybe by Monday Flash Thompson would not only have a micropenis but horns and hooves as well.

Near bedtime, I had all the avengers send me their regards and thumbs up. I answered the flurry of texts as quickly as I could but there was no point in keeping up with ten or so people constantly streaming their questions, opinions and comments.

I settled on a single easiest response: pulling my dad's old uni sweatshirt over my tiny lacy pajamas to preserve some modesty, I settled in front of my mirror, turning on my Bluetooth speaker to play "Boss Ass Bitch". In true gen-z fashion, I put on my best resting witch face and solemnly lip-synced to the song's eponymous chorus. My eyeliner was sharp enough to cut paper and my prismatic highlighter glittered enigmatically in the cold light of my blue lava lamp.

The response was, once again, delightful and I genuinely belly-laughed at the adults' attempts to meme after Peter. His blushy face emoji started a whole nother conversation that I didn't participate in but watched from the sidelines with glee, snorting every time his friends and mentors gently teased him about the very obvious crush he harboured on me.

Seeing Peter starting to go absolutely nuts, I interjected with an offer (more like a dare) of a lip sync battle. He jumped on the bandwagon, immediately going offline to undoubtedly film an epic video of what I thought would be dorky-dancing to some hipster song. I was pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be a pre-recorded tik tok video of him and Ned fighting with lightsabers while mouthing the words to Fergalicious that played over the Imperial March.

Weirdos. I still followed him on the app, though, it was pretty funny.

Bucky interjected with a very well executed rendition of "Bring Me to Life": he was wearing his full Winter Soldier get-up, complete with an AK-47, dramatically serenading Steve who looked seventeen shades of done with his partner's antics. Wanda's following twenty second voice message consisted of nothing but pure hysterical laughter, summing up everyone's reaction to the video. Bucky was going to go viral one of these days...

Obviously, I had good competition and nobody else seemed to want to participate so I rearranged my surroundings a little bit and stood up at my full height and swapped the old sweatshirt for a cute crop-top hoodie. My thigh-highs were on display and with my make-up, I looked like a proper internet e-girl. I leaned against the mirror as I mouthed along to the song with my best interpretation of the famous Lucifer smirk, seasoned with a tiny bit of angelic innocence: "Doctor, doctor, give me the news, I got a bad case of loving you..."

Needless to say, I won the competition. Eventually Wanda joined in, looking menacing and ominous with her dark clothes and Natasha's red hair flashing somewhere in the background; even Tony did a round (AC/DC as his soundtrack of course) with one of his Iron Man suits but nothing beat my stunt and the reaction that it caused.

I had accidentally called out Bruce with the choice of my song and his teammates gave both of us a lot of cheeky comments about it. We relented and flirted with each other a bit as the conversation flowed into more mundane discussion; I said my good nights somewhere between Tony's bitching about the hobbies of my generation and my nightly skincare routine. The little green heart that I'd become accustomed to over the past few weeks greeted me just as I was about to lock my phone.

Bruce was really too precious for this world. My crush on him was different than the one on Tony, it mellowed out in comparison. I wanted him to hold me, to stroke my hair, to call me his darling and wrap me up in one of those dorky button-ups that he insisted on wearing in spite of Tony's unwanted, however very valid, fashion advice.

For all that's worth, the scientist probably knew or at least suspected and had the good grace to play along just enough to satisfy my deep need for attention... Without crossing any actual lines. It was frustrating, it was disappointing but I had virtually nothing to complain about. Besides, I didn't want to lose the quirky friendship that we had. Banner was, probably, the least judgemental person I knew and I wasn't about to trade that for an awkwardly stolen kiss.

Monday and Tuesday passed in a flurry of giggling and snorting every time Flash walked by. His girlfriend broke up with him, very publicly, accusing him of cheating and he didn't even deny it - just insulted her and stormed off, leaving even his friends looking lost and clueless. I started dragging Peter and his two pet nerds along with me just about everywhere I went in case Thompson decided to do something stupid again. If judging only by the looks he was throwing our little company, he was on his way to figuring out who began nibbling at his reputation.

The week was coming to an end and the rumour began dying off, slowly. That just didn't sit with me, I wanted the fucker gone. Due to the obvious time constraints, I approached MJ regarding Peter - after a brief argument, we came to an agreement regarding Peter's safety should I need to leave him alone in the hallways or at lunch.

I needed to do this alone so if I got caught, I won't drag them down with me. Granted, I would probably get something like a suspension and the school will attempt to call my mother (she never picks up) but that's about it. That's where her reputation comes in handy-people consciously avoid dealing with her, she can be that unbearable.

But first, I needed to get a teacher that's on my side. After carefully considering the candidates, I settled on my Social Studies professor - he taught the college-level classes and was overall a very chill, nice dude. And he disliked bullies with a flaming passion. So it didn't take me long to work him into a righteous fury - just a quick chat over a cup of tea in his homeroom and a few pictures of Peter's bruised face, complete with my own pleading puppy eyes. We agreed Mr Davies would "accidentally" leave the teacher's lounge unlocked during third period and I would sneak in. The plan wasn't foolproof but if it worked, not only Flash, but also his whole misogynistic, bigoted family would go down.

As I was leaving, Mr Davies looked up at me with a bright smile: "Give them Hell, alright?" And I suddenly noticed he was, in fact, very attractive. The smile brought out the fine wrinkles around his mouth, the crow's feet around his eyes - he smiled a lot. Silver strands mixed in with the wooden brown of his hair.

I let my eyes slide over him briefly before baring my teeth in return. "I owe you one," I don't know what possessed me to say that. My mouth really had a mind of its own sometimes. The room suddenly became hot.

"Sure," He replied, totally oblivious.

On Friday, I made myself a small nest in the empty classroom opposite the teacher's lounge and sat waiting for the signal from Mr Davies - he'd tap on the door once and I'd quietly go inside the teacher's lounge, retrieve Thompson's file and make my way back to the empty classroom to grab my backpack and carry the file to my locker for further examination.

The first part went successfully and I managed to snag Thompson's file. It was heavy and hefty, all the evidence of his rowdiness compiled into one flimsy plastic folder. There were A LOT of pink slips and I rejoiced internally: at least there was a paper trail of his exploits. The principal didn't do anything about it which was... If not against the rules then at least frowned upon; the plan was to take copies and anonymously submit them to the school board prompting at least an investigation into the blatant disregard for Flash's immoral and illegal behaviour.

On my way back I stumbled upon the principal herself which got me not only a stern talking to, but a whole detention for skipping class. Whatever, I was too elated from potentially ruining the life of a dumb fuck who ruined my friend's face.

Surprise came in the face of Mr Davies, who, having heard the commotion in the hallway, stepped out of his class and saw me being lectured by the principal.

"I'll take her for the detention," I heard the familiar voice behind me. The principal nodded solemnly and I had no choice but to sigh in resignation. "Three thirty, be here," He nodded to me, walking back, looking way too smug for his own good. So I wasn't the only one excited about the successful completion of stage two of my nefarious plan. Cue evil laughter.

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #bruce banner x y/n #bruce banner x reader #stephen strange x reader #Stephen Strange x y/n #bun writes #party favours #author doesn't advocate for small dick jokes but tbh the abusive fucker deserves it

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sandjsbeachbumbonanza · 4 years

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Day 70 – S becomes a Samburu elder

We started the morning once again with Bloody Marys and coffee. This time the coffee was pre-made at J’s request. When we arrived at breakfast, Meg gave S a hard time for keeping Rob out late.

We then headed out on a drive to the river, where we were going to take a river walk. On the way, Paul delivered on his promise and got J great pictures of a family of dik-diks. We also saw a herd of elephants up close. The matriarch thought we got a little too close and gave us a warning. We thought it was a intimidating, but Paul said it was just a little show. We saw a number of other animals. On our way to the river, Paul picked up a Samburu warrior carrying an AK-47. As we were going to be walking, they wanted to ensure we had some protection if we encountered a rogue elephant. We also stopped along the way so Leuya could make us walking sticks for our bush walk.

Our walk along the river was mostly focused on animal tracks. We saw tracks for a honey badger, porcupine, leopard and crocodiles.

On our way back, we encountered the same herd of elephants. We did not realise that we separated a baby elephant from the herd. However, it soon let us know by running in front of us and trumpeting a warning. His mother then also trumpeted a warning. This was a little bit scary at first but pretty cool in the end. We also passed by some of the Francombes’ cattle. Amongst them was a giant, white bull with enormous, curved horns. He is a Brahman bull, a species that has a hump like a camel to store water. He is apparently a sacred bull, one of only four in Northern Kenya. He apparently has evaded multiple attempts to slaughter and/or steal him. He is viewed as the protector of the herd and after he passes away, his skull and horns will be placed above the entrance to the cattle pen so he can continue to watch over the herd.

When we returned to the lodge, we were informed that S’ hair beading had been arranged. No one was quite sure initially what he wanted, but Paul managed to communicate it to Chyulu, who then organised it. After lunch, we headed off to Ol Malo Lodge, where a Samburu woman in traditional clothing, Catherine, was set up to do the beading. We were told that she would prepare the beads on a string and Leuya would put them in Scott’s hair as he typically does the plaiting / braiding for the young men in his clan. We were also told that Catherine is not allowed to touch S’ hair because he is not her husband.

Chyulu was there to oversee the procedure. The beads are made out of glass and are manufactured at a family factory in the Czech Republic. This is apparently the only manufacturer in the world that knows how to produce perfectly symmetrical beads. We heard the beads are a display of wealth and can almost be used as a form of currency. J picked out the colours for the beads and S was told to sit on a cow hide, as this is the traditional Samburu way of braiding hair. The whole process took a while and Chyulu served us drinks and told us a little bit about her history. Her family are well known conservationists in Africa and have worked in many countries, including Tanzania, Kenya and the DRC. They are still very active in conservation. Chyulu was born in Kenya and her name is derived from the name of some hills in Kenya. It turns out that Chyulu went to the same school in England as our close friends, Zanda and Roly.

Once Catherine had completed stringing the beads, Leuya dipped his hands in a bowl of water and began to braid S’ hair. The beads were then sewn into S’ hair. Chyulu also added in a few shells for good luck and finished each braid off with a few more beads. Chyulu also burned the ends of the bead string with a match to seal them. The process was taking a bit of time and Catherine got frustrated. She ended up taking over from Leuya and Chyulu to complete the job. Apparently as S is an elder and married, she deemed it OK to touch his hair. Everyone loved how it turned out and Ol Malo is now talking about adding it as a possible activity. J also got a custom bracelet sewn on to her wrist and picked up a Maasai wedding cuff and kikoi (a piece of cloth men will use to tie around their waists, torso or heads, depending on the situation). J preferred the kikoi to the women’s attire, which had a busier print. J asked why the kikois we had seen tended to look like Scottish kilts, with primary colours and a plaid print. No one knew why, but we were told that this was the current trend. We also noticed that these kikoi are similar to the Maldivian male traditional dress.

We then went off to visit a local ‘manyatta’ or homestead. This homestead belonged to Leuya’s cousin and his four wives. A number of young Samburu warriors were present and they were engaged in a traditional Samburu jumping contest to impress the girls (some of these guys should consider pursuing a career in the NBA). They then started a dancing ritual, which S and Leuya joined (see picture below).

We visited one of the wives’ mud huts and learned a bit about local customs. Apparently the Samburu diet is primarily meat, cow’s blood and milk / yoghurt. Occasionally they will also get a fruit or vegetable, but not normally. They have chickens but don’t believe in eating the chickens or their eggs and sell them to the market. There were separate pens for the adult and baby livestock, which we found quite interesting. J loved the little children, who were crowding around her to see her phone.

