#the patterns on his arms shift like barber shop signs

[thewandererh]

Decided to render one of my soul designs from a bit ago in a sketchy messy style :]. Meet ToyTie ⚓️🔱!

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Black Boys Bloom Thorns First: Volume 2, Chp. 23″

Summary: Erik makes a discovery that changes the course of his family forever...

NSFW. Mature Audience. Smut.

"Every once and awhile

I find myself going through a transition

Packing up, flying away again

Never knowing how or which way is up

Turning, Spinning high

Welcome to changes

No time to spare

Might as well get used to it

Welcome to changes

Blow with the air…"

Carleen Anderson – "Welcome to Changes"

Califia had known Dr. Barbara Davis since she was a child.

Therapy was something her grandmother insisted on after her father was arrested and sent to prison. Nana Jean understood that her granddaughter was traumatized and needed the professional help her mother couldn't give her.

Califia was grateful for the intervention and grateful to have used Dr. Davis services when she had a brutal fight with N'Jobu when they were in their twenties. It was the only time in their relationship where N'Jobu had laid hands on her. He was defending himself from her attack after he accused her of being a cheating slut. He claimed much later that he had been holding back, but she remembers him using ulwa on her without hesitation. Perhaps it was ingrained in him to protect himself with full force no matter who it was who attacked him.

Califia allowed the fingers of her left hand to fuss with the leather button on the couch she sat on in Dr. Davis's comfortable and welcoming office. Soft browns and mauves surrounded them with splashes of pink. Soothing colors in all the décor. Hanging plants with long green tendrils giving the space a safe feel.

Erik sat beside her, quiet, his hands in his lap as he waited for their session to begin.

N'Jobu had been home for months and their family had maintained a stable home life since his return. Califia had returned to work but she made sure she and Erik saw Dr. Davis twice a week.

"How are things going for you at school, Erik?"

Dr. Davis's kind eyes peered at him from her horn-rimmed glasses, a sweet smile on her lips as she looked at the boy. Erik's body shifted in his seat.

"Good," he said, "…better actually."

"How so?"

"I sleep better at home, so I'm…calmer…um, yeah…calmer at school. No more nightmares."

"That's good to hear. And you, Califia?"

Califia's eyes left Erik's face as she gazed at the therapist.

"I still get bad dreams…sometimes. Not of the attack, but just weird stuff that I can't remember when I wake up."

Dr. Davis scribbled some things down on a yellow notepad.

"What about N'Jobu? How has he been?"

"Good. He and Erik are going camping this weekend with Erik's friend Walter."

"We went to Disneyland a few weeks ago," Erik said. His face lit up at the memory.

Dr. Davis went over some new breathing techniques with them and showed them how to quickly assess their anxiety levels with each other. It hurt Califia so much that Erik suffered from some of the same problems that she grappled with as a child. Intergenerational trauma was no joke, and she worried that she had passed down so much of her pain to her son. Erik had always been a joy to raise, a sensitive little one who felt deeply, but Lia's assassination had opened a wound that accelerated anxiety in him. He was also showing signs of obsessive-compulsive behavior. She could see the stress in him as he tried in his own way to still process and live with what he witnessed.

Their fifty-minute session went by quickly and while Dr. Davis put away her notes, Califia felt her heart- rate go up.

"Erik, do me a favor, could you wait out in the next room. I want to schedule some things with your mother real quick," Dr. Davis said.

Erik nodded, hopped off the couch, and disappeared into the waiting room.

"Califia…what is it?"

Califia finally allowed her tears to flow freely. She kept them in so Erik wouldn't see them, struggling to look normal for him as he left the space.

"I'm messing him up," she said, her voice shuddering from suppressing her emotions from Erik.

"What makes you say that?"

Dr. Davis handed Califia a tissue to wipe her eyes.

"My entire life has been nothing but pain and struggle and mental health issues. I see what it's doing to him. I'm setting my baby up for failure. He's become so rigid about things and he treats me like I'm the child sometimes. He always checks to make sure I'm okay. I'm supposed to be doing that for him!"

She threw her hands over her face unable to stop herself from weeping. "I've fucked up my son—"

"No…you haven't done that—"

"You see how he is—"

Dr. Davis pulled Califia's hands from her face.

"Let me tell you about your son. Erik witnessed a horrific event. But he is resilient. He has an absolute innate sense of justice. He believes strongly in fairness. He has a protective nature about him. His heart is so big and loving that he wants to make sure his Mommy is okay too."

Califia sat back on the couch still clutching the tissue in her hand.

"Parents can pass down anxiety—"

"That can happen. Erik has been displaying symptoms of an overactive brain, but it's nothing we can't work to improve. He's a brilliant child with big thoughts and ideas going on. He's learning to focus in much calmer ways so don't get yourself so worked up. Your coming here with him is the best thing you are doing to help him and yourself. His coping behaviors are simply coping behaviors. He could outgrow them over time—"

"What if he doesn't?"

"Let's focus on right now. Stressing over the future or the past is what keeps you stuck Califia. We work on that with you, and Erik will be fine. The fact that he sees you here doing your best to get well mentally only encourages him to do the same. You have to stay focused on the present with him now. Be mindful of the progress you both have made. Think of all the support you have from your family. Especially N'Jobu."

"Erik…he's my best thing, y'know?"

"I know."

"I worry so much about him. Parents are supposed to protect their children—"

"We live in the real world, Califia. You can't shield Erik from everything that happens, but you can be a pillar of strength and unconditional love for him. He can face anything when you and N'Jobu give him that."

Dr. Davis handed her another tissue and Califia tried to fix her face before going out to Erik.

Her son's eyes sought out hers the moment she walked out and he saw that they were pink from crying.

"You okay, Mom?"

"I am. Ready to go?"

"Yes."

She was mentally drained from the session and drove herself and Erik to visit N'Jobu at the shop. He was managing two new locations and they caught him as he returned to the original Drizzy's Kuts.

N'Jobu's eyes always lit up when he saw them and the moment they stepped into the shop, his arms were around her waist in greeting and he was touching Erik's hair.

"Hey, wasn't expecting you two to pop in," he said.

Califia sat in an open booth chair as Erik greeted three of the other barbers working on customers.

