#So why leave the scene of ravage even popping out to begin with | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shyficwriter · 3 years

Text

You're Not Broken, Ya Hear Me?

Guardians of the Galaxy fanfic | Yondu x Reader, guest starring Peter and other Ravagers

Summary: Based off a prompt from my friend @giulscomix where Reader is coming up on a rite of passage involving having her first sexual experience and is very nervous because she doesn't wish to partake, because she's just not interested in sex at all. (i.e: Reader is Ace or Demi) She opens up to Yondu about it after he finds her hidden away and crying about it and he helps her with her problem, making her realize she isn't broken. Inspired by and using lines from this scene in Netflix's Sex Education series.

Author’s Note: Fic is SFW. Sex is talked about (obviously), but no sexual scenes occur. This also takes place in an AU where Yondu never broke the code (yet still has Peter, make that make sense lol) and therefore was never exiled from the other Ravager clans. Also, this is a long one, probably should have broken it into chapters, but here we go lol

Word Count: 10,189

The nervousness inside you grew with every passing day. You were almost seventeen- you should be happy about this! Not filled with dread about what turning that particular year would mean. You glanced at the calendar from your bed. Only three days left.

There was a rite of passage that every young man had taken before you, and would take long after you. They all whooted for joy when their time came, but you couldn't find the enthusiasm to do so, although you did your best to fake it. And as the day grew closer, the more you had to fake it.

Maybe it was because you were the only female Ravager on Yondu's team? Or maybe that had nothing to do with it. Maybe you were just... broken? Why couldn't you just be excited about this like everyone else? That thought made your chest ache as you pulled on your boots.

You didn't want to do it, this stupid rite of passage. No, it wasn't exactly like you'd be forced into a room until you "did the deed," However, you knew to refuse would be to cement your reputation as a lame prude who wouldn't know fun if it crawled up her ass. But still, you really didn't want to.

After all, who would want their first time to just be some random fuck for the sole purpose of "Becoming a man/woman" and an "official part of the crew."? Yes, you wanted more than anything to be accepted, like Peter or the others, but you wanted your first time to be with someone you loved and cared for. Now, this isn't to say that you weren't currently a respected member of the crew, but things were just... different. You knew things would change if the others knew you didn't want to go through with it. You'd be less "one of the guys" and more "the chick with the stick up her butt." You didn't want that.

You stood and took a deep breath, readying your facade before leaving your quarters to make your way down to breakfast.

As always, there were many other Ravagers also making their way from the crew quarters down to the mess hall. And, just how it had started happening the closer it got to that dreaded date, you'd encounter someone looking to congratulate you with a clap on the back, saying things like, "Ayy! How many days is it now? Bet ya can't wait, huh?" or more often, high-fives and fist bumps as your crew mates cheered you on for your upcoming "big day."

You took it all in stride, just like every other day. Big smiles, return the high-five, maybe throw in some finger guns, toss in an affirmative and that you "couldn't wait."

But each time you died just a bit inside. How long could you put on this charade? You knew you wouldn't be able to go through with it. What was going to happen then? What would the rest of the crew say when they found out? Normally it wouldn't be such a big deal for so long, when other guys came of age it was usually forgotten by the others after a few days. However, you were going to come of age the very day of the next scheduled shore leave, which was going to happen in just a few days, and for some reason this just bred excitement among your peers and they wouldn't drop it.

You tried to put these thoughts out of your head as you entered the Mess Hall and got your breakfast.

Today you got to eat in relative peace, the attention being taken up by the story Narblik was telling about his last job on an icy planet and how he hadn't been sure he'd make it back when the blizzard hit. It was when you got up to turn in your tray and leave when a few other's started back up again.

Scrote whooped when he saw you stand, crying out a "Get 'em!" at you and someone else shouted back that you were "Gonna be a man!" until someone shouted back at them "She's a girl!" earning an apology and a correction that you were "Gonna be a woman!" that earned some laughter from the others. You knew the laughter wasn't directed at you, they weren't insulting your looks. Some species on the ship just had a hard time getting genders right because the concept of gender just wasn't a thing on their homeworlds.

You passed Horuz and a young green man named Rahi who high-fived you with an "Ayyy!" as was becoming the custom greeting for anyone wanting to congratulate you on it being almost your big day. You returned the greeting. He had just turned 17 three days before along with another young man he often ran around with, and you heard him talking with some others (There were about 5 or 6 of you all either about to turn the big 17 or who recently had since the last shore leave 3 months ago. It was an abnormally large amount of young people coming of age this time around, which you suspected was further reason why some were making such a bigger deal about this upcoming shore leave.) about being excited for shore leave, as that's when they'd be able to 'become men,' aka, would be able to find a whore to screw. Younger crew often had more of the cleaning jobs aboard the Eclector, and unless assigned with an older crew mate, didn't get to go on many away missions where they could try and woo a willing partner, and even then, Yondu liked quick turnarounds on jobs so there wasn't a whole lot off "goof off" time without being reprimanded. There was no real rule about screwing crew mates either, but most avoided it just in case things got weird after. Easier to just bang someone random on shore leave and then get back to work. No muss no fuss.

Horuz teasingly asked if you had any studs picked out yet and you just laughed and said "Ha, one of these lot? You're joking!" as you put your tray away.

You heard Yondu playfully scold the two from a couple tables over, telling them, "Oh, leave the poor girl alone, yer embarrassin' her!" as he laughed. Horuz just shouted back, "Aw now, I didn't even get to tell her about Oblo here's first time!" This was met with Oblo, who was sitting nearby, choking out a "Hey!" and punching Horuz in the arm.

Kraglin laughed now, "I think she's already heard that one! Let's not ruin anyone's meal now."

You shivered. You had heard the story before. It involved a broken member and many stitches. You weren't looking forward to hearing it again. "I'm out!" you say, looking for a way out of this conversation. "Got work to do." With that you turned and started to leave the mess hall.

"That's what I like to hear!" Yondu laughed from behind you. "Some of you lazy gits should start acting like her, don't wanna work unless yer told to." He knew you were just escaping having to hear the story again, but he wasn't going to miss an opportunity to razz up some of his crew.

You finally make your way out of the mess hall and allow your grin to fall. You run a hand over your face, making your way toward the laundry where you had been assigned to repair one of the machines. You were grateful it was both early in the week as well as early in the day as you entered the room. Most of the crew waited until they were completely out of clean clothes to do their washings, which typically resulted in most of the crew crowding the laundry at the end of the week, so you were sure to have at least an hour or three alone to yourself.

You made your way to the back left-hand corner of the room towards the broken machine. It should be an easy fix, the complaint was that it wasn't draining properly, so you figured it was just a clogged drain hose.

Upon opening up the machine you found you were right. it was just a clog. You retrieved a plumbing snake from a nearby supplies trunk and got to work fishing it out. Unfortunately this menial task gave you enough time to dwell on your problems rather than engaging your brain enough to force them into the back of your mind.

You kept thinking the word "broken" over and over. You couldn't get it out of your head how you couldn't bring yourself to just be excited over something everyone else seemed to love.

Your chest tightened. "Broken.. Loser..." Why couldn't you get over it? Why didn't you have these feelings like all the others?

You latched onto the clog and worked to pull it out. "

Broken..." Why was this so hard? "Broken... Stupid... Wrong..." What was wrong with you? "Stupid... Broken..." Why couldn't you just be like everyone else?!

With that last thought you pulled the clog out with an audible "Pop!" that almost made you fly backwards. You looked at it in disgust and dropped it into the nearby trashcan before re-attaching the hose and sliding down to the floor. No one was going to show up to the laundry this early, might as well take advantage of this time to wallow in your own misery.

That's what you told yourself at least. In truth you could feel tears burning your eyes and didn't want anyone to see you cry. Better to let it happen alone than risk another crew mate seeing you and thinking you were weak.

What you didn't know was that Yondu was also well aware of his Ravager crew's laundry habits, and took advantage of the empty communal laundry room at the beginning of the week to wash his own laundry undisturbed. He made his way down after breakfast, actually having forgotten he had assigned you to fix one of the machines, and was therefore quite surprised to walk in on you sat in the corner crying.

"What d'we have here?" he asked, more puzzled than anything. He never once seen you cry, which now that he thought about it was rather surprising. He saw grown men cry at least twice a week, most of them Peter, but still. He tried to cover up any concern with humor. "Did Halfnut leave his dirty drawers in the machine again? Smell's bad enough to make anyone cry."

You had been startled when he first walked in and you were currently trying to quickly straighten yourself up. "Nothing. Sorry Captain." you said, not looking him in the eye as you bent down to pick up the plumbing snake. "Nearly done here." you say, unable to hide a sniffle.

Yondu plopped his laundry basket on one of the long steel tables running up the middle of the room and sighed, turning to walk towards the door.

You look up in surprise as you heard the lock engage.

He looked at you, arms crossed, and said, "Ya really think I'm gonna buy that? Yer not leaving here until ya spill it. Now what's wrong? Somebody bein' mean to ya? Yer feminine-ly cycle -or whatever it's called- hurtin' ya again?"

You blushed and gave him a sharp look before placing the plumbing snake back where you found it.

Yondu rolled his eyes as he moved his basket over to a machine and tossed his clothes in. "Fine, be that way. But I meant what I said. Ya ain't leavin' til we sort it out. Might as well talk or it's gonna get mighty borin' in here." He turned on the machine and hoisted himself up to sit on the table, patting the space beside him.

You begrudgingly approach, not meeting his eyes, and lifted yourself up to sit down on the table.

"Now what's wrong?" he said again.

You fix your gaze on your lap and sigh. "You're just gonna make fun of me." You say sadly.

Yondu smirks. "Maybe. Still wanna hear it though." Upon seeing your face fall further he elbowed you and said, "I'm jus' kiddin'! What's the long face?"

Your eyes remain down and you quietly say, "I... don't wanna do it."

Yondu raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I don't wanna do it." you repeat.

"Ya dun wanna do... what?" he asks in confusion. He at first assumed maybe you didn't want to do your assigned morning task of fixing the machine, but it seemed like you had already finished it, so he had no idea what you could possibly mean to even begin to be angry for any disobeyed orders. Also, he doubted he found you crying over something as silly as not wanting to fix a washing machine.

"It," you say, "You know, IT." you make a crude gesture with your fingers, forming a circle in one hand with your thumb and index finger and inserting the index finger of your other hand in and out of it, to hopefully get the point across.

Yondu's eyes widen a bit. "Oh!" he says in surprise, before continuing in confusion, "I don't get it? Ya seemed just as excited as could be a bit ago?"

"I've been faking it. Don't want the others to make fun of me."

"Come now! They won't ma-"

He's cut off by you giving him another sharp look. He looks forward again and nods, sighing, "Yeah, yer right. They will."

The two of you were quiet for a couple moments before Yondu awkwardly broke the silence. "Ya mind if I ask why? Like are ya scared or somethin'?" he looks at you with a raised eyebrow, slight concern painting his features.

He remembered his first time. As a battle-slave he didn't exactly see much action; the Kree weren't exactly fond of the idea of their battle-slaves reproducing or having any fun; and by the time Stakar freed him he was in his twenties. It was shortly after when with some other young Ravagers that the subject came up and he admitted he had never done it, only for his mates to excitedly cheer that they were taking him with them on shore leave so he could "become a man." He had been nervous, though he never expressed it out loud, not wanting to appear weak. He knew they meant well, but screwing a random whore just to fit-in and say he had wasn't something he had exactly been looking forward to, however peer pressure had encouraged him to go through with it. It wasn't too bad, he realized, but even knowing that he himself had come to enjoy the act, he always remembered the knot in his stomach leading up to his first time, and hearing you say that you might be scared of doing it made a similar knot form, only higher in his chest and feeling more like... pity? No, that wasn't quite it. Empathy? Yes, that was probably more accurate. Damn sentiment.

"It's not anything like that... it's just... I don't feel anything like that. I'm not even sure I'd know what that feeling is. It's just not there. I'm not scared, or even disgusted, I just feel... nothing."

"I'm not sure I follow..." Yondu said honestly. He supposed you feeling nothing was better than you being scared, but he still didn't quite understand.

"Ok, like, imagine you're surrounded by a feast, with everything you could ever want to eat, but you're not hungry. That's how I feel. I just don't want any of it," you said. Your voice cracked as you continued, "...and it's just so frustrating. Everyone else gets to be normal, while I just don't feel... anything. I don't want to do it-with anyone. When I think about it I feel nothing- it's like I'm broken." You covered your mouth, still not meeting Yondu's gaze as you tried to hold back frustrated tears.

Hearing you say that you thought you were broken tore at Yondu's heart. He wrapped an arm around you tightly and said in a firm voice, "Ya listen here. Yer not broken. I don't wanna hear that again. Look here."

You reluctantly do as he asks.

"Yer not broken," he said again, his face stern. "Sex doesn't make a person whole, so how could ya ever be broken, girl?"

You inhaled sharply as fresh tears pricked at your eyes. You hadn't realized until then that that was exactly what you needed to hear. You quickly wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest to hide your tears.

Taken aback at he sudden gesture, Yondu patted you on the back comfortingly and returned the hug. Good thing he locked the door. He doubted that any of his crew would be bothered to wash their clothes this early, but still, it would halt the possibility of new rumors that he was "going soft on the Terrans." He honestly wasn't sure he'd sleep tonight if he had to scold you for crying to save face with his crew right now.

You pulled back almost as soon as you went in, straightening up and quickly wiping your eyes.

"Feel better?"

You nodded.

Yondu sighed, "What to do now..." he said thoughtfully. "Ya know, I never actually liked this whole 'rite of passage' thing, to be fully honest. Crew just gets too wound up. Yer not the first to have reservations 'bout it. Handful of lads have come to me over the years, confiding that they were nervous, but scared of being bullied by the rest of the crew if they didn't go through with it. I suspect there might have been more, but were too scared of lookin' weak to tell their captain. I guess I can understand that."

Surprised by this honesty, you asked, "What did they do?"