We left the homestead and went for sundowners by a lake. Our car had a weak parking break and nearly rolled into the lake. Paul and Leuya saved it by putting rocks in front of the tires. We saw a few birds and S saw a shooting star among all the other stars. The sky was littered with stars. It was a great opportunity to ask Leuya and Paul more questions about their community.

By now Leuya was one of our best mates. We invited him to dinner, but the dinner was chicken curry and he wouldn’t have been able to eat it. Before we headed down to dinner, S changed into the tie-dyed man dress that he bought in Nairobi. We later learned ‘kanzu’ is the proper Swahili name for the man dress. When we arrived, Paul, Meg, Rob and the server were in shock. S came in with his walking stick, beaded hair and kanzu and declared himself the village elder. Meg also shared pictures of S with the Francombe family and asked S’ permission to use the photos in their marketing materials. S and Paul gave Rob a hard time for being dressed like a city boy. Rob promised to wear a traditional garment the next morning.

The chicken curry was great. J in particular loves their hot sauce and thinks they should sell it. It is made with Scotch bonnet peppers and is slightly sweet. It is served with every meal and goes with everything. We finished the night with Meg and Rob drinking wine and whisky. J took over the Bluetooth speakers and played a lot of country music. Rob was shattered from the two previous nights, so Meg and Rob begged off and left us with a bottle of Rosé and drinks. We enjoyed our final night at Ol Malo and made it safely back to our room.

#kenya #olmalo #safari #hotsauce #samburu #manyatta #sundowners #beachbums

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uzumaki-rebellion · 5 years

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“Wet Sugar” [Part 1 of 30]

Summary: Erik Stevens has fully embraced his new identity as Killmonger and infiltrated a mercenary group with ties to Ulysses Klaue. Invited to St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands to meet for the first time, Klaue is impressed with Erik, unaware that the man before him is the son of Prince N'Jobu Udaku, a man he betrayed on a failed mission in Wakanda years ago.

Erik ingratiates himself to Klaue and is found to be a useful member of the new mercenary team the black market arms dealer and smuggler is putting together.

As a reward for hard and profitable work for him, Ulysses allows Erik to stay a summer at his stash/safe house to keep a close eye on some stolen artifacts hidden there. Erik uses that time to hatch the long term plan of using Klaue to gain access to Wakanda, however, he becomes distracted by Klaue's housekeeper who allows Erik glimpses into a possible different life he could have if he ever let go of his plans for revenge...

For mature audiences only. NSFW.

C.W.: Some violence in the beginning.

Please let me know what you think, share/reblog/etc. Off to get the next update up and ready!

"Bad man, nuh talk, West London me walk No bad vibes in mi yard, or yuh hear di ting back (boom) Gyally dem ah call, see the money and the car Celly ah ring off, rum-rum, haffi start, ya hear me? Mi buss ah Champ' and then they watch we, ya hear me? Mi have di liquor and di big tree, ya hear me? No commotion in my circle Potent herb and a sweet, sweet girl Take you 'round the world No-no-no bad vibes in my yard, hmm Inna my yard, inna my yard, inna my yard…"

Goldlink – "Yard"

What's past is prologue…

Ulysses Klaue had heard rumors of a large hoard of ancient gold coins worth €4 million hidden inside Assyrian-era giant winged bulls. The entire cache of five-foot statues themselves could not be transported nor disguised because of their weight and size, but some of the heads were removed and sold on the black market. Dating back 3,000 years, they were a hot commodity after the destruction of the Mosul Museum in Iraq. Klaue knew this because he had buyers salivating for a chance to procure the heads. And some of those heads had coins hidden in them. It was why he found himself standing now in front of a tall young Black man, American, with gold slugs on his two bottom canines, and a mop of neatly braided locs.

Klaue stared at the intel he had on his field computer.

"You're saying the statues we're looking for are gone already?" Klaue asked.

"ISIL already transported all that shit."

Wide-legged stance, protective ballistic body armor draped over an impressive build, his hands holding an AR-15 pointed right at Klaue's head, this man was in control of the situation. He had five other men from his team standing behind him backing him up with their weapons drawn too. Serious beefy looking men who would shoot if their leader even blinked. The red dot on Klaue's chest was a polite way of letting him know there were snipers on his ass too.

"Stand down," Klaue ordered his men behind him. A rough motley crew of six international soldiers of fortune.

"Alhusul ealaa al'ashya' alkhasat bihim," the Black man said.

Men that Klaue and his team didn't even know were behind them materialized like ghosts, snatching up their weapons and frisking them for more.

"Is this necessary?" Klaue asked as a thick-set mercenary felt on his balls and behind his back squeezing his ass.

"Gotta be thorough in this bitch."

Klaue smirked.

"May I ask who I have the pleasure of getting my nuts tweaked by?" Klaue said.

The man rolled his tongue along his bottom teeth, the gold slugs shining in the sunset. He nodded his head to his team to round Klaue's men up. Once the men were secured and a non-threat, the man lowered his weapon. His dark brown eyes were razor sharp and they regarded Klaue with calculated verve.

"Killmonger."

###

The oldest profession in the world was prostitution.

The second…killers for hire.

Of course, there were kinder more veiled names for mercenaries nowadays:

Soldiers of Fortune.

Private Military Contractors.

Professional Hired Fighters.

Dogs of War.

But Erik "Killmonger" Stevens knew what it was. Murder Incorporated—monetized madness.

The business of war was to keep a perpetual cycle of conflict all over the world so fat cats could make their coins under the guise of professional conflict management. If his mother were still alive, she would say what she always said around her women friends and his very own father…men were trash.

And she was right.

Unfortunately, she gave birth to a son who had to maneuver among the garbage so that he could fulfill his destiny. A destiny of revenge. A making right of what had been wrong for so long.

On the days that he did have downtime and could sit and do nothing at all, Erik would catch a news report or some ticker tape lede on the bottom of C-SPAN, CNN, MSNBC, or the BBC—just about any global news outlet—and catch glimpses of his final endgame. T'Chaka Udaku.

A king.

An elder statesmen.

A blood relative.

A lifelong enemy.

Erik's body would coil tight and hot when he let his mind imagine the day he would be in the presence of his Uncle. He foresaw the moment he would pull back the thick flesh of his bottom lip, the glowing blue vibram tattoo his father gave him as a child embedded deep in the skin of his inner mouth.

He ached to show the ring his father had left for him dangling around his neck, ached to taste and feed on the moment he would reveal all to King T'Chaka, unveil his birthright, and then snap the old man's neck with his bare hands, appreciating the feel of vertebrae cracking and twisting beneath his powerful calloused fingers. Or maybe he would fashion panther claws for himself and rip the man's heart out through his chest. Erik relished the thought. He would bring down—no…eradicate—he would eradicate the old House of Udaku, destroy T'Chaka's bloodline branch and take the throne of Wakanda for himself. A new sun would set on the golden city of Birnin Zana, the place of his father's birth.

Erik was his father's son, but he was also his mother's child, and Califia Stevens didn't raise no simpering punk. He was taught to be a soldier the moment he fell out of his mother's womb. The war he was going to rage was groomed by all of the things that happened in his life and all the things he was learning while biding his time in the ranks of private armies. Sitting back in the cut, gathering new skills and Intel, moving closer to finding the man he needed to get him into Wakanda: Ulysses Klaue. A man who sat at the top of his kill list for right now.

Erik sat crossed-legged overlooking a sand berm keeping watch for a particular caravan of armored S.U.V.s to traverse their path. The sun was making its way to a sluggish sunset, and his military-issue sunglasses protected his tired eyes. He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours and the job he was meant to complete was only halfway finished.

Earlier in the day, his crack team of fifteen men pulled off a bold daytime robbery of highly-sought after Assyrian gold coins. Disguised as U.N. peace-keepers dedicated to preserving artifacts, Erik was the only American on the removal team. He was tasked with masquerading as an art historian since the Canadians with them couldn't sound like authentic Londoners. The non-prescription glasses he wore and the crisp British accent he perfected allowed him to dupe a few Iraqi guards, especially with his fluency with Arabic and his thoughtful acknowledgment of Jumu'ah, the Friday prayers.

While Erik pretended to sit aside respectfully on an offered prayer rug in the midst of an isolated bunker holding the goods they sought, his phony U.N. gear a bit too tight, the guards thanked him for respecting their time in contemplation of Allah. The beneficent. The merciful. Moments later they were tied up and blind-folded left shackled together in the interior of the ravaged bunker that hid the last of the priceless winged bull statues that were hidden for their protection. Erik did let them finish their prayers though.

Time wasn't wasted, what needed to be found was found and bagged up, the heavy weight of the gold bending the backs of five men carting it out onto phony U.N. Jeeps. On the wings of hummingbirds as his great-grandmother used to say when it came to speed and efficiency. An expert strategist and obsessive pre-planner, Erik facilitated the logistics and implementation of the entire operation. They had to be gone before dusk as the heavy hitters from various political factions began to roam. The dry heat was fucking exhausting, made breathing laborious, and the lack of sleep was messing with Erik's focus. His men were ready to dip, but he had to wait, had to take the chance that the man he was scouting for would show.

"Killmonger."

Tahir, the one man Erik considered as close of a so-called friend with the work that he did, stood next to him, his AK-47 resting on his hip, his tan and black shemagh covering his neck and head. Erik glanced up, his own shemagh twisting around his neck tight. He loosened it.

"We should probably leave while it is still quiet."

"Nah. We got time." Gruff and brusque. That's how Erik kept it with the men.

Tahir placed his left hand on his hip and glanced behind him. He was always the one sent to question Erik. The rest were afraid of him, afraid of his quick temper. Afraid of the self-inflicted keloid scars that covered most of his upper body.

Erik looked past Tahir, could see the only other two Iraqis, Amit, and Wassef eyeing him from their sniper positions. He could feel the eyes of the others on him, the Greek, the Egyptian, the two Jordanians, the Russian and the three Canadians. The rest were hidden with their two Mi-17's a quarter of a mile away among the bullet-ridden wreckage of left behind helicopters from failed wars inflicted by the U.S. military.

"We have the gold. Let's go get paid and have some drinks. We can be in Lebanon in a few hours, I know some pretty girls, some nice clubs…"

"We'll wait. I need to see if this dude shows," Erik said, softening his tone with Tahir.

"You should eat something."

"Later," Erik whispered as he saw the approach of the caravan he was looking for.

###

A smart mercenary always checked out their target before any engagement. Someone on Klaue's team didn't do their homework and Erik had the man in his crosshairs. Klaue was shorter and ruddier than he thought the man would be. His reputation seemed larger than life, but the reality was a bit of a disappointment. Little dick energy all the way around. He was also slipping because Erik knew for a fact that some of his men tipped Erik's team off to the coins in the abandoned bunker. Getting past I.E.D's, insurgents, and American PMC checkpoints, Klaue's people looked pretty sorry in front of their main man being plucked by Erik.

"Listen, Killmonger. We'll just be on our way. No harm, no foul," Klaue said as he sat on the ground looking up at Erik.

No harm no foul. Yeah, right. Klaue would take any opening to put a bullet in Erik's head, and in the dome of whoever allowed this clusterfuck on his side.

"We just came for statues," Klaue said.

"With what? Three S.U.V.s? You can't even fit the head of one statue in those. Come again."

Klaue's eyes grew suspicious. Just as Erik expected.

"We have the coins," Erik said.

Klaue let his head drop down and he chuckled, his gold-rimmed teeth glinting. The snake had to come up with a plan fast.

The rat-a-tat-tat-tat sound of machine gun fire in the distance caught Erik's attention. Time was up. It was time to set the trap for this man. Erik knelt down.

Takka takka!

The gunfire was ticking closer.

"Just take the fucking coins and let us go."

