#except her dad died a horrible death when she was a teen and her brother was a literal child. and someone had to keep the sect together.

[randomidiocyncrazies]

Help I'm being held hostage by fem!Nie Mingjue AU

[jace-todd]

Late Night Cherry Tea

@convexed-parallel you asked for Hitoshi and Shouto and so I'm delivering! Trying to get more comfortable with writing and publishing said writing.

possible spoilers??? i don't know, i gave canon the middle finger

Word count: 2155

read on ao3 here

Shouto was hoping this wouldn’t become a new habit. But for the third night in a row, he’s found himself sitting on the counter in the kitchen, a bowl of soba cradled in one hand. The clock above the oven flashes 2:52 am, illuminating the room every time. He didn’t bother to turn on any lights when he came down, just reached into the back of the fridge for his food and crawled onto the counter. It wasn’t proper etiquette to be sitting here, and if Katsuki or Momo (or Fuyumi) were to see him, they’d tsk and tell him to get off. For a moment, he wanted them to be here, standing in front of him, their arms crossed, talking to him about how late-night habits. Then he’d glance down at his hands and rethink it.

Sleep and Shouto have always had a fickle relationship. After trainings with his father, Shouto found sleep to be a blissful release, taking him somewhere better than reality. All the ache in his bones, the exhaustion that hung off him like chains, the shaking in his hands and the ever-present taste of vomit would disappear as he slept it all off. Sleep was a warm embrace, gently moving your head down to their shoulder, fingers brushing through your hair and rocking you to sleep. Sleep was faint memories of his mother holding him, from before, her cold hands holding him up as she moved through the house, Natsuo and Fuyumi following closely and talking softly while Touya stood silent further away.

Then they’d have nights like these. Shouto would lay in the dark for hours, twisting and turning, chucking the blankets off, and then pulling them back on not a moment later. He would listen to one of Fuyumi’s sleep playlists, close his eyes and pray to whatever deities were above that he’d be granted at least two hours. Sleep would kick his ass, coming only to give him horrible nightmares of burning water, a towering figure, blue fire. Sleep was the cold embrace you felt when it was winter and you’re underprepared, frost nipping at your nose and fingers, still present even after you rub your hands together. Sleep became his tormentor, a false promise of protection, allowing him in to stop it all only to hold him down and force him to remember all of the worst times.

During anniversaries like this week, it was the latter. Touya’s death anniversary was coming up – though he wasn’t sure if that was still true. Echoing words of Dabi’s ‘that’s sad Shouto Todoroki’ wouldn’t leave him, a sense of familiarity lacing the way he said his name. He knows he’s grasping for straws, some sort of conclusion, an answer to years-long uncertainty involving Touya. But if there’s any possible chance, Shouto wants to think about it. Maybe if they have just an answer, Natsuo won’t be as distant, as angry. Maybe if they had just something to work off of, Fuyumi could breath a little easier, let her shoulders untense. Maybe if Shouto could find any trace, his Mother would be happier about their family, sleep better at night knowing all of her kids were alive and okay.

Maybe he’d be able to get some sleep.

Shouto sighs, looking back down at the cold noodles. He isn’t any less awake than he was an hour ago, heterochromatic eyes blinking slowly as he forces himself to untense his shoulders. The noise from his slurping is comforting, masking the rumble of the fridge and the clicking from their broken wall clock after Izuku slammed his shoulder into it during one of their movie nights that turned into rough housing. He wonders if it’s too late to turn on something on the tv and settle himself there for the night. The last thing he wants to do is wake anyone else up.

“You good?” The baritone voice startles Shouto out of his thoughts, originating somewhere near the entrance of the kitchen. He jerks his head up to see who it is and the sight of his newest classmate greets him.

Shinsou doesn’t look any better than he feels, eyes half-lid from accustomed exhaustion, one hand on the back of his neck and the other hiding in a pocket. His purple hair is down for a change, covering most of his face and neck. It’s a weird sight. He’s been in the class for a couple of weeks now, ever since Mineta’s expulsion. They haven’t interacted much outside of training sessions or Izuku dragging them out. Though, from what he’s heard Shinsou hasn’t been interacting with anyone since joining outside of forced encounters.

It’s strange for anyone else to be up this late, even Denki has tapped out by now. Fumikage is the only exception, the bird’s insomnia a pain in the ass to beat that Shouto often finds him when he’s awake. He’s good company when Shouto can feel his mother’s hands holding him down and hear a sizzle of a kettle long since put out.

Shouto twirls some more noodles, “I’ve been better.” The night finds him more vulnerable and open that the teen normally is. Shinsou hums in acknowledgement, making his way further into the kitchen to start gathering things from the fridge and the cabinets. It’s odd to share a space with someone this late at night. It’s odd to be living with anyone at all. Living back at the house, it was mostly cold and lonely. Fuyumi’s got herself a girlfriend so her presence isn’t a comfort Shouto can turn to. Natsuo has long since moved out to college. His father has never been warm and comforting. Going from that silence to a dorm with twenty other teens had been a lot to handle.

The clock now says 3:28 when Shouto finishes his soba and puts the container in the sink to clean later. Izuku and Katsuki didn’t wake up for training for another two and a half hours, and Shouto didn’t have anywhere to be until ten am. There was time to go upstairs and try again for sleep or there was time to start that show Mina was talking to him about. Neither happened when Shinsou spoke again. He had nearly forgotten the other male was there. Shinsou was awfully quiet.

“Here.” Shouto finds a mug being shoved into his hands. It’s hot and Shouto lets frost cold his hand down as he holds it, looking up to see Shinsou jumping onto the counter across him, holding his own mug. He isn’t used to this either, someone looking out for him and making him things when he can’t sleep. Fuyumi tried her best but Shouto always shoots her down so she can sleep. He loves his sister dearly but her sleep was important.

It’s tea, that much he can tell by sniffing, though there’s some sort of cherry addition to it. He shrugs and takes a sip. It’s good; warm and sweet on his tongue and happy memories blossom with it. Natsuo’s cherry syrup on his pancakes and waffles, him flipping Shouto off when he had teased him about it, Fuyumi’s disapproving voice telling them to cut it out. Touya’s red tongue as he sticks out, a free hand holding a cherry lopstick, hoarding the candy to himself, a slight pinch of a smile visible. Fuyumi’s cherry chap-stick she buys every time she runs out that always ends up in Shouto’s bag. Shouto can’t help but inhale the scent and cradle it close to his chest.

“Nightmares?” Shinsou speaks softly, as if he’s afraid he’s going to be yelled at for talking this late at night. There’s a grumble to it that makes him think of Aizawa-Sensei and Shouto’s half-tempted to ask if they’re related.

“No. Just old memories.” Shouto takes another sip from the mug, a soft smile irrepressible as he kicks his feet back and forth to do something.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He’s been asked that before. When his mother burned him. When she was sent away. When Touya died. When Natsuo screamed at their dad and he ran to hide in his room. When Fuyumi told him that she was going to be around less. When he’d wake up screaming and crying. Shouto hates that question.

“No. What is this?” He lifts up the mug and Shinsou nods in acknowledgement.

“It’s a tea concoction my sister used to make me when I couldn’t sleep. Makes you real sleepy, just wait.” Shouto didn’t know that Shinsou had a sister. Though, Shinsou probably doesn’t know anything about his family either. He wonders about the past tense. Did she move away? Like Natsuo did? Was she dead like Touya? Or did Shinsou shoot her down like he did to Fuyumi?

Silence lapses between them again as Shouto thinks. Shinsou sits perfectly content across the kitchen, his own legs tucked under him, scrolling through his phone as he sips from the mug. The lightning makes the purple look black and when Shouto gets caught staring, the purple eyes look black too – just a ring of it swimming in pure white. He holds the gaze, though Shinsou just chuckles and goes back to his phone. It seems easier to breathe with the company, the oppressive weight Shouto had easing just a bit as Shinsou’s quiet reactions and them drinking fill the air. Shouto observes his new classmate and drinks the tea.

When it’s done, he finally talks again. “My brother’s death anniversary is coming up and I can’t stop thinking about it. He died when I was a kid, I barely knew him, but he meant a lot to Fuyumi and Natsuo. Father still has photos of him in the house though I’m not supposed to know that. Touya was the blueprint for everything that I am. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why we weren’t close, because my Father threw him to the side when I manifested my quirk. I think Touya took pride in his quirk and being a hero but it changed when I came around. I guess that’s why I’m so transfixed over it.” Shouto lifts his gaze. Shinsou’s phone is nowhere in sight and the empty mug is sitting next to his thigh. Purple eyes are locked on his. Undivided attention.