"Faked it. They'd go on shore leave, pay a whore to put on a good loud show, yelling and banging on the walls 'n stuff, then lap up the congratulations of the rest of the crew for 'becoming a man.'"

You were further surprised that any of the the crew would have been that open with their captain to admit faking it. "Really?" you ask. "They told you about it after?"

"Who d'ya think told 'em to do it?" Yondu said, huffing a laugh out his nose.

That makes you smile, though you aren't quite sure why. After a moment of thought you say, "If you don't like the whole thing, why don't you stop it?"

Yondu sighed. "I don't think I could if I tried. It's widespread over all 100 Ravager factions. Doubt it do well to tell one faction they couldn't participate. Enough of them look forward to it they'd probably riot." Yondu laughed sardonically. "Not that I haven't thought about trying to steer the culture around it in a different direction. I can tell some of my older crew have the same thoughts, even if they won't admit it."

"How do you know if they never said?" you asked.

"The way they keep passing off horror stories as funny tales to the younger crew. Or did ya miss the story about how Vorker-"

"Nope! Heard it!" you cut him off suddenly. "I remember! I don't need to hear it again, please!" You held up your hands almost as if defending yourself from hearing it again, eyes wide. You most definitely did not need to hear a retelling of the time Vorker caught something very nasty off a girl he met on a job and the details that came with it. There were some rumors that it was how he really lost his eye, but you weren't sure of the truth behind those claims.

Yondu chuckled, patting you on the back. His expression changed when he said. "That's prob'ly what ya should do."

You raised an eyebrow at him.

"Fake it, I mean." he clarified. "Ya should wait til ya want to do it, with someone ya want, if that should ever happen. Not just go through with it to fulfill some dumbass rite of passage." He stared off into the space in front of him. "I can't really see another way to go 'bout it." he admitted. "If I called out for a change among the crew now they'd no doubt see the connection, think I was going soft 'cause yer the only girl here, and then it'd blowback on you. I ain't gonna let that happen." He gave you a look that you understood without him having to explain further. He actually cared about you, in a way similar to how he cared for Peter. He didn't want to see you hurt or bullied over something stupid like this.

You nodded in understanding, returning your gaze to the floor.

"Next shore leave is in a few days. I'll take care of it." Yondu said, his words surprising you.

"What?"

"Consider it a gift." he said, lightly punching you in the arm as he said, "Don't say I never gave ya anythin'."

"I don't understand?" you say, lightly laughing in confusion.

Yondu dramatically rolled his eyes and said, "Guess I gotta spell it out fer ya... I'll arrange for a "fake visit" from a nice whore-bot for ya. It actually costs more for them to fake it, if ya can believe it."

You stared at him, speechless. "I- thank you?" you finally say, blushing. You give him another quick hug.

"Ya, don't get used to it." he replied in his usual gruff fashion when you released him, but you knew better. The old softie.

Just then the machine buzzed, alerting that Yondu's clothes were finished washing. He stood from the table to switch them into a nearby dryer. Once done he turned back to face you. "Well, ya probably got other duties ya need to get to. Better get on 'em."

You smiled, giving him a mock-reluctant, "Yeah," before following him to the door.

You weren't expecting what happened next.

Yondu opened the door and exited, you following out behind. The hallway was no longer empty, and you heard the same young man from earlier, Rahi, call out from a group of two other Ravagers, "Ow Ow! Looks like she finally lost it to the Captain!"

No doubt he thought he was being funny, but he really, really, shouldn't have done that.

Yondu's whistle pierced the air, his arrow quickly finding its way to rest against Rahi's throat. "Ya wanna try that again?" Yondu growled.

Rahi couldn't find any words, just babbled out incoherent nonsense as he nearly shit his pants. The other two Ravagers in the group weren't laughing, just cowering with their friend afraid they'd be next once Yondu finished with him. Other crew mates standing within the hall also stopped to stare in stunned silence.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't run my arrow through ya for speakin' to yer captain like that? Even worse offense for implying I'd screw around with a child." Yondu's eyes were dark and full of rage. Even you were a bit frightened, enough to almost let the child comment slide, and you weren't even the target.

"Dude! He's so old! Ew!" you shout over to the terrified young Ravager, hoping to help the situation by making it clear that nothing like that was ever going to be a thing. And, if you were to be honest, slight payback for Yondu calling you a child.

Yondu whipped his head around to you, and you caught a momentary expression of "You little shit!" before he said, "And don't ya forget it!"

He turned back to Rahi. "I'm waiting." he said, still glowering and crossing his arms expectantly.

Rahi was still busy freaking out. It looked like he was about to cry. He eventually managed to squeak out a, "I'm sorry!" among his pleas for Yondu not to kill him.

Yondu called back his arrow. "That's what I thought. For yer smart mouth you and the other two there are gonna wash the outside of the Eclector, and yer all gonna keep at it until the whole ship's clean." With a smug smile he added. "Guess yer all gonna miss out on shore leave."

This obviously didn't go over well with Rahi's friends, who were now glaring and smacking him at the back of his green head. The next shore leave after the upcoming one wouldn't happen for another 3 months.

"Ya heard me. Git going. And yer still all responsible fer yer other duties too." Yondu added.

The three young men begrudgingly started making their way past when Yondu stopped them again with an, "Ah, Ah, Ah." making them turn back, dreading what else he might have to add.

"I think ya better apologize to this young lady too, for thinking she'd want her first time to be with someone so old." He looked at you pointedly as he said this and you squinted back at him, a nervous giggle escaping your throat as you rubbed the back of your head. Shouldn't have spoke up and called your captain old, now he was going to have to make an example of you as well for mouthing off. "Yer gonna be cleaning out the brig for that one, missy." he said, loud enough for everyone else to hear. Had to make it look good, after all.

Rahi muttered out an apology before scurrying away with his now very irritated mates, but not before Yondu cried out after him with a, "I'm startin' to think some of ya are gettin' a lil' too wound up about this lil' rite of passage among ya young-ins. It'd sure be a shame if you were the reason I decided to put an end to it." He said this with a thick veil of warning. It was a threat, and one you hadn't expected to hear after the conversation you just had with him.

It was clear that no one else in hallway had expected to hear this from their captain either. Looks of shock were exchanged among the Ravagers in the hallway. Rahi and his buddies' eyes all widened in shock when his words finally sunk in and their scurry turned into a sprint to get away before they could make things even worse. That comment Rahi made had apparently pissed the captain off bad.

"What the rest of ya staring at?" Yondu said, startling the rest of the hallway dwelling crew into motion. "I know ya'll got shit to do, get on it!" He looked at you and cocked his head as if to say "Get moving." and you obeyed, making your way toward the brig to complete your extra cleaning duties.

Yondu did his best to hide a smirk as he made his way down to his quarters. He knew rumors would start spreading like wildfire about Rahi nearly causing Yondu to put an end to the rite of passage after that display. It was bound to piss more than a few of the younger crew off. He didn't care much for the lazy shit anyway, so it was better the crew think he was the reason for any upcoming changes rather than you, and if it succeeded in helping him end the whole culture around that particular thing, even better. They really did get too wound up about it.

***

The morning of shore leave came and you were nervous as hell. Yondu had pulled you aside the night before to let you know he had taken care of what he promised, and described the whore-bot he paid to help you fake it so you would know which one to accept. Still, even knowing it was taken care of you couldn't help the growing pit of nervousness in your stomach, though you did your best to hide it.

Since clearly the Eclector couldn't dock on the planet, being about a mile and a half long and all, Ravagers on shore leave would pool together on M-ships for the journey to and back, kind of like a funny buddy-system.

As per usual, you pooled in a ship with Yondu, Kraglin, and Peter along with Tullk, Oblo, and Horuz. Yondu and Kraglin sat up front to pilot, Tullk, Oblo and Horuz filled in the middle, while you and Peter got put in the back, as always.

While the older men laughed and carried on in front of you, you felt Peter nudge you in the arm. You looked over to see him looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "You ok?" he asked, having noticed how you were unusually quiet and fidgety.

"Yeah, I'm great." you lied, "Never better."

Peter rolled his eyes with a knowing smile. "Don't give me that. Are ya nervous?" he asked, obviously knowing full well what everyone expected you'd be doing on this shore leave. "You can tell me. I won't tell anyone."

You gave him a look, saying, "No!" before coming clean with a, "Fine. A little." as you turned your gaze down into your lap to fidget with your watch some more.

"It'll be ok," he assured, "I was a little nervous my first time, too," he admitted. Peter was a few years older than you at 20, and it was hard for you to picture him having been nervous about it, seeing as he now seemed to be trying to work his way through every cute girl in the galaxy.

"Really?" you asked, eyeing him skeptically.

"Yeah. I mean, I was still super excited, but I was a little nervous too. Those horror stories the older guys tell us really get to you."

You giggled with him, remembering what Yondu had told you the other day.

Peter continued, "But anyway, you're gonna be fine. But I did want to give you this." He pulled something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to you. It was a condom.

"Peter!" you whisper-shouted, blushing.

"Hey, if you're gonna do it, I wanna know you're being smart about it. Always use protection. Even with the Love-bots. Can't ever be too careful." He held his hand out more insistently.

You blushed harder and accepted the gift, even though you knew you wouldn't be needing it. "Thanks."

"Come on now, don't get all frowny on me. I'm just looking out for you." Peter teased, aiming a few pokes at your ribs, knowing it always got a good giggle or two out of you.

It worked. Giggles escaped your throat as you twisted in your seat and swatted at his hand, "Quit it!" you squeaked, but his mission was accomplished anyway, you were smiling now.

"There we go!" he teased, grinning at you.

"Shush!" you replied, sticking your tongue out at your friend and laughing when he flicked you in the arm for it. Soon enough the two of you were in a slap battle. You weren't really fighting, and neither of you struck with the intent to hurt (well, not much anyway) it was just how the two of you played sometimes. This carried on until you heard Yondu announce that you all had made it to your destination, and then the nervousness started to creep back into your belly.

Peter and you were the last off the ship. Yondu and the other men headed off, leaving the two of you to your own devices with calls to behave yourselves, but "not too much" *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*

You almost wished he had stuck around longer, but you knew he had already done his part. It would look weird if he stuck around to hold your hand, so to speak. You look to Peter, wanting to stall just a bit longer. "So, ya hungry?"

"Figured you'd want to get right to business," he teased. He knew you were probably stalling, but decided to go along with it anyway rather than abandon you straight away. You had been here before, but he knew this time was different. This time there was a pressure to do something new, and you had already admitted you were nervous about it.

"Uh, can't do it on an empty stomach," you say, forcing a smile.

He ruffled your hair. "Good point. I'm starving." He suggested you two grab some fries at the nearby bar inside the brothel (the whole place was the brothel, let's be honest) and you followed him.

When you both had finished you tried to think of something else to stall, maybe play some pool? However, you never got the chance, for a whore-bot with green hair and looking to be around your age came over to your table to greet you. It was the one Yondu told you to look for, and it asked if it could "show you a good time." You looked nervously at Peter who shot you a thumbs up while trying not to laugh. You glanced back at the bot and tentatively nodded, which Peter took as a sign to high-tail it out of there, leaving you alone. The bot asked for your ID, as you knew it would, and part of you wished you "forgot" it back on the ship, knowing that the bots were programed to refuse service to anyone under the age of 17 and required ID of younger-looking patrons to prove it.

After scanning your ID, the bot took you by the hand and flirtatiously led you across the room to a set of stairs. You began to hear some cheers as you ascended the stairs behind the bot and you were blushing too hard to even attempt to ham it up for their benefit.

Once in the room the bot turned to you. "I understand this isn't meant to be an ordinary engagement. Mr. Udonta left instructions to only perform counterfeit coitus, correct?"

You blushed and nodded, taken aback by the professionalism of the sex-bot, before wondering if you were being rude by assuming otherwise.

"Have you done this before?"

You shook your head, still blushing.

"It's alright. There's plenty of time to figure it out. I've been booked for three hours."

You sputtered. "Excuse me?!" you cried, trying not to be too loud. "Three-? What are we supp-"

The bot gave a laugh and held up its hand. "Do not worry, Miss. I was paid extra to deliver that joke. Mr. Udonta felt it would be very funny. I've only actually been booked for an hour, the standard amount of time."

You let a sigh of relief. You still felt that an hour was going to drag on, but at least it wasn't flarkin' three. "So, what do we do?"

The bot took your hand again and led you to the large bed in the center of the room. "Lie down here." You looked at the bot nervously and it clarified. "The noises will be more realistic if both our weights are on the bed."

You did as the bot instructed and it climbed over you. "I understand this may be awkward, but I'll ask that you trust the process. I will do this," the bot began to rhythmically rock its body back and forth, each rock ending in its hands hitting the headboard and making it knock into the wall behind it. "and then you can start making moaning sounds, you can repeat after me." The bot then started moan, encouraging you with a gesture of its hand when you were too busy blushing to follow the lead. You did your best to mimic the sounds. "We shall continue like this for 10 minutes, and then rest." the bot instructed, ushering you again with more hand gestures when you paused to give it a puzzled look.

After several minutes the bot prompted you to get louder, and then louder again still a few moments after. You realized it was coaching you to simulate you approaching the climax and you got nervous again, not knowing what to do when "that moment" was meant to happen. The bot read your face and told you to relax, just follow it's lead as it thumped against the wall faster and it moaned louder.

You followed its lead until it told you to make a last few loud "Oh's!" and then it began to slow its thumping before coming to a stop.

Whoops and laughter could be heard from the bar outside the door shortly after, and you blushed harder as the bot crawled off of you. "We will now have a few minutes of rest before beginning another simulation."

You sat up. "So we'll just keep repeating like this until the time's up?" you asked.

"Not quite," answered the bot. "We'll change things up a bit, different positions, different sounds, helps to keep it interesting."

"This seems like a lot of work?" you say.

"Yes, well we're paid to put on a show here. Might as well ensure it's convincing," the bot answered with a shrug and a smile.