"Can I leave Erik here with you while I run over to see Rolita?"

"Sure. Is everything okay?"

"I got a text from her about meeting at her place with some of the women from Rise Up. Shouldn't take that long. An hour or two."

"Dinner at Nana's still?"

"Yeah."

She kissed his cheek and waved to Erik as she left. Needing Erik to be with the stronger parent right at the moment was important. She needed time with Rolita to lift herself up away from Erik. It was almost like he had extrasensory empath powers, able to read emotions and feelings from people just by looking in their eyes and taking on their weight. It was scary sometimes.

Rolita greeted her at her home with four other women from Rise Up and two men from a local Black activist group. There were snacks laid out in the living room and Califia ate chips from a paper plate with salsa. The mood in the room was solemn.

One of the men pulled out a laptop and showed the women a web page with a list of photos and names. Rolita sat next to Califia and took a deep breath.

"Activists are being murdered," Rolita said.

Califia felt the tension in the room rise.

"Misha Browning was found two hours ago," Rolita said and there was a gasp in the room from everyone.

Califia closed her eyes and steeled her nerves. Misha was a woman Califia had only known and interacted with online in cyber activist spaces. They had coordinated national action plans on police brutality and domestic terrorist attacks on immigrants and mutant humans. She had gone missing a few days previous and word spread by the police was that she had a domestic dispute with a boyfriend and disappeared soon after. But her boyfriend, a man Califia had met in person at a climate change conference in Fresno after she graduated university, was staying on a Scottish Island for a fellowship prior to Misha's disappearance.

There was a pattern.

Up until that moment, ten activists that Califia interacted with personally or knew of through online spaces nationally were dead. Seven of the dead were reported to have committed suicide. Four Black men and two Black women, and two Native women from the Pine Ridge Nation active with pipeline and environmental protests and civil disobedience. Three of them were said to have been murdered under suspicious circumstances. Their mental health was scrutinized and most of the newsfeed on them was swept away. Prominent and vocal activists. Killing themselves?

And now Misha. Found face down under Ohio river debris fifty miles away from her home.

Califia could only think of Lia and then her own self. Rolita too. They were mothers with young children. They were mothers trying to make the world safe for their babies. Could they be targeted next? Could they show up dead and the world told that they committed suicide? It wasn't unthinkable that an activist could kill themselves. Mental health was something they all grappled with and sometimes the world beat them down until killing oneself seemed like a good option. But ten people? Now eleven? Within two years?

Califia sat back in her seat. The rest of her time there long. And painful.

###

N'Jobu sat with Erik at his great-grandmother's kitchen table as he watched his son disassemble yet another one of his robotic toys. Erik had figured out a way to hack into the software of the original robotic programming and rebuild a new larger robot combining four different toys and the pieces of scrap metal his grandfather found for him. He placed the final pieces of the disassembled robot onto the final product.

Erik routed power to his new creation with a handheld and tried to get the strange-looking franken-robot to pick up a mug filled with tea and raise it up to N'Jobu's mouth. A set of spoons and a fork sat on the dining table waiting to be used by the robot to lift up a scoop of fruit loops and pick up sliced mango pieces.

"Be still, Baba." Erik said moving the levers in his hand.

N'Jobu sat still, but the tea mug didn't seem secure in the robot hand as small drops of the liquid spilled from the cup.

"I'm still, Son," he said trying not to laugh as the robot hand grew more unsteady.

"Stop laughing at it, you'll hurt the Daka 3000's feelings," Erik said.

"Oh, you changed its name again. Won't your mother be upset? The Cali 3000 was a nice-sounding name."

"Inventors name things after themselves."

"Why not JaJa 3000?"

"Too soft-sounding. The Daka in my middle name sounds hardcore…Baba, c'mon, be still!"

N'Jobu was leaning back in his seat, his hands up to catch the mug if it dropped.

"I have to perfect this by next week to be ready."

"Is Walter entering the science fair?"

"Yeah, he's working on something."

"You're not going to tell me about it?"

"It's boring."

"Don't say that about your friend."

"It is!"

"Tell me about it."

The robotic arm made it up to the front of N'Jobu's face with the mug. Erik did his best to ease it closer, but it was too jerky. He took a pause and stared at N'Jobu.

"He's making a display of fabrics that can be used to make flak jackets. Bulletproof—"

"So military science—"

"No, clothes for kids. So they won't be shot dead in school."

Whoa.

N'Jobu stared at Erik.

"He's really doing that?"

"Yeah. Lame."

"I don't think it's lame…just…that's pretty hardcore, Son."

"Compared to this? I'm creating a robot that can help the elderly in their homes. Open their pill bottles when they can't, feed them, and help put things away…but Walter's anti-kill clothes is hardcore. Serious Baba?"

"You both have created hardcore things."

"Kids shouldn't have to make clothes like that."

"I agree—"

"Like, make clothes that can let you fly or something…"

Frustrated, Erik snatched the mug from the robot's hand.

"I can't get this to move smoother. I'll have to take it apart. Wish I could get some nanobots for this…"

"Do you want to try the spoon or fork again? That did really well."

"Nah. Thanks for being my experimental human."

"Glad to be of help. Do me a favor though."

"Yeah?"

"Be supportive of Walter. He's trying to make something to help other children. Grown-ups are the blame for that, and it's a shame that a child his age wants to make something like that because we suck, but he is doing something he thinks is a good thing. Support that."

Erik stared at him and nodded his head.

"Who knows, maybe you both will make it to the Stark Expo. That would be exciting."

Erik grinned.

He was so determined to make his robot work. Not just for the Expo.

For Nana Jean.

His son's great-grandmother was ailing. Today she was having a good day and strong enough to make a Friday night fish fry. Relatives were coming over, and everyone was determined to make it a joyous evening of good food and family fun.

N'Jobu could see that the older woman was having a hard time with her health. Her once vibrant face was appearing a bit dull the last few months, and her already thin frame was looking gaunter. She was experiencing bouts of anger when she couldn't do a lot of things by herself like she used to. Like driving. She was having trouble with her hands, periodic shakiness and pain making it difficult for her on some days. But not today. Today she was cooking with the assistance of Erik and N'Jobu.

