#fighting for my life trying to draw on paper (my tablet is broken and i do. not want to draw with a mouse rn)

[cecilogical]

A sketch of Vestige from the latest mirror scene!! From 'Enter, Pursued by a Buck' (which is such a good story and honestly had been life-altering (to me)) which is by @sharkdukes

[miracleboiz]

Making a Home Ch. 10

Kita Shinsuke had experienced a lot in life. He had been raised with his grandmother, a loving foster parent and for some time he followed in her foot steps before finding his own path. He thought his foster care license had expired before getting a call at three am with two small boys thrust into his arms. Miya Osamu and Atsumu, from broken homes but still fighting. Thirty days before his license expires. Thirty days to make a choice, keep the boys or let them be separated into different homes. Thirty days to fall in love with them.

Words: 3k

Relationships: Gen

Warnings: Mention of past child abuse, non-graphic abuse

Not from Kita, but it is mentioned. I will post any warnings before any panic attacks or vague descriptions of abuse.

Read below or on AO3

Shinsuke didn’t look up as the doorbell rang again, letting Oikawa move past him to greet whoever had come in. Instead he and Osamu had Azumane on his knees in the back corner office while Osamu did his best to braid a ribbon into the long stips. Azumane still looked a little traumatized from having a four foot tall child run up to him and yell the question at him to braid his hair.

“Are you sure… This is highly unprofessional.” Azumane said, glancing up at his boss.

Shinsuke was moving the drawings on the back wall to clear up more space and barely gave Azumane a quick flick of his eyes before he was shrugging. He didn’t say that as long as Osamu was smiling he would let him do anything, he didn’t think it needed saying aloud.

“My store, my rules. And I think you’re meeting the dress code just fine.” Shinsuke hummed, trying not to laugh at Azumane’s defeated sigh.

“We have a dress code?” Sugawara’s voice made Azumane whine a little louder as the silver haired man crouched down to offer Osamu a new clip to slide into the braided ribbons before moving to the thread wall. Azumane gave him a look of despair as the butterfly was quickly added to his hair, Shinsuke only felt a little guilty that it was probably starting to get unnaturally heavy. Not nearly enough to stop Osamu though

“Yes, it specifically states not to wear anything Oikawa considers to be good.” Shinsuke turned, ignoring the laughter that broke from Sugawara as the pounding of feet reached him. Seconds later Atsumu burst through the gateway.

“ ‘Samu! I’m getting married.” The words made Shinsuke drop the drawings immediately as he scrambled to understand what was going on. He twisted to stare open mouthed at Atsumu, completely speechless as the child rushed at his brother and skittered to a stop in front of him.

“Why?” Osamu looked as confused and terrified as Shinsuke himself felt. Atsumu either didn’t notice or didn’t care because he just held up a box with a bright oversized grin.

“ ‘Cuz if I marry him then I get all the cookies always!” Atsumu chirped, eyes wide with wonder and delight. Shinsuke slowly turned his head to blink at Azumane and Sugawara, both of them were already looking to him for answers.

“Akagi…” Shinsuke called, letting his eyes fall shut as he heard Akagi’s squeaky answer from outside of the back office. He moved around the boys, pausing only enough to brush Atsumu’s hair down from the wind, and looked to find Akagi attempting to hide behind a rack.

“I left you alone with him for…” He glanced at the clock and then back over. “An hour and a half. And now he’s getting married?”

Akagi looked momentarily ashamed before shrugging and holding up a box of baked goods. He smiled pleasantly over the box, attempting to flutter his lashes sweetly but it did nothing against Shinsuke’s annoyed glare.

“It’s not my fault.” Akagi whined, pitching his voice up and making a few customers glance over. He quieted when Shinsuke’s eyes narrowed but his pout only grew stronger as he huffed.

“I didn’t tell Shinji-kun to give him an extra muffin. He just did it and said he liked Atsumu’s shirt, then Atsumu was declaring their engagement to everyone. I thought I was going to have to fight Takahiro-kun for his son’s honor.”

Shinsuke watched him before sighing and glancing back at the twins. They had joined Azumane on the ground and were currently sharing pieces of muffin with him while Sugawara finished grabbing the fabric he’d actually come in for.

“I think Asahi’s already planning the wedding outfits,” Sugawara said breezily as he moved past and back to his customer.

“I’m not making enough money to deal with all of you at the same time.” Shinsuke said softly, wondering if this was going to be his life. 

Running after Akagi to keep him from accidentally traumatizing Shinsuke’s kids, or worse teaching them things to traumatize all of the adults in their life. Meanwhile, Sugawara had found Oikawa and was currently harassing him with a perfectly innocent smile while he tailored a customer’s pant leg. Azumane had grabbed his tablet and was sketching something out while Atsumu was being taught by his brother how to continue the endless braids on Azumane’s head.

In all honesty, a life like this… was a good one. The feeling was sweet, winding in Shinsuke’s stomach as he watched the scene and he wondered if that was why his grandmother had never given up on foster care. Children weren’t necessary for his life to be happy, he was happy before they had arrived and if they left he would still find his life fulfilling and what he wanted. Yet, they brought something new, something light that Shinsuke was hesitant to give up. He could nurture them, protect them, help them grow and the option was more enticing by the minute.

“Oh shit you’re smiling… I’m going to die… Goodbye my sweet ‘Mimi, goodbye my muscular boo Aran, farewell my darling nephews- Shinsuke where are you going? You know my dramatic monologue needs an audience. Don’t make me download TikTok to get attention, you know I’ll do it.” Akagi called softly as Shinsuke took the box of treats before turning and walking away, a fondly exasperated smile playing on his lips. Shinsuke raised a hand to dismiss his remarks, ignoring the whine that rose up.

“Go help one of the customers, I have kids to watch.” Shinsuke said, slipping into the office to watch Atsumu finish his first braid. It was terrible and unbalanced and Shinsuke was proud of him.

“Hey, did you want to meet the others and bring them their muffins?” Shinsuke asked the two of them, holding up Akagi’s box in explanation. Both of them lit up, smiling brightly as they nodded and reached their hands up eagerly for Shinsuke to take them.

The day passed rather quickly, especially after the length of the day before, and as seven o’clock hit Shinsuke was flipping off the last light in the shop. Azumane and Sugawara had left only a few minutes before and Akaashi had escaped a few hours ago. Oikawa was still on the phone with someone but he gave Shinsuke a thumbs up and mimed locking the door as he passed.

Atsumu had already snuck back into the house and was curled up on the couch with Kitty as he played through ‘Spyro’. Osamu on the other hand, had decided he was in charge of Akagi for the day and was enjoying bossing him around.

Still, Shinsuke hadn’t expected to walk into the office between the two buildings to see Akagi on the floor and Osamu in front of him. Osamu was doing his absolute best to explain how to draw a flower for a card and Akagi was either intentionally harassing him or genuinely had no idea what he was doing. Shinsuke watched from the doorway for a moment before deciding it was a little bit of both.

More than a few doodles decorated the floor, markers and crayons laying beside both of their knees while they leaned over Akagi’s current project. Each one was decorated with rather… adorable characters for ‘cheer up’ and ‘you’re doing great’. Shinsuke honestly had no idea what it was for or why Osamu was making Akagi make them but as long as they were having fun he wasn’t going to say anything.

“No, no, you have to make petals- Shinsuke-san!” Osamu chirped as he felt eyes on his back and turned to see him. He grinned, a bright and free smile, and pointed at Akagi who was still just drawing lines on his paper.

“We’re making cards for Azumane! So when he gets scared he can look at these and know it’s okay!” Osamu explained and Shinsuke’s heart melted. He moved over, gently mussing the hair and trying not to give in to the urge to kiss his head.

“That’s great, Osamu. Will you be helping me with dinner tonight as well?” He asked, heart swelling at the way Osamu’s eyes lit up and the child twisted to grab ahold of his hand.

“Can I?”

“Of course. But you need to clean up all of this before we can. So why don’t you help Akagi clean up and then we can get started?” Shinsuke offered and Osamu nodded. He turned to Akagi, hands on his hips.