“It’s stupid but… when Katsuki was kidnapped, when I tried to get the marble back from Dabi, he said something. He said my name, my full name, and I can’t shake this feeling.” Shouto clenches his fist, “This feeling that there’s something off about that guy. I just want closure for Touya and I think that Dabi has something to do with that.” If Izuku were listening, he’d insist that they’d dig up everything they can. Izuku would overanalyze and ramble about that fight and everything little detail about Dabi. If Katsuki were here, he’d smack Shouto’s back hard and tell him to stop thinking so much, they’d catch the bastard and Shouto would get his closure – all of it in his own way.

Shinsou slides off the counter, softly walking over to stand in front of Shouto. “It’s not stupid. I’d give anything to find out who killed my sister. Closure helps you move on and sleep at night. It makes everything just a tad bit better, though it may not seem like it. You want to know even if the answers aren’t desirable because at least its an answer, at least you know. You want to be able to finally tell your family you know what happened to your brother and sleep the entire night. There’s nothing stupid about that, Todoroki.”

A firm hand sits on his shoulder, “We’ll find out what happened to your brother, Todoroki. We’ll solve this mystery, okay?” Shouto stares into determined eyes and finds himself nodding. Shinsou’s ambition got him into the hero course through it all and it reminds him of Izuku. A lopsided smile overtakes Shinsou’s serious expression, the hand disappearing to take the empty mug from his loose grasp. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”

The faucet is turned on and Shinsou gets to work with cleaning the evidence they were ever down in the kitchen. Shouto jumps off the counter, heading towards the elevator. The tea did it’s job, his eyes are heavier, his limbs relaxing without his permission and the fog of sleep starting to drift in. He stops though, turning to look at Shinsou over his shoulder. “Hey, Shinsou?” There’s another hum and the other student looks at him. “Thank you.”

“Any time. Next time you can’t sleep, come find me. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Maybe he can’t climb into his mother’s bed after nightmares. Maybe he can’t turn to his eldest brother to show off his accomplishments. Maybe he can’t click with Fuyumi or Natsuo anymore. But he does know that maybe next time he can’t sleep, he can find some comfort in the brainwasher. Shouto takes a deep breath and presses the up button on the elevator.

[staticscreenwriting]

Until we say goodbye || two

Warning! This multipart story takes place after the events of season 3. There’s huge spoilers already in the synopsis down below. I warned you.

Synopsis: (Y/N) Hargrove has to come to terms with the fact that her twin brother is dead and she had to watch him die, unable to do anything about it. There is something she can do for him now though and that’s keeping a promise. The promise to go back home to California. Together. In order to drive cross country and spread Billy’s ashes in a place where the Hargrove kids used to be happy, (Y/N) enlists the help of Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington who decides that it’s time to break out from his parents expectations and be the person he always wanted to be.

This time on “Until we say goodbye”: The teens stay at a quirky motel. Steve talks to mama Harrington and (Y/N) give us a look into her childhood.

(caution: mention of death, emotional abuse, slight mention of physical abuse, mention of alcohol // if you need me to tag any other possible triggers let me know)

One // 

Part 2 of ?

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

Help a girl out with a reblog, thank you ♥

And if we hit on troubled water

I’ll be the one to keep you warm and safe

And we’ll be carrying each other

Until we say goodbye on our dying day

A cool breeze is blowing past (Y/N) as she sits on edge of the old abandoned lifeguard tower, feet dangling in the air. She’s well aware of the fact that the wind is making a mess of her hair, leaving it a tangled mess. She doesn’t really give a shit though.

The beach is practically deserted except for her and the couple strolling by the shore, throwing sticks for their puppy every once in a while. They seem so happy, as if nothing matters but them and their dog and the ocean.

Her thoughts wander towards Pumpkin, the little Jack Russell puppy they adopted a few years ago when dad was dating this woman named Laura. Laura loved dogs and dad loved Laura and so when she moved in, so did Pumpkin.

(Y/N) loved that stupid dog, hell even Billy did. But like all good things in the Hargrove’s life, this one didn’t last very long either. Dad messed up his relationship with Laura and Laura was smart enough to get the fuck out and take Pumpkin with her. 

The thumping of boots against the wooden planks of the lifeguard tower, pulls (Y/N) back from her trip down memory lane. 

Billy plops down next to her, fumbling a cigarette from the pocket of his denim jacket and lighting it. He’s started smoking a few months ago, just after the twins 13th birthday. Dad was really mad when he found that first cigarette hole in the carpet of their room. 

“ Why are you here ? ‘s about to storm “ Billy mumbles around the cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.

“ Dad’s being as asshole “ 

“ As per usual “ Billy scoffs, “ what happened ? “ 

“ He found out that I pierced my ears, said I look like a slut. “ 

The words still sting even now that she repeats them to her brother. (Y/N) doesn’t think it’s something a father should say, especially to his daughter. It’s just earrings, what’s the big deal ? 

It doesn’t make her a slut. Right ? 

“ What the fuck does he know. He still lives in 1971 with his ugly ass mustache“ Billy jokes, effectively getting a laugh from his twin sister. 

“ You know what the worst part is ? “ (Y/N) asks.

“ Hmm ? “ 

“ I think my ears might be infected. They burn like hell. “ 

“ Ya know what ? That’s your own damn fault. I told you using Galliano liqueur was not the best way to sanitize the needle. “ 

(Y/N) chuckles, nodding her head in agreement. “ Yeah, you were right, I admit it “.

“ Good. “ 

She turns to look at her brother. His hair is growing longer now, the curls sitting messily on his head reminding her of crashing waves during a thunderstorm.

Dad hates that Billy is growing his hair and and (Y/N) is fairly sure that’s part of the reason why Billy likes his hair so much. Everything that pisses off their dad is a good think in Billy’s book.

“ Still think you should’ve let me pierce one of your ears. Would’ve looked damn cool. “ she says, teasing smirk playing on her lips.

Billy shakes his head, curls bouncing from the motion. He’s mirroring her smirk though.

“ No fucking way. Never. “ 

(Y/N) finger plays with the tiny silver spike dangling from her ear as her eyes focus on the scenery passing by the window. There’s not a lot to see really, it’s almost pitch black outside. They’re on the road for about an hour and a half now but Steve keeps bringing up stopping.

He’s tired, (Y/N) can tell. Tired and still a bit freaked out by the whole situation.

“ So Terre Haute is coming up at I think we should see if we can find a place to stay the night, then stock up on food and gas tomorrow morning and drive through the entire day “.

Steve speaks up, more of a monologue than anything else. (Y/N) doesn’t mind how long the journey takes as long as they get to California in the end. She doesn’t mind stopping for the night. Doesn’t mind the occasional food or toilet breaks. Leaving Hawkins behind already feels liberating. 

Every mile they put between themselves and that fucking town feels like a weight lifted off her shoulder.

“ Alright, sounds good to me. We gotta find a cheap place though, I don’t have a lot of cash with me “.

“ S’alright I got it “ Steve exclaims.

“ I don’t need your charity, Harrington, “ (Y/N) snaps at him. Maybe it’s a Hargrove thing, being bad at accepting help from other people. From basically strangers.

For the biggest part of her life, (Y/N) only had Billy to depend on. Now that he’s gone it feels absolutely terrifying putting her trust in someone else.

“ Sorry I — that’s not what I meant. “ 

“ No, “ (Y/N) sighs “ I’m sorry for snapping. I know what you meant. It’s okay. “ 

There’s a thick awkward tension filling the car and (Y/N) absolutely hates it. 

“ Can I turn on the radio ? “ she asks motioning towards it. 

Steve nods in agreement. “ There should still be a mixtape in the player. “

With the push of a button the opening chords to Mötley Crües ‘Shout at the devil’ echo through the vehicle, making (Y/N) raise her eyebrows in surprise.

“ Steve Harrington, I did not expect you to listen to this kind of music “.