Erik picked up the tools he used to tweak the wires on his robot when he suddenly reached out and tapped on N'Jobu's kimoyo beads.

"It's lighting up, Baba!"

N'Jobu saw the emergency silver lighting on his beads. They warmed up his wrist.

"I've never seen that color before," Erik said, his eyes glued to his wrist.

The past three years he had told his son his beads were like mood rings and could change colors at will. But he was right. Silver was a new color. Silver was a signal from his fellow rogue War Dogs. Something was wrong.

"Clean this up, and we'll start making the batter for the fish and shrimp," he said.

Pushing back from the table, N'Jobu headed to a guest bedroom, Junie's old room, and locked the door.

"D'Beke," N'Jobu said, watching the man's shape hover over his wrist.

"We have found Klaue. He is ready to move into Wakanda. The time has come your Highness."

N'Jobu shut his eyes and sat on the guest bed.

"Send out a code three, and make sure all cells are on code. No more communications until you all hear from me. Understand? Send me Klaue's contact. We have to be…we have to be…D'Beke if anyone acts suspicious…end them."

"Yes, Prince N'Jobu."

D'Beke winked out and N'Jobu felt his body tremble with excitement and nervous energy.

The time had come to act. No more planning. Action.

"Wakanda Forever," he whispered.

###

Califia felt beyond stuffed. She rubbed her belly from all the shrimp she consumed. Hot, juicy, greasy, salty-sweet delicious shellfish fresh from the skillet. N'Jobu rubbed his belly and Califia watched Erik help Nana Jean fry up more shrimp in cornmeal batter this round.

"Nana. I can't eat anymore," she said.

Nana dropped shrimp into a fry strainer and Erik lowered it and stood back when the grease popped. Nana dropped more shrimp into the bowl filled with the batter.

"Someone will," Nana said, her frame so much smaller from how Califia always saw her as a little girl. She felt it deep down. No one else in the family wanted to say it outright, and Nana Jean was not forthcoming with her health, but Califia knew. Her great-grandmother was battling something and trying so hard to stay on the earth for Erik. That was her child. He may have come out of Califia's body, but Erik was her baby

Erik's mind was set on going to the Stark Expo in New York. He had come so close last year, making it to a semi-final status and receiving a signed certificate from Tony Stark himself. She and N'Jobu had to nurse him through a mini-temper tantrum when he didn't get to be a finalist. He pouted for weeks and wouldn't even hang up his certificate in his room that Nana Jean had framed for him. N'Jobu had to have a sit down with him and remind him of how many people, children, and adults had submitted projects and didn't even make it to the quarter-finals. She remembered the title of his abstract too, "Novel Subtle Acoustic Communication: Successful Elucidation of the Cryptic Ecology of Runner Plant Bugs with Emphasis on Their Stridulatory Mechanisms". He spent three months capturing the faint sound of bugs. Bugs that he had crawling all over his bedroom when a few escaped by accident. She shivered at the memory.

Califia had to chime in and show him the certificate.

"Tony Stark really signed this. A busy man like him took the time to sign something acknowledging your hard work. You should be proud of yourself."

It wasn't until Erik went online to see how many people had entered projects did his own parent's words kick in. There were only twenty-five semi-finalists for his category and his face beamed when he announced, "Just over half a million people entered globally."

For the new year, he switched from acoustics to robotics hoping to be a finalist. And he focused on something more personal, and close to home: Nana Jean.

That big ole heart of his wanted to make his Nana as self-sufficient for as long as possible with a personal elder care robot.

N'Jobu watched her closely after she rubbed her belly and caught his eye. Her mood hadn't been the best when she arrived at the house. The meeting at Rolita's was tough on her psyche and she almost opted to go home and sleep until her grandmother called Rolita reminding her to bring her daughter Neveah.

Erik's cousins and Neveah ran around the front room while Erik cooked at the stove.

"JaJa, go be with the other kids, I'll help Nana."

Erik nodded and she watched her grandmother pat his head.

"Nana, for reals, I don't think anyone else can eat more. Take a break and spend time out front too."

"Dayclean is still eating," she said.

"I am done, Nana. Go relax, we'll take care of all of this."

N'Jobu stood up and cleared the dishes left on the table as a few of Califia's Uncles cleaned up after themselves before heading to the den to watch TV.

"You good?" N'Jobu asked.

"Better."

"Erik told me you looked upset leaving your session today. Want to talk about it?"

"It was nothing serious…really. I was just feeling a way. Venting."

"Did it help?"

"I think so."

He rinsed dishes and stacked them in the new dishwasher they bought for Nana three years ago once they saw she had trouble with her hands.

She finished putting leftovers in the fridge and when she looked at N'Jobu again, his gentle eyes broke her down.

"Let's go in the back," he said when he saw her eyes well up with water.

The house was busy and no one paid them any mind going to the back guestroom. It was quiet back there. N'Jobu locked the door and they both sat on the bed.

Califia wiped her eyes.

"He is too much like me. And I am afraid for him."

"Califia—"

She touched his hand.

"His quick temper. His anxiety. His need to be in control…this compulsion to make things perfect…it's not healthy…and living here, and seeing Lia…I have damaged him."

N'Jobu stayed quiet and she was grateful. Over the years he had to learn how to let her talk things out and not try to offer immediate solutions as he was want to do all the time. She just needed to be heard. Just wanted to let her words linger openly so she could work through her pain.

"I worry about how he will deal with the trauma later in life. Kids bounce back. I know this. Better than adults. But he…you know this about him…he feels too deeply. This world will break his heart N'Jobu. People like that suffer more than most."

N'Jobu continued to listen as he held her hand.

"I worry about him. I told Dr. Davis this. I worry that he has inherited my pain. I pray and pray that he can be more like you, like…if I could take the worst aspects of myself and remove that from his DNA—"

"Stop."

N'Jobu's eyes were watery. He stroked her face.

"I don't want you thinking like this. I don't want you to carry this in your heart. Take parts of you out of him? He wouldn't be who he is without those parts of you. I know I'm supposed to let you feel what you feel, but my son…our son? He is perfect. He is his own person. That is an Udaku Prince out there and you make him perfect. Understand?"