An AR-15 near him and Klaue wasn't even flinching. The sweat on his forehead was just from the heat. Erik flipped his weapon behind him.

"I don't give a fuck about those coins. My boss does. But I'm here for something more valuable and it's not here." Erik kept his voice low enough so that only Klaue could hear him.

Klaue's eyes observed him with keen curiosity.

Erik dipped closer to Klaue's ear lobe, making his own men nervous. Erik's sour breath warmed Klaue's ear.

"I'm looking for vibranium," Erik said. He sat back on his haunches and tapped the man's prosthetic left arm that was bound tight. Erik wasn't taking any chances. He was well aware that the arm was a dangerous weapon. Klaue could easily wipe them out, but he was a pursuer of information, and more than illicit goods, useful intel was golden. This bitch was squirming on the hook. None of these motherfuckers around them knew what vibranium was.

"Who are you?" Klaue said, his voice sounding like it was in awe.

"The stash that was supposed to be here isn't. I don't know who got to it first, but it wasn't you or me—"

SSssss-BLAM!

The RPG came in fast and destroyed the first S.U.V. in Klaue's entourage.

Erik's men returned fire for cover as Tahir radioed for their choppers to extract them and the gold. Erik grabbed Klaue by his collar and hoisted him up to his feet. Tahir threw a yellow smoke grenade and stood in front of Erik and Klaue.

The hard whop-whop sounds of their Mi-17s surrounded them as Wassef and Amit slung their RPGs on their shoulders and returned rocket grenades to buy them time. The first chopper landed and their surly Canadian side gunner Wally G rolled the chopper door open and waved for them frantically.

"We got incoming from the north," Wally G yelled.

Erik's men quickly loaded their bounty of gold and split up to enter both choppers for the extraction.

"Move your asses!" Wally G screamed.

Erik yanked on the handcuffed and rope-bound Klaue and dragged him over to the first Mi-17 and threw him in.

"Let's go!" Erik yelled propping his AR-15 in position to help protect his side gunners on the chopper. His return fire bought Tahir more time to move.

Amit fired one last RPG to protect Klaue's men. Erik sent most over to the second chopper, and once Amit jumped aboard the first Mi-17, Erik waved his arm and their pilot Elias took off.

A sizeable enemy force swept into where they once stood. The chopper Erik was on was picking up fire from everywhere. Erik shot back from the open door and he could hear Elias bitching from the cockpit.

"Why the fuck did you have us wait?" Elias screeched.

"Just fly the fucking bird!" Erik shouted while still returning fire.

A stream of fuel ran down the inside of the chopper’s windscreen.

"Fuck!" Elias yelled, "One of my feed tanks is out!"

"Jesus Christ!" a man screamed.

Erik looked back into the rear of the chopper, two of Klaue's men had been hit, the screams of the wounded mixing in with the rapid-fire babble of Erik's men trying to figure out their next move. They were outnumbered by the men on the ground and the number of vehicles chasing after the limping Mi-17.

They were spilling volumes of fuel.

"Stop fucking shooting!" Erik cried out. All he needed was for one of their bullets to ricochet and spark the fuel vapors filling up the chopper. They could explode in mid-air.

"I gotta put her down, Killmonger!"

Erik moved to the cockpit and grabbed the radio.

"Banks! Banks! We gotta find a clear LZ. We've been hit!"

"Dammit, Killmonger!" Banks fired back with crackled intensity through the radio speaker.

Erik and the others felt the sudden drop and swoop of the chopper as Elias did his best to make a soft landing.

Night had fallen and Erik's men disembarked with Klaue's men. Through it all, Klaue was cool as a cucumber, watching Erik's every move. Tahir, eased over to Erik, his eyes watching the horizon as vehicle lights traced them in the distance.

"Too many of us, we all won't fit," Tahir grumbled.

"I'll make it work," Erik hissed, his eyes thwarted by the flash and hiss of an enemy RPG.

"Incoming!" Tahir screamed, and the grenade blew up a mere two hundred feet from them tossing dark sand into the air.

The second chopper pilot, Banks, landed and they loaded up. They were more than the number of bodies allowed based on the flight manual. Erik pulled Klaue up by his arms.

"Crunching numbers time. Who do you fuck with and who did you dirty?" Erik asked.

"Killmonger!" Banks yelled.

The enemy was getting closer.

Klaue glared at his men, his eyes going to the three that Erik already knew played him. Erik gave a cruel sneer and cut Klaue loose from the rope that bound his arms.

"See ya!" Erik said giving Tahir a head nod. The men were pushed out of the chopper.

"Klaue!" one of them screamed.

"Let's go!" Erik shouted to Banks.

The Mi-17 lifted up and Klaue's traitorous men flailed their arms begging to be taken.

Erik heard the sharp hiss and loud explosion of an RPG down below.

He already knew those men were in bloody pieces now. His eyes glanced over at Klaue who was stuffed between two of his henchmen. Erik's boys watched them like hawks, but Erik wasn't worried about them trying anything. Their lives had been saved. If Erik and his crew weren't there, they would've been killed by turncoats. Gold coins were probably the last things on their minds as the Mi-17 dipped and swooped amid rocket grenades.

The chopper headed toward a remote airstrip.

Erik stared at Tahir and grabbed at his stomach.

"Yo, I'm hungry as fuck."

###

The mid-morning American Airlines flight touched down at the Cyril E. King Airport with a soft bounce. Walking down the ramp and onto the tarmac, the wet heat engulfed Erik's face. He wore a light cream-collared linen long-sleeve shirt and loose jeans. He always kept his arms covered when he traveled, his keloid markings too much of a distraction in public. His two large bags were waiting for him at guest services. His flight from Miami had been delayed because of tropical storm weather, but for some strange reason, his luggage went out on an earlier flight.

He saw one of Klaue's men holding a handwritten sign with his name on it. Killmonger. Erik waved and carried his things to the tall Black man with the clean-shaven face and dark mocha skin.

"I'm Polk," the man said. Polk was dressed in comfortable basketball shorts, a plain white t-shirt and slip on sandals. Vacation gear.

They shared a handshake and Erik followed him out to a nice burgundy Mazda S.U.V. idling with another burly man in the driver's seat.

"That's Huntsman," Polk said helping Erik put his suitcases in the trunk.

Huntsman regarded Erik cooly, his pale white skin sunburned and overly pink in spots as Erik stepped into the back of the Mazda.

"Welcome to the team," Huntsman said and Erik picked up the Afrikaans accent in his voice.

"Thanks," Erik said.

"You hungry? We can grab something on the way to the house," Polk said as he stared back at Erik from the passenger seat.

"Nah, I'm good," Erik said.

Erik had to orient himself to the driving once he realized St. Thomas residents drove on the left side like the English.

"We have our own cook, so if you do get hungry later, she can whip something up for you," Polk said. Erik nodded, his eyes watching the crowd of cars jammed on the two-lane road leading away from the airport.

The scenery eventually swept past as they drove into Charlotte Amalie. Erik saw the port dock that housed the large cruise ships, floating cities on the way up into the hills.

"You ever been to the islands before?" Polk asked.

"Nah. Never found the time," Erik said still staring out of the window.

St. Thomas was not very big, only thirty-two square miles. In about twenty minutes the car was already crawling into an area of hills that elevated them. Erik noticed quite a few green and multi-colored iguanas lounging in the street and meandering on the sides of the road.

"Harmless," Polk said when he noticed Erik staring at them, "they are everywhere. Think of them as the squirrels of the island."

Erik nodded.

"We're here," Huntsman said.

The Mazda entered a guarded gate. Once it was opened and they drove through, Erik realized they were actually on a compound that had a grouping of houses. They parked in front of the main house. Polk helped Erik with his things.

"I'll walk him down to our area," Polk said.

Erik rolled his heaviest suitcase and trailed Polk as they made their way down a path blooming with colorful foliage and crawling with more iguanas. One large iguana blocked their path and Erik looked at the regal creature. It was blue and pink in the face with a mottled pink and brown body that had what looked like green plant-like growths on it. It hissed and Polk had them walk around it with a wide berth.

"Harmless, but a bit of an attitude sometimes," Polk said.

Erik chuckled and soon found himself entering a tastefully furnished house.

"You can have the room on the right. When we get full, we usually have to bunk with people, but this first week there are only eight of us here, so plenty of room and privacy.

Erik nodded.

"I'll let you get settled. Meet us at the front house around 1 p.m.? Klaue will want to see you for lunch."

Erik nodded and Polk left him alone.

The room assigned to Erik was nice and airy. He opened the window across from his bed to bring in the fresh island air. Unpacking slowly and methodically, he organized his space and was happy that he had his own bathroom.

He took a quick shower to wash away the flight and travel sweat from his body. He touched the two new keloid scars under the waterproof bandage that his cousin Marisol helped place on his lower back the month before. They were healing, slowly, the itch and scarring pain still present. Lately, he had been flying to Sao Paulo Brazil more often, and Marisol was not happy to perform the scarring ritual for him anymore, especially when his visits brought her pain because they were short-lived, often only for two or three days and then he was gone to the next assignment. She knew what the marks were for. She had one on her own side hip that he helped put there for her.

He allowed the water to run over his locs and then tilted his head back, letting the cool liquid drench his beard. He was tired and antsy at the same time. He had to be very careful in the lion's den.

"What are you doing down here?"

The melodious voice startled him, it was so close to the small frosted window he cracked open in the bathroom, and he turned to try and see who was speaking.

Erik was about to answer, but then he realized the person wasn't talking to him at all but to someone else outside.

"What I tell you 'bout coming down here? Don't look at me like that. You stay up above. Hear me now?"

The woman's island voice was sweet, lyrical almost, and had the fussy quality that reminded him of his great-grandmother when she was fussing with his mother. Whoever she was addressing didn't answer.

"Jerome! You hear me. Get yourself back up top. Now!"

Erik heard the stomping of feet.

"What are you doin' making all this noise?"

Another woman's voice joined the first.

"Jerome. His wife and alla his pickney up at the front house waiting on him. And he's down here being nosey. Get!"

"Gyal! Leave that thing alone. Him no listen to all that shrillness comin' from your mouth. Like he'll understand you—"

"They understand me. When I told him to move his ass from the driveway before that devil man ran him over, you seen how fast he move. Him know what I say. Right, Jerome?"

Erik dried off and tried to get dressed in fresh clothes fast when he heard a knock on the front door.

"Inside," the voice of the second woman greeted him kindly.

Erik pulled on a pair of black sweats and opened the front door.

An older woman with graying neat plaits stared at his chest. The scars startled her.

"Sorry," she said averting her eyes. Her hands carried clean beach towels and sunblock.

"It's cool," Erik said. His eyes swept past her looking for the person he heard moments before.

"I'm Miss Leona. I do the cooking and help take care of the property. I came down to ask if you had any food allergies."

"No, I can eat anything."

"Good," she said, her eyes focusing on his face. The graying hair didn't seem to match her youthful face and big bright white teeth.

"Just so you know, bathroom etiquette is simple. If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down. Use the bottled water for drinking, and all laundry can be done at the front house in the laundry room down below. There's a little apartment down there. Just drop the things you need to be cleaned in the laundry bag—"

"I can do my own laundry," Erik said.

Leona nodded and handed him the towels and sunblock.

"We have a pool at the middle house, and if you prefer sea water, there's a path by the pool that leads down to the private beach area. The water is very warm this season, and stays warm into the night."

Leona allowed her eyes to flit across his chest as she regarded his scars again.

"Is that…is that a condition? Do you need any creams or ointments? I can bring some—"

"I'm good. Thank you for asking."

"I don't mean to stare Mr. Killmonger. I have a nephew that has some tissue damage on his back, and it looks like that."

"No worries."