“C’mon Oji-san! Let’s get this taken care of! Then I can show you how to cook so you’re not hungry anymore.”

Shinsuke laughed softly, making his way inside as Akagi insisted he knew how to cook. Between himself and Osamu, Akagi might actually leave the country with basic knowledge to feed himself instead of eating out constantly.

Shinsuke glanced over at the couch as he walked in, noting Atsumu’s curled-up position. As attached to his brother as he was, Atsumu hadn’t really branched out much and didn’t seem to connect with people as well as his brother. Even with his comment about marriage (though Shinsuke still thought it was rather cute he had forgotten that money was a thing that he could use to buy pastries and instead skipped straight to marriage) he hadn’t brought up Shinji-kun or the bakery again all day.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Shinsuke asked softly, waiting for Atsumu’s nervous glance and jerky head nod. “Thank you, Atsumu… Can I check on your cheek?”

This time Atsumu fully froze, pressing the pause button on the game. His eyes darted to Shinsuke before he slowly nodded his head, anxiety clear in his gaze. Despite seeming to finally relax and branch out, Atsumu wasn’t actually asking for what he wanted. Instead he was letting his brother lead them around and following along happily with whatever adult offered him something.

Shinsuke moved closer until he could gently tilt up the child’s head, looking over the dark purple skin carefully. Atsumu’s eye didn’t seem affected by it and it was healing well for only being the second day. Though Shinsuke could see that it was slightly swollen, the skin around it pink and irritated like someone had been prodding it.

“Does it hurt much?” Shinsuke asked as he pulled his hand back with a quiet thank you.

“I’ve had worse.” Atsumu said and Shinsuke noticed he didn’t answer the question. Atsumu turned his head away as Shinsuke tried to look closer, a frown on his own lips.

“Atsumu, were you touching it?” He kept his voice light and gentle so Atsumu wouldn’t think he was in trouble. Regardless the child flinched subtly, fingers grasping the controller tighter.

“The… the people in the shop… kept staring…” Atsumu confessed after a few heartbeats, shaking slightly. “I wanted to make them go away but… It just… made it worse…”

Shinsuke stared at him for a moment, feeling guilty for not noticing at all. Of course Atsumu would have been self conscious about his face especially with the memory of how it happened so fresh in his memory. 

“Why didn't you say anything?” Shinsuke regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Of course Atsumu hadn’t said anything. He didn’t know he could trust anyone yet, it was only the second day there was no way he would have warmed up so quickly with his past.

Atsumu froze, shaking slightly and Shinsuke realized he was trying to hold his breath before he started crying. His mind blanked for a second before he rapidly told himself to calm down and instead focused on Atsumu.

“I’m sorry Atsumu. It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me things, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise…” Shinsuke started but it was clear that it wasn’t helping when Atsumu shook again with a ragged breath. “Atsumu…”

Shinsuke licked his lips, trying to think of how to calm him down before Osamu and Akagi finished. He didn’t want Atsumu shutting himself off to everyone to keep his brother happy and he definitely didn’t want Osamu to pick up on his brother’s panic and leave him with two anxious kids to calm down.

“Atsumu,” he started again letting his voice soften until it was near a whisper, “it’s alright. I’m sorry they were staring at you, next time you can come back inside if you want. I’m sorry I didn’t notice, I should have been there to help you. I’m very sorry I didn’t protect you.”

Atsumu’s gaze shot to him, once, twice, three times. The tiniest tears were forming at the edge of his eyes at his panic before confusion started to build instead. His mouth moved without words, and his eyes danced around the room. His fingers tapped at the controller for a moment before he finally seemed to be able to come back to himself.

“What…” His voice was a whisper and Shinsuke regretted not watching his words better. “Why… Why are you sorry?”

“Atsumu, it scared you right? Made you upset that they stared?” Shinsuke waited for the inevitable nod before continuing. “I should have stopped that but I didn’t realize it was happening. It’s my fault for not protecting you… Atsumu… A parent is supposed to protect you, I should have let you know you were allowed to leave earlier or let you know you could have stayed right next to me. And for that I’m sorry. The bruises on your face won’t go away by poking at them, they’ll just hurt worse and now it’s because I failed you. I’m sorry, Atsumu. I hope you can forgive me.”

Atsumu wasn’t able to speak, he just stared at Shinsuke. Choked noises came from his throat but no words escaped as he looked on with confusion and anxiety. The child swallowed, looking away a second later before rapidly nodding his head.

The only other time any adult had ever apologized had been when Kenma-kun said sorry for his game music being loud back at the police station. No adult had ever apologized to Atsumu for messing up and certainly none of his foster parents had ever bothered to ask him to forgive them.

Atsumu had no idea what to do with the knowledge or how to act. Did he say yes? Did he hug Shinsuke? Did he say sorry back? Cry? Smile?

He put the controller down slowly beside him, biting his lip as he turned to look more fully at Shinsuke. His foster parent actually looked remorseful, like he did really feel bad for not noticing Atsumu’s problem. Atsumu wasn’t really sure how to tell him that he was good at hiding it, and he had a feeling that would just make Shinsuke sad again. After all… Parents were supposed to love their kids right? Being hurt would make a parent sad and Shinsuke had said...

“You… Said...parent…” Atsumu said softly, flinching internally as Shinsuke blinked at him. He meant foster parent, of course he did. Atsumu shook his head, shoving away the hope and the heartache that was taking its place.

“It’s okay…” Atsumu said quickly as Shinsuke opened his mouth to say something. “Really… it’s okay. I… I… I’ll leave, next time.”

Shinsuke hesitated, wanting to push further but this wasn’t a teenager. This was a scared six year old who didn’t have the tools or the emotional maturity to talk through all of this in one sitting. They’d have to work at it. Together.

“Only if you want to.” Shinsuke murmured, tilting his head to look at the bruises again. “I’ll go get an ice pack for the swelling alright?”

Atsumu nodded, letting his gaze fall to the couch when Shinsuke left. He should have known better than to think Shinsuke actually thought of himself as their parent. He must have meant whichever parents decided to adopt them, if any did.

Yet….

Shinsuke-san was kind, was it bad of Atsumu to wish Shinsuke was his parent? That Shinsuke would decide to keep them after all instead of passing them off like a baton? Was Atsumu a bad person for not wanting Shinsuke to be disappointed in him for being weak? Was he betraying his future parents by wanting Shinsuke to stay with him and Osamu?

He jumped as he felt Shinsuke sitting down again, looking up to see him offering an ice pack in one hand and… The fish crackers that Atsumu had asked for at the store.

Shinsuke’s blank face softened and Atsumu was starting to realize that Shinsuke wasn’t blank so much as… quiet. You had to look further than just his frown to know what he was thinking.

“You didn’t eat much at lunch since you ate so many muffins, so I thought you might like them.” Shinsuke explained as he reached forward and placed the ice pack gently over Atsumu’s bruise. Atsumu shook slightly, the words escaping him again but Shinsuke didn’t seem to mind as he ruffled his hair.

“Are you okay? You just have to nod or shake your head, okay?” Shinsuke said, the corners of his lips lifting as Atsumu nodded his head and moved to hold the pack on his face. Shinsuke pushed off the couch after opening the box, turning back towards the shop.

“I’m going to go see what’s taking Osamu and Akagi so long okay?” He explained, moving a few steps towards the door. He glanced back when a soft noise came from Atsumu, taking in the blinking eyes that lingered on the spot beside him.

Atsumu didn’t want to be alone again. Part of him hated it, he’d only had Osamu for years. Why was it different now? Part of him wanted to call Shinsuke back, ask if he was allowed a hug… Ask if he could stay a little while longer so Atsumu could pretend Shinsuke cared about him more than the money, more than because a friend asked. So Atsumu could pretend a little longer he was wanted.

“Hey Atsumu?” Shinsuke called, waiting until he glanced up to make sure he heard. “After dinner, would you be okay with showing me how to play that minecraft game?”