"I want to believe you, I might believe you if…."

"If what?"

"If you would take us to Wakanda. It has to be safer and better there. You heard what Rolita told you at dinner. It's bad out here. You heard about Walter's science project. Fuck is that? Fuck kind of world are we living in. How can we protect Erik? What if something happens to him? What if something happens to us? Who would take care of him? Who would be capable of caring for a child like ours? Huh? Tell me."

"Babe—"

"Why won't you take us away from here? My baby is a Prince. He deserves to live in a world without fear, or where his best friend doesn't make bulletproof t-shirts for his peers. Don't you want him to have the life you had growing up?"

N'Jobu pulled her in with a tight hug when the tears really started flowing down her face. She was so tired.

"My love, don't cry, please…don't cry…"

It was the same quiet fight they had over the years. His refusal to take them home.

They weren't welcome. She knew this. Deep down they were not wanted in his world, and yet it was the only one that could save them. And she didn't understand why he prevented them from contact. Not even a visit. Their son was learning Wakandan. Memorized their alphabet. Practiced writing his name, even practiced a little speech he wanted to give in front of his royal grandparents when they would meet. Even had a gift he made for his cousin Prince T'Challa, a little necklace that would hold secret-coded messages between them.

And yet…

Here they sat with her crying about it once more.

They left the bedroom and joined the rest of the family to eat pound cake and watch Wheel of Fortune, everyone shouting at the tv their guess's at the puzzles. Neveah and Erik giggled like crazy whenever her father Dante guessed words that clearly were made up to make them laugh.

Once they returned home, Erik put away his robot, and she and N'Jobu dressed for bed. They allowed Erik to lounge in bed with them until it became way past his bedtime. She caught that mood from N'Jobu that he wanted to make love, but Erik kept prolonging his stay in their bed by negotiating for extra time with them. They allowed him to watch another half hour of the SyFy channel until he was knocked out and snoring with his head resting on Califia's stomach.

"Hey, buddy, time to wake up," N'Jobu said nudging Eric gently on the shoulder.

"Thirty more minutes," Erik whispered, his eyes wide as if he hadn't been snoring a minute ago.

"So you can sleep again? Go to sleep in your room. I need some Mommy time," N'Jobu said. He started pushing Erik away from Califia.

"Mom!" Erik whined pushing N'Jobu's hands away and trying to stay on her stomach.

"It's two in the morning, JaJa," Califia said stroking his braids.

"Then I should be able to stay since the sun will be up in five hours."

"If you don't get," N'Jobu said pulling on one of Erik's braids.

"Ow, Baba! I know why you really want me gone…you wanna kiss Mom and do the nasty!"

"Boy!" Califia said, a shocked expression on her face as she play slapped his arm.

"Yes, now get," N'Jobu said.

"I can't believe that came out of your mouth," Califia said.

"Why are you being embarrassed?" Erik teased.

"Time for you to get out of grown folks business," Califia said lifting him off of her stomach.

Erik finally rolled over and stood from their bed.

"Y'all some haters, man, for real," he said.

His dimples melted her.

"Who is this child? Where is my sweet JaJa?" she said.

Erik leaned back over the bed and kissed her cheek.

"Night Mom," he said.

"Night, Baby. Sleep well," she answered.

Erik gave his father a sly look as he sauntered out of their room backward.

"I'll just close this so I can get some rest," he said as he grabbed their doorknob and shut it behind him.

"Okay, maybe we should take some of your DNA out of him," N'Jobu said as he wiggled out of his pajama bottoms.

"That was all you, nigga," she said staring as he pulled his t-shirt over his head.

He tugged on her nightgown and she brushed his hands away.

"We can't do it now," she said glancing at the bedroom door.

"Why not?'

"Because he knows that's what we're doing—"

"I don't care, just put the pillow over your mouth," he said pulling the bed covers back and raising up her gown to her hips. She widened her legs and allowed him to lick her vulva slowly, but then she felt self-conscious. Kept glancing at their bedroom door making her stomach tense.

"I can't, not yet," she whispered.

"Babe, stop being silly. I want to make you feel good after a tough day…shit…pussy wet already."

His tongue rested just under her clit as her ring poked out from the engorgement of the slick bud. He gave light pulses there and her legs shot up, her thighs falling open.

"Get the lube," he said stroking his dick.

Reaching into her drawer she pulled out cherry flavored lube. She coated her vulva and opened her wet inner lips for him.

Tongue darting in and out and smearing his lips with her arousal, Califia held N'Jobu's head.

"Let's just do a quickie," she said.

"Quickie, longie, I just need to be in my pussy," he said shifting his body to line up with hers. He inserted his erection and she gasped out loud.

"I'm about to fuck you real good," he hissed in her ear.

Califia stuffed her left hand over her mouth as her right arm held his shoulder in a death grip.

"God, baybee—"

"Mmmmm—"

"Wait, not so hard, the headboard is banging against the wall—"

"Fuck that wall—"

"The noise—"

N'Jobu lifted up and watched his dick slide into her.

They had been working and caring for Nana Jean and Erik so much that it had been a couple of weeks since they had last had sex. And this quickie was just what they needed. If N'Jobu didn't waste any time kissing her, she knew he was desperate to get in her stuff. He couldn't go very long without some sexual contact with her.

"Look at your dick, Jobu," she encouraged, his face so intent on watching her pussy grip his length. His dick was shiny, his dark coloring magnificent. She felt sorry for people who couldn't have Black dick like this filling them up. He was ready to split her in two. She needed this. Needed him. Needed to get her mind off of her troubles.

He pulled out and positioned himself on his side behind her. His hands gripped her breasts but her gown kept slipping down.

"Take it off," he said and she removed it over her head and tossed it on the side.

White light under the door.

Erik was still up.

Califia dropped her head to one of her pillows and bit into it. She could hear how gushy her pussy was, could hear N'Jobu trying his best to keep his voice down but to no avail.

"Damn…damn…," N'Jobu grunted, his hands tightening around her breasts.

"Yes, baby."

"I missed this pussy, girl. We gotta stop playing and make time for us…oh shit…"

"Jobu—"

"Where you want it, baby? I'm ready to cum…oh…Califia…where you want this nut?"