Steve just shrugs “ why not ? I like all kinds of music. “ 

“ Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ golden boy listening to the Devil’s music. That’s a surprise. “ 

“ Golden boy, “ Steve scoffs “ yeah right. I just about graduated High School. I didn’t get into college. I work at a video store and my own dad thinks I’m goddamn loser. “ 

“ You wanna talk about shitty dads ? Cause let me tell you, I’ll win that one. “ 

It’s quiet for a moment, before Steve clears his throat and speaks up again.

“ Can I ask you something ? “ 

“ Mmh “ 

“ What did they tell your dad happened ? Did they — did they really tell him that whole fire bullshit ? “ 

“ Yup. “ 

“ And he believed it ? “ 

(Y/N) nods. “ He did. He has no reason not to “.

The fire story. Authorities told Neil and elaborate story about how Billy died in a tragic accident in the big fire at Starcourt mall. Something about wrong place wrong time.

(Y/N) was there when they told him. Susan was crying hysterically. Max was — numb. Neil though. Neil didn’t even flinch. There was no sign of emotion. No sign of grieve. Nothing. Nothing at all.

“ I don’t think he gives a shit either, to be honest. “ 

“ That’s horrible. “ Steve exclaims.

“ That’s my dad for ya. “ 

Steve’s BMW rolls up to the parking lot of the Cardinal Inn Motel. It’s a small Motel complex and it looks like it’s seen better days. The walls are a dirty white, almost gray color and all doors are painted a bright red although most of the paint is chipping off. 

The kids enter the motel lobby, a small room decked out in all kinds of kitschy decor. There’s cross stitch art and paintings and decorative throw pillows. And all if it proudly features various images of a red cardinal bird. 

“ Welcome to the Cardinal Inn Motel. “ a chipper voice speaks up from behind the reception desk. “ I’m Ruth, how can I help ya ? “ 

Ruth is a plump little woman with a kind smile, round cheeks and extremely curly ginger hair. She looks more like a caricature than an actual person. Though (Y/N) thinks she fits this place perfectly. 

“ We would like twooo — ? “ Steve trails off and glances towards (Y/N) in question.

“ One “ 

“ — one room. With two beds though “. 

“ Oh sure sure. Let me see. It’s 32 $ for a night. “ Ruth says and opens a book, probably looking up which rooms are occupied and which rooms are free. She walks towards a board holding a lot of keys and takes one of handing it to Steve.

“ This is your room key, It’s number 44. When you step outside, the room is located in the building to your right. It’s on the first floor, first door once you walk up the stairs. I would have to ask for a down payment though. Just in case. “ 

Steve hastily pulls out a bundle of cash from his jeans, counting the right amount and handing it to Ruth. “ That’s the entire amount, we’re only staying for one night “.

“ Very well then. I hope you have a pleasant stay at the Cardinal Inn. “ Ruth chirps almost like a bird herself.

“ Thanks “ Steve says and walks towards the door.

(Y/N) stays rooted though, eyes wandering around the room from one red bird to the next to the next. 

“ Hey Ruth, “ she chimes up.

“ Yes, dear ? “ 

“ What’s with the birds ? “

“ Oh the cardinal ? That’s Indiana’s state bird. “ 

“ They’re funky looking little guys, huh ? “ 

“ Truly. They’re also very interesting. If you want to learn about them, they’re an informational brochure in every room. “ 

(Y/N) gives Ruth a soft smile then rushes after Steve, out into the chilly night air.

“ Knight Rider, really Harrington ? “ 

Steve sits up from his slumped position on the bed as (Y/N) comes back from the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in her pyjamas. A choice of pyjamas she thoroughly regrets now as the cool air inside the motel room hits the skin of her legs. 

She’s dressed in a pair of short red pj pants and one of Billy’s old band shirts. One she’s stolen from his closet after — the incident. It smells like him. Makes her feel like he’s still there.

“ What, It’s good. “ 

“ It’s so stupid. It’s a talking car. “ 

“ Okay, whatever. You keep on hating but I tell you this show is gonna last forever and it’s gonna win all the awards. Trust me. “ 

“ Mmmh. Sure. Shower’s yours. “ 

Steve gathers some of his stuff from his duffle bag and moves towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

As she is left alone in the room, the gravity of it all comes crashing down on (Y/N). This is it. That trip she wanted to go on with Billy. That trip they had fantasized about since the moment they left California. 

Now it’s happening but it doesn’t feel right. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. With Billy in a thermos. With Billy — dead.

The room suddenly feels too small. Like the walls are gonna close in on her any second now. She needs air. Fresh air. Needs to get out of here. Now. Now.

So she does.

Slips on her shoes and the room key and dashes out through the door and into the night. It’s cold. Way too cold for the amount of clothing she’s wearing or not wearing depending on how you see it. 

For a while all she does is walk up and down the road, wishing she had remembered to take her pack of smokes with her. 

When it gets too cold though, she spots a neon sign in one of the windows of the Lobby building. “Souvenirs”.

She wonders if all of those souvenirs have red birds on them.

They don’t. Most of them do, but not all of them. A lot of them display what she can only assume are important buildings of  the city of Terre Haute, Indiana.

(Y/N) remembers the few trips she used to take with her mom and Billy, when they were just little kids. Mom loved to take them to the little quirky little towns across the coast and the kids loved exploring them. Billy always got a postcard, from every single place. (Y/N) got keychains. She still has a box of them stuffed beneath her bed at home. 

Her eyes wander around the room before they fall onto a display of all kinds of different postcards. Most of them, as expected, have birds on them. Though there’s one that doesn’t. It says “Terre Haute” in big bold letters. It reminds her of the ones Billy used to get from those coastal towns. 

Greetings from … the few happy childhood memories she can remember.

(Y/N) takes the card over towards the reception, where Ruth greets her with another of her signature Ruth smiles. Kind and warm.

“ Hi, dear. “ 

“ Hi uh — I want to buy this postcard. I can’t find a price though, ah shit I left my money up in the room let me just — “ 

Before she can hurry towards her room though, Ruth stops her.

“ It’s okay, Darling. You can have it for free. “

“ Oh no, I —  “

“ Please. You asked about the birds that pretty much the most anyone has cared about this place in a while. Take it. I want you to have it. “ 

It’s kinda sad, (Y/N) thinks. That her just asking about those silly birds made Ruth this happy. That people pay so little attention to her adorably little bird room.

“ Thank you, Ruth. That is very sweet of you. And this place is adorable. “ 

“ Thank you, dear. Do you need a stamp for that ? “

(Y/N) sighs “ No. No I don’t. “ 

The Bean is a little diner at the edge of town looking out onto the Wabash River. It’s emitting a perpetual smell of coffee and waffles and breakfast food.

Steve is munching down an entire plate of eggs and bacon. Oh to have the metabolism of a teenage boy.

(Y/N) takes another sip of her black coffee, hoping that the caffeine is gonna help keep her awake and not get too tired during their drive. After all they plan on being on the road for the entire day.

The pancakes on her plate are long forgotten. She hasn’t really been feeling like eating since it all happened. It’s like she’s acting on power saving mode. Always tired. Always sad. Always working on half speed.

“ You should eat something. You need it. “ Steve remarks.

“ Are you flirting with me ? ” 

“ I uh — what ? “ 

“ Male cardinals feed females as part of their courtship ritual. A female’s partner bears total responsibility for satisfying her dietary needs. “ 

“ How do you know this ?  “

(Y/N) smiles and takes another sip of coffee “ my friend Ruth recommended me some interesting reading material “.

She doesn’t mention that the nightmares didn’t allow her much sleep and that she spent most of the night staying up reading the informational magazine. There’s things Steve just doesn’t need to know.

“ Alriiiight. “ Steve exclaims, eyebrows raised “ Hey, what’s that. You gonna send a card home ? “ he asks and motions towards the postcard she’d been scribbling on while he had been ordering their food.

“ Nah. Not really. This one’s for someone else “.

“ Alright … hey uh. I think I should call my parents “ 

She looks up from her cup at Steve’s words. This can’t be happening. She can’t go back home now. He can’t bail on her.

“ Harrington “ 

“ Don’t look at me like that, I’m not turning around and crawling back home. I just don’t want my mom to worry. I need her to know I’m safe. “ 

That’s right, Steve has a mom too, not just an asshole dad. A mom who cared and who worries and who loves. God it’s been so long since (Y/N) had one of those.

“ Okay, yeah. But um — can you not mention my name. I don’t want any news to get to my dad. “ 

“ Of course. Yeah, no worries.“ 

“ Thanks “.