You winced as you realized you could hear similar noises you had just faked coming from the rooms next to yours and then more whooping and cheering once they, too, stopped. "The walls are kinda thin in here, huh?" you say awkwardly.

The bot smiled sympathetically, "It seems that way, but not really. Only the louder noises make it out. Normal conversation levels are typically left unheard from outside the rooms, so you're clear to speak freely if that was a concern."

"Good to know," you say. You honestly had been a little concerned about that. "So, do we just sit around then?"

"I could give you a massage, if you'd like."

"That... actually sounds really nice. Sure, thank you." You accept the offer, realizing you could use a little stress reliever. "What's your name, by the way?" you ask, feeling a bit guilty for not having asked the bot's name before then and wondering if you should feel silly about that or not.

"You may call me Finn," the bot answered, not seeming fazed in the slightest. "Would you prefer to remove your clothes or leave them on?" The bot- Finn- motioned for you to turn around to give it access to your back.

"Um, clothes on, please?" you say, reaching for your zipper. "But I'll take off my jacket."

"Alright." The bot said, it's tone not caring in the slightest, and you supposed it very likely didn't care one way or another. It went straight to work, starting slow by gathering your hair and pulling it back and up almost as if it were going to tie your hair in a ponytail, but instead of securing an elastic it just repeated this motion a few more times. It was actually very relaxing, and it made you wish you had someone around to play with your hair more often.

With a final gentle tug the bot moved one hand to your forehead while the other worked at the back of your neck, kneading where the nape of your neck met your skull, making you close your eyes and sigh deeply.

To your delight the bot then threaded its fingers through your hair, scratching gently at your scalp. A soft hum escapes you as you stopped yourself from leaning into to touch out of shyness, and you almost let out a whine when the scratching stopped. However, you were soon soothed by the bot beginning to knead into your neck and shoulders.

You had just barely stopped yourself from moaning once when the bot then pressed into another spot that made it impossible to not make a sound, though you tried. Finn speaks up. "Let yourself relax fully," the bot encouraged. "It's alright to allow yourself to be noisy here, may even work to your benefit under the circumstances."

You giggled slightly and blushed. Finn was right, after all. If there were any time to just let go and relax it would technically be here and now. Before you could think much further Finn had dragged the knuckles of each thumb up each side of your spine with just the right amount of pressure to coax a genuine moan out of you, surprising you as it happened. You had never really realized before just how much stress your work as a Ravager took out on your back. You began to wonder if these Love-bots were also designed to be professional masseuses, because Finn seemed to know exactly what they were doing, and it was amazing.

Finn ended the massage a bit later by working back up your back and working their fingertips back into your hair for a last bit scalp massage.

You were almost disappointed when it ended, but when it was over you turned to look at the Love-bot. "Thank you, that was really nice." you say.

"Anytime." Finn smiled. "We still have twenty minutes left, shall we begin another simulation?"

You sighed. "I suppose. He paid for an hour, might as well act like I'm using it." You smiled, not feeling quite as bitter about the situation anymore after the massage. Finn really did have magic fingers. Or state of the art massage programing. Probably the latter.

"Indeed." Finn answered. "After all, there are no refunds."

You let out a slight chuckle at the bot's bluntness. "Alright, so what now?"

The next simulation involved you both standing on the edge of the bed with the wall to hold your balance as you bounced slightly up and down to make the bed squeak. The bot encouraged your to make similar noises as before, but to also throw out some curses, like, "Oh! Fuck!" It even did the same, occasionally calling out a "Yes! Right there! Oh, yes!" that made you raise an eyebrow. You had to fight from giggling the whole time at the situation. It was pretty funny after all. You were both jumping on the bed like children.

When that simulation had finished you sat down on the bed and looked at Finn. "Do you guys... er...-bots?... feel anything?" you asked, referring to the language the bot had used earlier. "Or are you just supposed to say stuff like that as an act?"

"We don't have nerve endings, and therefore we don't really 'feel things' like you might, but there are certain sensors that can be activated during a session with a client and prompt a correct response. However, as this session is only a simulation, I suppose you can call my dialogue 'acting.'"

You half-grinned when the realization of the bot's words hit you. "Are you saying... you're like a 'sexy' arcade game?" you say, trying not to giggle, before becoming suddenly afraid that might have been offensive. "I mean- obviously you're not a toy- I mean- I didn't mean to offend you."

The bot chuckled. "There's no need to worry. There are certain similarities, one could see how you might draw that conclusion."

You blushed again and attempted to change the subject. "So... what are we going to do with the last simulation?"

"You have a couple options. We can simulate against the door, or we can simulate bending over the bed. We could also simulate oral, but the noises you made during the massage more or less already worked in its favor."

You blushed at that. You already knew the door was out of the question, as you had an admittedly irrational fear that it might pop open as you were faking the deed. "We can try over the bed."

"Very well. This one will require less movement of you, you may remain seated there." Finn said as they stood up and moved to stand with their legs between your own. "This one may also be a bit awkward," the bot warned, "as it requires thrusting into the bed on my part. Ready?"

You nodded hesitantly and the bot began a steady rhythm of motion against the bed, making it creak.

The bot was right. This was more awkward, and you were grateful when it was finally over with about five minutes to spare.

You stood from bed and grabbed your jacket. "Thanks. This wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be." you said truthfully. In fact, you really almost thought you'd come back if for no other reason than to get another back rub.

"You still have five more minutes, is there anything else I can do for you today?"

You smiled shyly and said, "Well, I won't argue if you play with my hair again..."

***

You were of course greeted with congratulatory cheers and high-fives when you exited the room along with the other few crew mates who had recently come of age... and had still been allowed to attend shore leave that is. R.I.P Rahi and his friends. (They hadn't died, but you can bet they were probably really regretting pissing Yondu off.)

A few fellow Ravagers bought you some congratulatory drinks and the rest of the night seemed to fly by.

Eventually you caught back up with Peter and shortly after that Yondu announced it was time to head back, which of course received some disappointed grumbling among the crew. However, nobody argued, knowing it might cost them their next shore leave if they got "fussy like toddlers" as Yondu would say.

You and Peter got back to the ship to find Tullk and Oblo already there waiting. Horuz showed up just after and sighed to see Yondu and Kraglin weren't there yet. Yondu and Kraglin were the only ones with keys to Yondu's M-ship, so you all had to stand outside and converse among yourselves as he took his sweet time getting there.

He was probably just paying the Sneeper woman who owned the place and would be there any minute, but 'any minute' still felt like forever when it was cold.

Eventually he and Kraglin did show up and unlock the ship so you could all get in.

Once inside the ship and mostly everyone had strapped in Kraglin called back to you from the co-pilots seat with tipsy laughter in his voice. "So d'ya have fun? Feel any different? Any horror stories to add to the list?" He looked teasingly at Oblo and Oblo flipped him the bird.

Yondu swatted at him, saying, "Aw, leave the girl alone," but there was also laughter in his scolding, so he wasn't that serious.

You answered anyway. "Ya. Had a blast, Kraglin. Smooth sailing. Just a little sleepy."

This made the other men chuckle, though you weren't entirely sure why, although you could guess.

Yondu piped up. "If she falls asleep Quill's gotta carry her in."

Peter scoffed with a laugh. "Why do I gotta?" he said, before turning to you to add. "You better not fall asleep then."

"Well if you fall asleep I ain't carrying you in! Probably break my back if I tried. You can just stay sleeping in the ship." you laughed back.

"Why you little!" Peter cried out with a grin, aiming to poke you in the ribs, but you dodged him, returning a swat of your own to his arm. And, like on the way over, the two of you were engrossed in another slap battle. The others just let you two carry on, busy with their own conversations and laughing amongst themselves.

Eventually you and Peter did tire yourselves out and Yondu chuckled to the other men when after docking the ship he noticed you had both fallen asleep, curled up in your respective seats. Oblo snapped a picture, cooing, "Aw look! Ain't that precious!"

"Send that to me." Yondu said with a grin. "Might blow it up, hang it in the Mess Hall." This earned a laugh from the others. He looked at Tullk with a grin before exiting the ship. "Ya better wake 'em. I'm sure as hell not carryin' them to bed."

***

The next morning Yondu was alone in his quarters when he decided to call up Stakar.

After a few rings Stakar's face comes up on the screen, and the two men give a Ravager salute in greeting before Stakar asks what's brought Yondu to call him.

"I wanna talk to ya about that whole coming of age and having sex thing."

Stakar raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

"Younger crew just get too wound up about it. It ain't healthy." Yondu responded.

Stakar still looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"Ya know what I mean." Yondu said firmly. "They get all wound up like it's the most important thing in the world, and it's because everyone makes a big old deal outta something silly like that."

"It hasn't been a problem before?" Stakar said thoughtfully. "What's changed? It's that Terran girl isn't it? Of course. She just came of age." Stakar shook his head. "I don't care what you say, you're soft on her and Peter. You can't get attached and let them influence your judgement like that, Yondu."

"No, it ain't like that," Yondu said, trying to cover his ass and continuing before Stakar can interrupt him. "It's got nothin' to do with them. I just can't have my crew bullying their mates just cause they don't wanna fuck yet or lettin' the whole thing get to their heads makin' them all disrespectful-like. Almost had to keel-haul a few boys who suddenly thought they were big enough to start disrespecting their captain over it."

Stakar looked at him suspiciously. "No, we can't have that... What do you propose then? It's not like we can stop them. You tell young people they can't do something, they're only gonna do it more."

"I know that- Look. I'm not sayin' we do away with it entirely. I could care less what they do on shore-leave. But we can maybe make them realize it's not such a big damn deal. Ya know, slow-like. Maybe they'd stop getting so wound-up about it." Yondu said, quickly adding, "If they're less focused on that maybe they'd work harder."

Stakar thought for a bit. Yondu was right, he thought. He had noticed the younger crowd getting a bit wound up about it, and sometimes they did let the excitement get ahead of their duties... "Maybe you're right," he conceded. "If it's affecting their jobs maybe we should try and change the culture around it... I'll talk with some of the other captains and get back to you."

Yondu grinned and nodded. "All I ask."

***

You felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. It was the day after shore-leave and no one had brought up how you "Became a woman" at all. It was as if the previous week's excitement had been completely forgotten, and you couldn't be happier.

You did notice in the following days that Rahi seemed to be getting a bit of flack. He hadn't been particularly well liked before, always trying to push his duties off on other crew mates or blaming others for things he had broken, but now he was practically a pariah. Even his buddies didn't seem to want much to do with him, though that could be because they were still mad that they had been dragged under into his punishment despite not having done anything to deserve it other than be with him at the time.

You almost felt bad for him until Peter explained that along with the 'written' rule that Ravagers don't deal in kids; harming or forming inappropriate relationships with children and teens (i.e: having sexual relations with younger crew) was also a HUGE no-no. Even worse if the offender is someone high-ranking. Rahi, though he just thought he was being funny, had more or less unwittingly falsely accused Yondu of breaking that part of the code with the joke he made, hence why Yondu had been so offended and pissed. Peter was honestly surprised Yondu had let him live after that.

He also added that no one wants to be around someone who thinks it's funny to make those particular jokes. Real accusations of that nature are taken very seriously among Ravager Clans, so if someone is found to just be flippantly saying crap like that, the general feel is that it makes it harder for real victims to be heard, so the crew will tend to shun the offender to make it clear that behavior isn't acceptable. And well, if the offender didn't learn their lesson pretty quick and get back into the good graces of their captain and crew, they'd quickly find themselves to be cannon fodder.

Even Ravagers know there's a line between raunchy and unacceptable.

There may have also been the matter that when Yondu had said "I'm startin' to think some of ya are gettin' a lil' too wound up about this lil' rite of passage among ya young-ins. It'd sure be a shame if you were the reason I decided to put an end to it." much of the crew, after the rumor had gotten twisted up a bit via game of telephone, had taken it to mean that Rahi had almost gotten shore-leave taken away from everyone- forever. And well, that just didn't sit right with a lot of folks. It was a final nail in the coffin, if you will.

However, what you didn't know was about Yondu's conversation with Stakar.

Stakar did go talk to the other captains, and more than a few did finally admit similar instances among their younger ranks after having heard through the grapevines about a giant stink a lad called Rahi had caused on Udonta's ship. They admitted to instances of bullying, pressure, and disrespect occurring and directly related to the particular rite of passage and collectively agreed with Yondu that a change surrounding the culture could be beneficial, much to Yondu's surprise, and also his relief.

He never did tell you about his conversation with Stakar, though he was sure you may start to suspect if everything went well and things started changing regarding that particular aspect of life. As long as no one else had to feel like he saw you feeling that night in the laundry, he'd be happy.

You had come to his quarters the day after the visit to Contraxia, knocking almost as soon as he had hung up with Stakar. You had wanted to thank him him for helping you, both with the advice and with the Love-Bot. You told him how you felt so much better after having that talk with him, and how you no longer felt broken.

He'd never say, because screw sentiment, but it warmed his heart to know he helped you realize there was nothing wrong with you, that you had never been damaged. You two parted with a hug and he let you know to not be afraid if you needed to come to him about stuff like that in the future, just not to make a habit of telling the others lest they accuse him of going soft.

You were his little girl, something else he never intended to say out loud, because again, screw sentiment. He felt a responsibility for your well-being, even if you could be a little shit like Peter sometimes.

Ah, fuck sentiment. He knew you two were his kids, and he was damn proud.

***

About a week after shore leave you and Peter happened across Yondu outside the Mess Hall doors as you were heading in for supper.

"Hey, look! It's Terran One and Terran two!" Yondu said, oddly loudly.

"Um, hi?" You gave him an odd look. "What's up?"

"Now why would ya think somethin's up? Can't a captain greet his crew outside the Mess Hall before dinner?"

'Something's definitely up.' you thought, sharing a glance with Peter who was clearly thinking the same thing. "Are we in trouble? Did we do something?" Peter chuckled nervously. He didn't know about you, but he had maybe definitely rigged a supply closet in the control room with some firecrackers, and he wasn't sure if some poor soul (probably Kraglin) had already fell victim to it, meaning he was about to be in hot water.