"I will leave you be then—"

"Who was the person you were talking to a minute ago? I heard someone else and she was talking to someone…Jerome?"

Leona laughed and pointed behind her.

"That was just Yani, my niece. She helps me out around here. She was just chatting with him."

Leona pointed and Erik saw the rainbow-colored iguana perched on a small tree in front of the house.

Erik smiled.

"I thought she was really talking to someone."

"Oh, she was. She and Jerome have a history together. She's known him since he was a baby. He doesn't listen to anyone but her."

"He's a big dude."

"Yes. But he won't bother you if you don't bother him. Get Yani if he does give you trouble."

"Will do. Thanks. How many houses are on the property?"

"Three. Mr. Klaue stays in the house down below. The two other houses are for his…men."

"Okay. Thanks Miss Leona."

"You're welcome. I will see you at lunch then? Mr. Klaue likes a late lunch, so I usually have things prepared by 1:30. Today will be a light sesame salad with salmon."

"Any local fish?"

"Sometimes. Mr. Klaue has me ship in things when he wants them. See you at lunch!"

Leona left him, and he was left standing in front of Jerome who watched him with wary eyes from his place in the tree.

"Don't make me call Yani on your ass," he said glaring at the iguana.

Erik finished dressing in a short-sleeved soccer shirt. He laced up a pair of New Balance sneakers and took a walk around the property.

He walked around the small pool that was only six feet deep and found the trail that led down to the beach. If Leona hadn't told him there was a path near the pool, he would never have found it. As it was, he felt secretive slipping down the hill and working his way to the sounds of open water.

"Whoa," he sighed when he finally found the entrance to a breathtaking sight. Clear water with soft sugary white sand and a beautiful view of an isolated smaller island further out in the sea. The sun beat down on him and he looked around to see if there was anyone else around. No one. It was quiet and hidden by part of a cove that had rock structures that curved away from where Erik stood. There were no other footprints or signs of any other human presence.

The water called to him.

Erik looked around again, then slipped off his shoes, pants, underwear and shirt. What a way to start his first day in paradise. He splashed into the water and it felt like he was crawling into the womb of life, the warmth cradling his tired limbs.

Paradise.

The place where he would plot against Klaue. Right in his own home.

###

Yani Galiber was always fussing with Jerome.

Ever since she rescued him from his first car accident as a baby when one of Klaue's drivers ran over his tail seven years previous. She had been fourteen and devastated, thinking her little friend would die. But then his tail grew back and she had been fussing with him ever since.

She was sent by her Aunt Leona to check the water cistern on Klaue's main house where he stayed. Sometimes an iguana would fall in and clog the waterway, and the man had been asking about water pressure. She made a point to check the roof gutters that helped collect water in case there was plant refuse or some other detritus stuck up there. When she ran into Jerome on the way back up, she noticed cuts on his skin. He must've been fighting the other male iguana that had moved into his territory. Unlike most of the iguanas around the property, Jerome was a drama queen and started trouble with other iguanas that weren't his children or mates, and sometimes he went after humans he didn't like.

After leaving her Aunt with Jerome, she headed back to the front house to grab a soda before her Aunt had her helping with lunch. She thought she may have time use her breast pump in private to fix her baby daughter Sydette's bottles for the evening when she had to go to work at her night job as a hostess at Havana Blue, a beach-front restaurant in the main part of Charlotte Amalie. Her cousin Monice would pick her up by 2:30 and drop her off at her Aunt Leona's apartment where she would spend time with Sydette before handing her over to her other cousin Twyla who would watch Sydette until Yani made it home to sleep. And depending on how busy Klaue kept her Aunt, Yani would travel back and forth to help work at the compound.

Yani cobbled together a life and set her sights on saving enough money to attend nursing school since her university plans of becoming a doctor had been derailed with the birth of her daughter. It was still a touchy subject with her parents who had allowed her to take a year off after she graduated high school to follow the crazy dream she had with her then-boyfriend Chez who was going to be the biggest rapper from St. Thomas after he was signed to a small record company in Miami.

Yani had sung background vocals for him around island clubs there and when they island hopped to Puerto Rico or Jamaica and as far as Trinidad. Chez was supposed to make it big and pay for Yani's education, but a year after graduating, Yani fell pregnant, she broke up with Chez, he lost the record contract due to a failed single not charting anywhere, and she was stuck living with her cousin and Aunt because she couldn't afford anywhere on her own and her parents didn't want the stigma in their home among her younger sisters. She was the tainted oldest child who had thrown her life away by having a baby with a SoundCloud level struggle rapper. For shame.

Her baby girl Sydette was a joy, but Yani found it difficult to nurse a baby and still try and nurse a medical career of some kind. A nurse was about as high as she could go now, and she set her sights on getting into the nursing college of her choice the following year. She just needed to get her money right to help take care of Sydette and tuition.

Klaue's compound was a way to make good money, especially when he had a lot of people there. Her Aunt Leona always made sure to pull her in to work for the under the table cash. Klaue paid well. The more men there, the more they made.

Yani and her Aunt were fully aware that Klaue was into some nefarious dealings. Even though he owned two jewelry stores, one in Charlotte Amalie, and one on St. John island, they were just legal fronts for some bad guy stuff. Leona didn't think they were drug dealers, but they did sell something illegal. Did something that required a private compound and sometimes armed guards when Klaue was gone. But as long as the money was good and they stayed out of the way when not needed, Yani had no problem working there. Her Aunt had been doing it for twelve years.

Yani took some time to slip into a bedroom in the front house with her breast pump. She filled three bottles and put them in a plastic bag inside the kitchen freezer to take home later for Sydette. Bottles made, she helped prepare lunch with her Aunt. All the houses were clean and prepped for Klaue's people, so Yani enjoyed the respite.

"What time are they eating, Auntie?"

"Mr. Klaue said around 1:30."

Yani washed her hands in the kitchen sink. She sneaked a nectarine from a bowl on the dining table.

"That's for the guests."

"They won't miss one piece of fruit."

"Where you goin'?"

"The beach—"

"Don't stay down there all day, Yani—"

"Just a quick dip. I promise."

"I'll need your help putting things out—"

"I'll be back. Quick, quick…" she said flouncing out of sight.

###

The path was a tiny sanctuary.

It felt like she was traveling into a secret garden.

Even though she grew up around water all her life, was nicknamed The Mermaid because of her love for it and knew practically every bay and cove on the island, there was something special about this small patch of land that led to this particular little private beach. Private only because the topography made it difficult for small boats to get to and tourists to walk without having to climb some terrain.

Klaue wasn't a swimmer, not all that much anyway, and his men never came down this way, so it was hers. Yaniland.

She ate the nectarine and began pulling her top off when she halted, fruit dangling between her teeth.

Someone was in her private paradise.

A man was swimming in her water.

She felt vexed until she walked closer.

He was floating naked on his back oblivious to her gawking at him full of irritation. He was spoiling her space. She pulled the fruit from her mouth.

"Hey! You out there! What are you doin' here?"

The man dunked under the crystal waters and when he came back up, he shook loose locs around the crown of his head.

Yani shielded her eyes.

"You talking to me?" he asked.

"You see anyone else here?"

"Why you so salty? You don't even know me, Ma!"

"Ma? You call me your mother? Do I look like your mother to you?"

"Relax Steve Irwin—"

"What you call me?"

"You the one talking to the iguana?"

"What iguana?"

"Earlier, up at the middle house…Jerome."

Yani scrunched up her face.

"How you know I talked to Jerome?"

"I was in the house. I'm the new guy."

"Killmonger?"

"Yeah."

"Who told you to come down here?"

"Your Aunt."

Yani sucked her teeth. It was loud enough for him to hear and he laughed at her.

"Is this your private beach?"

"No," she said folding her arms across her chest.

"Then I can swim here."

He moved in closer until the water was at his waist.

There were bumps all over his chest and waist, but none below…

Lookie.

His privates were distorted a bit from the sun's angle hitting the water, but she could see it closer. She felt her eyes fuse in her skull. She was staring at a naked man she didn't know.

"Were you planning on getting in? I can leave if you want some privacy."

"I was, but you can stay in…"

He looked down at himself then back at her.

"I'll leave—"

"Wait!"

Yani stepped back and her nectarine fell out of her hand.

"I don't want to make this weird for you. I'll leave first so you can swim or put your clothes on."

"Close your eyes. You walked all the way down here to enjoy yourself. I'll put on my stuff and let you have at it."

Yani closed her eyes and she heard the splash of water as the man left the sea.

"All good now," he said.

When she opened her eyes, he had his sweatpants on and held his shirt and shoes in his hands.

"Yani?" he asked.

"Yeah…"

She felt her voice die in her throat when she saw his bottom canines between his lips. She wasn't shy about staring at his scars. He was much taller than her.

Killmonger.

This was the man Klaue was bragging on the last two days. The man that Polk and Huntsman grumbled about at the dinner the previous night. It seemed Killmonger had favor with Klaue and those two brutes didn't like it so much. Yani had heard Huntsman call the man an ursurper. She expected to see some piggish white man with swine-like features and dragon fire spewing from his mouth. The only unsettling thing about him was the keloid scars. And only because they didn't look random at all nor accidental.

"You not hot wearing that on your head?" he asked.

Yani touched the top of her head. She still had her beanie on from earlier in the day. It had been cold that morning when she arrived. She wore a dark Naruto t-shirt and baggy orange sweats and just because he mentioned her head cover, she suddenly felt overheated wearing so much clothing on the beach. The heat was beating her down. She needed to be in the water. But she needed him to leave because she too liked to swim nude. But now that he knew about this place, she would probably have to change the times she came down. And she most definitely couldn't swim naked again while he was here. He was ruining everything.

She pulled her beanie off. Her scalp was grateful, her short buzz cut allowing the heat to toast the dyed blonde hair on her head.

"I'll go check on Jerome," he said.

Up close his voice had a playful raspy quality to it. His gold slugs peeked at her again when he smiled. He had dimples like her Sydette.

"Oh!" she said.

She wanted to grab her breasts when she felt her nipples leaking suddenly.

"What?" he asked, his face looking curious.

"I forgot something!"

She took off running back up to the front house clutching at her chest.

Leona was clearing space on the dining table for the lunch meal when Yani ran in.

"What's going on?"

"My titties are leaking."

"You're not wearing that special padded bra I bought for you? I got you four of those to help with that.

"I forgot," Yani called from the bathroom. She wiped down her nipples and stuffed tissue inside her bra to soak up anything else that decided to express itself from her tits. She couldn't wait for Sydette to be done with breastfeeding so her titty milk could dry up.

She walked out of the bathroom to find her Aunt talking to Killmonger and she felt her nipples acting up again. The tissue would have to work miracles.

Watching Killmonger converse she noticed how giddy her Aunt was acting with him. He was sweet with her, asking questions about the island, about her, what she did when she didn't work at the house. Before she knew it, lunch was ready and Killmonger was helping Leona bring the food to the table. Now he was taking over her job.

The other men arrived and Yani joined her Aunt in the kitchen to stay out of their way. Klaue sat at the head of the table with Killmonger by his side, and when she heard the new man speak again, she realized that her tits were reacting to his voice, her milk was leaking again. Only her baby could do that to her sometimes when she cried or needed something.

What the hell was this man doing to her?

She pressed her fingers against her nipples to push the tissue paper closer to her tips.

Who was he?

###

Smooth sun-kissed brown skin. Lips plump. Eyes big and bright. Eyebrows dark and thick.

Yani favored her Aunt and Erik found himself staring at her while he ate lunch with the men and Klaue.