Atsumu’s eyes lit up immediately and he nodded, the barest hint of a grin growing on his face. Shinsuke couldn’t help but smile back, finally turning to look for his wayward sons that probably were covering his walls in paint. 

They had some more work to do. A lot more work really, but Atsumu was smiling and Osamu’s laughter was echoing from the office. Shinsuke couldn’t help but think that this was a very good life.

[zolisa]

My name is Zolisa Gumede. I am a writer with the 100 Sailors and I feel honoured that the Sailors' Review is publishing an article about my first ever novel. My inspiration for the book happened the way it always happens with all my art in a slightly unorthodox manner. As far back as in 2017 I was having what I call 'a still moment' and the story just came. In one minute it wasn’t there and in the next it was in my thoughts. Though this wasn’t all of the story but just the beginning of it. I remember the feelings of it were so intense. The ideas that accompanied those feelings just had to be put down. I couldn’t resist the need to write a story about the intrigue of human relationships, about the many faces of love, and about the flaws of love. Originally it was supposed to be a romantic saga but as I wrote it just turned into a crime drama.

The title ‘The Fight Room’ came as I was thinking about how to title a story about the human struggle when it hit me. The human struggle is a fight, it’s a battle to conquer ourselves so the word ‘fight’ naturally fit into the title. Our humanity is so beautiful, so frustrating, so limiting, broken yet whole and I wanted to write about that. Well, the other part of the title comes from the story’s setting. The core of the story is about a couple of characters who are fighting through their human condition by getting help from the Doc, a psychologist. It’s because so many personal battles happen in the Doc’s office that her patients starts to refer to her office as the fight room. The plot itself came to me as a flash in my thoughts. I remember as I wrote the first page it was supposed to be a short story but it began to have a life of its own. The characters started to just come alive as I wrote.

We are introduced to The Fight Room through Mark. He is a drug addict trying to keep his head above water but then addiction is something he somewhat actually enjoys. The Doc’s offices also introduce us to a couple trying to get normalcy after a miscarriage and we see the fractures in who they are and in their marriage life and wish it wasn’t so. In the fight room we witness battles of mental illness and the destruction caused by mental illness misbehaviour. Then we see humanness in weakness, in strength, grief, spirituality, all the way to the point of murder. When I started writing this story I didn't quite know these characters but I knew they were real and had to be given voice. So I just kept on penning them and they grew in me and on paper. The story kept going and when it should have ended, when blood had been split and revenge had not been taken, I knew that there was a bit more to be written. The story wasn’t done. Some of the characters like Moffatt, who had been tricked to take a murder charge for his wife, still had a thing or two to do. So as I wrote what I was certain was the book’s last chapter, I knew that the story would fit a duology. The book has 13 chapters and epilogue. I kept it short because the reader and I had to accept what had happened in it before facing what will happen next to Ndlovu, to Moffatt or the self righteous Lin.

For “The Fight Room” I used a merge of narrative and descriptive writing. I think I chose to merger these forms of writing because they enabled me not only to map out the story but to take the reader into the character’s mind and feelings so that these characters could be seen as they truly are. It was the descriptive writing that I felt would draw the readers into the characters’ thoughts and feelings which revealed aspects of the characters that they themselves don’t even know exist. Like how the dark places of Lin’s “angelic personality” are revealed when the reader is taken into her thoughts. The narrative writing I loved to use for the flashbacks and to show the connections of the characters’ lives to each other. Through the narration at Thandi’s funeral we discover that she wasn’t insomniac who couldn’t keep a relationship but was suffering a mental illness that affected her long term memory.

The first chapters of the book zero in on different characters, introducing us to their lives and their battles while weaving the story toward the events that turn the lives of ordinary people into a world of violence and deceit. Though the book starts off as if telling a story about separate themes in the end it becomes about one thing – survival of the fittest.

The book is available on amazon. https://www.amazon.com/Fight-Room-Zolisa-Gumede-ebook/dp/B08KJG9YGF/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Zolisa+Gumede&qid=1606391117&sr=8-1

I do believe you will enjoy it. You can contact me via email on gumedezolisa@gmail.com. I’m also available on facebook – Zolisa Gumede. My cell number is +263773715610.

[lovelyirony]

You’ve Got Me Seeing Stars

Steve remembers that Tony really likes art. He loves seeing all different sorts of it, and it goes through phases. He has his modern art that’s all glass and clear and transparent. He has his paintings that are blurry and have soft smiles carved in and Steve likes those paintings. He has his hyperrealistic paintings, though those tend not to stay as often. 

Steve wishes that life would stop sometimes. He doesn’t want to die or anything, but he just wishes that time could freeze and he could breathe. He remembers feeling like that in the army, too. With soldiers dying and guns rattling and breathing shaking. It was like one of the dances Bucky always dragged him to went off-kilter. 

Tony was never like that. At least, not around the public. He never stopped, just kept on going like a hurricane of words and biting remarks and smiles that always seemed genuine even if they weren’t. Tony talked and talked and Steve wondered how he did it. 

They would go to an art museum sometimes. Always incognito. Tony laughed when Steve showed up wearing a Captain America sweatshirt and Tony was wearing actual, regular jeans that didn’t cost half a human body to wear. They weren’t personally tailored, marked, and Tony’s wearing a perfectly normal shirt and sweatshirt. It’s relaxing, to see such a man humbled by what he wears. 

They walk in. Tony talks about coming here once or twice with Jarvis. Seeing art. There was this painting of a woman that had been his favorite. A coy little smile, as if she always knew a secret that you never did. Steve found the painting unsettling. The woman smiled like she was Natasha, but lighter. As if she didn’t care whether or not your secret was exposed. Steve can’t look her in the eye. 

Tony likes sculptures. How long they take, how dedicated someone must have been to finish it. “Not your speed,” Steve teases. 

“It’s my speed, just slower-paced,” Tony says with a shrug. “Haven’t I finished the suits, the technology?” Steve nods. He always manages to say the wrong things. But Tony smiles and asks if he wants to go see modern art. 

Steve finds that he can’t stand modern art. It’s all just stupid. It’s plain paintings that Steve could have practiced on. A blue square was considered a criticism of truth or whatever bullshit the man thought of. Tony liked making fun of them. 

Tony likes windows and clear art. He looks through window panes to the outdoor exhibits that kids are climbing all over. He smiles as the stained glass dappling his hand walking past a church. He buys all sorts of weird glass or crystal objects, and he laughs when Bruce gives him a glass Iron Man. Steve asks him about it once. 

“You can see through it all, no bullshit,” Tony says. Steve can get behind that. He likes the truth, no bullshit added. He can’t always have that, but he likes it. 

Until there is broken glass lying on the floor of a secret base and Steve leaves and goes to Wakanda and they also have wide glass and he just can’t fucking do it anymore. He looks through glass and sees things, but he can’t look too long. Tony smiling in there, talking about absolute truths and his crystal figures and art. 

Steve can’t draw on any of the tablets Shuri offers him. “It would be much more efficient,” she says. “You have been trying to draw that thing for weeks now, and the paper will give you. You can erase it on this program.” 

“I know,” Steve says simply. “I know.” 

He crumples the paper, eyes that can never get the right genius to them, and tells Natasha that they are still Avengers and have places to defend. 

Everything turns to shit, as usual. Steve isn’t really surprised by this. He sees buildings go down, the architecture ruined. Tony would hate seeing that, but Tony isn’t here. 

Fucking aliens. Why is it always aliens that pull this shit? Steve fights and fights, and he’s angrier because nothing ever stops. 

People fade. Steve chokes as he looks for Sam, everyone looking, and they can’t find him. T’Challa fading and Okoye showing emotion for probably the first time that Steve has seen, and Steve hates that he’s trying not to think about Tony crumbling to dust. 

Tony Stark comes down to earth. Steve looks at him with a careful smile, and Tony grins back as if nothing ever happened, as if he’s totally okay, except the smile looks like it’s about to leave if something sad happens. 