"In my mouth," she said.

"Okay…okay….," he panted.

He kept stroking his dick in her pussy, hitting the side of her walls hard.

His pace picked up, and for a second she thought he would cum inside her because he didn't seem willing to leave her hot folds.

"Turn around!" he shouted.

Yanking out of her, he stroked his thickness as she turned around and lowered her face to his cock.

"Open your mouth…oh shit…baby open your mouth!"

Mouth Open. Tongue out.

N'Jobu slapped his dick on her tongue, his eyes swimming with an all-consuming carnality. Her own fingers plucked at her clit and when his release splashed all in her mouth, she gulped his cum down as her sugar walls clenched from an intense orgasm.

She swallowed everything he gave her, and he spent some time licking between her legs again and giving her another orgasm.

She was about to enjoy the third orgasm from his mouth when a brilliant blue light spilled under their bedroom door.

"N'Jobu!" she cried out.

He turned his head and saw the brilliant fluorescent blue. His eyes shifted in a way she had never seen before.

He leaped up and put on his pajama bottoms. She threw her gown back on and followed him out of their bedroom.

Erik's bedroom door was open, the dazzling blue array coming from there.

"Erik!" N'Jobu shouted.

Their son stood in the middle of his bedroom. N'Jobu's Wakandan beads were on his wrist, the blue light bleeding out from it.

"Baba!"

Erik tried pressing down on a bead.

"Don't do anything else!" N'Jobu said.

But it was too late.

Erik twisted one of the beads and the brilliant blue light filled the entire room and a large holographic image floated above Erik's wrist.

A street scene.

People walking on elevated sidewalks.

Space ships flying in the air.

Black people dressed in ways they had never seen before.

"N'Jobu, what is this? What is that?" she whispered with awe in her voice.

Erik's eyes studied the images and he took his free hand and stuck it inside the field of blue light. It expanded and different color-rich scenes played like a series of split screens spinning in a circle.

A cityscape.

And a futuristic structure that looked like a double palace…

"It's Wakanda," Erik said.

His fingers flicked an image up over his head. It looked like a billboard advertising a car they had never seen before in the world. The lettering was all Wakandan.

Erik's bright eyes stared at her.

"It's Baba's home!"

###

Chapter 24 

Tag List”

@fd-writes​ @soufcakmistress  @cherrystainedlipsbaby @tclaybon  @thadelightfulone @allhailqueennel @bartierbakarimobisson @cpwtwot @shookmcgookqueen @yoyolovesbucky @raysunshine78 @the-illllest @terrablaze514  @l-auteuse @amirra88 @jimizwidow @janelledarling @chaneajoyyy @sweetestdream92 @purple-apricots @blackpinup22 @hennessystevens-udaku @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @bugngiz @stariamrry  @honeytoffee

[tinytotalitariantortises]

His Girl

Pairing: 40′s Bucky x Reader

Warnings: ANGST! With a tiny bit of gore. 

Word Count:  2372

A/N: Okay so the universe this is in is kind of weird. There’s no Steve and there’s no Hydra. 

Summary: Bucky falls in love with the right girl at the wrong time. 

He’d just returned from some feral battle - shaken up and jittery, but surprisingly unscathed. Some higher up had insisted he and a platoon advance on enemy territory. So, like any good soldier, he’d done as told.

Only this time, he hadn’t expected it to be so bloody.

Red.

That’s all he recalled.

Pools of red. Mangled flesh. Stray limbs. Uniforms blackened with blood. Disfigured faces.

Every image he’d seen earlier that day had embedded themselves into his mind with no plan of leaving.

His feet had found their way to the far corner of the mess hall, far from his loud companions. He looked down, and a tray of dry chicken and even dryer potatoes had made their way before him. Numbly, he took a bite.

A firm hand had landed itself on his back, causing him to jolt a bit. Turning around, Bucky had immediately noticed the face. It’d been one of the men from the tank. He was surprised he’d made it.

“You alright Barnes?!” The man grinned, breath reeking of liquor. Bucky straightened up a bit and mustered up his signature maverick smirk. He cleared his throat as the clearly intoxicated man plopped down next to him.

“I’m just… fine and dandy. You?”

“Couldn’t be better!” The man’s gaze lowered to Bucky’s crotch. “And… apparently, neither could you.” Bucky looked back at his brother in arms, embarrassed and even more confused. “Romantic dinner with the missus, eh?”

The Sargent tilted his head “what are you -”

Then he looked down in his lap.

“Oh.”

And there you were. Sitting crossed legged on a bench in some place that looked like Central Park. There was a bow in your curled hair. You smiled toothily, shoulder popped, bright-eyed and glossy-lipped, knowing exactly how good you looked. Along the length of your body, ran an expensive looking dress that outlined every dip and curve flawlessly. It’d been satin, he figured, and sleeveless with just the right amount of cleavage showing. You were an image of tantalizing damehood and girlishness, all rolled up in one.

Absolutely breathtaking. He thought.

The only thing was, Bucky had no idea how the bewitching woman ended up in his lap.

“I sure wish I had her to go back home to.” His fellow soldier grumbled, taking a bite of Bucky’s chicken and standing. “You’re a lucky guy, Barnes! Always lucky!”

“Yeah…” He held you between his thumb and forefinger. “I guess I am.”

And with that, the man left. Leaving Bucky and his stranger completely alone.

Bucky squinted at the photo in his hand, attempting to absorb the angel before him. Finally, his eyes landed on the upper right corner of the portrait. Scribbled in wobbly cursive were a Brooklyn address and your name. Silently, he put the name to the beautiful girl and it all made sense. Surely, you were a sign from God. Something to take his mind off of the trepidation he’d endured that day.

There had been no better remedy.

Before Bucky knew it, word spread around the camp like wildfire. Everyone asked to see Bucky’s girl, and he’d show you off willingly. Many men would whistle and make lewd remarks. The more sentimental of the bunch would show him the pictures of their wives and reminisce. Amongst the bickering and scrapping in the camp, there’s one thing everyone could agree on:

Bucky was lucky to have such a knockout of a girl.

He wasn’t exactly sure how you’d slithered your way into his breast pocket, but he wasn’t complaining.