One minute she was making him feel like he didn't belong in her space and the next he was watching her run away from him, her thick ass cheeks bouncing and making him think thoughts he had put aside. He hadn't been with a woman for about three months and quite frankly, hadn't missed the company because of all the work he had been doing. Once he hooked Klaue into his orbit, all Erik could think about was Wakanda and waiting for the perfect time to move on the East African nation.

She was young. This girl, Yani. Probably in her twenties. Mouthy. He liked that. Saw him naked and didn't give a fuck. Until he came closer to her. Then she became modest, probably for his sake and hers. A young woman like her around some treacherous men, she had to be careful.

He wasn't the only one peeping her in the kitchen at lunch. Huntsman was clocking her also. This bothered Erik. So openly wanton.

She was covered up looking like some skater punk he could see on any street corner back home, but she had some curves that strained against the sweatpants. Waist tight probably from swimming a lot. Full breasts. It was the blonde hair that made her dark eyebrows pop. Right now, those eyebrows were furrowed and she was looking right at him. Like she was still mad he had trespassed on her world. The girl who spoke affectionately to iguanas like they were human and yelled at him like he was a big lizard. Erik gave her a grin and she cut her eyes to look at her Aunt who was washing dishes.

By the time lunch was over, Yani was reaching into a refrigerator and grabbing a plastic bag and leaving the house for the day.

The rest of the day was a period of rest and acclimation.

Klaue didn't want to talk shop until the next day, and Erik was happy he could just wander the secure compound. He spotted security cameras everywhere. He learned that each house could be locked down from the inside and secured easily. Klaue called the estate "Our Lady's Manor", naming it after Leona who Klaue affectionately referred to as "My Lady" every chance he got. Leona didn't seem to mind, and she got on well with Klaue in that practiced way that Black people had when in the employ of white people. Klaue may have thought they were close, like family even by the way he fawned over her, but Leona was about her job and getting her work done as expeditiously as possible without getting in anyone's way. Friendly but distant. Smart woman. Klaue was not to be trusted. The presence of guns and ammo didn't faze her or Yani. Money was money.

Erik looked for Yani at dinner and she wasn't around for it. Gone for the rest of the night he assumed. He didn't want to ask Leona about her, afraid of making the older woman suspicious of him for asking about her young niece. He just wanted to let her know that he would be going to the beach early in the morning so that she could have her own personal beach time.

Erik slept well in his new room after smoking some decent herb that Polk gave him to tune out. When his alarm went off at five in the morning, he slipped into some light blue swim trunks and walked barefoot at dawn to the beach.

Body rested, mind clear and sharp, he felt like the wind had been punched out of him when he saw Yani in the water already.

Naked.

Water pearled down her cinnamon brown skin as if she wore diamonds in the early morning waves. Her hips flared out showcasing the beauty of her round posterior that flexed as she poured water over her head.

Once, when he was a child, Erik's mother had taken him to carnival in Sao Paulo and while standing next to his play cousin Marisol and holding his father's hand, Erik saw Yemanjá dancing on a float, the drums of Candomblé pounding in his ears, his little hips moving in time to the rhythm. He thought the woman on the float dressed in gauzy blue scarves was a real Goddess and his mother gently corrected him and explained that she was a representation. That first sensation, the tangible feeling of his heart bursting wide open to make room for the orixá of the sea had stayed with him for a long time. That woman long ago may have been a false divinity, and he could be forgiven for making the mistake with the eyes of a child. But he was a man now, and the being before him splashing in the warm sea was real and divine. Black deities were real. She was in front of him. Yemanjá. He had to be near her.

He shucked his trunks and took his time approaching her.

She dived under the water and he felt that his heart would break if she didn't come back up, wouldn't be surprised at all if she didn't return to the surface, but he needed to see her eyes, needed to make sure she was real.

He stopped short when a small wave crashed into his chest and he allowed himself to be swept with it.

Yani popped back to the surface wiping her hand over her face. She didn't jump or cry out when she saw him wading in the water, didn't try to shield her breasts or the neatly clipped bikini area of her sex, her vulva pouty and rounded, the split between her legs making his dick jump. She was a true ethereal vision and the reverence in his eyes must've stalled any thoughts she may have had of him being a weirdo coming for her.

"Killmonger," she said with no trepidation in her voice, "I see this is going to be a problem, no?"

"Erik," he whispered, trying to find his own voice, "my name is Erik."

[Part 1]

[Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]

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mystblbk · 5 years

Text

La Hija--Chapter 3

30 YEARS AGO: MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

Lupe’s life had been a complicated one. She was born to a wealthy family, one that rubbed elbows with the world’s most notable wealthy. Her father Paulo Flores had created his empire out of hard work, or that’s what he would tell the many interviewers that flocked to him. The truth was that though the casino and resort business in Mexico was a booming one, the life of a crime lord was even more booming.

This is why the fifteen-year-old was here, hidden behind large packages of drugs in the barracks of La Familia’s house. After Alacran had spoken to her father to notify him of his group’s return, Lupe followed the young man down to the basement as quietly as she could. Her goal was to find El Chino, as she did every time Alacran's group went out, to check if his recklessness had done him in. Her concern was unfound as the tall teenager was fine and cheery as he polished his gun. Lupe’s eyes still look him over for sign of injuries but just as she’s finishing she jumps from the sound of the boy’s voice.

“Are you done?”

Lupe stands to her full height behind the packages, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

El Chino looks at her with a blank stare, “I’m sure you believe that.”

Lupe’s cheeks darken with a blush and she turns around with a huff. El Chino watches as the younger teenager walks in the direction of the entrance before rolling his eyes and calling out to her.

“I’m sorry for downplaying your concern, Princessa Guadalupe.”

Lupe stops mid-step. El Chino watches with a grin as she shakes with anger then flips him the bird and leaves. The eighteen-year-old boy laughs at her antics and shakes his head, still polishing his freshly used gun. The boy's expression turns love-stuck as he remembers the girl's face when he first saw her.

“Eres una niña traviesa, Princessa Lupe.”

------------------------------------------------ 18 YEARS AGO: SAN ANTONIO, UNITED STATES

Macario ‘El Chino’ Valdes had never thought he would fall in love, let alone get married or have children. Yet here he was sitting next to his tired wife of five years cradling a bundle of white and yellow blankets in his arms. He looks up to his wife and thanks her push to keep trying for a child after he had lost faith. He looks back down to the small baby and smiles with tears in his eyes.

“I’m going to have you so spoilt, mija,” he whispers to his baby, “I’m sure your tios and tias will do the same too.”

The baby does not stir as El Chino continues to coo to her. Lupe slowly opens her eyes and catches her assassin cuddling their daughter. A peaceful and humor-filled smile forms on her lips as he starts telling his story of meeting Alacran and being enlisted for his training. The heiress stays quietly watching until her husband tells the child about his run-in with the mafia lord, Paulo. It all seemed plausible until he described her father standing tall at the end of La Familia’s barracks with a thick Cuban cigar dangling from his fingertips.

“My papá never smoked cigars or cigarettes,” the woman mumbles half-asleep.

El Chino glances over at his wife and smiles, “He did in my mind at the time.”

The woman guffaws, her husband had always been dramatic. Her father was always the fit type that always works out, there is no possible way he would smoke like one of those tv show crime lords did. El Chino simply gins at his wife, content where this dangerous life had led him. Unbenosted to the new parents, Juliana had opened her eyes and was currently staring at the curious fit man and boney woman that are standing over her with appreciative eyes.

---------------------------------------- 12 YEARS AGO: MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

Alacran has been friends with El Chino for many years, almost twenty, and in all those years he had seen him angry countless times. He had seen him kill men almost three times his age and three times his size. He has seen him tear into anyone who had crossed him, and with this experience, he hopes his comradeship spares him from the mafia boss’ anger.

“Juliana,” the man shout-whispers, “Juli?”

Alacran sighs and stands up again from crouching under the barn’s table. As he huffs from standing up, he is no longer the spry twenty-five-year-old Sicario he once stared as, his eyes catch a blur of teal run out of the stable’s exit. The man quickly dashes off and follows the blur. As he reaches the open space near the stables, he sees a little girl with long hair run to the barn carrying something in her little hands.

“Damn it, Juliana,” he shouts, “You’re going to get hurt!”

The man runs to the barn and throws open the doors as he reaches it. He freezes in place stares with wide eyes at the scene in front of him.

Juliana, his six-year-old goddaughter, stood across from him in front of the makeshift shooting targets he and Chino would use every morning. The girl points at the targets and from the movement of her little shoulder, pretends she is shooting the weapon. It's an adorable yet terrifying sight, so Alacran tries his best to walk slowly up to the girl. Juliana’s eyes narrow as she hears the crunch of boots on dry hay.

Mi tio.

“What are you up to niña?”

Juliana looks up and sees her godfather looking down at her with frightened but patient eyes. Juliana looks away, scared at what would happen now that she was caught playing with her godfather’s gun. Alacran sighs and puts his hands over the girls head.

“If you wanted one, I could have gotten you one, tiny,” he mumbles.

Juliana looks up with shock, “For real?”

Alacran nods and carefully takes the gun out of the girl’s hand, “Sí, but only if you promise not to touch the real ones.”

Juliana looks down with a little blush on her chubby cheeks, “Sí tio.”

Alacran smirks as he puts his gun securely into its holder. As he looks up he catches the look in the little girl’s eyes as she turns to stare at the targets.

It’s determined.

It’s wild.

It’s fearless.

It the same look Chino would get whenever Paulo gave him a job to do.

Alacran chuckles, “I’ll teach you too.”

The little girl gasps and turns back around, “For real?”

“But no touching the real thing,” the man repeats with a wave of his finger.

The little girl nods eagerly with a smile, “Okay.”

The middle-aged mand shakes his head and breathes out:

“Traviesa.”

--------------------------------------- 6 YEARS AGO: MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

“I swear if something happened to her—”

“If something happened to her, I’ll kill them all myself and then I’ll take myself out!”

El Chino fumes back at Lupe, both concerned over their twelve-year-old daughter. The woman glares at her husband, not enjoying this ‘I-told-you-so’ moment one bit. Alacran along with Amie Perez had convinced El Chino that Juliana was ready to take to the streets. After six years of hidden training under the Sicario, Alacran could see the potential that Julian was. It was easy to convince Perez after having the young heiress run circles around the men she was training.

They had gotten together and sat down with El Chino and La Mujer to talk about the girl. After an hour of scolding for teaching the pre-teen all about the world of crime, El Chino’s interest was peaked and he wished to see his daughter in action. After witnessing his little girl run through the obstacle course with two fully stocked pistols and an AK-47 strapped to her nimble body, he reluctantly agreed to let the girl go on one trip with his drug trafficking squad.

That’s how they ended up in a screaming match in La Familia’s dining room—AKA La Familia’s meeting room. The two hot-headed parents stay glaring at each other then turn to glare at Alacran and Perez. This dance occurred many times in the span of two hours they had not heard from their daughter or the group leader.

“I’m not kidding Chino,” Lupe growls, “If my baby girl ends up hurt or—”

The woman’s sentence is cut off as the two heavy doors leading up to the room slam open and the subject of the whole room’s concern enters. Twelve-year-old Juliana enters dressed in full police uniform, a name of an officer attached to the name tag reads ‘Montilla’ and shines just as brightly as the badge above it. Over each arm is a duffle bag, so full that their forms are extended to the point of ripping at the seams.

“Holla,” Juliana greets with a wave, “Sorry, I got lost.”

The room remains quiet as the girl throws off the two duffle bags she has over her shoulder and onto the table. Juliana, in one quick motion, opens up one bag to reveal thousands of U.S. dollars bundled up inside. The other is treated the same way but this one contains the packages of drugs that were meant to be delivered. The young teen looks up and sees the room full of criminals staring at her with wide eyes and unhinged jaws. With a roll of her eyes, she begins to recount the event that happened earlier.