“So, who else is dead here?” And Steve has to pretend like everything is fine, like he’s not gonna stare at Tony because he’s here now, he’s safe, and yeah. 

“We’re in this together,” he says instead. And Tony looks at him, head cocked. 

“We are, aren’t we?” (Because it’s such a surprise after everything, after being on opposite sides, but damn it’s good to be back.) 

They fight. Thanos is one ugly son of a bitch to fight, and Steve gives it his all. Tony fights like his family is gone, and maybe it is somewhere, but they fight like that. 

And it works. 

A stone cracks. People pour out. T’Challa, Spider-Man, Sam. Steve nearly cries with relief as Sam raises an eyebrow. 

“Need some help, Cap?” 

“Yeah,” Steve responds tiredly. “We really do.” And Tony grins as he sees Spider-Man, who attacks him in a hug and Tony hugs back just as fervently and Steve feels like he missed something. 

“No more hugs until this purple nutjob is dead,” Tony says. “Alright team, let’s do this.” 

Tony is always one step ahead of everyone else. He always saw the paintings’ meanings before Steve ever did, saw the outcome. Steve remembers that on one trip, Tony was walking like he memorized everything about the museum. 

“I’m always ahead,” he had bragged. “Come on Cap, let’s go get some coffee.” Tony was smart, blisteringly so at times. He would come out of the workshop burnt up and smile and say that he’d be back within the hour to do some extra work. 

He has a plan for the infinity stones and the gauntlet, and Steve nearly breaks when he realizes what Tony is doing. 

“You can’t,” Steve says. “You’re going to die.” 

“Better one than all,” Tony responds. “Besides, Cap. You know that something had to be done.” 

“Not this,” Steve says. “You always said that there are other solutions to equations, and we’re in this--” 

“Don’t,” Tony nearly whispers. “Don’t try and talk me out of it. Don’t convince me to stay.” 

“Why don’t you stay?” Steve says. He’s looking up at Tony like a sinner in need of forgiveness, and maybe he is. But he wants Tony to stay. 

“Mr. Stark--” Peter starts in, tears welling up. And Tony nearly cracks there, Steve knows it, but the stones light up. 

There is nothing but a peaceful man. Slightly burnt. And it is over, and people are smiling but fuck it all if Steve can’t. He looks up at the sky, sees the blurring colors, sees the resemblance to Starry Night,and knows that it’s Tony final goodbye. Steve doesn’t necessarily dislike the painting, it’s just that he thinks it’s overrated. He likes others better. He’s always been more of a Sargent guy anyway, or a Monet. Never Van Gogh. Indifference. 

Steve laughs. It’s such a Tony thing to do. 

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #154

“the wind is screaming, it’s screaming your name; it sounds like fear.”

What is your opinion on sex without emotional commitment?  nononononoNONONONO. Last time you puked from drinking?  Never. What books, if any, have made you cry?  Johnny Got His Gun, Old Yeller, The Outsiders (I think; I know the movie did), The Notebook, uhhh others, I'm sure. Does it get annoying when somebody says they’ll call you, but doesn’t?  It depends on the person, but honestly, almost never.  I hate talking on the phone. What is your favorite simple ice-cream flavor?  Usually vanilla, but sometimes I'm all about chocolate, especially if I can't put chocolate syrup on it. When was the last time you slept on the floor?  Jeez, probably when me and Jason did at my house.  I've slept on an inflatable mattress since, but I'm guessing you mean literally on the floor with blankets and such. If you could eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?  I dunno.  I doubt it really, but don't potatoes have all the nutrients you actually need to survive?  If so, then probably that, but otherwise, uh.  I dunno, I'd get tired of things or die 'cuz I'm not getting what I need. I could say shakes, but I consider those drinks. Have you ever given someone oral sex?  Yeah, fucking hated it.  I'm bi, yes, but visually, penises are disgusting to me.  I don't want it in my mouth.  I only ever really did it to make him happy.  I'm open to trying it with a girl, but who knows if I'd like it. What's your favorite lyric from the last song you listened to?  "Hey, hey, NRA, how many kids did you kill today?" ("Shelter In Place" by Otep) Are you friends with someone that has a baby?  My best friend does. How many different towns/cities have you lived in?  Three. Have you ever had a kinky dream about a celebrity?  No. How many pets do you have? Would you like any more?  Six, and I kinda want another snake to breed with Venus when she's big enough.  I want to keep at least one of the babies to help with Sara's snake breeding passion. Is there a song you can’t stop listening to atm?  Oh yeesh, yeah.  I've fallen in love with Powerwolf recently and thus play a number of their songs repeatedly. How many bedrooms does your home have?  Two. How many times do you use a bath towel before washing it?  Once.  Annoys the hell out of Mom but like, I feel like there may be leftover germs I'm getting off + maybe dead skin 'cuz my skin in dry as fuck??? What time do you usually eat dinner?  This can vary from 6:00 to like almost 9:00.  I can't cook and Mom works late, so.  I'll make my own microwavable things if I can't wait for her to make something. Do you know any narcissists?  Jason????? Dillon????? dat u???????? Have you ever been falsely accused of something serious?  I don't believe so? In which were you happiest: elementary, middle, or high school?  Elementary. What was your favorite thing to do as a little kid?  Video games. You can bring back one dead pet to life. Which one?  Cali, for Mom.  She misses her so much. Rock, paper, or scissors?  I think I usually do scissors. Who was the last person to ask you out? Girt. What are your favorite pajamas you have? My purple, black, and white Jack Skellington ones ahhh What’s your least favorite ice-cream flavor?  Strawberry is disgusting. Do you prefer it when it gets darker earlier?  NOOOOO.  This is totally inverted from how it used to be, but I'm more likely to feel down when it's dark. Are there a lot of cookbooks in your house, or just a few? Or maybe none at all?  Mom has tons she never uses. Who are your godparents?  I don't think I have any. Can you touch​ your nose with your tongue?​​  No. What brand is your toothpaste?  Crest. Are you currently broken out?  No. What was the last hotel you stayed at? I dunno. Do you have a favorite NASCAR driver?  No. Eyeliner. Yes or no?  If I wear makeup, that's the bare minimum. What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make?  Let Jason go or continue to let what we had ruin my life. Where is the last beach you went to?  Myrtle Beach, NC. Have you ever been rock climbing?  Nah, not interested. Have you ever played Gamecube?  No. What has been the biggest event for you to overcome?  Recovery.  It changed me for the better so much. Do you have a favorite pet?  No one can beat Teddy.  I doubt any pet ever will. When someone drops something do you immediately go and pick it up for them?  If I’m close, unless they're already reaching for it, yes. Could you call your best friend right now and tell them your biggest secret, and trust them to keep it?  HAHAHAHA NO tbh.  I love her, but she tells people everything. Have you ever played Wii Fit?  Yup.  Everyday one summer, lost 40 pounds, got in great shape. Have you ever touched a caterpillar?  Yeah, loved picking up the ordinary ones as a kid. Is there a YouTube channel whose videos you always watch?  I will watch literally any video Mark makes. How often do you feel lonely?  This is like.  Almost a daily struggle. Do you struggle with depression?  I'm diagnosed with it, but it's well-controlled now! While in a relationship, do you ever think about its possible end?  I worry about it BADLY.  Even in my current one where I feel completely secure, I have some spans of "what if" anxiety. What is the worst treatment you’ve had to put up with from someone else?  Ummmm.  I dunno. What’s the longest you’ve gone without eating?  24 hours, probs. Do you like watching music videos?  No.  I just care about the music. Which, if any, drug have you ever abused?  None. Do you know your mail (wo)man?  No. Honestly, are you often high-maintenance/hard to please?  No. Are there any flags flying outside at your home?  No. Will you vote in the next presidential election?  If the remaining candidates don't fucking suck, yes. Tell me about someone that you know dislikes you. What do you think is about you they don’t like?  The one person I know doesn't is my best friend's mom, but I can't tell you exactly why.  There's no telling what Colleen told her after our fight, but.  Colleen has told me her mom thinks I could "hurt" her son somehow.  I was fucking livid.  I adore that boy and would do anything to protect him.  Oh yeah, know she mentioned I was a bad influence, too.  But hey, the hate is mutual, I've never been able to stand her. Tell me about something you’re afraid of. Why does it frighten you?  Getting heartbroken again.  Last time tore me the fuck apart, I seriously don't know if I could do it again.  Worst pain I have ever experienced. Is there someone you could hang out with all the time, without ever getting bored of them?  Sara <3 Have you ever liked someone else when you already had a boyfriend/girlfriend? What happened?  Yup, first high school crush Sebastian.  And nothing really happened; he was taken (though I'm pretty sure he had at least mild feelings for me too), though it was at a complicated point.  Then I met Jason. What mountain ranges have you seen?  The Appalachians. Where would you most like to go in your state, etc that you haven’t been?  THERE'S AN ABANDONED WIZARD OF OZ-THEMED PARK IN THE WEST AND I WANNA VISIT. Have you ever seen or touched an iceberg?  No. Where was the most remote location you’ve ever been to? I dunno. What is your most unhealthy habit? Not exercising? Has your house ever been damaged in a storm? A tree fell on our old house during a hurricane.  It didn't cause severe damage or anything, though. What’s the least amount you’ve weighed since reaching your full height? ~118.  Hilarious. Do you think it’s cruel to keep an animal in a cage while you’re away?  Depends on the size of the cage and how long they're staying in there. Are you scared of reptiles?  Not at all. Does death scare you?  Not that much. Do you use a comb or brush?  Comb now that my hair's short. When you were younger, did you ever do that exclamation point that looked like an upside down triangle and had a really big dot?  No. What kind of relationship do you have with the last person you kissed?  She's my girlfriend. Are there things in your life that you’ll never be able to get over?  If I could get over my breakup, I can get over anything. Have you ever turned to smoking or drinking to solve a problem?  New Years of 2017 I actually did try to get drunk for that purpose. Would you mind dating someone significantly shorter than you?  No. What’s on your bedside table? Yeesh, a lot.  A fan, a basket with all my meds in it, sketchbook, notebook, my folder full of things from Holly Hill as well as my therapy homework folder.  There's other miscellaneous stuff too. How much money would it take to get you to give up the Internet for one year?  This is pathetic, but probably like... no amount.  My life sadly revolves around it, just about. What are some things on your holiday wishlist?  Always tattoo money lmao.  But I'd really love a drawing tablet, but a decent quality one.  Can't have both. Who accompanied you to your first concert?  Jason, Mom, and Nicole. What’s the temperature outside?  Phone says 79.  Gonna get to 90, though. Have you ever been in detention?  Yes, too many tardies getting to school. Do you wear black to look skinnier?  Not for that reason, but it's a plus lol. Do you have scars on your wrists?  You can barely see them, but they're there. How about anywhere else?  Yeah, quite a few. Do you post things on Facebook that are personal?  No. Has the last person you kissed ever taken their shirt off in front of you?  Just to change it. Would you ever get in the passenger seat of a car with someone who’s been drinking?  Fuck that. What is a topic you definitely don’t want to talk about with anyone?  How I'm 99% sure I lost my virginity. What is the craziest hairstyle and color you’ve had?  Style, probably what I had before this where I had short hair on most of my left side and it faded to long.  Color, purple. What was your first gaming console?  Original PlayStation. Which fictional villain is your favorite?  Um obviously Darkiplier???????? What’s the last thing you’ve made with your hands?  Hm.  Dunno. Which hair color would you never want to have?  Yellow. Who’s the last person you talked to about sex?  Sara. What is the wallpaper on your phone?  My lock screen is a heavy reminder that I am still straight as fuck for Mark, home screen is my favorite pic of me and Sara. What was the last thing you wrote down?  Stuff at the tattoo/piercing parlor to get my tongue done. What is your least favorite color?  Puke green or olive. What’s the most boring sport to watch?  Golf.  Sara, don't tell your dad I said that.