You were also grinning nervously. You didn't know about Peter's firecrackers, but you had also maybe definitely hidden some poppers under the cushion of Yondu's desk chair that morning when he was busy on the other side of the ship, but you weren't going to just turn yourself in without more information, now were you?

"I dunno, you tell me." Yondu said, smirking. "Are you in trouble? Ya'll got a guilty conscience?"

You and Peter shared a nervous glance. You both knew you both were most definitely guilty of something, however you two had a code. Never turn yourself in, and never turn your buddy in. You looked back at Yondu, suppressing a nervous giggle. "No? I don't think so?"

Kraglin then came outside the Mess Hall doors to stand with Yondu. Kraglin had a big shit eating grin on his face, almost as if he were trying not to laugh when he saw you and Peter there.

Yondu threw him a glance which Kraglin returned with a nod. You noticed this and you exchanged another look with Peter. Something was definitely up. This felt like a trap.

"Well, what're ya waiting for? Get in there and grab some supper!" Yondu ordered, grinning strangely. He opened the door for you- oh shit something was absolutely up here.

You and Peter eyed him suspiciously but obeyed, entering the Mess hall without a word.

Once inside you noticed the rest of the crew inside were all oddly quiet, all staring at the two of you with grins and some suppressing giggles behind their hands. You heard the doors shut behind you and turned to see Yondu and Kraglin standing in front of them, both donning the biggest shit eating grins of all time.

"Cap'n has a surprise for you guys, d'ya- do ya like it?" Kraglin asked, trying to suppress his own giggles.

You heard Peter exclaim a, "Oh hell no!" and you turned to see what had caught his attention, noticing the crew had finally broke out into loud raucous laughter around you.

Hanging high on the wall about 10 feet to the right of the Mess Hall entrance doors was a humongous blown up photo of you and Peter. It was the photo you guys didn't know Oblo had snapped when you returned from Contraxia. It showed the two of you each curled up asleep in your respective seats of Yondu's M-ship. Peter was sucking his thumb. You were cuddling one of Yondu's softer dash toys.

You both paled as you stared up at the giant poster hung high on the wall. Hung conveniently high enough that neither of you would be able to reach it to rip it down, although Peter made a few good attempts.

Your eyes narrowed at your captain as he approached you, his laughter matching that of the crew. He pulled you towards him and ruffled your hair as he asked. "What's the matter? Ya don't like yer surprise?"

You glared up at him as Peter was now climbing up on a chair in a vain attempt to reach and pull the photo down. "This so means war, blue man!"

"Don't pick fights ya can't win, pipsqueak." Yondu laughed. "Consider this payback for those poppers in my chair, and ya can tell Peter this is for those firecrackers in the supply closet."

You sighed and punched him in the arm, but he only laughed and pulled you in close to ruffle your hair again, "Oh lighten up! Ya don't really expect me to just let my kids have all the fun, huh?"

You jerked your head towards him with a surprised expression, and it seemed it was only then he realized what he had said. Grateful that no one else would have heard it over his noisy crew he attempted to backtrack. "Uh, don't read too much into it." he said, clapping you on the back and announcing to Kraglin that he was going to grab some food. Kraglin, who was busy laughing at Peter, who had seemingly given up his attempts to rip down the photo in favor of walking dejectedly back over to you, nodded and joined his Captain in obtaining some supper.

Peter and you turned to face the photo again, the laughter from the crew still not having died down. Peter spoke first. "This means war, right?"

"Definitely. I had already set up a dye pack in Yondu's shower earlier. He'll be a weird shade of purple by morning," you affirmed with a grin.

"Nice. We gotta get one on Kraglin too."

"Absolutely," you reply. "After supper?"

"Yeah. After supper." Peter agreed.

The two of you made your way to get your supper, ignoring the laughs and teases of the other Ravagers along the way and discussing further options of getting Yondu and Kraglin back for this.

He may be like a father to you two, but that didn't mean he'd get off easy.

#gotg #gotg fanfiction #guardians of the galaxy #yondu x reader #long fanfiction #yondu udonta #x reader #reader is a ravager #papa!yondu #daddy!yondu #peter quill #peter quill x reader #yondu udonta x reader #kraglin #ace #demi #ace!reader #demi!reader #sfw

151 notes · View notes

monsoonblooms12 · 3 years

Text

Eumoiriety (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Four Years of Pooja Sharma's Birthday, from her first year as an Intern to her first year as an Attending.

Eumoiriety: Happiness due to state of innocence and purity💕

A/N: It's my baby's birthday and I went overboard. This is purely self indulgent and since I have zero to negative self control, this turned out way longer than I expected it to. Anyway, I hope you still like it💙

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 3.7K (I am sorry!)

Rating: General

Category: A bit angst, A bit fluff

Warnings: None that I saw.

Prompts: @choicesaugustchallenge Day 29 - Birthday

READ ON AO3

Intern Year:

She walks barefoot on the green floor as the dews clinging to grass tips, soothe her like the cold breeze on a summer day.

A few golden rays filter through the canopy that acts as a barrier to the shining sun overhead. When they fall on the grass, the view looks like gold intermixed with emerald.

She wears a white gown, which flutters behind her, as her heart dances with the bees going flower to flower to get their prize of nectar in return for their favour of pollinating them.

There is a calm spreading through her soul, an ease, a slow infusion of tranquillity with her heart beats.

A swish makes her turn. Her eyes capture a silhouette, drifting farther and farther, as if taking her calm along with it.

It's replaced by restlessness.

There is a cajole, a whispered cajole, that urges her feet to run, her mind to think, her heart to wonder.

She follows. One step, and another.

The scene changes.

There are no more trees, no more green with the sun's shine.

At a distance, the waves crash on the sandy shore, their meet with their shore echoing in the silent surroundings.

She looks around and sees it.

The silhouette, now apparent that it was a man, standing with his back to her. He looks unbothered. As if he stole her peace and gave her his unrest in return.

She tries to walk slowly towards, footsteps imprinting on the sand, but the distance never seems to lessen or end.

She tries running, but to no avail.

The waves continue crashing, the footprints continue to get imprinted and the man continues to remain still and silent.

The only change has been in the sky, which is now leaden, dark with humongous clouds.

The thunder begins to cackle.

Once, Twice, Thrice.

She closes her ears with her hands, eyes shut to reduce the impact of the thunderous noise reverberating through every single one of her bones. But the roar keeps getting louder and louder until...

Her eyes snap open, but the echo from her sweven doesn't leave her. She turns around to find her phone ringing, straining her eyes with incredulous bright light (that she forgot to dim). The caller ID is barely registered, but the voice gives away the identity.

It's her sister.

With a flash, all the haze from the peculiar dream gets lost and bubbly happiness takes up the emptied space.

It's their birthday.

The first one since she came here. She had been so busy unknotting the twisted knots of circumstances in which she found herself tangled, that she had forgotten about the once unforgettable occasion of her life.

Maybe she has really lost that childhood she held on so tightly to, she thinks.

But not without a hope. Of a chance to get it back.

Maybe differently.

But the want to relive those carefree days, where the colour of pens you get as gifts, and the decision of who gets the piece of cake with the chocolate masterpiece on it were the only things that held importance. All other worldly, societal woes were secondary, trivial, uncared for.

She wishes her sister and she wishes her back.

3..2..1.. Happy Birthday! To Us!

They scream-whisper together, carrying on the years' long tradition.

The only thing different? They were on their cellulars, ecospheres apart, instead of snuggling and shouting together, and annoying their brother for an entire day.

Subconsciously, a tee-hee escapes her. Thinking about her brother, she takes a look at the clock. Correct 12:03 am on 12th August. If she knows him, he is probably counting the seconds.

At 12:05 am to the dot, another shrill echoes through the silent apartment. Her guess is correct.

On the other side of the screen, sits Idhayan arranging the cake so that Pooja can see the eloquent buttercream designs he has hand made on it.

In the background, there is a blurry motion. It turns out to be Alekhya.

She jumps onto the couch beside their brother, putting an end to his steady concentration.

He makes an irritated face, while she laughs.

And Pooja just watches, giggling alone.

The pang in her chest reminds her, once & once more, about just how much she misses them.

How empty, monochromatic her life is, with all these miles between them.

For the past year, every time any event took a turn for the worse, broke her, or hurt her, she wanted to go back to her safe haven.

The place where the chronicles of her life begun.

Many times, she had found herself convinced (by others as well as her self doubting mind) that she didn't belong here. That she didn't have the calibre, the skills to strive in this fight of dogs, in this race of horses where she felt like a donkey.

Or maybe a snail.

She dreamed of sleeping in her mother's lap when she first found herself in the crossroads of feelings and reason. Making her muddled head clear with words that never crossed the barrier between dream and reality.

When Mrs Martinez died, she imagined herself sitting on the swing, her brother's comfort brownies reduced to messy crumbs, as she let the mountain winds take away the burden of dread that pressed upon her heart.

And the day when Landry's backstab became eminent? She visualized her sister ripping him down, shredding him with knives of words because that's what he deserved.

She knew her father would have made them both coffee like he always did when he came home during breaks from piloting. He would have said a mere few words, which would have been enough for her to see the path ahead.

The mini virtual celebration ends, and the silence settles again. Tendrils of sleep come and go, but never stay.

She is left alone with her thoughts and worries, and a fear of the unknown which is hidden by the curtains of the future.

--------

The day passes like a swift blowing wind in a desert.

It's quiet, too quiet.

And probably for the first time in her life, she adores it. To be away from the hustle of a celebration, which would have been a noise in the cacophony, given the situation.

To get a period of silence for her thoughts to drift away, to think about the unknown, to predict a make or break.

The pages are turned swiftly by her fingers, one of which is clad with a minimal gold ring, another old ritual of hers.

The library harbours the overworked interns, who are now pushing the boundaries of time to find a way to help their friend out.

Their tired eyes pain with the lack of sleep, coffee fuelling through their veins, and mind engrossed in picking up any clue, any line, any tip that could be supportive for them.

Hours pass, no-one utters a word. Pens run on empty notebooks, hands managing to create only messy scribbles. Black and Blue fill the white as if it never existed.

The clock strikes the end hour.

They all get up.

They go home together, for discussions and relaxation.

At the doorstep, everyone enters before her, while she stands still, too engulfed in worries to notice the happenings.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Confetti pops, her reverie is broken.

The smile shines like a jewel in a priceless necklace.

The arrangements are minimal, just champagne, cake and friends, but that's more than enough for her. To make her forget the dark fog of pessimism.

Maybe there is hope left.

-------

Second Year:

12th August.

The day that is drifting closer by the minute.

It has always been Alekhya's birthday for her.

On her phone, In her diary, In her mind.

People might regard it as a beautiful flaw of her nature, the flaw of always placing others before herself.

But to her, the instinct seemed natural, obvious. She had never delved into the whys, and she doesn't want to begin now.

For Alekhya, the circumstances became vice-versa.

And this was the beauty of their bond.

Strong, Pure and Selfless.

They never seem to realize that, though.

They hold onto the strings of simplicity, of sweet uncomplexity. And that is what helps them to bridge the gap between siblings and best friends.

After the tumultuous year, that very much resembled the completion of a voyage through the rough Indian Ocean, where storms ravage through days and endless nights, thunders crack, and waves that scale the heights between the ocean and sky to become mountains of water, crash on the feeble pieces of wood barely held together in the form of a boat, coming back to her origin, her hometown is a necessity.

Especially for her to find that normalcy again.

She survived.

Even though she fell, almost drowned, gasped for a breath more times she could count and nearly accepted her fate.

Until that is, the pale faces of the ones she holds close, the endless stream of tears that scale their cheeks, their breaking hearts, came to haunt her in her reverie and prevented her from closing her eyes & from letting that almost undetectable beat of heart stop.

The wishes from last year come back to her. This time, it wasn't virtual anymore. This time, it wasn't just painted in pixels, but written in buttercream letters, one which she could taste.

This time, the hugs weren't just virtual. They were very real, and very needed.

As she sits amidst the bushes of phenomenal florals, she lets her mind project in vivid colours, the extremities of the last year.

Her heart, breaking into tiny glass pieces, not perceived by the eye but sharp enough to draw blood.

The fear of losing and letting so many others lose along.

The coming close and going away, almost kisses and slide of unassuming hands, those which could easily be perceived as a mistake, but were anything but.

Competing in a nameless competition and almost dying in the process.

Getting the lost love back. Slowly, Gradually. (even if it felt too early to call it that)

And then... Her mind stops as the playful tunes start emanating out along with florescent light from the cellular, and the face of the one who has been a regular image of the thoughts that lull her to sleep.

On the other side, his voice is soft.

She can visualize him in the Diagnostics Office, leaning back on his chair.

Most probably on a break.

The new day hasn't even started for him, yet he remembers that it has, for her.

Their talks are interspersed with comfortable silence. For them, just the knowledge that the person on the other side is still there with them is enough.

All through the conversation, she waits.

In a hope that the irrelevant and unimportant date is written in faded letters somewhere in that brilliant mind of his.

As the line approaches its end, talks slowly halt, she feels a faint pang of sadness.

Maybe he doesn't remember it after all.

She bids her farewell, and as his finger hovers close to the end call button, she hears it.

Crystal Clear but still seeming unreal.

Happy Birthday, Pooja.

Her thanks are intermixed with a light giggle, unable to hold back the pleasure that erupts within her, along with the flutter called butterflies in her stomach.

Maybe there is always hope left, after all.

-------

Last year of Residence:

There have been countless moments when she has asked the time to wait, to slow its rushing footsteps that leave no mark behind.

Sometimes it's a beg, while in other vespertine hours, it's a mindless murmur.

This moment is one of them.

When a handful of sand is slowly released on a windy day, the swooshes and swishes carry them away, farther and farther, leave them with no choice but to fly along.