Despite what Billy always said about him, Steve seems to be an alright guy after all. His hair’s ridiculous though.

It rings once, twice, three times before someone picks up.

“ Hello ? “

“ Mom, it’s me. “ 

“ Oh god Steve. Honey where are you I’m worried sick “. 

That sends a little pang to his heart. His mother is a nice lady, she loves him deeply and she doesn’t deserve for him to worry her like that. But this is something Steve has to do, if not for (Y/N) then for himself. 

“ I’m alright mom. I’m taking a friend on a — uh a roadtrip. “ 

“ A roadtrip ?” 

“ Yea. To uh — “ his mind wanders to Billy. “ We’re going to help her brother “.

“ Okay, well are you alright ? “

No. He hasn’t been alright in a long time. Since 1983 to be completely honest.

Maybe this trip is just what he needs. A way out. An escape. 

Steve leans his head against the payphone, taking a deep breath.

“ I don’t know, mom. But I’m safe and I need to just — just get away. “ 

“ Is this because of what happened with the Holland girl ? Or the mall ?“ 

Yes. All of it. If only she knew.

“ It’s just a lot lately. Can you just trust me in this, mom. That I’m doing what’s best for me ? “ 

His mother hesitates for a moment before clearing her throat.

“ Of course I do, sweet boy. But I am a mom and I do worry. I always will. “

It warms his heart. To know someone does care and someone does love him, no matter how much he messes up.

“ I know. I love you and I’ll be back soon. I promise. I just need to do this, for me.“ 

“ Be safe, Steve “ 

“ I will. “ 

Before he hangs up he can just about make out his father’s voice in the background, asking if “that’s him” and “what’s he messed up this time ? “

And it once again becomes crystal clear why getting on the road with (Y/N) is the best decision he’s made in a long time.

He walks back over to her, as she leans against his car chewing some bright pink bubble gum.

“ You ready to head out ? “

“ Yup. Your parents mad ? “

“ No. Surprisingly not. Mom just wants me to be safe. “ 

“ Aw little Stevie. How adorable. Anyway let’s go. “

As they both settle back in their seats, Steve slides the signature dark shades back onto his nose and turns towards (Y/N). 

“ Sooo, snacks ? “ 

“ Snacks “ she nods and throws him one of her signature smirks “ definitely need some twizzlers to survive this trip “.

 “ Happy Birthday to me “ a freshly 9 year old (Y/N) mumbles as she buries her feet in the warm sand. It’s almost time for the sun to set behind the horizon and color the sky in beautiful shades of reds and pinks and oranges.

For the last 8 years this has been a moment she has shared with her mom. Every birthday the two of them would come down to the beach and watch the sunset. Just them two.

Billy had the morning to spend alone with mom, going to the beach to catch some waves, and (Y/N) got to have the evening. 

They’d sit and talk for hours and hours and hours. About everything. The silliest things.

This year she hasn’t so much as called. As if neither (Y/N) nor Billy ever existed in her life.

Billy’s been grumpy all day, refusing to spend time with his sister and deciding to go hang out with some of those stupid boys from the neighbourhood that always call (Y/N) dumb names.

(Y/N) watches the sun lower itself as if to drown the light in the dark water of the ocean, when a little plastic bag lands next to her. Just a moment later Billy drops down onto the ground too.

“ Got you some candy. Twizzlers, your favorite “ 

“ Did you steal them ? “ 

“ No, dingus. I bought them with my own money. “ 

“ Good. Means I don’t have to feel guilty when eating them. “ 

It’s silent for a moment as they sit beside each other, watching the sunset.

“ Hey I’m sorry “ Billy whispers, as if speaking any louder would mean destroying the magic of the moment.

“ It’s okay. You’re sad. I’m sad too. “ 

“ I’m not sad “ he claims “ I’m angry. So angry. “ 

“ You can be sad and angry at the same time. They’re not mutually exclusive. “ 

“ Stop using big words. “ 

“ Sorry. “ 

Billy takes a big breath “ I’ve decide “ he exclaims “ that from this moment on I’ll missing her. If she doesn’t want to come home, doesn’t want to see us. Screw her. I don’t need her and neither do you. “ 

(Y/N) knows that’s absolute bullshit but she also knows that Billy has a certain way of coping with loss and sadness and maybe she doesn’t share his ways or understand them fully but she can respect them if it means he’s less angry and less sad.

“ Okay. “ 

“ We don’t need her because we have each other “ he says, placing his hand on hers “ right ? “

In that moment, little (Y/N) knows that whatever the world is gonna throw her way, it’s only half as bad with her twin brother by her side.

“ Of course. Always “ 

If only they had known how terribly short ‘always’ would turn out to be.

_________

tags:

@sargent-barnes // 

[abiik]

@vhsgf replied to your post “this song made me realize i've never written about jason missing zoe”

heather this might be too forward and angsty of me to say (pls lmk if is) but now i am curious about zoe reacting to jason's death and then mirroring w jason coming back from the dead and then finding out his best friend is dead. like it sounds so PAINFUL but like. also i wanna know about it. heather what have you done i-

i had to put my hair up for this. im literally so emotional about this rn,,,like when am i not but STILL OKAY IT MAKES ME VERY [SCREECHES] (also a read more because this is fucking long im so sorry)

okay let’s start with zoe because jason’s death is a traumatic thing for her on like multiple points all relating back to when she was like elementary school aged (im pretty sure i have it where she’s like 8 ish when this happens). before jason and before going into the whole vigilante business – no matter what version of zoe you prefer – she loses her two younger brothers in a joker related accident. he kills them. and zoe… zoe is so,,, well she’s angry. because no one does anything. no one. not that fabled batman, not the police, not the fucking government – NOBODY. and she’s just supposed to keep living her life like everything is fucking fine because oh that’s just the way gotham is. and like why the fuck would she just keep living her life when her barely out of toddler aged little brothers are now dead?? why wouldn’t she want to do something about that?? why the fuck should she just let it roll off her back like no biggie?? (of course, this is a catalyst for her mother’s downward spiral and eventual disappearance, and then keme’s).

then of course, there’s zoe’s powers. at that age she didn’t really understand the extent of them, what she could do with them and all that, but as they develop and her own awareness of them develop, she is faced by like intense guilt and remorse. if only she’d been able to do something. if only she’d been there. if only she could’ve stopped the joker. if only, if only, if only. and like, realistically, there wasn’t much she could do. it wasn’t like she knew fully how strong she was; she’d barely gotten flying down at that point, but then she’s growing up and she realizes she never really had a limit. and she kind of has this complex, i’ve said it before but she really does try to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders, so everything that has happened to her up until this point after the twins die, it’s partly her fault; if only she could have been better, she could have saved them, she could have her mom, she could have keme – she could have her family back.

then, of course, there is in all of this her intense hatred of the joker. and by correlation to the whole fucking issue, gotham city and batman. (ive said that they kind of grow to like each other more, but when z and jay become friends and through their teen years until his death, it’s kind of like whenever youre gay and your bff is gay and you both kind of hate the other’s really fucked up parent who’s okay sometimes but isn’t all the time and you would totally like throw down with them if only there weren’t like,,,repercussions)

anyway, so when jason dies, it’s a big fucking deal. like he’d already been acting weird, bruce was worried about him, z was worried about him, and then he dies okay. and zoe… bruce doesn’t tell zoe right away. he doesn’t tell her and when zoe does find out, she. is. pissed. all of the shit with her baby brothers comes back. she wasn’t there. she wasn’t able to save him – because she sure as hell KNOWS that she could have at this point. and now he’s GONE. AND THIS ENTIRE TIME, SHE HAD NO FUCKING CLUE BECAUSE BRUCE DIDN’T TELL HER!!! she couldn’t even go to his funeral!!! and then, AND THEN, on fucking top of that – it was the joker who killed him. so jason’s death was like a fucking quadruple blow to her.

after finding out the details, zoe goes binary for the first time. and it’s… well it’s scary. it takes a whole lot of coaxing from old teammates and being physically restrained by diana (who lowkey is kinda like why?? are?? we?? stopping?? her?? from?? killing?? the?? joker??) and clark and donna, and they can’t even really knock her out because when she’s binary, there’s only really waiting out the duration of the high until she passes tf out from using too much energy. which she DOES and then after a good long talk with gran-gran, zoe’s going on a much needed retreat with diana to themyscira.