[mangled-dreams]

Hey uh IF you ever see this, Could you write Dapper Jack comforting reader after a panic attack? I love your writing and I love you!

AWE!!! I’m all mushy inside. Of course I will do my best to make your request come to life. Dapper Jack coming up!!

Silent Assistance. 

It really didn’t need to end up like this but today… well it has. First the cab you had taken in the morning just about gave you a heart attack. You don’t live far from work, but had been running late after a restless night and thought a nice cab ride would keep you from being late. What you hadn't expected was narrowly missing three other cab in traffic.

Then at work you had to deal with one of the worse individuals you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Over what one may ask? I product your store has never carried. You work for an electronics office not a pet store.

Thankfully your manager saw the ordeal and quickly swooped in to save you from having to listen to this woman call you every name under the sun because you can’t accept a broken toy that was never bought at your store. Normally you don’t have to deal with customers, but one of your co-workers called out and they were short handed.

It’d taken nearly twenty minutes to get your nerves back in some kind of decent working order. Your manger had come to check on you already aware you have panic attacks when it comes to aggressive and combative personalities.

After some soothing music, breathing techniques, a glass of water, and some darkness you’d been able to go back out and finish out your shift. You worried the rest of your two hours if the woman would show up again, even leaving your work you had a fear she’d been waiting despite knowing it’d be on the ridiculous side.

Due to your less than relaxing cab ride in the morning you chose to walk home. That proved to be just as harrowing. While walking across the street when the signal gave you right of way a speeding car slams of their breaks, horn honking at you, the driver cursing up a storm in his car. A police officer had been right at the intersections and the guy got a ticket and a stern talking to but the damage was done.

Tears prickled in you eyes as you huddled into your jacket and took off for home. It’s just too much. You can’t deal anymore. Gasping by the time you get to your door you shove your key in, unlock the door, and rush in. Slamming the door closed behind you, you just manage to lock it before collapsing to your knees.

No sound exits your mouth as you struggle to get your breathing under control. You need to breathe in through your nose, but you’re not listening to yourself. Clutching your chest you try and take a deep breath and hold it but again you can’t make your own body listen. Inside your head you’re screaming at yourself to just take a breath, to slow down your rapid breathing but still nothing different happens.

Tears burn your eyes as you develop tunnel vision. Sounds are starting to fade away as your chest heaves. In a last ditch attempt you thump your fist against your chest. What that will do you is not sure but you don’t want to pass out from hyperventilating.

Clenching your eyes shut you try your hardest to fight against the wave of dizziness and nausea that’s over coming you. You wish you had a paper bag or someone, anyone to help you right now. What would the others think if they came home and saw you passed out in front of the door?

It feels like you’ve been fighting mind against body for hours but in truth only a minute or so has passed. Tears fall from your eyes. The small dollops of salty liquid feel hot against your skin.  

Mid thought you vaguely hear fingers snapping rapidly and a gentle shake of your shoulder. With some level of difficult you lift your head and open your eyes to see Jameson, or as many people like to call him Dapper Jack kneeling before you in his well tailored outfit.

He motions with his hand to take a deep breath and you weakly shake your head that you can’t. He taps his chin and shifts his mustache looking you over before looking around you quickly. His expression lightens up as if he’s got a brilliant idea, his index finger even sticking straight up, and he steps away from you.

Your muscles are loosing their strength by the time Jameson comes back to you with a glass of water and a paper bag. He sets the cup down and scoots to sit on his butt before grabbing you and easily maneuvers you to him.

You sit sideways between his legs. His right arm is pressed against your back for support as he hale deeply and exhales slowly. He rolls his left hand encouraging you to follow his lead.

He holds the bag out to you but when you can’t even lift your hand to grab it he dismisses it. He knows there is danger in holding the bag for you in this state. Realizing you’re still in your coat he quickly helps you out of the thick fabric and rubs your back, still trying to think and lead you in to a deep breath.