⋆⋆⋆

It’d been a week since the war ended. In a matter of a few days, Bucky had been shipped back home from Europe and he’d made it back to his little corner of Brooklyn. It’d been late afternoon when he’d finally reached. Music flowed into the streets from the apartment windows. Streamers hung in the barber shops and diners and lamp posts. For the first time ever, Bucky had seen a sense of community in his little niche of New York. But amongst all the carousing, nothing was as beautiful as the girl he kept in his breast pocket. As he neared your street, he could hear his heart pounding in your ears.

Would you like him? Would you be just like he imagined?

It was getting dark when he stopped in front of your door. From the outside of the small townhouse, he could see a warm light emitting from behind the flowery curtains. Those curtains emulated you. With a sudden burst of bravery, Bucky stepped forward, knocked and waited.

Needless to say, he wasn’t met with the bright smile he’d been expecting.

Instead, a quivering young woman emerged from behind the door, a patterned shawl thrown around her shoulders. You examined Bucky with furrowed brows and a wary frown. It was clear you’d just woken up.

“Yes?”

You sounded just like he imagined. Silvery and light. He’d practically melted on your doorstep in spite of your cold, guarded demeanor. Even in her semi-conscious state, she was alluring.

“Can I help you?” You asked again, hands tight around the doorknob.

Bucky shifted his weight on his feet. “Uh... yeah. Yeah, you’re Y/N, right?”

You nodded slowly. Once. Then twice. 

“Can I come in?” He asked, entirely knowing he was overstepping some boundaries.

You gave Bucky a once over, then nodded again and cracked the door open a bit wider. Bucky stepped into the threshold, clumsily tripping over the copious amount of shoes in front of the door. While you closed the door, the young woman voiced a small apology. If he squinted, he could have sworn he saw the tiniest smirk pull at your lips. Instantly, his ears went warm. “You can sit here.” Bucky shuffled over to the open living room and sat on the velvet couch. You sat across from him in a chair that looked all too uncomfortable. If he stared long enough, (which he did a few times) he would have seen that you mimicked the crossed legged posture of that in his photo only far less glamorous.

Once he took you in a few more times, he glanced around the room.

He was taken back by the look of the place. He expected each windowsill to be brimming with potted plants, the tables to be polished, the floors and counters to be pristine. He expected to be met with the smell of vanilla and clean laundry. Instead, it smelled faintly of cologne and peeling paint. Everything was mostly grey, with the occasional splash of beige, brown, or green. The small living room had been littered with letters, all of which were torn open, some of which were strewn across the dusty floor. Every table and wall was covered with framed pictures of you and another man. One who looked all too familiar. It had taken all of this to make Bucky realize that the world he’d dreamt up for you was one of fallacy. From the looks of the tiny flat, you’d had been a paycheck short of being dirt poor.

“I don’t understand... are you a friend of my husband?” Your small voice snapped him out of his thoughts. You’d been watching him this entire time. Bucky cleared his throat and straightened up. “Yes. No! I mean... I... I found him.”

The memories came flooding back from that July afternoon.

Pools of red. Mangled flesh. Stray limbs. Uniforms blackened with blood. Disfigured faces.

In the heap of bodies stood out one soldier in particular.

A tall man lay in the mud with a particularly peaceful face. His hair was neat under his helmet. His jacket was buttoned all the way to the top. His glasses were fastened ideally on his face.

If one were to ignore the way his torso trailed feet away from his legs, it would almost look as if he were sleeping.

As Bucky inched closer to your husband, he felt a pang of survivors guilt. If there was a man who looked the closest to alive, it was him. If he made it home, Bucky thought, he seems like he would have made a good lawyer or accountant. A good provider.

“He was… waitin’ to be buried. I opened his jacket and there you were…”

Upon further inspection, Bucky could see something sticking out of the front pocket of your husband's breast pocket. Curiously, and knowing he shouldn’t, Bucky pulled out a letter and a portrait. Your portrait.

The look of mistrust on your face was replaced with horror.

“... You took my photo from him?” The crack in your voice made him want to cry. Bucky nodded slowly, internally cringing at how horrible it had sounded in retrospect.

“It was next to the letter.” His leg bounced frantically.

You were sure you’d opened every one of your husband’s letters.

“What letter?”  

“His letter back to you. It was like the one that… if I died, I’d want to have mailed home. Not stuck in the ground with me.” Bucky eyed his shoes, afraid his heart would shatter into a million pieces if he looked up at you. “No man wants to think his last words won’t make it home so I told myself I’d take it home” he took a shaky breath “to you.”

“Where is it?”

“Huh?” He looked up and met your unwavering gaze.

“Where’s the letter?” You urged.

Shakily, Bucky reached for the letter in his pocket. You watched his hand with insane precision. Finally, he pulled out the letter. “This was all that was left.” Instantly, you recognized your husband’s penmanship. The bottom half of the paper was completely singed off.

Your bones went stiff.

“No! No! Hey!”

Bucky was no medic, but he could tell when someone was going into shock.

He stepped over the coffee table and caught you just in time with big eyes and strong arms. “There was a fire in the field and I accidentally dropped it!” He lied. “Your husband wasn’t burned! He wasn’t I don’t know how he died, but he wasn’t burned, alright?”

Your breathing calmed as he ran his hand along the expanse of your back.

“Alright, Y/N?”

Had it been under any other circumstances, you would’ve fallen in love with grey-blue eyes. You straightened and nodded curtly, trying not to get too distracted. Bucky helped you back onto your couch and sat next to you. His hand had made its way into yours. The contact felt all too good. It’d been months since you’d been touched by your husband, let alone any man. To have this stranger next to you, holding your hand, face inches from yours, was overwhelming. In the back of your mind, you felt the tiniest urge to kiss him.

Instead, you bolted to the kitchen, discarding your shawl and straightening your blouse on the way there. Bucky followed you like a lost puppy. “You alright, miss?”

“Where are my manners?” You turned and feigned a flimsy smile. “Are you hungry?”

Bucky nodded.“I could eat…”

“Good! I only have crackers and coffee? How does that sound?”