“The deal went bad, so they started a shoot-out,” she explains as she leans over to take Hernandez’s undrunk soda, “So when they weren’t looking, I ducked over and took both bags and ran. Somebody called the cops and a whole bunch of them showed up. I’m guessing the guys that made it out ended up in handcuffs.

“I honestly don’t know because I ran far enough to be caught by this stupid beat cop around the mall of El Este. He had me held up until he searched me and found all the stuff. Anyway, before he could call me in, I kicked his ass and knocked him out. I kind of had to dress up as him ‘cuz I stole his patrol car to get here, it’s outside so you’re going to have to do something about that papá.”

The girl then shoots them a dimpled smile before walking out of the dining room with a small but noticeable limp. The room remains quiet until Alacran starts laughing with both shock and amazement. The other leaders in the room share looks of concern while glancing over at their leader. El Chino just continues to stare at the door, his eyes unseeing. Finally, through his booming voice, Alacran speaks.

“I told you not to worry about that troublemaker!”

------------------------------------- 4 YEARS AGO: HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS

The sun glows down El Chino’s back as he stares out to the land that makes up his ranch. The horse under him digs his hoofs into the ground, impatient at remaining in one place for so long. The mafia lord looks to his right and catches his only child staring out to the property as well. The man blinks before turning back forward. He finally sighs and beings to speak after two hours of riding through the Texas wood.

“The day before I married your mother and a few months before your grandfather died, he took me on a ride like this one today.”

Juliana looks over to her father with confusion, “Papá?”

“He told me about his struggles to become the man that we was. He told me about his time in prison. He told me how he gained a dealer’s trust and then slowly another ten. He told me how they started working out of a small house and ended up in a warehouse outside of Piedras Negras. He told me about putting his life at risk to give everything he could to his wife and then to your mother. He told me about his near-death experiences, his successful deals, the rise of his casino business and expansion into resorts. He told me everything he thought I needed to know as his daughter’s husband.”

El Chino stops and looks at his daughter. Juliana stares at him with confusion.

The father sighs, “I’ve seen you grow up like a weed between two slabs of concrete, wild and free. I’ve seen you take down cartels with bullet wounds all over your body. I’ve seen you give orders and run operations like you were born to do it. You have defeated leaders and helped gown others. And to top it all off you have tackled Flores Co. with just that amount of intellect and determination. I want you to start taking over.”

“What,” Juliana gasps, “But I’m just a kid!”

Chino laughs, “That’s what your mother and I would say to your tio, but you know what? You’re not just a kid. You’re my kid.”

Juliana furrows her brows and stays silent, so Chino continues.

“You are my kid. My child. My daughter. Mi hija. You are wild. You are determined. You are intelligent. You are all of me and all of your mother, but you are also you,” Chino speaks with the seriousness of a man passing the torch to his child, “I believe in you. Your mother does too. That is all you need. You will surpass all that I have accomplished and will make a name for yourself. You will be your own person and fill the world with that narrative.

“But, how? I mean I’m a kid, and yeah you both believe in me,” Juliana half-yells, “What about everyone else? How do I get the mafia on my side? How do I get all those know-it-all men in suits to allow me to lead a multimillion dollar company? I’m fourteen!”

“You were born for this,” El Chino says with assurance, “You walk into a room and all eyes are on you. You command the space that you enter and demand submission. You outrun everyone and then some. You were born to shine in these circumstances just as I was born to do it too. I have faith in you because you are just like me.”

Juliana stares at her father, “Just like you?”

“You are me,” El Chino smiles, “But also your mother. And also, yourself. Which is why I have faith in you. I won’t give it all to you just yet, you’re barely turning fifteen in the summer, but I will give you parts until I see that you’re ready. I will never give you something I know you can't handle.”

Juliana looks down at her hands clutching her saddle. Her mind races of worse case scenarios until a thought commands her attention.

I will never give you something I know you can't handle.

Juliana looks up and catches her father’s hazel eyes. Between them, a whole lifetime of conversations passes through their connected stare. Finally, Juliana nods.

“Sí papá,” she says with a scared but decided voice, “I’ll take over.”

The man smiles as tears form in his eyes, “I knew you would, mi traviesa.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19186732/chapters/45739531

#amar a muerte #juliantina #valentina carvajal #juliana valdes #fanfic

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fangirlanimedisney-blog · 5 years

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5 Tips for Learning to be a Pro Gamer

You fancy yourself a fairly solid League of Legends player. Or possibly you’re untouchable as it pertains to Halo. And today you’re prepared to find out if you’ve got what must be done to make a living at it.

Pro gamers can simply make the lender. 25-12 months old Lee “Jaedong” Jae Dong has gained more than $504,000 in 47 competitions. And Johnathan “Fatal1ty” Wendel pocketed more than $450,000 in competitions (and much more in endorsement offers).

But success in the e-sports world calls for much more than only a lot of practice and learning the techniques of your competitors. We spoke with a few e-sports champs to get their tips about what folks can do to best plan competition.

Related: Game And Book Franchise The Witcher Premieres As Netflix TV Series

1. Know your weaknesses.

Regardless of how good you are, you’re not perfect - and it can help to know wherever you flunk.

Your “ToD” Merlo has been called the best StarCraft II player from France - and you will be casting and commentating as of this weekend’s Red Bull Fight Grounds event in Atlanta. But he understands where the openings in his game are.

“Try to prepare something for everyone,” he says. “Make an effort to focus on your weaknesses. To me, for example, my Protoss vs. Terran is my weakest matchup. I want to ensure I work extra on that matchup to ensure I don’t lose to the first good Terran I meet.”

Sean “Day[9]” Plott, a previous StarCraft II pro player who continued to become well-known e-sports personality, agrees - adding that self-awareness is why he is a good player great.

“Obsess on your weakness and faults as a new player,” he says. “Whatever you are doing as an expert is attempting to recognize your errors and weaknesses - and there is absolutely no weakness that is unfair to recognize. Maybe your earn rate appears to decrease after around three hours. What's causing that? What's your attempt at a remedy? … It’s the determination to focus in, and really identify the issues, and then practice them which makes an expert player so excellent.”

2. Stay rested.

You will see lots of opportunities at e-sport events to venture out and party. Plus they can be appealing. But to be always a winner, you’ll have to withstand the stresses to remain out past due and socialize.

“I believe one of the things that throw people off is you don’t realize how stressful the travel can be sometimes,” says Nathan “Nathanial” Fabrikant, an e-sportscaster and player for Main Gaming. “It’s very difficult to balance when you’re heading to numerous occasions. … [M]ake sure you rest enough which you have time to apply in between competitions.”

There is any such thing as too much sleep, though.

very hard to play your A-game all the time “It’s,” ToD says. “For me at least, normally, i think like I could play my A-game 3 or 4 hours each day. That’s it. … Ensure you get some good rest. At least eight hours, nevertheless, you shouldn’t rest 12 hours, or your routine will be smudged for day two.”

3. Practice under poor conditions.

Earning on your home set up is a very important factor, but competition conditions received continually be ideal. They’ll often be significantly less than ideal. Plan that.

“Practice all the factors,” Day[9] says. “Using the thermostat arranged to 60 levels. To 80 levels. With your seat too low or too much. All these types of things will be really useful because even if the thermostat doesn’t change a great deal at the competition, you have those extra reassurances of control.”

4. Plan a psychological roller coaster.

Regardless of how ready you think you are, the feelings that overflow players whenever a tournament rolls around can be mind-boggling.

“The main thing an aspiring player at their first tournament may face - that everything in your thoughts will be completely overshadowed by this ridiculous golf swing of emotion,” Day[9] says. “The most attempting test for just about any rival is understanding how to manage those feelings, as well as how to use them favorably, and play at night negative ones.”

It’s not only newbies who have to deal with that emotional tidal wave. Veterans face it, too.

“There are a few pro gamers that, when they’re on the A-game, they’re almost unstoppable,” Nathanial says. “And if they’re not in the right mind-set, or they haven’t been caring for themselves just as much as they must have, they have much more difficulty finding success.”

5. Have a ritual.

Pre-game habits aren’t limited to traditional athletes. A regular can help you to get into the right mindset for a match, something that’s important for victory.

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cptn-sgrogers · 5 years

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Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019

Title: Something New

Square filled: Guitar

Rating: General

Warnings: none

Words: 1,616

Description: Bucky is tired of not knowing who he was before and during Hydra’s control, so in his time in Bucharest he decides that maybe he should stop trying to be who he was and figure out who he is now and who he wants to be. Created for: @buckybarnesbingo

The market bustles around Bucky, bartering happening all around, people shouting their bargains into the open air and yet Bucky stood still, at the fruit stall, staring at the 6 string Guitar a stall over. The man catching his eye and trying to coax him over with the dulcet tones of his Romanian accent rolling off his tongue. It wasn't anything special he could see that but there was something about it that called out to him, learning something new that wasn't part of the Bucky he was before, or so he hoped. His rucksack feeling heavy, weighed down with the food he’d need and the notebooks tucked away in the bottom carrying fragments of what he could remember about who he was before and during Hydra.

Shrugging the bag strap back up onto his shoulder he moved away from the fruit stall net bag of plums in hand and through the crowd towards the man. Maybe it was time to figure out who Bucky was now instead of trying to be the Bucky he was before.

“how much?” His romanian sounding natural as he gestured toward the instrument.

“for you….550 Leu” The man replied smug look on his face knowing full well he’d just asked for $100 for a second maybe third hand guitar that had definitely seen better days.

“Are you kidding me that can’t be worth more than 82 lue and you want 550!” Clearly this man thought Bucky was an novice when it came to arguing prices. He grew up in the 40s where they bartered for everything, he could remember as much, christ he was older than this guy by at least 60 years.

“My Father made this guitar! How dare you it’s priceless. The lowest i’ll go is 275! final offer or I’m finished doing business with you!” the man spluttered indignantly.

“Alright Alright i’ll give you 275 if you throw in the Chord book and a guitar strap” knowing full well he was paying this guy 2 days of wages in one go.

“You have yourself a deal sir! Thank you!” throwing his hand out enthusiastically, Bucky grasped it gently handing over the money with the other hand.

The man attached the strap to the guitar as Bucky tucked the chord book into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder he donned the guitar, sliding it round so it lay across his back as he walked through the rest of the crowd towards home. Or as close to home as he’d been in 70 years.

The apartment block was the cheapest bucky could afford and the easiest to defend with a few strategically placed items. He knew that people would be looking for him after what happened in Washington and after all the training he’d gone through to become a Winter Soldier his need to secure wherever he was just wouldn’t leave him, try as he might to lessen it, he tried to look at it as though it was things he’d learned before when he was with the Howling Commandos but he knew deep down that they were never this cautious.

Grabbing his keys from his pocket he jiggled them into the lock balancing everything precariously, the guitar slipped off of his shoulder slightly and knocking against the wall, letting out a less than melodious thunk and the strings ringing out as he squeezed through the door, give him an AK-47 or a sniper rifle strapped across his back and he’d know how to work with it and stop it from hindering his movements but a guitar that was something else entirely. On any other day he would be grateful for the narrow hallway leading into the apartment but with his backpack full and a guitar strapped across his back it was a struggle, inwardly cursing himself slightly for buying into the impulse of getting it in the first place.

finally he managed to squeeze himself into the main apartment, walking over to the corner of the room and taking off the guitar, balancing it on a chair in the corner of the room. The chair wasn’t the best place for it Bucky realised as the guitar began to slide sideways off of it, in his rush to catch it he dropped his net bag of plums, scattering the contents across the floor. His metal hand causing a screech of a sound as it came into contact with the strings on the neck of the guitar. gently he lowered it to the floor, propping it between the wall and the chair, on the floor this time.