You miss the look of concern in his eyes as he continues to coax you into a slow, deep rhythm. You try to mimic him, trying to inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth but it’s difficult. You see Jameson’s black sleeve enter your field of view and feel his hand press into your chest as if to manually manipulate you into exhaling longer in order to draw in a deeper breath.

He does press into your sternum, but it’s gentle and you actually exhale longer than previously. After a few longer breaths you’re able to actually close your dry mouth and draw in breath through your nose. Even your nose feels dry, but that’s insignificant to the fact your darkening vision is slowly going back to normal.

Jameson doesn’t remove his hand from the center of your chest until your breaths are even and slow. Relief and exhaustion runs through you, your whole body collapsing into Jameson’s chest. He easily supports your weight and holds up the glass of ice water to you.

Your hands shake as you struggle to hold the weight of the water. It’s just a little glass, something even a toddler could carry easily; however to you it might as well weight the same as a 50 pound weight. Jameson helps you steady and support the glass.

Leaning up you take small sips. You stomach is still churning. When you take you fill Jameson takes the glass from you and sets it down. He lightly pats the top of your head rocking you side to side smoothly.

You manage to stay awake for a few minutes letting your body regulate before your eyes start to droop. It’s not long before your body simply goes limp in his arms and sleep takes you.

When he’s sure you’re completely asleep Jameson picks you up from the floor and walks into the living room, depositing you on the long couch. Walking back to the door he picks up your things, the bag, and glass of water. He puts everything in the kitchen on the counter and grabs a clean hand towel from the cabinet. Dampening the hand towel he makes his way back to you.

You look so much more peaceful asleep. Kneeling next to you Jameson dabs the towel around your bottom lip and chin. Flipping the towel he presses a clean section against your forehead. He wishes he could have assisted you more with verbal coaching, but it’s just not his talent, nor something he is able to do.

After ensuring your comfort Jameson leaves the room, turning off the lights as he goes. He writes a note for the others and places it just outside the archway requesting everyone remain quite while you rest.

When you wake up your body protests against moving, and there is a dull throbbing in your head as if you’d been hit with a baseball bat. Wincing at every little movement you do, you press your hand against your head and sit up. By the grace of the heavens the lights are off and from what you can tell, or can’t hear no one seems to be home.

Peeking through your eyelashes you see a glass of water still cold and a bottle of medicine to help with the headache you have going on. Taking two elongated tablets with a large swig of water you set everything back down and look around.  Your eyes hurt—as does everything else.

Taking a few steadying breaths you close your eyes and hang your head, lightly scratching at your scalp. You haven’t been that bad in a long time. Slowly raising your head when you hear feet on the linoleum floor you’re greeted by Jameson’s cheerful smile.

“Damn you’re infectious.” You mutter hiding your smile. Jameson just makes you cheerful and happy even in the worst of times. “How long have I been out?” You ask rubbing your eyes with your hands before looking to Jameson. You’ve grown adapt to reading his body language and weird way of speaking.

“A whole day, huh?” You ask watching him for a moment. Looking down at your hands for a moment you ask him, “Did you tell the others what happened?”

Jameson shakes his head and you let the breath you’d been holding go smiling thankfully at him. “Thanks.”

What happened? I’ve never seen you in such a state.

You look back at Jameson and shrug your shoulder. “A series of unfortunate events.” You respond. It’s weird how he “talks”. You just see giant queue cards in your mind with his responses. It doesn’t work for everyone you’ve come to find out.

Is that a movie reference?

You chuckle. “Kind of, it was a book series before a movie.” You tell him glancing at him. “How bad is my face?” You ask softly. He shrugs and waves his hand, palm down, side to side. “That bad?” You joke needing a shower or a bath; you’re pushing towards a shower.

Jameson shrugs his shoulders hands palms up. You nod your head and lean back into the couch.

Are you feeling better?

You open your eyes and look at the ceiling. “Yeah, and I mean it; Thanks for everything yesterday. I haven’t been that bad in years.” You say looking over at Jameson. He nods his head glancing back at the doorway then you again. “Ask it.” You tell him.

Was there anything more I could have done?

“Aside from giving me a different brain that works normally, no you did just fine, Dapper.” You tell him using the fond nickname.

Squinting his eyes at you in obvious displeasure he shakes his finger in your direction.

You do not need to change. That is foolish thinking. You are prefect as you are.

You can’t help but chuckle. That’s Jameson for you the embodiment of positivity and feel good vibes. Your chest still feels a little tight and you know joking isn’t going to make it go away. “Wanna sit and watch some silent movies with me?” You offer know of at least one Charlie Chaplin movie you simply can’t resist.

Jameson tilts his head and smiles big and brightly at you. He bobs his head up and down walking over to the couch and sits down next to you. You turn the TV on and find the movie you’d been thinking of.

Moving around a little you relax into Jameson’s shoulder. You know he wants to say something but you shush him gently. “I know, Dapper.” You tell him already knowing what he’s wanting to say. You just get each other. He smiles, shifting to find a better position before settling with you snuggled up to his arm.

Jameson glances down at you and presses a kiss to your crown.

You can text me if you need me. The others ensured I have a mobile phone for emergencies.

You glance up at Jameson nodding your head. “I’ll be sure to do that next time.” You promise knowing Jameson will hold you to it.

[willowlark369]

Conflicts of Duty

So, between the Infinity War trailers and finally getting to see Black Panther, I had a few ideas that needed to be written.

Read this on AO3.

“Do you ask this as my brother or my king?”

Shuri spoke the words softly, her tone more serious than she typically used. She didn’t want to admit that as she progressed on her project, her confidence in the simplicity of the solution had changed. To verify that her algorithm could do as she proposed—as she had bragged that it could—she had been forced to begin learning two different fields of science: neurology and psychology. Both fields were far removed from her preferred fields of programming and engineering. Given more time, she was certain that she would be successful in her goal of helping Sgt. Barnes regain his independent agency, but it would not be as quickly as she had previously projected.

On the other hand, the technology she already possessed allowed her to review a person’s memories from their perspective. Initially, she only had visual and audio information, but recently she had cracked the barrier for internal processing. She had spent weeks reviewing the life of James Buchanan Barnes as intimately as the man himself had. She had witnessed truly awkward moments that made her question just how sane any boy or man could truly be and gave her a recurring case of boys are icky feels. She also had seen some things which did not match the man she had believed Steve Rogers to be from the American movies she had watched with Baba.

As discreetly as possible, she had reached out to Dr. Stark. She had been expecting her request for information on the BARF to be rejected out of hand. At the very least, she was expecting to be questioned extensively or to have him demand regular updates, for him to meddle. Everything Steve Rogers and his compatriots had said in her presence about the man indicated that he was little more than a petulant child, prone to throwing tantrums and hoarding his possessions regardless of how many might benefit. Instead, he had been perfectly willing to send all his research to her, including the fab-specs for the device itself. The packet even included an impressive amount of studies and papers. He outlined his issue with making the device more available, which seemed to stem entirely from the power source being a really teeny arc reactor.

It was when she realized that he had included the fab-specs for that where he moved from Tony Stark, billionaire white boy, to Dr. Tony Stark, holder of four doctorates and five honorary doctorates. Despite what her sources, both media and those who had worked alongside the man, had said, Stark had shared a closely guarded secret with her, had treated her as a fellow engineer and genius. He had fought against publicly sharing the technique for miniaturizing his father’s arc reactor; he had kept every version of the ones he had built out of anyone’s hands except for his. Yet he had, after a five-minute discussion, just sent her everything. Then he had told her what had gained her that level of trust.

“I worked with your father,” Stark had said, his voice sounding suspiciously thick with something. Her mother’s voice had that same quality occasionally. “He was… he was really something. Hated me but up front about it and why. No spin; no recriminations; no directives. I’ve come to appreciate that kind of honesty.” He paused to draw an audible breath. When he continued, his voice sounded stronger, more certain. “Your father had a vision, of how the world could possibly be, of how to fix something he had broken. I know how that looks on a person.