during that time, zoe’s super depressed. like reasonably, so. she’s so exhausted and she’s still angry but she’s also just like,,, so tired. she lost her best friend dude. like she loves jason so much, she loves him so much, and then he was just gone. poof! and at least, at least with atsa and ahiga, she got to like, be there for their send off. jason ends up being another hole in her life, like her dad and her mom and keme. he’s added to this list of people who all were just…g o n e. she didn’t get to mourn them. like obviously, she can, but every time she thinks about jason, she begins to spiral. (this is kind of when she starts drinking,,,, human alcohol can’t really touch her but she does therapeutically – which is!! not good!!) she also begins to distance herself – from jason’s titans (connor holds on with an iron grip and eddie still checks up on her, but rose was just as distraught and kyle is still kind of numb), from the original titans, from bruce and alfred, from diana, even from gran-gran and uncle bell. she fills the void with work as well as the alcohol that doesn’t really do anything to her except make her mouth taste gross and weird and she hates it but it’s become a habit. if she isn’t out doing some reckless thing while saving the world, then she’s at a bar or just sitting by the ocean.

she has bad dreams too, like horrible dreams. and like,,, they’re not necessarily horrific or anything,, she usually dreams about good times, memories with jason or with atsa and ahiga, sometimes some weird mixture of all three of them hanging out together and it’s the worst fucking thing because she wakes up and she wishes she was there too, that she could stay with them, because she misses them so much. she just wants her family back, she wants the family she had before jason and dick and alfred and the titans, but she also wants them too – she wants all of it.

and then it all comes to head with her dad’s sudden involvement with earth and shit. zoe sacrifices herself not only because she carries the fucking world on her shoulders and has a stupid martyr complex, but also because she thinks she’d be okay dying like this. she doesn’t. die that is. she doesn’t die but she also doesn’t come back.

jason’s revival story arc thing is all a bit murky for me bc I kind of like mix the whole waking up and clawing himself from his grave and also the under the red hood storyline (and like correct me if there is a version like that bc like,,, idk I can’t remember). anyway, so jason comes back, and like it’s kind of messy bc of timeline shit but he doesn’t really come back, come back, until z’s gone. like gone gone. like they held a funeral and everything for her. jason didn’t get to go and THAT is SHIT. like yeah, he wasn’t fucking alive, nobody fucking knows he’s alive anyway, but it still hurts.

and like,,, you know what else kind of hurts, is like he kind of thought that after he came back, if no one was on his side – if for some reason literally everyone was against him – he’d still have zoe. that’s the worst fucking part. he hears about what happened. he hears that she literally went ballistic. and like,, jason KNOWS that zoe would have his side, that zoe would be there for him, that even if she might not have agreed with some of the things he’s done, that she’d be right by his side, showing she cares. because like. like I know bruce is kind of stunted with emotional expression, but it’s really hard to feel like you’re appreciated when someone else’s love language is so fucking hard to translate, when you need constant validation, to be told you matter to be shown you matter to them and they can’t accommodate even a little bit, because of their pride or because they have to deem that you deserve it all of a sudden. and like I love bruce, but they way he treats his kids is shit. so yeah. jason feels hella alone when he comes back and his best friend, his rock, his ride or die (literally wfkejvnk) is fucking gone.

jason definitely has nightmares too. he doesn’t know how zoe died, like really know – no one does, because there hadn’t been a body. and jason’s mind can be a pretty dark place already, add on top of that the nightmares about his best friend dying the same way he did, or being like dick, who actually witnessed the explosion that ‘killed’ zoe. he can’t even fathom what zoe went through with his death, but eventually, as jason kind of comes back into the batfam and shit, he also kind of gets to be with the last of zoe’s family. gran-gran and uncle bell are much warmer than bruce wayne and that too big mansion and that cold fucking cave. jason goes to the ranch a lot, or finds himself at uncle bell’s antique shop whenever he needs a breather, to just be alone with something that close to zoe.

they literally both go through that period where they’re extremely reckless with mourning and regrets and fuck i never got to say this and fuck what could I have done differently, what could I have changed if I’d been there? but where jason is able to recover more effectively, zoe doesn’t do so well in space.

really, that song had triggered thoughts about jason going through her things, the things she left in his bedroom – that bruce refused to touch or move or anything – and just thinking back on their life together. it was definitely shorter than they expected and when jason thinks about it, it’s a whole bunch of salty anger and throat swelling sadness that has him kind of crippled. because like,,, he also knows how the twins died, he knows how it happened, not only did he have the firsthand accounts from those most effected, but also like, he read the reports. he KNOWS, and he feels kind of guilty, just a little bit, that what he did put her through a similar version to losing her baby brothers.

NREJKVNERLFEWLFJNEKR FUCK OKAY I THINK I NEED TO STOP LIKE THIS IS OBVIOUSLY JUST A BIG DUMB BUT BFJKERNFKJEN F   U   C   K  OKAY

[imaginesfordayss]

Avengers Infinity War: Warning Contains Spoilers

I did a previous review that has no spoilers, so go read that if you want no spoilers but here are my rantings that are full of spoilers! Like chock full. filled to the brim. Don’t continue under the cut if you haven’t seen Avengers Infinity War

About half way through the movie I truly thought it couldn’t get any worse. Like I knew it was going to be sad at the end like of course it’s gotta top everything else, but it was horrible. So horrible. The Russo brothers did not have to go that hard. I don’t think I’ve cried like that ever in my 20 years as a person. It was like my heart was ripped out piece by piece over a span of five minutes. This movie evoked such a powerful emotion out of me I sat in pained shock for 20 minutes as the credits rolled. And then the ending scene was fucking worse! So @ the russo brothers: I will fight you in the open street if you don’t,,,,,,do something i dont know fix it please. please god I’m begging please fucking fix it that was horrible how could you do this to me I gave you ten years of my life and you DID THAT. Anyway, I’m emotionally fragile but here are my thoughts:

When I first saw Heimdall on the floor all I could think was oh no cause I totally forgot about him for a while and then I remember that he’s in danger right as he dies and that was just a horrible way to start the movie I was in tears from minute one

And then they follow it with Loki dying???? why???? It didn’t hit me as hard cause I’m almost certain he isn’t dead forever but it was still horrible to watch

and Thor watching his brother die again was unnecessarily painful thank you

I felt like they could have handled Bruce’s reintroduction to the team better? Like he straight up doesn’t know some of these people and he’s kinda falling back into the team like he’s always been there. Where’s my awkward introduction of Sam and Bruce it’s what I want

Where’s Valkyrie???? IS SHE OKAY????

Wanda and Vision are so nice together! Like I low key don’t like they’re relationship cause she’s still a teenager but they really do care for each other which is so sweet

I kinda wish directors would stop portraying Vision as so weak though. He can wield an Infinity Stone and still manages to get taken down by just about everyone 

So many wizards. 

“That’s the wizard, Peter.” 

I loved Bruce and Steve’s reunion. soft bro hugs

The little one liners everyone kind of snuck in were so fun and cute. Distracted me briefly from the pain which was nice

I liked Rocket’s brief relationships with everyone? He’s a really under appreciated character and I loved how they got him to bond with Thor and Bucky

Teen Groot! My Angsty Teen Baby! Rest in Peace. 

