Bad Bunny Braids Novels & Stories

Briella POV Getting up for school this morning would have been what I’d be doing if my father wasn’t such a dick! Yes I know what I said about me rather wanting to train all week then go to school. But at least at school I get to sit down! Everytime I try to take a break he’s barking more orders at me. Like yeah I get it I was late to school! Big deal! I’m late all the time! I bet the other wolves that are late from other packs don’t deal with this! Stomping downstairs for breakfast, I smell bacon, eggs and hashbrowns coming from the kitchen. oooo how I love me some hash browns!! I decided on wearing a sports black bra with a cut off grey t- shirt and some black spandex shorts with sneakers

|ELENA’S POV| I spent the last four days watching YouTube videos on how to bleach my hair by continuously testing it out on the wigs that I brought with me when I traveled down to Orion but no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get it right so I ended up braiding my hair into a messy corn row, putting on a bald cap and trying to alter my hair color by installing one of my favorite blonde asymmetrical bob frontal wigs that I was going to use for Halloween.

Twas the night before Christmas Eve and all through the clubhouse, we mourned two more brothers. – Toad Kirsten walked into the clubhouse bar and went straight to her husband. He quickly made the club bunny get up and his wife settled into his lap. Moving her signature lime green box braids off her shoulder, she eyed the other woman. Where Kristen was tall, skinny and dark, the bunny was short, plump and pale. The other woman had light brown hair that lay in waves down her back and pale green eyes that appraised Kristen also.

Trisha asked excitedly. "Nope, I can't tell you until your hair is done," she answered. The two pups ran over to Marisa and sat down, waiting patiently. Marisa braided their hair in long French braids, and then they went over to Bianca, looking up at her eagerly. She reached into the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out two sparkly blue butterfly barrettes. They had light wings, so when Polly and Trisha moved, the wings looked like they were fluttering.

Her hands move so fast they become a blur of fingers and scarred drum sticks. "Sorry," I mumble. Everyone is staring daggers at me. Wait. Hol'up. Why is that? "Ah-ah, this is like the fifth row you messed up. What's wrong with you today?" She queries. The single ebony braid not tapered into a neat cornrow down her scalp cowlicks before her eyes. There are tiny gold rings slipped through her braids; there always are. I use to think they made her look formidable, like a warrior princess out of an epic movie.

Josiah had to continue looking for tutorials and videos. After an hour, Nia finally had a messy braid. She said aggrievedly, "Mommy, Daddy's braids are too ugly and not good-looking."

she snapped, “I need to get back the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?” Bloody Barbie was the nickname Maria gave to the murders ever since she’d gotten involved as a suspect. It was an apt name. Each crime scene that had been investigated was painted red with each victim’s blood, and in each one there would be a bloody doll left behind (though, not exactly a Barbie), no less than three feet away from the body.

For as long as I could keep my tongue off it, it looked pretty on me, too. We’d walk if the park was close by, catch the bus if it was farther. A different place every week, rolling on a roster. In quiet times, when the bus wasn’t too full, Momma took the seat behind me so she could put my hair up in a French braid. Separating it into a dozen smooth, straight sections, piece by patient piece. Undoing and redoing each fine weave until she had it just right. Those tight knots sat close against my skull, secured in looping patterns that gave me headaches that stretched out from my temples, long and taut. Like a rubber band noosed around my skull. But the braids kept any stray strands from slipp

she finally exclaims when she realizes what word she’s reading. I can’t help the smile on my face. “Yes!” I’m just as excited as she is. Her gaze flits up to my hands over my head. “I think you just slipped into a French braid.” I pause my hands realizing that I am in fact pulling the middle strand of the braid under the outside ones instead of over. “Whoops.” I switch back to the boxer braid, not worried that I’ve just messed it up in the middle. Mostly, I’m just trying to practice another braid while I style my hair away from my left temple. The bruise there has healed a lot over the past few days since Ava tried to kidnap me. The doctor forbade me from training while my concussion heals t

, I do this’ had been ruined because of braids. If you do this, I do this. That used to be a big deal back then. It was basically like this; Juliette got something, I got it too and vice versa, and then we rocked it together because you know, it was cool – at least, it was cool to our nine, ten, eleven and twelve-year-old selves. Matching hairstyles, matching shoes, matching purses, matching activities. Jacksong, we were the shit! Well, at least that’s what we thought. But braids were that one thing we never could do together, much to our frustration. So, thinking back at that now, we couldn’t help laughing. “Well, Juliette Callahan, if you wear braids, I wear braids,” I mused, smiling