“Anyway, T’Chaka was one of the few on the panel willing to actually listen to the people meant to be governed by the Accords, so um, we ended up talking a lot. You know how that works. Inevitably, conversations shift, and other things come up. He mentioned you, his brilliant daughter who refused to quit tinkering even when she should have been in bed.” Dr. Stark had chuckled. It was a warm sound, not quite the same as Baba’s had been but similar enough to make her ache a little. “God, he couldn’t stop bragging, you know? Every time you or T’Challa could even remotely be connected to a topic, you were, and he was so, so proud of everything you were doing, were leading others in doing.”

“That’s why you trust me more than your own leaders? Because my father was proud of me?”

“Well, that’s the grown up responsible thing to say and you should definitely use it as the main reason if anyone asks, but honestly? He mentioned a rant you went on about how Leia was the true Balance of the force and Luke was mostly just making messes like brothers do. Anyone who prefers the Ambassador over other characters is someone worth knowing. And the brother bit really reminded me of someone, so double the marks in your favor.”

Between all the chaos of Erik Stevens’ temporary coup, the fallout from it, and learning new subjects in order to help the first broken white boy T’Challa had brought her, she hadn’t been feeling generous as she continued sorting through Barnes’ memories. Part of her could recognize the hero from the American movies and shows she used to watch curled up next to Baba. She could see a man who had to fight to prove himself and never gave up trying. But she could also see how Steve Rogers had just never listened to the advice of others and made messes that just kept growing harder for others to clean up.

And he had used her grandfather’s gift to Howard Stark, a symbol of trust and promised loyalty, to do a lot of it. Dr. Stark had never brought up Siberia, not once, but she had seen it through Barnes’ eyes. She loved her brother, but she had seen him be so focused on revenge and making amends that he forgot to even ask about someone he had fought beside.

She could absolutely create a replacement for the Captain America buckler. It would be simple, boring. It would be hardly any effort at all to work in improvements. After all, she knew her people’s most precious resource far better than a colonizer in the Forties had.

She just didn’t want to.

But she understood that she had a duty to Wakanda, and through that duty, to her king.

“Does it matter?”

“A sister may refuse a brother a request if it goes against her heart.” Shuri raised her chin, unintimidated by the big brother she loved to tease about exposed toes in her lab. She gave a silent prayer to the Mother Bast for strength of will. Okoye had made this dilemma between two loyalties look so easy, yet this seemed harder than watching T’Challa fight his challengers had been. “But a loyal subject is bound to the will of her king. So do you make this request as my brother or as my king?”

“You will always be my sister first, Shuri,” T’Challa replied after a long moment. There was that strange thickness of tone again, on yet another person. Like she would a frustrating project, she examined her brother carefully.

She saw the same look in his eyes that he had when showing her the building he had purchased in Oakland for the Outreach Program. She thought of the memories she had watched and the old interviews she had started binging on to try and understand why people would think the things they did about Dr. Stark. She thought of how weighted Baba had looked in the last years of his life and the determination in every line of Okoye’s body as she aimed her spear at her own husband in defense of what was right. It occurred to her that maybe she knew how wanting to do better looked on someone, too.

“As your sister, I advise against providing more help to Steve Rogers. The debt you believe you owe for your pursuit of vengeance for our father is not to him and continuing to assist him in his endeavors is a betrayal of the ideals Baba spent so much of his last months working towards recognizing. Steve Rogers is a man who will not listen to any who tell him that he is wrong and refuses to acknowledge the rights of anyone who may find themselves in the path of the collateral damage he leaves behind. He is a face for everything Baba feared about the world discovering the truth about Wakanda and everything our uncle and cousin spent years stewing about. Even now, he flaunts the law our father died to see ratified, without regard to potential collateral damage. Arming this man, who claims to be a hero but whose actions show otherwise, is as foolish an idea as your stupid flip-flops and will make you look just as stupid in the long run.”

“He’s been good at getting the job done.”

“When will you learn that just because something works does not mean it cannot be improved? There is more to being a hero than defeating the bad guy. If you don’t believe me, have Nakia explain it to you. She does it better than me.”

“Something you are not good at?”

“You couldn’t handle me if I was perfect,” she quipped. Then she set her expression into something resembling solemness. “I understand that the danger incoming is great and that we will need everyone working together to have any hope of succeeding, but he is unworthy of that symbol and the trust that comes with giving him a weapon of my design.” She paused as an idea came to her.

“What’s that? I know that look. That’s the one you get before you play one of your tricks!”

“I think I may have a way of fulfill both callings. Changing the design will take away the symbol he betrayed with his actions and allow me to hide one of my remote disabling switches in it.”

“The ones you developed to prevent Wakandan technology from falling into the wrong hands?”

“Just so, my king,” she said, including the crossed arms and slight bow. She grinned when he batted at her a few times. She should make a few memes comparing him to an actual cat. Just for kicks. She grabbed a designing tablet and began working, too distracted by possible rebuilds to worry about maintaining complete focus on her conversation partner. T’Challa was used to it by now, surely. “If I change the design, he will also be more limited. I can take away his range, make him unable to tag team an opponent. That will be useful if he decides that only he knows how things need to be done again. It will need to be similar enough to a shield that he won’t question but different enough that he will be forced to adopt a different style.”

“You truly believe him to be an enemy?”

T’Challa sounded shocked. Shuri returned her gaze to him. He looked as lost as he had when preparing for Challenge Day. She had to stifle the urge to call for Mama or Okoye. She was too young to handle her big brother looking like that. A flash of Barnes’ memory settled behind her vision, steadying her as it steeled her resolve.

“Steve Rogers believes himself to be a good man. Everything he does comes back to that belief. He divides the world into two groups with it. Everyone who agrees with him is also good; everyone who doesn’t, isn’t. Because Steve Rogers believes that he is a good man. What can a good man do if not the right thing? Would that not make others wrong?” She took a deep breath, silently hoping to emulate Baba with her next words. “Believing is not the same as being. To be a good man, one must show compassion to all, even one’s enemy; one must build bridges, not barriers; one must be honest but not cruel; one must be willing to see worth in all things.”

“You’ve been watching Moulin Rouge again, haven’t you?”

“Baba has never steered me wrong before.” She gave T’Challa a sad smile. “Why would death change that?”

“When did my little sister become so wise?”

“Well, one of us had to be, and you were too busy staring at Nakia.”

“I do not—”

“You do so! It’s cute. Everyone thinks so.”

They bickered back and forth as she continued to work. If occasionally T’Challa would regain that lost look, well, Shuri was mature enough to not mention it. Even brothers could be broken, and she was good at fixing broken people.

She had so much practice, after all.

[surfersofbole]

Going to Fall: What will you do?

This is the fifth installment in my “Going to Fall” series, which is based on Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.”

What will you do?

Here, your father must now mention if God has seemed unjust, unkind, then, have you paid him no attention? Our sins are many, of great kinds; punishment ‘s held with retention

not unlike the water vapor within the clouds above the world. All the clouds won’t harm a scraper, but rain upon a cardboard home turns the walls into soaked paper.

I can sense your apprehension, and I can sense your broken pride. Do you have some great dissension? Well, now, just take your small asides to relieve any contention.

Some of us find things enlightening when we must live in heavy dark. Lightning rods control the frightening and brightening flash of the short night. Umbrellas keep th’ tensions tightening.

You would think there’d be prevention - that God himself would take the lead. God wants no Earthly dimension and so he goes ahead, concedes rain must fall without suspension.

What will you do, my blue-eyed son? Somethings are hard to answer. Some… What will you do, darling young one? Think you that I should know this thing? Morning comes now with the bright sun.

Going back out before the rain starts falling

I wake up scared as hell that things are going wrong. Why? I was not quite sure of what was going on. My mind was in a cell. I lie down quietly. The motionless allure of a ceiling, empty...

A day begins anew. Will I ever arise? A thunder I have heard; the skies will be disguised. The rainclouds now accrue. I’m scared to leave this place; though, maybe I’m absurd, and I should go/make haste.