The minutes were being carried away by the same current, where they had no choice but to pass.

No one had the power to hold it, not even the mighties, the richest, the most supreme.

The conditions now extensively mimic the conditions during her first year.

Just this time, it was textbooks on internal medicine and medical procedure instead of ethics.

The wishes that day are hushed, the minimal party comprising of cupcakes and mug cakes and the gang, christened "The Invincibles" after they successfully tackle one hurdle and another but remain strong and together, in their PJs.

It must be one of the first nights since who knows how long when they spent their time doing an activity that doesn't involve colour coded tabs and complicated biological drawings.

And even though some of them make faux complaints about the wasted time, they all needed this break more than they could express.

The morning sun rays filter through the white curtains guarding the windows way too fast, making them unable to pinpoint the exact moment when the black of the night ceased to exist, when the sky became melanocrysus and when the golden took over the entire stretch.

A single text message pushes her to drop the blanket of laziness, the cocoon she inhabited. Getting up and placing a smile has never been as easy as it was now.

Come Over

------

The condo is inhabited by a stark silence when she reaches there.

She knocks. The click of the doorknob on the other side is almost instantaneous.

His hand wraps around her waist like a reflex deeply etched in his encephalon. For the first time in forever, their kisses are not chaste. Or momentary.

When he whispers a happy birthday wish against her forehead, that's what she would call intimacy.

The purity of the action touches her heart and makes it swell, with an emotion that she predicts will not remain unnamed any longer.

-------

First-year as an attending:

The celebratory vibes are in the air today.

Her stride is confident, heels playing a mellow harmony on the shining floors.

No one doesn't recognize her.

The intern who nearly lost her license to the Head of Diagnostics team, it was a journey that had thrown her off-road a million times.

Sometimes the barriers were pinpricks leaving no marks, and sometimes they were boulders crushing her.

And sometimes, one of these on-lookers would tear down her faith by stabbing her from the back, the cowardice of their soul, being mirrored in the blades of those knives of betrayal.

And yet she stands strong, her resolve unperturbed, as she faces the demons, those of others and those of her own.

It's a fight she has been learning to fight since she was eleven.

To curtain her tears with a glow in eyes, to hide the broken heart behind pretty lies. And just like practice makes one perfect, she has almost perfected the art of having to hide the real her inside.

As she passes the numerous congregations, amalgamations of patients and staff, she is greeted by wishes from old acquaintances whose kindness is apparent in their smile and by wishes of employed enemies, whose disinterest or sometimes blatant hate is too, completely apparent in their voice.

But they are not the ones she is worried about.

Interspersed between these two extremities are people who speak kind and in flattery lines with a sword behind their back.

Those who know how to hide their true intentions in the modulations of voice.

Every time she hears a wish where nothing is apparent, her heart stops for a while.

Strings of thought muddle her head and she tries to figure out the reality behind their words.

Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes she fails.

And sometimes she faces vehement opposition of her tired nerves who ask her to stop caring about those who are passing by.

But she never stops.

Her legs carry her to the Diagnostics office.

Her Office.

The swell of pride, of a fulfilment she last felt when she got into Edenbrook, make her head light.

She tries to stop but gives up the efforts soon.

If she has realized something through the twists of lawsuits and turns of almost dying, it is that if you keep waiting for the turns of the clock to approach a "right moment" for a chance to celebrate, you will probably keep waiting your entire life until your breath is being taken away and all that is left are regrets and missed opportunities of happiness.

So she twirls like a princess in her imaginary ball gown, beaming with satisfaction, and taking pride in giving herself the give of success.

Of making her loved ones and herself proud.

She gets so carried away in the train of thoughts, in which one bougie is connected by another, and one more, that she doesn't notice the person who preoccupies the room.

The halt is so sudden, that she almost tumbles upon the man. Almost.

She manages to get hold of herself, her hand on his back.

He turns, eyes meet.

If someone would have asked her what is cosmic, she would have said "The melt of glowing ambers into ice blue." Sure, she has looked into them more times than she can count or recollect. But every time their orbs meet, the reactions the action produces, she can only give the word seraphic to it.

When Ethan left for Amazon, she would often wonder why is she still keeping the lamp of hope alive. His absquatulation broke her, acted like a spark to her over-thinking mind. She would lie on her bed, eyes tracing the same lines on the ceiling above her over and over again, thinking just what she did wrong. She never reached the end of the path though, never really achieved the answer, even after meandering through a hundred courses of thoughts.

But now, she thanks her old self for living through it all. For not letting that lamp extinguish. For keeping it safe in a little corner of the labyrinths of her heart. Wordlessly, she hugs him, the plethora of emotions becoming quite too much to be expressed in minute syllables.

His whisper next to her ears, the innocently simplistic words induce a shiver in her spine.

But the last word.

4 letters, 1 word.

It hangs in the air like a diamond necklace around a maiden's neck. Like a tiny pendant that shines brighter than all elaborate jewels, all lengthy anecdotes.

It's enough, more than enough for her.

And as their smiles slowly spread like the slow rise of the golden sun, gently letting the rays spread through the humble earth. And those smiles, they shine together, brighter than the Sirius.

Happy Birthday, Love.

-------

Her casual gown, bearing floral patterns, flutters along with the soft grass, she feels a sense of wonder. Whether at the shimmering moon, the stardust spread through the stretch in the woods, or at the simplicity of her surroundings, she does not know.

Her unassuming footsteps walk slow, observant of her surroundings. After walking down the trail, she stops at the clearance.

At a distance, something shines under the silver moonbeams. Her mind beckons her to return back, but her intuition asks her to move on. She listens to the latter's plea.

A small cuboidal box and a bunch of white tulips lay peacefully out of place. She usually would have left it, just in case it was a trap.

But this time curiosity overtook reason and she picks the bouquet up. A small note amidst her favourite flowers.

I love you

No name. No initials. But she knew exactly who had written it. Not because he was the one who asked her to come here, in the heaven hidden amidst the chaos, but because those flourishes of his fanciful lettering would never escape her notice. Even if the only source of luminance was distant fairy lights on trees and the faint moonbeams.

Her eyes travel away from the articles. At a distance, the silhouette stands. The same silhouette from her sweven. But this time, there is no restlessness, no rush, no tension in the air. No thunder cackles and no waves crash. This time the silhouette waits for her, unlike the last time when it was her waiting for him.

He turns, only the shine of his orbs visible. And the shadow of the gorgeous smile that dances on his lips. The last time, his stone mask was too heavy, too powerful for any of them to break or move.

But this time? This time, the mask has fallen off, it has met the end of its existence.

He comes closer, the shadow now a clear image. He goes and picks up the cuboid and hands it to her.

"Open it" He whispers in a soft voice, that disappears as soon as it appears.

She takes it and opens it, as per his words. Everything is perfect and normal.

Except for the space in the middle.

Something sparkles, in silver lustre. Her first instinct is, Diamond? She decided to pick it up

It's a key.

She looks up to him, bewildered. Is it what she thinks it is?

Move-in with me?

She places the box of chocolates down, the key held tight in her fist.

And then she kisses him.

She doesn't have to speak a word, but he understands. After all, why would two intertwined hearts need verbal responses to know what the other one feels?

Only his home, can fill the brick walls of his house with love, and make it a home.

------

They both lay side by side on the lush grass, hands intertwined, hearts beating in unison, silence filling their souls like air fills their lungs.

They look at the stars and the moon. Or more appropriately, the gaze at the starry screen, but the mind plays significant moments from their time together.

Pooja's mind however thinks about the four of her birthdays since she set foot in Boston. The mundane softness of them, contrasting all the birthdays she has had in the rest of her years.

The photo frame of the interns from the first year. The group video call, her life from the second year. The PJ party from the third year. And the key from the fourth.

They are puzzle pieces of the saga of her life, the absence of friends from early years, the gap, the void now filled.

And after years of searching, she thinks she has finally found it. Hidden in the normality, the simplicity, the mundanity of life.

Happiness.

PS: If you are reading this, I am very grateful for you. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a great day🤎

Tags🤎 (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed or if I forgot you):

Perma: @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @udishaman @aestheticartsx @twinkleallnight @schnitzelbutterfingers @sophxwithers @sweatyrysconnoisseur @nikki-2406 @choicesfanaf @trrfanaddict @starrystarrytrouble @gardeningourmet @parkbarks @mvalentine @lovablegranny @mercury84choices @izzyourresidentlawyer @phoenixrising308 @adiehardfan @quixoticdreamer16 @a-crepusculo

Open Heart (All fics and edit): @lucy-268 @maurine07 @bellcat2010 @headoverheelsforramsey @estellaelysian @shanzay44

Ethan x Pooja: @aleynareads @choicesaddict5 @stygianflood @mysticaurathings @jamespotterthefirst @ilikemenbutonlyethanramsey @takemyopenheart @mm2305

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

45 notes · View notes

torendheavenandearth · 4 years

Text

2.3

“There comes a time when thou must take up responsibility. Thine responsiblity is a broken sword, a battered shield, a melted helmet. This responsibility shalt shield thee all they days against all unworthy opponents, upon those that should challenge your ideals and will. Verily: only those with sharper beliefs will cut thee. Therefore, sharpen the blade of thy truth, repair the shield of thy faith, and reforge the helmet of thy passion, for only through those canst thou survive in this hollowed dream, this fantasy regurgitated from the mind of the All-Loving Christ, which thou didst make weep.” - From Ang Mga Kanta (The Psalms) from the book Ang Pangatlong Bibliya (The Blasphemous Third Bible of Heresies).

▼

Angela is awakened by the crows of roosters: an all too familiar waking call. She opens her eyes and almost jumps out of bed to prepare for school, until she remembers that she’s in another world, in another universe, which has demons and monsters and angels that want to kill you.

She sighs. Hoping it was a dream was wishful thinking, she mutters. Angela writhes about in her bed and rubs her eyes. Eventually she pushes herself up to sit, just as Ang Nilapastangan walks in with a simple cloth wrapped around her.

Angela blinks at first, and then looks away, abashed. She can’t help but notice all the tattoos and scars that line her body, like intricate latticework or a net of tree-roots keeping her together.

Ang Nilapastangan doesn’t miss a beat, though. She continues and grabs a few of the clothes that have been folded and stacked neatly on a nearby table and changes behind a few bamboo panels.

Angela sighs. She could use a bath. She rises and looks around, and sees the drying cloth for bathing. Large enough for her, but then again she isn’t exactly tall to begin with.

She goes out and sees that there are other men and women already going about whatever they were supposed to do for the day. Some struck out with bows and arrows at the ready, seemingly going out to hunt. Others were also readying weapons, although they brought with them large rattan bags.

Angela sees Jaime. “Good morning.”

Without looking at her, Jaime says: “You should get out to the river if you want to bathe. There’s a section further east that has a bunch of boulders that you can safely hide behind.”

Angela sighs and nods. “Thanks.” She curses that she doesn’t have any shampoo or soap. She’ll only be able to rinse. Then again, it is a luxury she can’t afford right now.

“Where are you going?” asks Angela, walking up to Jaime.

“Another expedition,” says Jaime. “Another resource run. Looking for survivors, maybe, and then grabbing as much leftover stuff as we can. There’s some fresh bread in the panaderya there.”

“Angela, go wash yourself, quick.” It’s Ang Nilapastangan, her voice booming from behind. “Jaime, how long before your team leaves?”

Jaime shrugs. “Tito Adlay is still prepping, so we have some time. Why?”

“Good. Angela and I need to get into the barangay. I’m looking for an Albularyo.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow.

“She’s the only one I can trust with spiritual excisions,” says Ang Nilapastangan. She puts a hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?” Angela notices that Ang Nilapastangan is now wearing a simple baro that slightly reveals her midriff, making it look like she’s wearing some kind of traditional crop top, and then balloon pants. Angela wanted the balloon pants. Instead she’s stuck with some more saya.

“No,” Jaime says, crossing his arms. He’s tall, taller than Ang Nilapastangan, so he’s looking down at her. “It’s just dangerous and… the albularyo lives in the forest past the barangay. It’s going to be risky.”

“We’ll manage.”

Jaime nods. “I’ll point you in the right direction. We’ll wait for you.” And with that, Jaime turns and walks to the rest of his team.

Angela sighs. She reaches up and touches her horns. “Right. These.”

“Go get washed up.”

▼

Angela manages to wash herself in the privacy of two boulders blocking the view. While she was washing she kept looking behind her to see if some kind of monster would pop out, like a horror movie, but nothing ever did. In the tranquility of the scene, with the river rushing through the thick stone, it was almost calming. Behind her rose the edifice that was the mountain--the name of which she wasn’t sure of yet--while she was washing. The trees were swaying in the temperate breeze. That moment of peace… she cherished.

It didn’t last long, unfortunately.

As she washed, she noticed that she still wore the anting-anting that Makabintang had given her. She sighed. Poor Makabintang. She quite literally barely knew him.

Now she’s washed up and fresh, wearing a long baro that reaches her thighs and a saya underneath that. She’d been given some nice wooden tsinelas, wooden sandals, that she could use to walk more or less safely over earthen ground.

She walks out of the house and over to where Ang Nilapastangan and Jaime and the rest are waiting. “Do you have a spare bolo we can borrow?” asks Ang Nilapastangan.

Adlay grins. “Why? I thought you were the Swordbreaker?”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. “I am. Now do you have one? It’s no worry if you don’t.”

Damian rolls his eyes at Adlay, neighs. “Yes, we do, po ma’am. Although we only have one po. Our apologies.”

‘“It’s okay. It’s mostly for Angela.”

Jaime looks over Ang Nilapastangan’s shoulder as Angela approaches. “You know how to fight with a bolo?”

Angela shrugs. “Not really. I have some practice but I doubt it’s applicable.”

Damian gives a spare bolo to Ang Nilapastangan. “Thank you,” she says, and then turns and gives it to Angela. “Since we don’t have the weapon Makabintang gave you anymore, you’ll have to make do with this for now. I’ll teach you some practical techniques before we get into true violence.”