Gamora’s relationship with Thanos was so unexpected and so sad??? Like Thanos had always been betrayed as this asshole behemoth and then we see that he actually cares about and loves Gamora? Like he was never a good father and he’s an asshole but he really loved her

Which made when he killed her so much worse. It made me angry, like he loves her and in some way Gamora loves him (seen when she was sobbing when she thought she killed him) and to know your dad is going to kill you and he won’t put your life above his selfish goals was heartbreaking and pissed me off so much 

Also I loved to see that Nebula and Gamora’s relationship evolved

Peter Dinklage was such a fun surprise! I didn’t know he was going to be in the movie and when I saw him I out loud said “Oh my god, Tyrion?!” 

the guy next to me thought that was funny

But anyway let’s get to my true feelings on this cause FUCK THE RUSSO BROTHERS

ALL THOSE FUCKING DEATHS

UNNECESSARY 

ABSOLUTELY UNNECESSARY

UNWANTED

DISREPECTFUL

HURTFUL

I WAS SOBBING SO HARD

Like hyperventilating I was so upset

I was lulled into a false comfort cause I honestly thought the power of all the infinity stones would kill Thanos and it would all be over but then he disappears and I’m like??? what’s gonna happen and then you hear Bucky’s soft “Steve” and he disintegrates and I just broke

I was absolutely gutted like you know all these people are about to start dying at random and no one can do anything about it and I kept expecting maybe something to stop it or sometime to stop this pain but NO Wanda fades away in pain after watching her boyfriend die not once BUT TWICE 

Rhodey is looking for Sam and Sam dies alone and Rhodey doesn’t even know what’s happening yet

Rocket looking into his best friend’s eyes as he dies yet again except this time Groot is still a fucking child

T’Challa thinking he has to save Okoye and Okoye having to watch her king and friend disappear. That scene hurt the most because the angle made you think Okoye was going to die (and she’s already my favorite character) and then it changes and T’Challa is GONE and god I thought my heart was being ripped out

And then the scene change to Planet Titan and I was like fuuuuck no there’s MORE and then Mantis is gone and Drax and Peter  is like oh fuck and Doctor Strange and they’re all gone but then,,,, Peter Parker

He knew he was going to die, his spider senses let him know and he was so fucking scared and Tony can’t do anything to help him and Peter is clinging to him and “I don’t want to go Mr. Stark I don’t want to go” and his voice is breaking and he’s crying and jesus that was horrible 

Tony was just talking about kids and now basically his son is dying in his arms and he just has to watch and comfort him as he dies

like that was so painful to watch I felt like I couldn’t breathe

Thankfully we know those deaths aren’t permanent and that’s probably why the director chose those characters, but we know at least one of them is dead forever and I’m so sad to think it might be Gamora

That ending scene was so unhelpful though??? Like I was just so done and sad and then Maria Hill is dying and I’m like really?? fuckin for real? and then Fury fades away as he contacts?? Who? Captain Marvel? What’s going to happen?!?!?! How are we gonna fix this?!?! Also, whats going to be the plot of Ant Man and Wasp now??? I’m so confused this is so new for me 

This group of teenagers was staring at me like I was crazy when I walked out of the theater cause I was still steadily crying and I looked them dead in the eye and told them “Get Ready” 

I’m sad and in a deep dark depression and if I don’t stop seeing sad Hamilton lyrics over gif sets of characters dying I’m gonna cry myself to death can y’all please spare me!

Come rant with me about this I’m sad

[yasbxxgie]

'Gil Scott-Heron saved my life': After a traumatic childhood Abdul Malik Al Nasir seemed to be heading for jail or an early death. Then, at the age of 18, he met the famous poet and musician – with remarkable consequences

My brother Reynold introduced me to the music of Gil Scott-Heron. Little did I realise how it, and more importantly Gil, would go on to shape my life.

I was 18, had just come out of a childhood in care, was traumatised, illiterate and had no prospects. Reynold, who was older, showed me an album called Moving Target, which had a picture of Gil running through the streets of Washington seen through the telescopic lens of a gun. Reynold was politicised and well-read – unlike me. I didn't take life too seriously, partly because I couldn't face up to what had happened to me. He made me sit down and listen to the song Washington DC and the lyrics summed up so much of my life: "The symbols of democracy pinned up against the coast, the outhouse of bureaucracy surrounded by a moat./ Citizens of poverty are barely out of sight/ The overlords escape in the evenings, brothers on the night."

Gil was talking about the White House surrounded by the urban ghettos, the bits the tourists don't see – the reality of the city's ghetto life. My brother explained what the song meant. He drew a parallel between what Gil was talking about in Washington DC and what we, as black people, were facing in Toxteth, Liverpool, in the run up to the riots of 1981.

Reynold was trying to wake me up to consciousness. I had already got in with the wrong crowd, and he was concerned that if I didn't dissociate myself from them it would only be a matter of time before I was incarcerated again – and this time not in a care home.

Why had I been put in care in the first place? My name back then was Mark Trevor Watson, and when I was eight years old my father had a stroke. Dad was black from Guyana, my mum white Welsh. All the family (there were four kids, and mum and dad) were the butt of racist abuse. Dad, a former merchant seaman, was a real worker. Nothing could stop him. He even volunteered to work on Christmas Day 1974 for the Netherley Property Guards, who patrolled the warehouses on the Liverpool docks. It was a horribly cold winter. He left the house at 5am to wait for the bus to take him to work. It never came. Dad waited till 10am and eventually trudged home defeated. That was the only time I saw this big strong seaman cry. He didn't open his Christmas presents, he just went straight to bed. He had a stroke in his sleep and when he woke up he was a quadriplegic, paralysed from the neck down. He stayed like that for the rest of his life, in and out of the geriatric ward until he died four years later.

Mum, who worked in the Meccano factory, continued to struggle with the four of us. But she couldn't really cope. I was a handful – dyslexic and dyspraxic, but undiagnosed. I hated school. We were virtually the only black kids there, and the pupils used to be brought into school assembly to the sound of the headmaster's favourite recording – Black Sambo: "Black Sambo, black Sambo, living in the jungle alone, except for Big black Mumbo and Big black Jumbo." No one considered it a problem. After that everyone would turn to me and my sisters and call us black sambo. There were fights, and everyone called us troublemakers. At nine I was expelled from that school, which resulted in me being taken into local authority care in 1975.

I was "sentenced" to nine years under a care order having committed no crime. They didn't see it like that, of course. They labelled me maladjusted and told all of us that we were menaces to society; that society needed protecting from us. On the night they took me into care, they put me in an admission unit where they locked me in a room with bars on the window for 14 days and 14 nights. This practice later came to be outlawed following the infamous pin-down scandal in Staffordshire, but in the 70s it was common. It was the most traumatic experience of my life, for which I would later seek justice in the courts.

Just before Christmas 1975 I was taken to a place called Woolton Vale assessment centre, otherwise known as Menlove. It was a large, Victorian prison with bars on every window, locks on every door and an isolation cell inside. It had previously operated as a remand home for prisoners. In 1974 it had been converted to an assessment centre for kids, but still operated illegally under the old rules. Confinement might not have been permitted, but it didn't stop them. Meanwhile, the local remand centre, Risley, was full, so Menlove became an overspill for prisoners. This meant they were mixing children from broken homes with hardened criminals – and locking them up. Another matter over which I would later sue.

From there I was moved to several different community homes where I suffered varying degrees of physical and racial abuse over the years until I was 18 and my care order ceased. I was visited by my social worker who gave me £100, made me sign a form to say I would never come back for more money, and within a few months I was living in a hostel for homeless black youths.

That was when Gil changed my life. He was playing at Liverpool's Royal Court Theatre, and the gig was sold out. It was 1985, Gil had a record in the charts, and was at the peak of his fame. A friend of mine, the late photographer Penny Potter, got me in – she had a backstage pass and told his team that I was her assistant. I watched the show and was mesmerised. It was hard to describe what he did exactly – he rapped, he played jazz, he was a poet, he educated – he was just singing a song, but it was as if he was part of a collective soul that existed in the room.

After the show I went backstage with Penny. Gil was standing there with a bunch of people around him – photographers snapping away, reporters stuffing mics under his nose, promoters with bags of money, and the band members trying to get paid. Everybody seemed to want something from him. I shook his hand, thanked him for the performance and turned round to leave. He said: "Hold on a minute brother, what's going on round here? I heard you had some riots". I told him about Toxteth and how the black communities had rioted across the country in the long hot summer of 1981. He said: "Yeah we had some of them back in DC". He wanted to know about the people of Toxteth so I offered to take him to the scenes of the riots. The next day we toured the area and I gave him a running commentary of what had happened in each place, all the places that had been burned down and what had happened as a result.

Now if there's one thing they taught us in care it was how to cook, and I offered to feed Gil and the band. The trouble was I didn't have a place to live. So I asked my friend Dobbo if I could borrow his flat, cashed my giro cheque, and spent my two weeks' money on food. Gil bought his whole 17-strong entourage back to the flat and I fed them all. Entrees, starters, mango juice, the works. He tried to pay me £100, which was a lot of money then. I wouldn't accept it; he tried again and I refused again. When he realised there was no point in trying to pay me, he said to his promoter: "We'll be back in England in a few weeks. Give the brother the details of the hotel where we'll be." Then he said: "I'd like for you to join us on the tour." To do what, I asked? "Whatever the fuck you wanna do, carry some drums, whatever you want," was his response. And that's what I did.