I’ll walk the beaten path; I know it will be short. All the small excursions other souls couldn’t afford... I'll face the wanton wrath because the world will fear I am leading an incursion with my mouth that all’ll hear.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

Electrified air climbs to clustered cotton fluff; screams turn to grumbles.

Some schwarzwald sunshine prawns prowl blister-black water - ice of a night sky.

Sharp whistles whittle brittle branch and bark, bitter for the burning blight.

Hollow trees topple. Then, forests from dying flames born of detritus.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

Xerotic mouths agape, facade of night entreats a dreamer thirsting not the light, "neglect a cleanly state and state that you ordain the rain to fall as it is due."

Disguising no intentions with delight, obsessed with obfuscating appetite, come cumulating nimbus clouds above haranguing with each lightning strike thereof.

In time, hard rains again will lift the plight and everyone will be an acolyte lest all the clouds they see move out of sight.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

(The vending machine hums softly. A whirring and some clinking kick off a habit, and I press a button. A quarter? I try again. In the mechanism, it moves. Thunk. Mother's approval.)

Someone's swimming in the pool.

Crystalline medium with waving surface dances the light upon the ceiling.

Diving at the deep, he sinks into the bottom for the longest moment until he is diluted by the dark.

I sit beside the edge, staring.

No manacles bind us to the station we submit.

Someone's swimming in the pool, but I've a job to do. "Refill the canister with two chlorine tablets. Lock up and leave."

The home in the valley meets the damp, dirty prison

I walk to where the sidewalk ends en masse, past the concrete's blend with grass and the footstep-muddled pastures.

I found the last spot God had cried: an oasis that has dried in the desert of this life.

The rain is not the coldest where the trees have met the forest and the mountain meets the valley.

The executioner’s face, always well hidden

At mass, the priest, in his white, polyester robes, stood among pink roses.

"I say, precious Lord, look upon us and see not injustice; instead, find hope."

Among the heightened exaltations of the chorus, water came down upon us.

Back when crimes against the Lord and his people were punishable, men like Christ and Beckett, with their deaths, made leaders grovel.

King, bearing a new weight, shouldered a poor people's campaign; in his memory, we hid this struggle. In this new poor people's campaign, shall hidden faces make another man infamous?

"Do this in memory of me."

The word of the Lord makes requisite that we do things in memory of others that perhaps, through us, they could live on. Such a cause as theirs is worth perpetuating; such a love as theirs is the great communion.

"Mass has ended. You may go in peace"

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

Oysters - pried apart with pearls squeezed from their soft flesh - are discarded shells that cleansed murky waterways. Layered nacre anchors banks.

Black is the color, none is the number

For the briefest second, worlds are colorful and palm fronds, like percussion sections, fill the wind with scratching sound. As raindrops themselves drive through darkness into broken asphalt, thunder-crash!                        The crack in night, it vanished while a youth in leather shoes and wetting socks went running to a covered walkway. Hole-filled pockets bore some grimed receipts, old notes, worn cards, and damaged pictures in a wallet that was drawn up. She inserted plastic; as the m'chine slow- processed four fast digits, vehicles blurred past and disappear until, at last, a menu let her check the balance. Black in text, a zero showed up. Buzzing lights then flickered; rain felt bitter/harder.

Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it

False flags on steel poles; you find their real goals cause hard heads to feel soles as reeled votes steal polls. Loss is a hand that's doled to thoughtless card holders; well oiled, pristine political machines need propaganda's grist cleaned and shoveled on the screens. Greed - democracy's splotch - fills you with the scotch blues; when the night is botched, sit back up to watch news. Feel cold and say burr under a cedar tree, or passover seder with Sam Seder, see his angered, sabered tongue work hard/labor long; hundreds of lungfuls from racist uncles tapered off. Like flaming fungal masses on crumpled paper, scoffed arguments hindered turn to cinder; try not to join the splintered dense blocks of tinder, dry rot. "Freedom isn't free, son..." some person breathes on as a prison's breeze comes; truth in neon: "Freedom isn't free, and it isn't freedom." Jaime Peck 'n' Michael Brooks wait with bridled facts on homicidal cops and Congress' idled acts. The left's best anchors, hosts of the Majority Report, unveil the languor of neofascist authority.

Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it

Guinness in my system at a Regal cinema; someone said, "I miss him." Liquor mixed with cinnamon makes my throat feel dry; is that why I'm stifled? "On everyone's behalf, when we heard you laughing at Dave Rubin's gaffes, all our sides were halfing." Why am I nervous before the final curtain? "He did the world a service, that I say with certainty." "I want to drink, alright, rather than think all night; pour shots until bar fight hour is a starlight tour." Drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly in backgrounds of dim-lit rooms. As this dim-wit reflects, chances look slim; the future's a grim skit. Pillow to my head and sink in like lead, a stone carelessly embedded in the river bed alone.

Stand on the ocean until I start sinking

When one recollects that the keystone oft sank in the sand before standing aloft among clouds on a mountain so solid of faith and devotion, it's then that a false step compels men, "Recover!" I noticed thrombosis had felled the calm warrior, that saint among saints that is Archangel Michael; the champion of men and proponent of justice inspires l'avant-garde to claim in it's crawling a victory not pyrrhic but won with empiric- al knowledge against an- tithetical sirens that draw men towards hatred with bigotry, envy, and greed. So, surrender your voice, but renounce not your thoughts, and remember the message borne by a colossus that called out to Lazarus, "Come forth."

Know my song well before I start singing

Cantos coming soon to a year near you!

Notes

This is the order in which the poems were written: 2, 1, 4, 3, 6, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. I plan for poem 13 to be a series of cantos based on my time walking through a park in my home town.

What will you do?

This poem was written months ago while I was still a Tumblr poet and is the introduction to the final section of the Going to Fall collection of poems I've written. The next poem will be posted when I figure out where I saved it.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

I thought I had a poem for this portion of the final section of my "Going to Fall" poetry collection, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, the haiku challenge issued for November prompted me to write this in place of the imagined poem.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

There were two prompts for this poem. The first is an obscure words poetry contest that I volunteered myself, in which I received the prompt "Xenodochial" (which means hospitable or kind to strangers). The second was from a challenge I made [for] myself [...] I had been stuck on this particular portion for months now, so I'm glad to have something appropriate and fitting.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.

The home in the in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

I had the first two lines stuck in my head for a couple of days. This is the result.

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

This is just a poem comparing oysters and people.

Black is the color, none is the number

October 11, 2020 corrections: *line 4 - "And" -> "As" *line 7 - "." -> "," *line 8 - "Thunder-crash!" -> "thunder-crash!" and line split. *lines 13-16 - "Hole-filled pockets - dirty, wet - hold paper/plastic cards and damaged pictures in a wallet. It is" replaced with current version. *lines 18-21 - "plastic; as the machine processed four fast digits, vehicles dove on past and then they disappeared. At" replaced with current version.

Three Poems for the Great Progressive

This poem came together from the following stanza that I spit out a couple of nights ago: Passover seder with Sam Seder under my cedar tree. Say burr, see his sabered tongue labor long. Hundred lungful's hinder cindered minds. The tinder finds a racist uncle's baseless tongueful like dry rot: the fungal waste is erased from space. Try not It includes one line I wrote a few years ago: "I drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly." The poem is basically about listening to the news all the time because you're sick, feeling restless, going out to the movies and bars, and finally going to sleep. July 20, 2020 update: Completed in honor of Michael Brooks. Also, I wrote the following poem soon after I heard the news, but did not put the time into it that I would have liked. The ground is dry and leaves grow thin. When the new moon is out the fuses trip, the grid's offline, and the world stands too still, I look to the sky as the gold flecks fly; ember is ash. A chill climbs up my spine; stomach can't dip lower. I cannot scout a star within the restless sky. August 11, 2020 update: I saw a contest early morning and wrote the first stanza of the third poem. The second stanza was written after I returned from work. The prompt was the first line from the Beatles' "A Day in the Life".

NOTE: This is the title for “Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it,” “Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,” and “Stand on the ocean until I start sinking.”