Angela takes the bolo and ties it to her waist. “Got it. So, we’re getting the bug taken off of me?”

“Hopefully, with albularyo’s help. That branding will be a huge problem.”

“Let’s go,” says Adlay, after finishing strapping a last piece of equipment to himself. The three of them all are fully equipped. Damian is wearing a piece of kalabaw-hide armor over a chain shirt, and wields a bow and arrow. Jaime is wearing a simple shirt and pants getup but has a kalasag and a bangkaw on both hands. Adlay is bringing a luthang, a kind of musket, along with a kalasag of his own, and is wearing kalabaw-hide armor, although he wears a threaded abaca undershirt instead of a chain shirt.

“Wait, one last thing,” says Ang Nilapastangan. She asks for cotton-padded armor, which they apparently have. Angela sees that it is slightly bulky when Damian brings it out, but it is made of beautiful and colorful fabric. Ang Nilapastangan tells her to wear it over her anting-anting so that she is protected from most harm. She agrees, and puts it on. It’s a bit stifling, and she wonders if she was expecting it to be hotter, but it actually isn’t that bad. She puts up with it, lets it protect her.

“All right,” says Adlay. “Let’s ride.”

▼

They all get on their horses and ride away. Jaime and Adlay share a single horse, Damian follows with a smaller horse, and Angela and Ang Nilapastangan follow Jaime and Adlay back into the barangay. On both sides, Angela sees, now in clear daylight, that the fields have been ravaged and the rice left unharvested. She frowns at it. She wonders if there are any amalanhig that would have the humor of ambushing them right then and there.

As they near the barangay, from this entry point, Angela notices how abnormal the barangay actually looks. It’s too quiet, it’s too… dead. She knows how towns should look, even in places like these. There’s no bustle of people, no mooing or anything. Probably the most jarring thing is how no roosters are crowing. An impoosibility.

What’s even weirder to Angela is how it doesn’t look like it’s been ravaged or anything. It just looks like it’s… dead. Or has been sleeping for a really long time. Nothing is coming out of it, and a prickling sense of dread spider-climbs up Angela’s spine as she thinks what really has happened in the barangay. What strange sorcery has risen from the cursed earth of the town?

Thankfully, there are none. They ride into the barangay more or less safey. “We have all day to gain resources,” says Adlay, turning to Ang Nilapastangan as they slow the pace of the horses to a trot. “We’ve already assigned roles. You can go and do whatever you need to do, po. If you can bring back any useful thing that can still be used, that would be greatly useful.”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. She turns to Jaime. “Tell us where the albularyo is.”

Jaime nods. He brings the horse to a canter, and both Angela and Ang Nilapastangan follow after him. In the morning sun rays, Angela finds shadows cast upon the houses, both those that are bamboo-stilt as well as those that are bahay-na-bato. She sees shadows where there is none. She sees eyes peeking out from the gaps between doors left unclosed. She sees whispers whistling through the wind chimes that hang from some of the houses. She sees children playing under bamboo stilt houses, where the carcasses of dead pigs and chicken rot.

Jaime stops them when they come across a corpse in the middle of the road. It is unmoving, bent in unnatural angles, and stands like a black blot in the sun-bleached earth.

Ang Nilapastangan raises an eyebrow. She lifts her finger. “No,” says Jaime. “Stay back.”

“What’s he going to do?” asks Angela, but none of them answer. Jaime brings out a matchstick and lights it against one of the bamboo ladders, and then tosses the lit match to the corpse. It catches fire and it doesn’t do anything. It simply lays there, burning. A horrible stench wafts from it.

“Come on,” says Jaime, and canters his horse quickly around it so that their horses don’t have to linger and be scared. It works, for the most part. Their horses flail about when they have to come near it.

Eventually they canter out into an area that opens up again into the road. Nothing but trees on this side, however. Jaime points up the path. “Follow the path, and you’ll find a simple house. That’s where the albularyo stays.”

Ang Nilapastangan nods and thanks him. Jaime tells them to stay safe in the name of the Ninuno, and Ang Nilapastangan returns the greeting, grateful. They don’t tarry: they ride up the road and follow it.

Here, birds don’t chirp. It is an eerie silence--as if to say a silent song is the only fitting dirge for a world such as this. The wind rustles against the leaves of the trees, sending them swirling to the ground, but even that has a sad melody.

They encounter almost no further problems in the road, and Angela was half-expecting it, due to all the excitement that has happened so far. “So, Nila,” says Angela as their horses canter up the road. The silence is choking, and Angela feels too stifled. “You’re going to teach me a martial art?”

Ang Nilapastangan nods.

“Then, what kind of martial art is it? Is it like the one you’ve been doing? Dropkicks and names that appear in the air?”

Ang Nilapastangan shakes her head. “I’ll be teaching you a simple style, one that is not too hard to master but will surely help you survive whatever tribulation or trouble you’ll have to face ahead. It’s a well-rounded style, giving you ample defense and strong offense, built to adapt to any situation, whether you have a weapon or not.”

‘“What’s it called?”

“Skirmishing Kalis,” says Ang Nilapastangan. “Sometimes also known as the Skirmish-Armor Style. It’s the bedrock for many other styles. If you ever decide to learn other Martial Arts, perhaps one of the more complex ones, then Skirmishing Kalis will give you good fundamentals.”

“Huh. Thanks, Nila.” They move on a few more moments without noise, and Angela decides to fill it in again, mostly to ignore her from the growing devil-anxiety in the back of her neck. “So, you’re a Karanduun, huh? Whatever that means?”

“I’m sure Jaime has told you.” She canters a good few feet ahead of her, so Angela is unable to see her face.

“Well, yeah. Why didn’t you tell me, though?”

“There was no need to.”

“Seems like you’ve had quite an exciting life.”

Ang Nilapastangan doesn’t answer.

Angela looks for other subjects to fill the void in, but as she finds one--”why did she change her looks to a demonic visage?”--Ang Nilapastangan looks up and sees, upon a small hill surrounded by a quaint little garden of flowers and other herbs, a simple house. It’s a bamboo stilt house as well, with seemingly two large annexes, making it look like an L.

“I suppose that is the house,” says Ang Nilapastangan, and Angela can smell the hint of relief in her voice. Angela smiles at that.

“It looks like the barangay,” says Angela as they slow their horses to a trot and get off right at the base of a hill. They tie their horses to some trees. “Dead.”

“Well,” Ang Nilapastangan stares at it for a bit more. “Let’s hope not.” They trudge up the path and up to the bamboo ladder, leading to a small elevated porch. Vexingly, one thing they both notice are the corpses that lie around the area, some of them stacked on top of each other, others simply laying there, fresh and strewn. More amalanhig? wonders Angela.

Ang Nilapastangan knocks on the bamboo door.

No answer, at first.

Eyebrows furrowed, Angela looks up at Ang Nilapastangan, but she doesn’t look back. After a few seconds pass, Ang Nilapastangan knocks again. When she gets another silent response, she raises her voice.

“Hello? Is anyone in there, po?”

No answer. Angela finds it funny now, seeing Ang Nilapastangan saying “po”. She’s like a superhero, she didn’t need to say that. But Angela appreciated the politeness.

No response again, though. “We just have a few questions we need to ask, and then we’ll be off and well. We’re sorry for intruding po!”

There’s a shuffle within the house. Angela feels it--the floor of the porch is the same floor as the insides of the house, after all. After a few seconds, the door opens, just a creak, and then a voice. “What is it you need?” No head, no mouth, no person. Just a voice.

Angela was expecting an older sounding woman. She’s heard tales of albularyo back at home, even if she’s lived most of her life in the Metro. Men and women with knowledge of medicinal herbs, powerful spiritual healers that could heal some sicknesses that even doctors could not handle. Exorcizer of demons other times, and usually also good at sorcery, or whatever sorcery meant in their respective probinsyas. They were revered and depended on in communities that didn’t have clinics or healthcare, because the Philippine Government doesn’t really care for the wellbeing of its people.

So here, hearing a young girl talking is kind of jarring when Angela’s been conditioned most of her life to expect some kind of lanky old man or heaving, creaking old woman.

It seems like Ang Nilapastangan has the same thoughts, because the first thing she says is: “Hello there. Is your, ah, mother home?”

The peeking eyes pause for a bit, and then she closes the door and says. “I’m sorry, my mother is not at home right now.”

Angela looks up at Ang Nilapastangan, who crosses her arms across her chest. “Where is she? I was told that the albularyo would be here.”

“I am the albularyo,” says the little girl.

Ang Nilapastangan raises an eyebrow. “Well, okay. Great albularyo, will you tell us where your mother has gone?”

There’s another silence before she speaks again. “She’s gone into the barangay, to look for the Aswang that caused the outbreak of maranhig.”

Angela’s eyes widen and she looks up at Ang Nilapastangan. The wind turns colder. “When did she leave?”

“Just two nights ago,” the girl replies. “She’ll be back.”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. “I don’t doubt that, at least. What’s your name?”

“Samanta,” says the girl, and nothing more.

Ang Nilapastangan sighs and says, “All right then, Samanta. We’ll go into the barangay and if we can help your mother. Stay here until then, okay?”

There’s a short silence on the other side. Samata says: “Hey, if you have any albularyo services you need help with, I can probably do it. If you need it soon, at least.”

Ang Nilapastangan turns to Angela, raising an eyebrow. “Can you do a spiritual excision?”

There’s a short silence, before she says. “It will be better if you get my mother for that. I can try, but I haven’t attempted yet.”

“Then it’s best we go get your mother. We can’t afford to mess up the excision for this one.”

She’s greeted back by silence. Ang Nilapastangan simply nods. “We’ll retrun to you when we have your mother. Be safe, okay?”

“I am,” she says. Angela turns around again and looks at the corpses strewn about, haphazardly, as if some invisible god started stacking them on top of each other and gave up halfway through.

“All right then.” Ang Nilapastangan turns around and gestures for Angela and her to ride back home.

▼

“It seems she’s been fending them off on her own for a while now,” says Ang Nilapastangan as they near the entry back into the barangay. “She must have some sort of skill to manage that, at least. Or great knowledge.”

“I dunno, she sounded like one of my classmates or something.”

Ang Nilapastangan turns to her and raises an eyebrow. “And that means?”

“Like, she’s a high schooler, then.” Angela bit her tongue. “Okay you have to remember that I’m pretty stupid so what I just said is also pretty stupid.”

“I know.”

Angela frowns and pouts, but she doesn’t say anything more.

They ride into the town. The tropical sun bears down upon them, even as a cold wind refreshes them. Thankfully the cloth of their clothings is light and thin, made for climes such as this. “Now where could that albularyo have gone off to?”

“You knew her?” asks Angela.

Ang Nilapastangan nods. “Albularyo Gumamela, her name was,” she says. “She used to help me back when I was just settling in after the Hagdanan. She would treat my wounds, heal me, and offer protection. She would grant me wards that would throw off the dogs that would seek after me. She would teach me how to perfect Hiyang, Oneness with Nature. She was a great teacher, one that stuck by me through thick and thin.”

“She must mean a lot to you.”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. “She and Makabintang are the only two people I can trust. Well, were.”

Angela bites the inside of her cheek. “We’ll find her, trust me.”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. As they enter into the barangay, she gets off at a junction. To their left is a road that continues on to the plaza, but standing from here Angela can see that they’ve piled on furniture and wood to somewhat barricade the plaza off. “Huh.”

“I can see it,” Ang Nilapastangan says. “The’re blocking off the plaza.”

“Why?”

“The source, whatever it is, might be coming from there. Or there might be a large number of corpses there and they barricaded it off so that they won’t get out every night. It’s a nice thought.”

“Why don’t the amalanhig invade other barangay?” asks Angela as Ang Nilapastangan walks over to the middle of the dirt road.

“The amalanhig cannot go too far from who summoned them, if they were summoned.”

“If?”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. “Naturally born amalanhig can come up as well, but they’re rare, and usually only happens due to residue of dark sorceries or dark passions.” She sits down on her knees in the middle of the road and puts both hands on the ground.

“What… are you doing?”

Ang Nilapastangan closes her eyes, and hums a soft tune. As she does, Angela can’t help but feel like looking through Ang Nilapastangan, as if she’s vanishing, even though she knows that she’s right there.

Angela shuts up and lets Ang Nilapastangan do whatever it is she’s doing. When she exhales, there’s a subtle, silent recognition. Recognition of what? Angela isn’t quite sure.

“I can still feel her Gahum,” says Ang Nilapastangan, still in that position. “She’s somewhere here. But it’s fuzzy. Her Gahum is being blocked by something else. By some strange sorcery.”

“Gahum?” asks Angela, tilting her head to one side in confusion. “God, all these terms.”

“Gahum. You’ve probably heard us use it before already. It’s the spiritual power that emanates from within every souled being. Everything has Gahum, but mostly only mortals and immortals such as diwata and bathala have Gahum that burns through our skin. The color of our soul.” As she says that, her fingertips sizzle with a bright, searing crimson.

“That’s your Gahum?” Angela knows now, that all those displays of power when Ang Nilapastangan was enveloped in that burning crimson light, is due to her using her Gahum. Her spiritual power shining through.

Ang Nilapastangan. “The light burning through is Usbong. If it gets strong enough, strange things happen. But we shouldn’t talk about that yet.”

The travel, Angela notices, has taken them most of the day. It’s afternoon now. She’s hungry. “We should get back,” says Angela. “I’m hungry.”

Ang Nilapastangan smirks. “Take the horse and go back. I’m going to try and see what’s ove the barricade.”

Angela rubs her face. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Ang Nilapastangan doesn’t respond. She stands up, lets the burning of her Usbong fade away, and she ties her horse to a nearby bamboo post. She turns around to walk away, stops, and then goes into the house that the post she tied her horse to supported. She finds no corpse in there, and then goes out.

“I’ll be quick. Before twilight hits so that the amalanhig don’t get to Stella.”

“Stella?”