Gil took it on himself to spend whatever time he could in the evening mentoring me, giving me encouragement and trying to foster in me a sense of self-worth. I had been indoctrinated by the care system to believe that I was maladjusted and useless from the age of nine, but Gil refused to accept it. He saw something in me that I did not see in myself – my potential.

I had told Gil everything about my life. Except for one thing – I could hardly read. I was just so ashamed. It was 1988 and I'd been on the road with him for four years. This time we were touring America with Richie Havens and Gil passed me a book and asked me to read a page back to him. I felt like my heart was going to stop. I'd always had the attitude that if Gil asked me to do anything I'd do it, and for the first time he'd asked me to do something I couldn't do. I'd always made myself useful by doing anything, from the band's laundry to flogging Gil's books at gigs, to helping the roadies, to navigating for the driver. I was always conscious of not trying to be a burden because I was aware he was paying for my flights and hotel rooms, and when he asked me to read and I couldn't I felt cold, and fumbled and fumbled, to the point when he said "What's the problem? Are you not fluent in reading?" That was the first time I ever knew a person could be fluent at reading. Being a child of the streets, fluency was something I'd always associated with talking; talking was my survival mechanism. Gil made me take stock of the fact that illiteracy was something not to be ashamed of, but something to address. I told him I'd never been taught – that was the first time I'd admitted it even to myself. In the care system education or literacy weren't encouraged, and most people came out of it like me.

Not many people know that Gil was a teacher – he had a Masters degree in English from Lincoln university. Despite not having a first degree he was accepted on to the Masters programme on the strength of two books he had written as a teen; The Vulture, a murder mystery, and The Nigger Factory, which was about life on black college campuses. I'd been running with the wrong crowd and he took it as a personal challenge to turn me around; to take me away from a life of hustling and make me productive. If I'd ended up like most of my peers in care I'd be dead or in jail by now. Gil's intervention saved my life.

He used to introduce me to people as his son, despite the fact that he has his own children. It was so touching. At the age of 12 I lost my father, and when I met Gil at 18 he took on that role and took it on seriously.

Back then, I had so many problems; my mind was like a spaghetti junction. There were so many narratives going on in my head that I couldn't unravel them, and Gil would listen to them all. At the end he'd invariably say one or two sentences that would sum up what it had taken me so long to say, and also direct me to what I should do about it.

In 1987 we were on tour and Gil suggested it was time for me to get a job. For two years I went to sea, working as a steward on a ferry, then on oil tankers, scrubbing decks, cleaning toilets, serving food. Every night from 6pm to midnight I taught myself to read and write. I started experimenting with language by writing poetry and songs. When I got to port I'd write to Gil, and enclose poems or songs for his appraisal. In between stints at sea, I would go on tour with Gil and he would appraise my work. By 1990, at the end of a period at sea, I had a considerable body of work; poetry, prose and songs. But I just put them in a box in a cupboard in my mum's house and left them for years

Gil then encouraged me to go to college and university and educate myself. The problem was, I didn't have any qualifications. So in 1990 I took a job with Littlewoods on a positive-action training scheme where they took on four black kids a year and trained them in management, and through that they sponsored me to go to college to study business and finance. I got a degree in sociology and geography, which seemed appropriate for a seaman with my background, followed by a postgraduate diploma in social research and a Masters degree in media production.

I continued to tour with Gil when I could. He was so proud of me. My degree was the culmination of everything he had invested in me and I'd invested in myself. What Gil gave me was a reason to live. At the age of 18 I couldn't see anything to live for.

In 1992 I met the Last Poets, a band that had been Gil's mentors and who are often credited as being the first rappers. Gil's famous song The Revolution Will Not Be Televised was inspired by the Last Poets' Niggers Are Scared of Revolution. There was a yearning in my soul for spirituality. I had lots of questions about religion, but Gil was more spiritual than religious. Jalal and Suliman from the Last Poets spoke to me about Islam, it struck a cord and in 1992 I became a Muslim and changed my name from Mark Trevor Watson to  Abdul Malik Al Nasir and started managing The Last Poets' leader Jalal. I later started my own record company and worked with the likes of Public Enemy, Run DMC, Wyclef Jean, Sly Dunbar, the Wailers and Steel Pulse.

Over the years things took a toll on Gil. For many years he had preached against the evil of drugs, but he became an abuser himself, and in 2001 he was sent to jail in New York State for possession of cocaine. When he got into trouble, it reminded me how much he'd helped me. So I flew to New York and visited him in jail – he'd been pumping iron, eating three square meals a day, which he rarely got when we were on the road, and looked more relaxed and fit than I'd seen him in years. I went through all the security checks, and they told me to take a seat in the visiting room while they got the prisoner. He didn't know who was coming, and when he saw me he had a huge smile on his face. The guard called him over and said: "Ah, the famous Gil Scot Heron . . . tuck your shirt in." It was just an attempt to humiliate him. I bit my tongue.

By 2004, I had received substantial compensation for what I suffered in care. I dug out my old poems from that box in my mother's house, and showed them to my wife Sarah. She said I should do something with them, so I set up my own publishing company, Fore-Word Press, and published my first book, Ordinary Guy, in my original name Mark T Watson. Gil was elated when I sent him a copy. Not simply because it was dedicated to him but also because he knew without his mentoring, I wouldn't have been able to read or write.

In 2008, I was producing an album at Wyclef Jean's studio in New York and there was a huge commemoration concert at Radio City Music Hall for Martin Luther King Day. Wyclef was performing, and he introduced me to Stevie Wonder. Now Stevie and Gil had been integral in fighting for a national holiday to celebrate Martin Luther King, and I told him about my relationship with Gil. "Is Gil out of prison?" he asked. Yes, I said. "Well, bring him here now." So I phoned Gil, and brought him to the show. When we arrived at Stevie's dressing room and I announced Gil to Stevie, Stevie Wonder stood up, and said: 'Gil Scott Heron y'all', and the whole dressing room burst into rapturous applause.

Last year Gil made a comeback album, I'm New Here, which got great reviews. I joined him on what would be his final tour of Europe.

It's three weeks since Gil died, and I'm still in shock. I'm 45, married with five children, and Gil has been the most important person to me throughout my adult life. His funeral in Harlem was a sombre affair. What touched me most was all the love in the room. After the band played a beautiful tribute and Gil's ex-wife Brenda delivered a eulogy, the rapper Kanye West took to the pulpit and sang Lost in the World, a song that contains a sample from Gil's poem Comment #1. It was a beautiful tribute.

After the service, I told Kanye my story and asked if he would take part in a tribute concert for Gil in Liverpool, the place where we met all those years ago and he took me under his wing. This is my way of saying: "Thank you Gil. You saved my life."

[teenageread]

Review: Spellbound

Synopsis:

What's a girl to do when meeting The One means she's cursed to die a horrible death?

Life hasn't been easy on sixteen-year-old Emma Connor, so a new start in New York may be just the change she needs. But the posh Upper East Side prep school she has to attend? Not so much. Friendly faces are few and far between, except for one that she's irresistibly drawn to- Brendan Salinger, the guy with the rock-star good looks and the richest kid in school, who might just be her very own white knight.

But even when Brendan inexplicably turns cold, Emma can't stop staring. Ever since she laid eyes on him, strange things have been happening. Streetlamps go out wherever she walks, and Emma's been having the oddest dreams: visions of herself in past lives - visions that warn her to stay away from Brendan. Or else.

Plot:

During the sixteen-years she lived, the last few had been the worst. Her dad left her family when she was six, and she never heard from him again. She lost her twin brother, Ethan, who was her hero, at fourteen to an unexpected illness. Her mother married her drunk of a boyfriend because she knew she was sick and did not want to leave Emma alone. When her mother died when Emma was fifteen, her stepfather used to drink and hit her. When he drove drunk and wrapped their car around the tree, Emma was sent to the hospital with serious injuries, and her Aunt Christine stepped in. Sweeping Emma to New York she enrolled late in Vincent Academy, a co-ed private school on the Upper East Side. With only her cousin Ashley who know her story, Emma started school with a new story in mind; an only child from Pennsylvania, her mother is on a job in Tokyo. Her lie was going to crush her, but Brenden Salinger stood up for her and backed up her story. Brenden, the basketball star, ‘bad boy’ of the school, and the one Emma feels helplessly words. With a weird connection drawing her toward him, light bulbs blowing out overhead, and dreams of Ethan, whom she missed so much; Emma is in for one wild ride as she opens her mind up to the possibilities of curses, densities, and the fact that she might be a witch.