Bucky watched you from the threshold, as you scrambled to find ingredients, frantically yanking open cabinets and slamming drawers closed. You never managed to find the crackers. So you searched the top cabinets for the coffee. As you stood on your toes and reached, the tin of coffee grounds toppled off the shelf and emptied itself all over the kitchen tile. You dropped along with it and began to weep.

Feral. That’s what your wailing sounded like. More like an injured animal than a woman. Again, Bucky’s arms found themselves around your heaving shoulders, almost as if he wanted to squeeze the heartache out of you. He pressed small kisses onto your forehead and hair. He let you cry onto his jacket. It’d been the only way he knew how to help. Once your breathing became even, Bucky lay his chin on your head, inhaled, then began.

“To my dolly Y/N,” he cleared his throat.

Your shoulders tensed.

That was your nickname.

“I cannot tell you where my Earthly body will be as I write you this, but I can tell you where my heart lies. It’s with you at home. You’re reading your book in my chair. I’m returning from the garden with dirt under my nails. We’re meeting for the first time. I hold you in my arms. You’re saying yes to my proposal. We’re walking down to Nathan’s together. Your stomach swells with our children and we’re hand in hand. It’s in all these places where my heart lies. Keep my shoes by the door, keep my coat on the stand. I mean to come home to you. And only death will stop me. In that case, I’ll send you these words. I love you. For always and always. Your guy, Tommy.”

With that, his arms loosened their grip on you. You missed the closeness.

“Sorry…” Bucky scratched his neck. “I didn’t mean to memorize all of that.”

“Thank you.” You turned in his arms and looked up at him, fat tears still running down your face.

“I know - I’m sorry I took you from him... I just... needed to...” I needed you to get me through that. “I needed to get this to you. It’s what he wanted.”

You nodded once. Then twice. Then rose to your feet.

“How about you take a seat out there and I’ll make you some soup?”

“Sounds great.” He said, standing and brushing the grounds off of his trousers.

You smiled. Genuinely this time. Toothy. Just like in the photo.

Satisfied, Bucky made his way back to the living room and sat. He heard you click on the radio.

There was the sound of a broom brushing against the tile. The knife against the chopping board. The bubbling of the pot on the stove. The sounds of home. But not his home.

With one final peek into the kitchen, Bucky slinked to the door and slipped your portrait and the singed letter into a pair of Tommy’s shoes. He was careful not to step on them as he headed outside and into the cool September night.

Not in this lifetime,

He thought.

But maybe in another.

~Fin.

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[bspoetryandart]