Ang Nilapastangan nods, gesturing to the horse. With that, she takes off, walking down the dirt road towards the barricade.

Angela sighs, rubbing her eyes. Somehow, she feels safer if she’s with Ang Nilapastangan. Especially knowing now that she’s some kind of superhero here.

So, with that in mind, she ties her horse next to Stella and says, “Stay here and keep quiet, okay? Uh… Donnie?”

The horse, now Donnie, neighs. She pets him once, before turning and running after Ang Nilapastangan.

Table of Contents.

#karanduun #outbreak #2.3

2 notes · View notes

taiblogcomics · 4 years

Text

No Rave Reviews for Ravagers

Hey there, characters named after songs. Man, I looked ahead, and the next Teen Titans story arc is a long one about Wonder Girl. And, like... Cassie has been such a drag this whole series. I don't really want to focus on her right now. I mean, do you~? And so, let's do something a little different this week. I'm-a use my reviewer's privilege and drop in a substitute. One I've been teasing for, like, at least a month or so~

Here's the cover:

Hey, we've got an all-new team of characters spinning off from Teen Titans! How do we sell our first issue? We put boobs on the cover, that's how. I mean, honestly, nothing else is gonna sell this series. Three of these characters are basically all new, and the ones that aren't, we'd rather see in a better series than this. Nobody liked them in "the pages of Teen Titans", and no one's gonna like them here~

By the way, the cover also mixed up Thunder and Lightning’s names. Lightning is the blue-haired girl, and Thunder is the dude with the subwoofer in his chest. So, great job making us care about the characters, comic, when you couldn’t even care enough to get their names right~

The comic opens with the group bursting out of the ground to escape. Caitlin suggests that, based on the topography, they’re in Alaska now. That’s quite a journey from Antarctica. And right away, we see that not only is the cover trying to get you on a "sexy sells" sort of way, it's not even true. Caitlin Fairchild does not appear in anything as skimpy as on the cover. She is wearing a full-body suit with gloves and boots. Other than a couple tears in the fabric, she's completely covered from the neck down, and stays that way for the entire comic.

Now, I know why they did it, and I do mean other than to try to get you to buy the comic by titillating you with the cover. It's because in Gen13, it was a running gag that Caitlin's clothes would get destroyed during fights. Now, obviously I'm glad that's not the case here, but the point is that it's trying to make you think this is the same character as the previous series, when it's really not at all.

Anyways, Caitlin is also our narrator for the book. The group of them burst out of the ground, and are already constantly bickering with one another. This is a recurring theme throughout: none of them can stand each other. Caitlin's actually the only one who's likeable, because she's the only one saying "Look, we were all in a shitty situation, but that doesn't mean we have to be shitty people. We gotta work together, so we don't die, because we're still in Alaska." Nobody else wants to listen to her, especially Ridge, and the group points out that she looks like she'll be fine. Caitlin then suddenly loses about two feet of height and all her muscle mass. Her power is being able to get temporary super strength. Hey, as long as it's not ripping her costume up to do it.

Despite the fact that she's the only one making sense, none of the rest are willing to listen, and in fact several of the rescuees just fuck off out of the story. Beast Boy and Terra are the first to do so--so the only other recognisable heroes have left, and thus any draw the story had regarding said heroes--as do a couple minor characters named Windshear and Brighteyes. Ridge then gets pissy with Caitlin trying to suggest he's the reason no one wants to stick around, because he's one of the Ravagers who used to torment them. He in turn hates her, because she's one of the scientists who turned him into a monster. Not personally, mind you, she just worked there. Unlike him, who did torment kids personally. So, you know, completely justified, right~?

She convinces him to at least not snap her neck then and there, and the group is interrupted by a squad of some of Harvest's generic soldiers turning up. The soldiers immediately surrender, and while "we were just following orders" is not an excuse, the soldiers are laying down their weapons and not making any hostile actions. So of course, Lightning decides they should execute them. We actually get a little more characterisation for Thunder here. Apparently using his powers causes him pain, so he is very reluctant to do so. Lightning's powers work best when they're working in tandem, though, so his dilemma is that attacking the soldiers also hurts him. Not emotionally, though, so Lightning doesn't care.

Meanwhile, with those nothing characters Windshear and Brighteyes, they're flying along when they suddenly get spotted by one of Harvest's ships. Brighteyes uses her surprisingly literal power as a distraction, but it doesn't work. So Windshear? Just to increase the effort to make everyone in this issue unlikeable, he chucks Brighteyes at the flying vehicle and flies off on his own. This doesn't help either of them, though, as Warblade simply kills Brighteyes through the windshield, and Rose WIlson jumps out of the ship to land on Windshear, murdering him too. Somehow she doesn't get killed in the process and actually ends up back on the ship.

There's a long tense scene of both Caitlin and Thunder pleading with Ridge and Lightning not to murder all the surrendering soldiers, mostly based on the notion of "we can be better than them". It's fine, especially in helping make Thunder a more likeable character, but it doesn't feel like anything you probably haven't seen before. The group's ready to move on, which is just in time for the ship that Caitlin's been remotely calling closer to show up. Ridge points out that it's one of Harvest's ships, and that brings back bad memories, and gets pissy all over again. And like, first of all, no duh it's gonna be one of Harvest's ships, whose base did you just escape from? And secondly, you're in Alaska. Any ship is better than being in Alaska!

So because Ridge was pissy, karma swings back around again and the flight ship plows into the ground and explodes. Why? Because this is actually the ship that Warblade and Rose are piloting. I'm not even sure how that works, if Caitlin thought she was remotely piloting a vehicle but Warblade thought theirs was flying... I dunno. But anyway, Warblade and Rose pop out of the explosion and proceed to murder all the other survivors, leaving only our four protagonists. To get away from them, Thunder's powers turn on and begin carving away into the ground. It actually carves off the cliff-face they've been backed onto, like a Road Runner cartoon, and plunges them into the sea below, ending the issue.

My god, this issue is not good. The cover has all sorts of problems, which I pointed out. But even besides that, none of these characters are likeable. Like, don’t get me wrong, you have to have conflict in a story. But you can’t have nothing but conflict, and that’s what this feels like. Beast Boy and Terra were right to fuck off out of the plot early (unfortunately for them, they’ll be back). It’s just not a fun story, and that’s a bad sign when it’s a book about teen superheroes~

#comics #reviews #The Ravagers #Taiblog

2 notes · View notes

d-issent · 4 years

Text

‘Dissent’ – Rough plot outline. Chapters 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Sodor is a supposed ‘safe haven’ where things are a lot better than the rest of the world, after a terrible disease strikes the planet and wipes out a staggering and concerning percentage of the human race, there are very few safe parts of the planet left. At a loss as to what to do, people from all over the world finally put aside any differences and set out to both recover from the damage the disease had caused, and find a way to keep the world running and operational while the human race is given a chance to recover.

The solution? Make machines with sentience, to carry out each and every job that humanity now finds itself quite unable to do, since there are so few of them left.

‘Dissent’ was a work of fiction intending to focus on the rules of robotics, and how, perhaps out of desperation on the part of humans, those rules end up twisted and sometimes completely broken.

It was, simply; a ‘humanised’ and dark take on Thomas the Tank Engine, if you can even call that simple. I wasn’t intending for the story to be a particularly long one, or to be one that was taken seriously, but I believe I made a bit of a mistake in thinking that I could make a whole comic depicting the story. But hopefully with this rough plot outline, I can at least tell the story I intended to tell, maybe one day I’ll have the time and the resources to pick up this story again, but for now I hope this will suffice for anybody who was left disappointed.

1. Who on Earth was Smudger?

The story of Dissent happens in two parts, one for the build up to the main climax, and the second to gradually come down from that climax. I’ll be popping the first four chapters into this post, and carrying on in another post, so I’m not giving you guys literal walls here.

The story focuses largely on Duke’s neck of the woods, the Mid Sodor Railway, but in the era before Stuart/Peter Sam and Falcon/Sir Handel showed up; mainly it was going to focus on the turbulent and painful relationship between Duke, Stanley(NG) and perhaps the most elusive character in the whole story; Smudger.

‘Dissent’ begins much like the ‘Sleeping Beauty’ story of canon begins; with a team of rescuers setting out to find the legendary ‘Duke’, an engine built for the Duke of Sodor, who I imagine was quite a kindly man, who’s character and morals Duke emulated quite a lot, or at least tried to emulate.

I remember deciding that the reason Duke why was stored away when humanity really needed every single engine it could get it hands on – was because he was an older model – as time went on and as humanity got better and better at making these sentient machines, Duke would have eventually been considered a very early model, still completely functional, but a little cumbersome compared to newer, modern models. I believe that the main reason for his rescue was the sentimental value attached to him, the Duke of Sodor was no doubt a very important man to the people of Sodor in such trying times.

Again, much like ‘Sleeping Beauty’, the rescuers find Duke after one of their party falls through the roof of his shed, they light his fire in order for him to wake up and regain the ability to talk, and soon explain to him who they are and why they’re here.

As the story goes, Duke is returned to the Skarloey railway, where he is first reunited with Stuart and Falcon, now named Peter Sam and Sir Handel.

Duke has quite a lot of trouble with these name changes, the two younger engines put it down to him being old and having “so much to remember already!” but Duke’s memory issues play quite a big role in the first part of ‘Dissent’.

All seems well and good, until Duke falls asleep (as if he hadn’t got enough in his shed.) and wakes up to find that two new engines have returned home from the day’s work; the two oldest on the railway, Rheneas and Skarloey, the latter of which strikes up a conversation.

Skarloey talks a lot, he’s hasty to introduce himself and welcome Duke to the railway, also to make a passing comment on how “It’s quite nice to have someone our age around here; we’ve had quite a ride with the younger engines, haven’t we Rheneas?”

Rheneas makes a point to keep to himself until now, so Duke – half asleep still – probably hasn’t focused on the other engine as of yet. But when he does, something very large, and very unpleasant stirs in his mind. Groggy as he is, he scrambles up from his chair and grasps Rheneas’ hands in his.

“I haven’t seen you in decades, Smudger!”

There’s silence.

Skarloey is the first to break it, though he doesn’t sound quite as chipper as before; which is to be expected since there’s an excitable stranger yelling at his best friend. He gently prises Duke off of Rheneas with a calm explanation; “Duke? This is Rheneas, our number 2. I don’t think either of us have ever met you before, perhaps… You’re mistaking him for some other engine?”

Rheneas is understandably shaken up, but he gladly accepts the apology from Duke, he’s an old engine himself and he’s probably seen weirder shit in all of his time on Sodor. Duke stays subdued for the rest of the evening, even after the rest of the engines finish up work, and even after Peter Sam and Sir Handel do their best to make him feel at home, Duke’s mind is stuck on one, disturbing question.

“Who on earth was ‘Smudger’?”

2. The Old Warrior.

There’s a brief time skip of about three weeks I think I decided, and the next scene starts out with Duke dreaming a confusing set of dreams.

It’s the same series of dreams he’s been having ever since he arrived at the Skarloey railway. He’s back in the sheds at Mid Sodor, he’s not alone in the room however, there’s another engine in the shed, fiddling about with a phonograph sitting on a small wooden table. His paint job definitely looks green to Duke, but when he crosses the room to greet his fellow engine, it always turns out to be Rheneas, looking incredibly confused…

Duke wakes to utter bedlam in the Skarloey sheds, rock n’ roll rider Duncan won’t shut up about something; a new engine coming to the railway? Damn, fair dos. Duncan’s friend and possibly also his part-time counsellor, Rusty explains to Duke that Duncan is upset about a ‘ghost engine’ coming to work on the Skarloey railway, an engine who was found lurking about an old mine. Duncan is convinced that the engine is some demonic entity, but – as usual – all it takes is a few words from Rusty to get him to pipe down.

The so-called ‘demonic’ engine is also known as the Old Warrior, though – like in canon – his name is Bertram, and nobody quite knows how he even got to the mines in the first place. Mister Percival – who has managed to escape the disease that has ravaged humanity somehow– explains to the engines that Bertram will be joining them to assist with the workload, since he really doesn’t have anywhere to go. Duke chats idly with a concerned Peter Sam about the state of Duke’s boiler – which is giving him quite a considerable amount of trouble, so considerable in fact that it’s now become pretty difficult for him to do the same work as the others. As is always the case with Thomas the Tank Engine, there’s “no money to repair him” so Duke has to make do with a shoddy ass boiler.

As the day goes on, and the sun starts going down, Bertram arrives, and the first thing he does besides let Mister Percival welcome him, is give Duke the filthiest look he can muster, so filthy in fact that it takes Peter Sam and Sir Handel aback, the latter worriedly asks;

“Have you met him before, Granpuff? It looks like he recognises you.”

Duke denies any knowledge of Bertram, but still chooses to give him a wide birth until that evening, when everyone is back inside the sheds, and he kind of can’t steer clear of him any longer. Duncan however is still doing his very best to stay the hell away from Bertram, but the latter is a little preoccupied with talking to Rheneas and Skarloey, mainly about his time in the mines, and how he got his nickname, “The Old Warrior.”

Duke – in spite of himself – snorts a little at this title, which of course pisses Bertram RIGHT off. The two have a little mini stand off in the sheds, with Bertram telling the old man to do one, and Duke telling him to “watch your tongue young’un, I’m very important to this railway.”

However, throughout the argument, Duke’s memory jolts again, and for a second he’s standing back in the sheds on Mid Sodor, arguing with someone, he can’t make out the engine’s face, but their fists are clenched and they’re yelling fit to burst.

The argument eventually ends with Bertram storming out of the sheds, and Duncan slyly commenting; “Oy, lads, I’ve changed my mind. I like him.”

3. Rain, rain, go away.

The following day, Duke is left alone in the sheds because of his boiler, and because of the rain PISSING down. Everybody else complains loudly about having to go out in it, but they’re all young-ish and in perfect working order so they all leave. Duke is left alone with nothing but his thoughts of Bertram after saying a quick goodbye to Peter Sam and Sir Handel, but those thoughts are quickly interrupted by Bertram himself as the Old Warrior comes crashing through the shed doors, soaking wet, and demanding to be given a towel to dry himself off with; he’s panicked and almost deranged.