Thoughts:

This is as typical as you can get for a teen novel. Cara Lynn Shultz wrote about a girl with a tragic past, swept her to the high life of New York City, gave her a rich bad-boy-hot boyfriend, and make herself powerful by being a witch. Where Shultz lacks creativity, the plot did drive it along. You liked Emma, Braeden, the baddy of your dreams, Ashley was an adorable sidekick character, but this book needed way more Cisco (Emma’s friend). The big plot, the ending was kind of a letdown, as one would expect it to be more sci-fi, instead of being lame and predictable. Where there is no reason for this to have a sequel, it will be interesting to see what Shultz has for the ‘big danger’ in part two, as this novel does not deserve its placement in the fantasy genre.

Read more reviews: Goodreads

Buy the book: Amazon

[westywrites]

The Teller of Stories and Keeper of Secrets

Chapter 5 - Christopher Marcel

First - Previous - Next

Warning for bullying, violence, and murder

Last but most definitely not least, in fact, I'm tempted to say that I saved the best for last in this case, we have Christopher Marcel. The second son of a very rich businessman, in Florida, U.S.A. Early in his life he was always the quieter of the two sons and Christopher spent most of his young life hiding in the shadows of his older brother, who took after his father and was heir to the business. Christopher however, took after their mother and was very meek child, he hid his face when the press were near and rarely spoke louder than a whisper. He was too shy to even say that he preferred being addressed as Christopher rather than Chris which is what everyone ended up calling him. Now he would've liked to have taken after his mother in height too but he did not and is at least 6'3", making it very hard for him to hide or blend in with a crowd, so he grew his black hair long and lets it fall over his eyes, giving him a feeling of being protected from the world. Given his quieter nature he was always the subject of the neighbourhood kids jeers throughout his childhood, and that's where we start his story. On a fine afternoon in spring when he had just turned 16 years old.

Christopher sat silently on the swing in the old playground behind the ball park, in the distance you could hear the sound of his older brother's baseball team playing a game they were sure to win. He sat and slowly moved back and forth,  the swing creaking. He was in a different place in his mind, the place he goes to escape when he feels down. He had been going there more often lately as his brother was graduating and it was such a big deal everyone forgot Christopher's birthday a few weeks before. Christopher sighed, the game would be ending soon, he should leave before the rush of other teens come back to celebrate the win with all their beer and noise. As he went to get up he saw something under the slide across the playground. He froze where he was as the two worst people in Christopher's life, other than his brother, came out laughing and totally drunk.

"Oh my gawd." Hannah's mouth fell open. Everyone knew Hannah, her dad was a lawyer and no one messed with her, she was also a total jerk. Especially to Christopher. "You were totally watching us, you perv!" She fixed her shirt really quickly, making a horrified face that was framed by her always messy brown hair.

"Chris, dude. Let me teach you something, here." Patrick, the famous surfer's son, started walking towards Christopher. "You don’t watch people when they're going at it under a slide."

"Yea, really. What's wrong with you?" Hannah slipped on her sweater, which was too big for her and had a huge pink butterfly on its hideous purple background.

"So you listen up," Patrick was close enough now that he reached out and grabbed Christopher by his hair, "never do this again. Freak." Hannah was giving Patrick this googly eyed, head over heels look, and he looked back at her and winked, flicking his shaggy blond hair. The other teenagers from the neighbourhood were out of the game now and were starting to make their way back to the playground.

"What the hell's going on here?" One of them asked and suddenly Christopher was bombarded with insults and threats as Patrick explained his version of what happened. They yelled at him, calling him horrible things and he tried his hardest but he couldn’t help crying. As the first tear dripped off his chin, they laughed.

"Ah, you poor big baby." Patrick stuck out his bottom lip, his eyes shining. "Are you crying for your mommy?" Everyone fell silent as Christopher looked up with rage in his eyes. "Oh that's right she's dead." Patrick finished his joke and it fell flat in the silence. Christopher stood up, towering over Patrick and kicked him. Hard. It landed but Patrick just stood there and everyone started laughing again. Even though he was so tall, his kick wouldn't move a fly, at least that's what they said. They jeered and laughed. Christopher cried, sitting back down on the swing as they mocked him.

"I betcha he can't even look at a girl."Hannah said her nasal voice piercing his mind. "Come on, baby. Come on you freak." Hannah started hitting his head, shouting out insults. "Pathetic." Patrick joined in. "Nerd, hah you're just a joke." Drunken meaningless words that stung Christopher down to his very core.

Patrick put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "A shame to your family name, your mother is probably crying out of disappointment this very second." Christopher felt heat bubbling through his body and he lifted his hands towards his face, stopping half way. His breathing was heavy.

"SHUT UP." He shouted, twisting his upturned hands sharply and as he did with his hands, so did their heads. There was a horrible snapping noise, and blood sprayed everywhere. Hannah and Patrick fell to the ground, limp, their heads twisted backwards and their necks snapped. The blood ran pooling at Christopher’s feet, staining Patrick’s white shirt red. The others were frozen for a second and he looked up at them, his hair out of the way for the first time anyone had seen, and his eyes were like green flames, filled with rage and sudden confidence. They ran. All of them gone, screaming back to the ballpark, the ones who had been at the front were covered in blood. Christopher stood triumphantly over the bodies and he smiled for the first time since his mother had died 10 years before.

Christopher quickly walked off into the woods a little ways behind the playground, taking a shortcut through to town. Before he left the shelter of the trees he ditched his black hoodie and made sure no blood could be seen on his pants, face or hands. He strutted down the street standing straight and smiling. A store caught his eyes, just a simple tailor shop, one of the ones his father’s company owned. Christopher waltzed right up to the front desk and demanded a suit, just a simple casual suit. The man behind the counter was confused at first and had begun to ask Christopher if he had any means of paying, but then it struck the man. This boy was Christopher Marcel, unlike anyone had seen him before.

"Quickly now." Christopher demanded again sweeping his hair out of his eyes.

"Yes sir." The man scuttled off. They already had Christopher's measurements, for they were making a suit for him to wear to his brother's graduation, so it was done within ten minutes.

"Do come again Chris." The man said as he handed the bag that now had the suit within it to Christopher.

"It's Christopher." He slammed the door behind him on his way out. The feeling of talking to someone like that gave him a rush. He ducked into a small cafe and changed in their washroom, as he walked back out people gave him strange looks and he didn't care. For the first time in his life he didn't care that people were watching, he didn't care that someone was taking a picture on their cellphone. He could kill anyone of them with a flick of his wrist, and he was happy.

"CHRIST, CHRIS WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?" His father came storming down the stairs when Christopher had opened the door.

"I found myself, father." Christopher smiled looking up at his dad. "I found myself in the death of those two jerks."

His father’s steps faltered. "Chris?" Confusion was painted all over his face and he ran a hand back through his greying hair.

"Christopher, father, my name is Christopher." Christopher walked past his dad up the stairs, patting his dad on the shoulder as he passed.

"Christopher?" His dad was frozen on the stairs completed shocked at the change in his son.

Christopher was up in his room now laying on the bed laughing, he just laughed and laughed. Laughed at the look on his father's face, laughed at the people in the cafe, laughed at the tailor, and most of all he laughed at all those other teenagers who would probably need therapy for a good, long, time. He layed there and laughed for an hour or so and then he slept. Who knew killing people would tire you out so much.

Over the next few weeks Christopher's father said he was proud of Christopher about a thousand times, took Christopher with him instead of his brother onto 3 different T.V. interviews and payed off the parents of Patrick and Hannah, and threatened to police and media so the whole murder thing got dropped. Christopher had moved up the social ladder at school and now everyone was at his feet doing whatever he wanted, including most of the teachers. No one messed with him. Except one stupid kid who had been there that day following Patrick around with a camera and ended up getting the whole thing on tape and putting it on youtube. Of course that kid was never heard from again and the video was taken down, but there was enough internet attention that it was affecting business on a high enough level that Christopher's dad agreed to sending him to therapy to get the public off their backs. Christopher didn't protest and smiled and waved at the cameras as they drove off to the nearest, cheapest form of therapy, at a cheesy little place called "WALTER'S HAPPY CHILDREN'S HOUSE!"