Muttering to himself as he began to gather the now bruised fruit off the kitchen floor, if you could call it that, Bucky’s apartment was a glorified bed sit but it did him well. Times had changed a lot since the 40s or what he could remember of them anyway so he kept it simple, no TV, no Landline, just a radio in the corner and the bare essentials, it felt a little like home.

Turning the stove on he began making Creamed chipped beef, granted there were plenty of different foods and a plethora of choices in the 21st but when on a budget for some reason or another the meals Bucky used to have in the 30s and 40s were still the cheapest. It also reminded him of his mom’s cooking, where he and becca would moan about having creamed chipped beef again, which was bitter sweet really, it was also a staple for Bucky with the Howling Commandos. Only having fragments of his memory frustrated Bucky, or the part of him that was pre-Winter Soldier Bucky, the other part didn’t want to remember, it made it all to painful. For 70 years he had been trained to take in information and then get rid of it once it was deemed un-useful or he was onto the next mission or when they decided to wipe his memory. However, the one thing they could never erase was the memory of the people he had killed, he remembered every one, every face, every name and worst of all the way he’d ended their lives too. Bucky knew that it was the only bit of defiance he had against them, the only thing they couldn’t take away from him, he knew it wasn’t right to forget about them, so he didn’t, it was the same part of him that couldn’t kill Captain America, the same part that dragged him from the lake, that same defiant part of him that had stopped the Winter Soldier.

An acrid smell filled the air drawing Bucky out of his dase and subsequent spiral.

“A fuck, only thing worse than chipped beef is burnt chipped beef” Bucky’s face crumpled as he remembered what he and becca used to say to each other whenever he burnt it, which was often, much to his mothers horror.

Taking the pot off of the hob he quickly went to his backpack pulling out his James ‘Buchanan’ Barnes Notebook, he hastily noted down the phrase and dated it to pre-war and that it was his and becca’s phrase. He had a few James ‘Buchanan’ Barnes notebooks and a few Winter Soldier ones too all full and tucked away. He never took them out of his bag for fear of losing them, for fear of losing himself again. It took up space in his grab bag but it was more important than anything else he owned. He glanced at the guitar in the corner of the room as he plated up the burnt food, maybe he could learn something more about himself that way, he knew deep down that neither James ‘Buchanan’ Barnes nor the Winter Soldier had ever played guitar it was utterly foreign to him and that’s what had grabbed his attention about it in the market.

Forgetting the food on the plate Bucky grabbed the guitar, the chord book and his bag of plums. Heading out of the apartment he didn’t look back as he gently closed the door behind him heading up to the roof. Not stopping to lock it incase he changed his mind.

As he stepped out onto the roof the cool late evening air hit him. stopping only briefly to prop the door open with a brick at the side of the door, he walked out into the open air, finding a semi decent spot that looked out over Bucharest, the sky beginning to turn a gentle shades of pink and orange, he sat crossed legged and opened the chord book, placing the strap over his head and made the shape of the chord with his left hand on the strings. Still plenty of light for the moment. After a minute or two Bucky realised that playing with his right hand wasn't working as his metal arm definitely was not made for string work it seemed, flipping the guitar over he realised that if he played it left handed the guitar gave out a much nicer sound.

“I’ll never need a plectrum..” he mused to himself, picking a relatively bruise free plum from his bag he began flicking through the pages, looking out across the city he called home, for now, till he found a simple song with tab music, finding that easier to follow than sheet music at his early stages of guitar mastery as the sun continued its slow descent to the horizon.

So he sat and slowly strummed out the tune looking out over the city as the sun vanished and the city began to light up in the darkness, the gentle melody being carried on the wind through the busy streets below.

#bbb2019 #buckybarnesbingo2019 #my writing #cptn rogers #cptn sgrogers #no fluffy but domestic #if you get sick of seing this stuff blacklist cptn sgrogers #buckybarnes #winter soldier

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spotifytrackpromotion · 2 years

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tareadaine54-blog · 6 years

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Dispensary Ottawa: Legal cannabis products

Subsequent to the Cannabis Act was passed by the Canadian Senate, Canada became the first G-7 country to commence and then legalize marijuana for consumption and diversion. Despite much important resistance against the use of marijuana, there has been a development since recent researchers have discovered that aside from recreational drug use, marijuana can be useful as drugs to cure sickness like epilepsy, collagen-induced arthritis, attention-deficit hyper activity disease, leukemia, hypertension, skin disorders, etc.. There are various services and products to try from and even from the blossom cannabis section; the clients have a very long set of selections to select from. Querkle is one such blossom cannabis, having its earthy and pint pungent, it is actually a cross between the purple urkle and space queen. This blossom blooms with brilliant lavender hues and also a heavy dusting of crystal clear resin that blankets its own thick colas at a frost-like coat. It's heavily euphoric and cerebral and can be used during the night as it relaxes muscles and guides your brain to maneuver. Ottawa Weed has got the pre-rolls source of marijuana like ak 47, Orange Kush, and Lemon Haze. These pre-rolls' cost ranges from $15 to $25 each. Edible products like the Kushy Punch pub that cost $20 could be bought. This pub includes 3 unique breeds and tastes for all differing times. Even the indica kushy punch pub has plum taste, so the sativa punch pub has a strawberry flavor and also the hybrid kushy punch bar has a special flavor of this tropical punch. From the concentrates section, the gold extracts shatter sativa jack herer, the golden extracts violate hybrid Girl Scout cookies along with also the golden extracts shatter sativa blue dream can be offered. To gather supplementary details on Dispensary Ottawa kindly head to Ottawa Dispensary . Aside from these whole convenient stocks, Dispensary Ottawa comes with a collection of distinct cannabis growers and blossoms too that will be bought through the online site.

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joneswayne-blog1 · 5 years

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tsunderrorism · 8 years

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Third Worldist quotes

These are not in any order nor are the quoted necessarily [proto] third worldists. But all these quotes support the TWist position: that white workers in the imperialist countries are a reactionary class.

"And finally, let us say that we are sick of the canting talk of those who tell us that we must not blame the British people for the crimes of their rulers against Ireland. We do blame them. In so far as they support the system of society which makes it profitable for one nation to connive at the subjection of another nation they are responsible for every crime committed to maintain that subjection. If there is any section of the British people who believe that Ireland would be justified in ending the British Empire if she could, in order to escape from thraldom to it, then that section may hold itself guiltless of any crime against Ireland. But if there is any such section, how small and utterly insignificant it is, since it nowhere gives public proof of its existence."-James Connolly, "The Slackers"

"This liberal intellectual polarity that “race issues” and “class issues” are opposites, are completely separate from each other, and that one or the must be the main thing, is utterly useless! We have to really get it that race issues aren’t the opposite of class issues. That race is always so electrically charged, so filled with mass power, precisely because it’s about raw class. That’s why revolutionaries and demagogues can both potentially tap into so much power using it. Or get burned. You can’t steer yourself in real politics, not in amerikkka and not in this global imperialism, without understanding race. “Class” without race in North America is an abstraction. And vice-versa. Those who do not get this are always just led around by the nose, the manipulated without a clue — and it is true that many don’t want any more from life than this. But wising up on race only means seeing all the class issues that define race and charge it with meaning. Why should it be so hard to understand that capitalism, which practically wants to barcode our assholes, has always found it convenient to color-code its classes?"-J Sakai

"The English proletariat is actually becoming more and more bourgeois, so that this most bourgeois of all nations is apparently aiming ultimately at the possession of a bourgeois aristocracy and a bourgeois proletariat alongside the bourgeoisie. For a nation which exploits the whole world this is of course to a certain extent justifiable.”-Engels to Marx, October 7th 1858

"Fifthly, the exploitation of oppressed nations—which is inseparably connected with annexations—and especially the exploitation of colonies by a handful of “Great” Powers, increasingly transforms the “civilised” world into a parasite on the body of hundreds of millions in the uncivilised nations. The Roman proletarian lived at the expense of society. Modern society lives at the expense of the modern proletarian. Marx specially stressed this profound observation of Sismondi. Imperialism somewhat changes the situation. A privileged upper stratum of the proletariat in the imperialist countries lives partly at the expense of hundreds of millions in the uncivilised nations...By means of the silly word “fatally” and a certain sleight-of-hand, the fact is evaded that certain groups of workers have already drifted away to opportunism and to the imperialist bourgeoisie!...Secondly, why does England’s monopoly explain the (temporary) victory of opportunism in England? Because monopoly yields superprofits, i.e., a surplus of profits over and above the capitalist profits that are normal and customary all over the world. The capitalists can devote a part (and not a small one, at that!) of these superprofits to bribe their own workers, to create something like an alliance (recall the celebrated “alliances” described by the Webbs of English trade unions and employers) between the workers of the given nation and their capitalists against the other countries." -Lenin, Imperialism and the Split in Socialism

"Yet the paradox is easily explained: The white workingman has been asked to share the spoil of exploiting 'chinks and niggers.' It is no longer simply the merchant prince, or the aristocratic monopoly, or even the employing class, that is exploiting the world: it is the nation; a new democratic nation composed of united capital and labor. The laborers are not yet getting, to be sure, as large a share as they want or will get, and there are still at the bottom large and restless excluded classes. But the laborer's equity is recognized, and his just share is a matter of time, intelligence, and skillful negotiation."-W.E.B. Dubois, The African Roots Of War

"Taking the entire globe, if North America and Western Europe can be called “the cities of the world”, then Asia, Africa and Latin America constitute “the rural areas of the world”. Since World War II, the proletarian revolutionary movement has for various reasons been temporarily held back in the North American and West European capitalist countries, while the people’s revolutionary movement in Asia, Africa and Latin America has been growing vigorously. In a sense, the contemporary world revolution also presents a picture of the encirclement of cities by the rural areas. In the final analysis, the whole cause of world revolution hinges on the revolutionary struggles of the Asian, African and Latin American peoples who make up the overwhelming majority of the world’s population. The socialist countries should regard it as their internationalist duty to support the people’s revolutionary struggles in Asia, Africa and Latin America."-Lin Biao, "Long Live The Victory Of People's War!"

"Parasitic capitalism provides the material basis for the white nationalism and “racism” of the white working class which enthusiastically upholds and carries out U.S. colonial policy. It is also the material basis for the opportunism of the white left, which has historically sold out and betrayed the African anticolonial struggle repeatedly throughout history the white left, itself a product of the oppressor nation, is equally white nationalist, parasitic and opportunist as the white working class population in general. In many instances it has been more vicious and destructive to the Black Liberation movement than overt white nationalist attacks."-Platform of the INPDUM

[On right wing, anti-government violence in Amerikkka]

"This isn't something that capitalism can change by simply

pushing a button. Any more than they can just order capitalistic

men with AK-47s to stop slaughtering to set up their cherished

tribal nations in Cambodia or Croatia or Liberia. Because capitalism

in its struggle to control the entire world set armies in motion. And

these armies, which take the form of entire nations and races and

genders, are still out on a mission from colonial days. Just as

capitalism created white patriarchal society to be its settler garrison

over North Amerika, and after 400 years this has a historic

momentum and a stubborn life of its own. Clinton or Rockefeller

can't just make a phone call and get 200 millions of white men and

their women to roll over and pull the plug, to stop being parasites.

All over the world armies long set in motion refuse to be recalled."