Madame Psychosis

Chapter 2: Homme Is Where the Heart Is

    The cottage cantered away, nobly mobile down the strange main street, the artery of Benoit clogged as it was with damp and dirt and dreams drowned in bottles left fossilized like ships for future generations to lament.     The overpass uprights towered over the road, a giant concrete pagoda gate to the temple of interstate that had yet to bless this place with holy commerce.  Pilings poked from the surface of the murky silty flow of Brown’s Bayou alongside the asphalt, crowns of rusty rebar thorns on their upturned faces waiting to build a bridge to the future, save the people from their lack of shadowy shopping malls and disposable diners.     The hotel with its droopy bay window eyes and drapery lids nestled in the shadow of the overpass so close it could lean its tiled head and weathered wood shingle sides against it should a strong wind ever disturb its quiet slumber.  A tree taller than the house and older than the town flanked its other side; a single plank swing dangled like vigilante justice from its thickest branch.     Cade’s boots sounded hollow on the damp concrete walkway as his feet took him past the town center with its empty shops full of empty windows to the past of the town.  A groomer’s shop waited with moldering aprons and accoutrements to grooming, torn vinyl barber chairs, rounded mirror eyes made up with dust and shadows, a pole on which red and white no longer danced but waited for death at the local landfill.     The ice cream shop on the corner sat cheerfully vacant, paper hats and spoons scattered gaily on the checkered floor inside.  Discarded roller skates and prophylactics waited in puddles of rust colored boredom in the parking lot.     The schoolhouse sat quietly, the chains on its doors succeeding in keeping out the children running wild in the overgrown park beside it. Dandelion haired boys chased and tumbled, wrestled denim on denim, skin on skin, skinny-dipping together in the pond comparing the sizes of the frogs they caught while the girls paid them no heed from their tea party as they poured imaginary brews to dollies who looked out past the pins in their eyes at cookies on sad pastel plates.    Sweat wet his brow, stained his shirt as he traversed toward the hotel.  He paused to wipe his palm as the handle of his case grew slick, set it down and looked up at the sign of the bar before him and its promise of anonymous shade inside. The air around him was damp and murky as old bathwater yet he found his throat suddenly dry.     The door swung in and a cool breeze swept out and he found himself amongst tables of townsmen all blank-eyed deep in quiet midday nonversations drinking glasses of beer lighter than the stains on the backs and chests of their shirts.  The bar counter was full of empty stools.  The bartender turned as he approached leveling elephantine eyes on him, big grey saucers of wisdom for sauced wisdom seekers.     “First time to Mississippi?  What can I get you?”  He pronounced it like Missing-sippi.     “I’m returning after an absence of I don’t know how long, seeing as I hadn’t realized I’d left until I woke up somewhere else earlier.”     “We all have those days where we find ourselves somewhere we shouldn’t be,” the bartender said, spinning a glass on his palm then pulling a tap eliciting a steady stream of heady brown liquid.  “I tend to find my own ceiling staring down at me and I have no idea why it’s there.  Or why it’s mine.”     “My ceiling here is borrowed like the last.  I have yet to open eyes on one of my own.”     “May all your ceilings and their cracks and crimes and secrets be someone else’s,” the bartender toasted as he set the beer down on the counter.     “What happened to this town?” Cade said and sipped.     “Nothing.  Ain’t nothing ever happened to Benoit.”     “Or in Bolivar either I take it.”     “Where’d you hear that, it ain’t true.  Just nothing good.”     “No happy weddings or cooing babies?”     “A child’s just a woman’s way of showing whose balls are in her purse.  And church bells toll the same come rain or shine.”     The bartender picked up a rocks tumbler, dosed it with whiskey, slid it neat across the bar toward his elbow.  A shadow fell across him, a presence presented a clean cuticled hand to the glass, lifted it.     “Mind if I sit here?”     Cade turned to face himself reflecting in dark ovals of glass obscuring a face undeniably attractive, rosy cheeked with thorny stubble on skin the tan amber of the whiskey wetting its lips and moistening the sultry tongue behind them.     “Be my guest,” he said, watched the gent unshade his golden eyes as a third manicured hand took the hat from his gleaming black locks, a fourth fingered a cigarette and a fifth flicked a golden lighter and held it up to the end of the butt as it was held up to the now glass vacant lips.  The sixth hand carefully brushed wrinkles out of what, besides its inordinate amount of sleeves, was an impeccably tailored suit.     “Do you come here often?”  Smoke slithered from between his lips curling and forking like a serpent tongue.     “It’s my first time in this bar.”     “I didn’t mean here the bar.”     “Then did you mean the town?  Or maybe the county, or the state?”     “Not the state but this state.”     “If you make more sense the more beer I drink, then I’d welcome a refill,” Cade said, drained his glass.     “There are more things that I make than sense,” the gent said, waving to the bartender, “and maybe they’ll make you more- lucid as well.”     “If you think a drink will make me more loose as well, you are mistaken.”  He picked up his new beer.     “I would never dream of taking advantage of you.  What Shiva wants unmade is unmade.”     “All it seems Shiva wants unmade is my bed.”     Shiva smiles.  “Perhaps.”     The door of Cade’s suite was green wood and bronze fittings, the hole in the lock big and old to fit its skeleton key and round for peeping. The hallway through the hole had the same ivy patterned carpet as the hall without, the same peeling wallpaper, the same wood wainscoting.     Inside the door sunlight speckled the floor scattered through the glass blocks of the shower wall of the bathroom to the right. Anemic blue nightlight fogged the kitchenette and its cracked ceramic counter to the left.  At the head of the hall a green door opened onto the drapery darkened bedroom.     Shiva’s six hands slipped and slided on the sweaty skin sheathed by Cade’s shirt as Cade nibbled his neck, unbuttoned, exposed, made bare the broad expanse between his banks of arms.  Shiva shrugged off his jacket and shirt as Cade’s tongue caressed the cleft of his chest.  Cade wished for more hands as he groped flesh through the fabric of Shiva’s pants.     “You are not afraid?”     “Only that I won’t want you to leave.”     Shiva pushed him back on the bed, straddled him hard, hands darting to Cade’s and pulling them up over his head pinning them to the pillows. Two hands tugged at the buttons of Cade’s shirt as the others slid beneath and roughly pressed into his back as Shiva’s hips undulated and teased Cade with their hidden glories.     Warm lips, tongue, and breath rolled across Cade’s stomach as Shiva rubbed, scratched the skin with his stubble sending shivers shooting up Cade’s spine.  Hands pressed against his groin, stroked their way up to the buttons and zippers.     Shiva’s head swirled up his torso, a slick saliva trail in its wake as breath by breath inch by inch of Cade grew barer.  Those godly golden eyes leveled on Cade’s, held steady as a hand held steady on his length, a thumb rubbed the tip of his other head as Shiva’s mouth opened and closed upon his lips and-     It was terrible.  Shiva’s tongue groped deep and gagged, left him gasping.  It wiggled in his mouth like a catfish in a milk crate, made Cade wish his head were skimming down the street on a motorized mattress.     He pulled his arms free, pushed his mouth away and went to speak, but the remaining evidence, the naked deity, sexy god on his lap gave him pause as he catalogued all the exhibits, numbered them and sized and measured, weighed them throbbing in his hands.     Thinking better of it, he pulled Shiva’s mouth to his shoulder. “We’ll work on the kissing later.”     Cade slipped from the chrysalis of arms on the bed, stepped naked to the bathroom glowing brighter than the afternoon sun covered in kisses and bites and lovely exhaustion.     A wash tub waited on an old sewing machine stand, the drain pipe dropping from the center to pierce the floor by the motion incapable foot pedal.  He took a garden hose from the makeshift sink and shifted it to a watering can mounted to the wall in the shower.       Verdigris pipes with spigots sprouted from fleur de lis wallpaper to feed the snaky hose that slithered and hissed to life as he cranked the lines open.  Water bubbled and gurgled in the mounted can, poured from the holes in its nozzle in a thick steady cascade.     The shower cleansed Cade, ran down his skin like so many hands had not ten minutes ago as he had engaged in the most intriguing experience of his life.  Hands, arms, mouths, hearts had become insubstantial as they had penetrated the deepest cores of each other in a way that soap would never wash away.     Could this be love? he thought, and while you and I know that it was he wouldn’t find out quite yet drunk as he was not on beer or whiskey but raw physicality and the consummation of his deepest desires.     Can love be quantified in such a way?  Can it be so base as to be an unquenchable thirst for the presence of another, to be the want to glut oneself on the fruits of another’s sexuality, to be the need for another to know the darkest places we know not ourselves?     Can love be known in a moment, in a meeting of eyes unguarded but in that moment when that slightest chink in the armor of self feels invisible and protected but winds up anything but?     Can there be more meaning in that one unbridled orgasm brought about not by the need to fuck but the want to make the other lose themselves in a moment, a spurt, a complete release of creative energy that touches the soul than in a whole lifetime of mechanical lovemaking?  The human heart is anything but automatic with no manual available for reference.     Satisfied in his sanitation but not his sanity, Cade steps from the shower and takes a towel, wishes it weren’t his hands rubbing the terry across his skin.  The thought leaves his body aching as he treads down the hall back to the bedroom.     He pushed open the door he hadn’t closed and peered into the dark at the bed, glided into the gloom and grasped the sheets, pulled them away to reveal the body beneath.     Or lack thereof.     Four arms, each tied off, bound with black leather belts, rested upon the sheets, not a drop of blood spilled from their raw ends where the sinews and bone peered like gristle eyes at him.     Cade picked up one, examined it, turned it end on end. Held the hand up to his face where it curled its fingers against his warmth, caressed his cheek.  He sat on the bed, arm in hand, running his fingers down its length.  He felt the fabric beneath him tug and pull.     The other hands gripped the sheets, turned themselves, pulled themselves toward him.  Found his flesh and feasted gently, touching him as if he were not alone in the room.