-Butch Lee and Red Rover, "Night Vision: Illuminating War and Class in the Neocolonial Terrain"

"Any white fortune seeker, no matter what part of the world he came from, could aspire to own and share in the mineral wealth of South Africa; but not an indigenous black. The emergent capitalist class was thus defined as white, and this fact was underwritten by law...One could add to these a third variant, deriving from the history of the United States. For lack of a better term, I shall characterise this as the settler-revolutionary path. In the United States, the white settler commercial farmers of the north, in alliance with the slave-owners of the south, rose against British domination (1776) and established an independent white settler republic. Owing to the peculiarities of this alliance, the new state accommodated itself to a capitalist and pre- capitalist mode of production. After almost a century of uneasy co- existence, the capitalist mode of production (in the north) was compelled to impose a revolution from without and from above on the slave-owning south in the shape of the Civil War ( 1860-65) and abolish slavery. The United States thus became economically unified though a thorough-going bourgeois-democratic reformation was delayed tor another 100 years because of the stubborn resistance of the whites in the former slave state."-Resolution of the African National Congress

"In the colonies the economic infrastructure is also the superstructure. The cause is effect: You are rich because you are white, you are white because you are rich. This is why a Marxist analysis should always be slightly stretched when it comes to addressing the colonial issue. It is not just the concept of the pre-capitalist society, so effectively studied by Marx, which needs to be reexamined here. The serf is essentially different from the Knight, but a reference to divine right is needed to justify this difference in status. In the colonies the foreigner imposed himself using his cannons and machines. Despite the success of his pacification, in spite of his appropriation, the colonist always remains a foreigner. It is not the factories, the estates, or the bank account which primarily characterize the "ruling class." The ruling species is first and foremost the outsider from elsewhere, different from the indigenous population, "the others.""

-Frantz Fanon, Wretched of the Earth

"The colonial agricultural sub-proletariat cannot even count on an alliance with the least-favored Europeans, for everyone lives off them, even the 'small colonizers,' whom the big proprietors exploit, but who are privileged compared to the Algerians, the average income of the Algerian Frenchman being ten times that of the Algerian Muslim."

--Jean-Paul Sartre, introduction to "The Colonizer and the Colonized" by Albert Memmi

"Specifically, the “labour aristocracy” refers to those more well-to-dolayers of the working class, people who no longer have any material incentive to engage in the dangerous, grueling task of carrying out a revolution against capitalism. Lenin had argued that the labour aristocracy was a product of imperialism, as the profits earned from [super-exploitation of] the developing countries were used to pay for the elevated position of certain sections of the working class in the metropole. This concept has been accepted by almost all strains of the Marxist–Leninist tradition, though often accorded little actual importance in practice. To the first wave of the RAF, however, the question of the labour aristocracy had by this point become central. The labour aristocracy was not seen simply as a section of the West German working class, but as the dominant section, almost to the exclusion of any classical proletariat."

-Projectiles for the People: A history of the Red Army Faction

"I was in the East End of London (a working-class quarter) yesterday and attended a meeting of the unemployed. I listened to the wild speeches, which were just a cry for 'bread! bread!' and on my way home I pondered over the scene and I became more than ever convinced of the importance of imperialism....

My cherished idea is a solution for the social problem, i.e., in order to save the 40,000,000 inhabitants of the United Kingdom from a bloody civil war, we colonial statesmen must acquire new lands to settle the surplus population, to provide new markets for the goods produced in the factories and mines. The Empire, as I have always said, is a bread and butter question. If you want to avoid civil war, you must become imperialists."

-Cecil Rhodes (colonizer of Zimbabwe, formerly known as 'Rhodesia')

"But, you will say, we live in the mother country, and we disapprove of her excesses. It is true, you are not settlers, but you are no better. For the pioneers belonged to you; you sent them overseas, and it was you they enriched. You warned them that if they shed too much blood you would disown them, or say you did, in something of the same way as any state maintains abroad a mob of agitators, agents provocateurs and spies whom it disowns when they are caught. You, who are so liberal and so humane, who have such an exaggerated adoration of culture that it verges on affectation, you pretend to forget that you own colonies and that in them men are massacred in your name. Fanon reveals to his comrades above all to some of them who are rather too Westernized — the solidarity of the people of the mother country and of their representatives in the colonies. Have the courage to read this book, for in the first place it will make you ashamed, and shame, as Marx said, is a revolutionary sentiment...

...The Left at home is embarrassed; they know the true situation of the natives, the merciless oppression they are submitted to; they do not condemn their revolt, knowing full well that we have done everything to provoke it. But, all the same, they think to themselves, there are limits; these guerrillas should be bent on showing that they are chivalrous; that would be the best way of showing they are men. Sometimes the Left scolds them ... ‘you’re going too far; we won’t support you any more.’ The natives don’t give a damn about their support; for all the good it does them they might as well stuff it up their backsides....

..You know well enough that we are exploiters. You know too that we have laid hands on first the gold and metals, then the petroleum of the ‘new continents’, and that we have brought them back to the old countries. This was not without excellent results, as witness our palaces, our cathedrals and our great industrial cities; and then when there was the threat of a slump, the colonial markets were there to soften the blow or to divert it. Crammed with riches, Europe accorded the human status de jure to its inhabitants. With us, to be a man is to be an accomplice of colonialism, since all of us without exception have profited by colonial exploitation."

-Jean-Paul Sartre, introduction to The Wretched Of The Earth

"You ask me what the English workers think about colonial policy. Well, exactly the same as they think about politics in general: the same as the bourgeois think. There is no workers’ party here, you see, there are only Conservatives and Liberal-Radicals, and the workers gaily share the feast of England’s monopoly of the world market and the colonies."-Engels to Kautsky, 9/12/1885

"Economically, the difference [between workers of different nations] is that sections of the working class in the oppressor nations receive crumbs from the superprofits the bourgeoisie of these nations obtains by extra exploitation of the workers of the oppressed nations. Besides, economic statistics show that here a larger percentage of the workers become “straw bosses” than is the case in the oppressed nations, a larger percentage rise to the labour aristocracy. That is a fact. To a certain degree the workers of the oppressor nations are partners of their own bourgeoisie in plundering the workers (and the mass of the population) of the oppressed nations." Lenin, A Caricature of Marxism and Imperialist Economism

“The white [amerikan] workers literally demanded their traditional settler right to be petit-bourgeois - “little bourgeois,” petty imitators who would annex their small, individual plots each time the real bourgeoisie annexed another oppressed nation. It should be clear that the backwardness of white labor is not a matter of “racism,” of “mistaken ideas,” of “being tricked by the capitalists” (all idealistic instead of materialist formulations); rather, it is a class question and a national question.

This stratum came into being with its feet on top of the proletariat and its head straining up into the petit-bourgeoisie. It’s startling how narrow and petty its concerns were in an age when the destiny of peoples and nations was being decided, when the settler Empire was trying to take into its hands the power to decree death to whole nations.”

-J Sakai, Settlers: The Mythology Of The White Proletariat

"America and Canada are European settler colonies but they are harder to distinguish than the others. They're harder to distinguish simply because America and Canada come closest to being successful settler colonies. They come closest to being successful settler colonies.

In order to be a successful settler colony, one must commit genocide against the original owners of the land. America did this. America did this. In order to be a successful settler colony, one must commit genocide against the original owners of the land. They did this and then they changed the name, and it sounds as if they belong here.

They wiped out an entire nation to take the land. Changed the name and call themselves Americans. When you call them an American, you obliviate the correct history. They are not Americans. They are European settlers, that's all that they are. If they're not European settlers, they're certainly the sons and daughters of European settlers. They're not Americans. You should not call them Americans. To do that, you misrepresent the red man who owns this land. They are Europeans."

-Stokely Carmicheal

""The income which we derive each year from commissions and services rendered to foreign countries is over £65 million. In addition, we have a steady revenue from foreign investments of close on £300 million a year... That is the explanation of the source from which we are able to defray social services at a level incomparably higher than that of any european country or any country" - Winston Churchill

“In leading capitalist nations, workers tend to become participants in foreign exploitation. The backward peoples are the real exploited and exploitable proletariat of the system.

The working class in a leading nation has sufficient reason to walk arm in arm with its oligarchy against the world. On imperialistic questions, we should ordinarily expect this class to be nationalistic, because a threat to the imperial position of the nation tends to become a threat to its own welfare. The class struggle thus goes on at home for a larger share of the national income. But it is a struggle that tends to stop at the water’s edge where antagonisms with rival imperialists and exploited backward peoples begin. The working people of a leading capitalist nation are likely to rise up in wrath against those of their fellows who disclaim the imperialist actions of the government, regarding them as traitors.” (Oliver C. Cox, "Capitalism as a System", 1964)

The amount of poverty and suffering required for a Rockefeller to emerge, and the amount of depravity entailed in the accumulation of a fortune of such magnitude, are left out of the picture, and it is not always possible for the popular forces to expose this clearly. (A discussion of how the workers in the imperialist countries gradually lose the spirit of working-class internationalism due to a certain degree of complicity in the exploitation of the dependent countries, and how this at the same time weakens the combativity of the masses in the imperialist countries, would be appropriate here, but that is a theme that goes beyond the scope of these notes.)"

- Che Guevara, MAN AND SOCIALISM IN CUBA

"America’s proletariat in general is far behind that of European countries as a factor of the coming social revolution; especially so long as it is led by yellow leaders, like Sam Gompers and Co. In fact American proletarians are opportunistic, as are most of their leaders. It is the least class conscious proletariat in the world in the revolutionary meaning of the word. This is true not only of the trades union movement, but also of the political movement, including the socialist and even the Communist movements. American opportunism is largely due to its historical condition and training. ... This is the very reason why our Communist movement in America has been so slow in spite of so many Russian comrades working for the cause and in spite of so many books on Bolshevism and its activities having been published and spread (especially it has been the fact since the movement became illegal.) The membership fell down, after the big raid of January 1920, to an insignificant quantity. What was left in the Party were mostly foreigners, who have been trained in the underground party work in their own country. The American proletarians are mostly opportunistic in their temperament and thought: they don’t care a cent for the theory of Communism, they are satisfied with high wages and with the rule of Sam Gompers and Co!"

Sen Katayama, Japanese Communist Party co-Founder, 'Japan’s Position in the Coming World Social Revolution', 1922.

“If a revolution succeeds in England, the proletariat will continue oppressing the colonies and pursuing the policy of the existing bourgeois government; for it is interested in the exploitation of these colonies. In order to prevent the oppression of the toiler of the East we must unite the Muslim masses in a communist movement that will be our own and autonomous.”

M. Sultan-Galiev, 9th Conference of the Tatar Obkom, 1923.

"Relations between foreign forced workers and German industrial workers was not much better [than between German settlers and their Polish and Russian farm workers who were effectively their slaves]. This was especially the case where the presence of large numbers of foreign workers enabled Germans to move into supervisory positions and thus enjoy a degree of ocucpational and social mobility which their own modest talents would otherwise have denied them. Even the most incompetent dullard could lord it over the Poles and Russians. Apart from the nation's foremen, and cases of brutality by, for example, miners in the Ruhr towards the Russian sub-class below them, most German workers seem to have been largely indifferent to the fact that they were working alongside an undernourished army which emerged spectrally from freezing camps but was excluded from public air-raid shelters and swimming baths, and which could be strung up [literally] for doing things which the rest of the population took for granted. Informed commentators such as Ulrich Herbert have noted that the principal reason for this response was that Nazi racial policy towards foreign workers interacted with the arrogant self-regard, chauvinism, and racism of some sections of the German working class. This suggests that the Nazis' novel efforts to replace class with racial society found a ready response in significant sections of the population. Judging by studies of how many 'German workers' treat their Turkish colleagues in present-day factories or service industries, these attitudes seem to have survived the Nazi period, which for some workers, marginalised by the 'elbow society' of the Federal Republic and atracted to the extreme Republican party, has become an object of nostalgia as a time of strong and successful government. Working class racism is, of course, not exclusively confined to Germany."- Burleigh and Wippermann, The Racial State

#third worldism #first worldism #communism

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