Duke, still salty but generally being a kindly soul, makes sure to help Bertram dry himself off, all the while giving him breathing exercises, telling him to empty his mind – kinda useless shit – but it helps to calm Bertram down, and soon the latter is completely dry. He’s embarrassed, but he begrudgingly explains himself to Duke.

“I don’t like water. I can take rain, but when it’s lashing down like this, I can’t stand it. It suffocates me, I can’t see where I’m going and I can feel the stuff seeping into the grate on my back, even if I’ve closed it. I hate it, and don’t think I’m about to tell you why; it’s personal.”

Duke doesn’t ask, he’s not about to repeat last night after all, and soon enough Bertram relaxes, and Duke finds him to be oddly agreeable. Bertram quietly strikes up a conversation about how and why Duke was found, and the two talk for a little while, however at some point Duke mentions his weird ass dreams, and Bertram’s interest is immediately piqued. The Old Warrior asks Duke if there was anything he had forgotten, and of course Duke insists that his memory is fine, but he offers to ‘humour’ Bertram, and asks him what he would have him do if he had in fact forgotten something.

Bertram ponders if Duke had left anything of importance behind in his shed back on Mid Sodor. It’s an oddly specific question, but trust me, it isn’t just specific by pure chance, Bertram clearly knows something, but Duke’s mind really isn’t in a position to think about it in depth. Instead, he ponders back to his old shed, and soon realises that there were a few things he had forgotten to ask the rescuers to bring up to Skarloey; a picture of his Grace the Duke of Sodor, a few books, and a little, unexciting black box that he kept on the bottom shelf next to his books.

Duke is completely unaware as to why his brain has singled out that particular box, but Bertram immediately pounces on it, demanding that Duke go and get it immediately. Duke reluctantly agrees, mainly on the basis that if his brain coughed that box up out of everything else he had owned on Mid Sodor, it must be important.

Soon, the pair reach a bit of a truce, and apologies are exchanged about the previous night, they carry on talking until the rain stops, and Bertram is able to go back out and resume his work.

He doesn’t, though, preferring instead to sit with Duke.

4. Miss Cora.

New character oh boy.

A woman is trying to come into the Skarloey Railway, she’s visiting from her usual residence, which is quite a long way out of town. She’s been stopped at a checkpoint and is having her ID scrutinised, she’s incredibly annoyed at this, and the fact that they’re checking her luggage is also souring her temper. She demands to be let through faster, but the people checking her insist that they need to take all necessary precautions to make sure that the virus that put down so much of humanity isn’t on her in any way.

As they do this, she begrudgingly gives her reason as to why she’s visiting; the current head of the Sodor Railway, Sir Topham Hatt II, is apparently ‘not long for this world’, and he intends to make her the next controller, as her family and his family have been close for decades. The men are a little suspicious as to why Sir Topham Hatt is choosing her instead of his son, but she shuts them down; “His son is otherwise occupied. Why are you so startled at this, gentlemen? Is it because I am a woman?”

Which, shuts them up pretty quickly.

Soon enough, she’s through to head up to the Skarloey Railway, and she thinks briefly that business can wait, she’s seen the news… She has an old friend to visit.

Back up at the railway itself, Peter Sam and Sir Handel have volunteered to go and get the items from Duke’s shed for him. The latter protests weakly, suggesting that he should go instead, until Sir Handel tells him to shut up.

“Listen, Granpuff, I can’t find no way to say this politely; you’re old. The trek back to Mid Sodor is long and tedious, plus everything’s overgrown… Why’d you think the guys who found you ended up having to fall on you? It’s dangerous up there.”

Duke eventually agrees to let the two go, with warnings to be very, very careful along the way, and soon they depart, leaving Duke alone in the shed once again to enjoy some peace and quiet, until Bertram barges in yet again, he’s trying to make it seem like he’s not terrified, but he’s doing a really bad job of it. He informs Duke that there’s a woman outside who wants to see him, and had he been given the chance he would’ve warned Duke against talking to her, but the mystery woman pushes her way in regardless, completely ignoring Bertram.

She sets her suitcases down, and she beams widely at the old engine. Duke – despite the fact that his memory is horseshit – recognises her almost immediately.

“Bless my boiler. Cora Patricia Tomlin… Is that really you?”

Cora was the daughter of the old Mid Sodor manager, who – though he is sadly no longer around – was a good friend to Duke, Peter Sam and Sir Handel, so the man’s daughter was also considered a friend by association. Duke is incredibly happy to see her, despite Bertram lurking about, looking as sour as old milk, the latter looks desperate to say something to Duke, but after a while he realises that there’s no point in trying, and he leaves the shed in a huff. It’s just a little thing he does…

Cora seems a little relieved at the disappearance of Bertram, and soon sits down to chat with Duke about the old times. The conversation includes the news of her possibly becoming the railway’s next controller – on which Duke congratulates her thoroughly – the state of humanity now that the virus finally seems to be dying down, the weather, and the state of Duke’s gosh darn memory. This particular part of the conversation seems to quieten Cora down, and for the first time since her appearance on Sodor, she seems a little lost for words.

Eventually, after gentle prompting from Duke, she lays a hand on his arm and speaks to him softly.

“The situation with your memory is no good. But there is also no good in pursuing the past, my advice to you is to move past your time at Mid Sodor, there’s no point in going back there. Perhaps your inability to let go is because you keep dwelling on it, preoccupy yourself with other things, Duke, you’re far too good of an engine to be wrapped up in the past.”

Her words – as bullshit as they are – make some half assed sense to Duke, and he agrees with her that he has been thinking about his time on Mid Sodor rather a lot. Those times were the times in which he was happiest after all, spending time with Stuart and Falcon on their own little railway, truly he doesn’t like this change, but it’s as Cora says, he has to move on.

He briefly mentions Peter Sam and Sir Handel’s little expedition back to Mid Sodor to fetch his things, which for some reason greatly sours Cora’s mood. She asks him why he would ever think to do such a thing, and he doesn’t know how to respond, she tells him firmly that bringing objects back from his shed will do nothing but worsen the problem, and instructs him to burn the items when they arrive, as part of the process of moving on.

Eager to get himself out of the mist fogging up his brain, Duke agrees, and promises to destroy the items the second Peter Sam and Sir Handel bring them back, even though every single circuit, servo, gear and cog inside of him is screaming at him not to.

Cora soon takes her leave, but not before she once again reminds Duke to get rid of the pieces coming back from Mid Sodor, it’s time to stop living in the past.

Everyone else comes back the sheds that evening, besides Peter Sam and Sir Handel – but that’s to be expected. However, there appears to be no sign of Bertram either…

#there's gonna be more parts so dw #just #bear w me lmao I'm tryna remember this aaaaa #I got a rough idea of what I wanted to happen!#TTTE #Thomas The Tank Engine #Thomas the Train #Thomas and Friends #Mid Sodor Railway

15 notes · View notes

minimus-ambus · 5 years

Text

A Small Moment

Here’s my fic for the Reruns Zine! I chose to write about Minimus Ambus and Ten–cause let’s be real, their friendship is the cutest. I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope y’all will like it too!

Ten looked up as small steps echoed out of the entrance vent to his room. After a few seconds, the diminutive form of Minimus Ambus emerged, muttering something about dust.

“Ten,” he said as he climbed down, “you really must clean that out. The amount of grime that’s accumulated…” His nose wrinkled.

“Ten.” Ten shrugged..

Minimus hummed as he strode over to one of the tables spread around the room. “Anyways, shall we begin?” Ten nodded excitedly. The legislator began arranging the figures, putting them in their usual displays, when a green hand on his arm stopped him. Ten turned to give Minimus a curious look, and Minimus withdrew his hand awkwardly, clearing his throat.

“I’ve prepared some new scenarios. That is, if you wish to use them.” He took a datapad out of his subspace, holding it out slightly.

Ten looked at it for a second, then nodded at Minimus. “Ten ten!”

“Alright then.” Some tension relaxed out of the minibot’s frame as he began to give Ten directions on how to arrange the figures.

“I believe that’s everything. Now, let’s begin: Anode has somehow obtained several hundred capybaras—an earth mammal—and released them into Swerve’s bar in a continuation of their juvenile ‘prank war.’” Minimus took one of the ‘capybaras’—in reality a generic animal figure for when they didn’t have one for the exact subject—and moved it to the center of the miniature bar.

“Now,” he picked up the figure of Ultra Magnus from its usual place in its office, “I would likely be contacted a short period after the incident started-” He paused. Ten had put his hand in front of Minimus’s, blocking him from setting down the Magnus figure outside of Swerve’s. “What? Would there be something keeping me from arriving there?”

“Ten.” Ten plucked the figure out of his hands, setting it back down in the office. He took the figure of the irreducible Minimus Ambus—Minimus idly wondered how Ten had managed to create an identical model of his rarely-seen smallest form—and placed it in Minimus’s palm. Minimus looked down at it, his brow furrowed.

“But- I wouldn’t be off shift. It’s most likely that Anode would act when I would be on shift, as to ensure I wasn’t at the scene.” He grabbed the Magnus figure once more, but again Ten took and replaced it with the Minimus model. Minimus’s facial insignia twitched as he glanced between it and Ten, who was giving him a somewhat sheepish look.

“I don’t- why exactly do you wish me to use this one?” A hint of disdain crept into his voice as he looked down at the figure in his palm. It had a small smile on its painted face. He couldn’t fathom why, but it made him feel… self-conscious. Ten offered no answer, only curling Minimus’s digits over the figure and giving him puppy-dog optics. How a sightless sentinel managed to pull that off, he hadn’t figured out—but damn if it wasn’t effective.

Minimus relented with a sigh. “Very well.” He placed the miniature figure in Swerve’s bar, then leaned back to consider the scene. Various other crew members were scattered about, and Ten put a few on the tables to signify the commotion that would no doubt occur once the capybaras had been released. Minimus put a hand to his chin, thinking over the situation.

“After arriving at the scene, I would go to you,” he nodded to Ten, “for assistance in keeping the bar-goers calm and preventing the animals from being hurt.” Slender fingers moved the Minimus figure to the center of the bar. “From there, I would organize several bots to round up the creatures.”

“Ten,” Ten said, and carefully picked up the ‘capybara’ figure in his large digits. With surprising grace, he put it up on the border of the model, balancing it on the top of the wall.

Minimus’s brow furrowed. “You’re saying that the capybaras may find their way into… the ventilation system?”

Ten nodded, and Minimus raised an eyebrow. “Hm. I suppose that is possible, considering there’s several points of entry within their reach. So, how do we get them out...?”

Minimus stared at the animal model, crossing his arms as he pressed a knuckle to his lips in silent ponderance—or, would it be pondering? ...No, no, it was ponderance, Minimus was sure of that. If Rodimus were here, he’d say “that’s not a word, Magnus!” Rodimus, however, had once argued that Pop-Tarts were Ravioli, so Minimus had learned by now not to trust Rodimus’s knowledge of what words meant.

“Ten?” A golden hand waved in front of Minimus’s optics, and Minimus blinked. Oh dear—he had been staring into space without a word, leaving Ten quite confused. His faceplates blushed a purplish color and he un-crossed his arms, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“I-I apologize, Ten. I did not realize I had, ah, drifted off,” Minimus said, twisting his hands idly.

Ten smiled. He laid a hand on Minimus’s shoulder, though it was so large his fingers stretched over the kibble on his back. “Ten ten ten ten.” Minimus froze at the sudden contact. It was rare he was ever touched in the Magnus Armor, but as Minimus? He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made casual, comforting contact with him—and that time Megatron held him up so he could set up that rather festive cloaking machine did not count, no matter what Rodimus commented about how “people would talk.” There was nothing to “talk” about! So what if Minimus appreciated Megatron’s respect for protocol? No one else on this ship ever bothered to read his memos! That didn’t mean he-

“Ten?” Ten said, interrupting his train of thought. Oh, dear. He had done it again. The blush on his face increased tenfold. Minimus buried his face in his hands and allowed himself an embarrassed groan.

He looked up at Ten. “I’m sorry, my friend. I seem to be… distracted, today.” He shook his head, then gestured to the neglected models. “Have you thought of a solution to the capybara issue?”

Ten seemed to light up, nodding with an excited “ten!” The legislator searched through the various figures in the bar before straightening up. “Ten,” he said triumphantly, holding up a miniature Skids. He placed the theoretician up next to the capybara, taking care to keep it balanced. He looked to Minimus, whose optics had widened in understanding.

“You’re right; Skids would be the most knowledgeable of the ventilation system, and therefore the individual most helpful in chasing down the creatures loose in it,” Minimus said with something almost like excitement in his voice. Though Minimus was often put off by how dusty Skids’ habits made him, in this case it would actually be useful.

“I suppose we could also employ Ravage to assist Skids; he also knows how to maneuver through the vents.” Minimus suggested.

Ten raised an eyebrow, his fanged mouth turning down. “Ten ten?” He paused, as if considering something. Then, he picked up the Minimus figure and the grumpy-looking Ravage figure, making them face each other. Ten made his tone higher—which with his natural voice was still pretty low—and said a few “ten”s while wiggling the Minimus model, making it ‘talk’ to Ravage. In a growly voice, Ravage replied, and turned away from Minimus with a huff. Ten lowered the figures to look at Minimus—the full-sized one—expectantly.

“I think-” Minimus drew out the space between his words, “-yes, I think I know what you mean. Ravage is quite, er, snippy, at times. But it’s likely that if I were to ask Megatron, he could assist in convincing Ravage to help us. With Ravage’s help, the rogue animals could be rounded up quickly, I’m sure.” He nodded, satisfied with their solution.

Ten watched with curiosity as a small, content smile formed on Minimus’s face, his red optics looking at the models with appreciation. The funny light thing in Ten’s chest gave a spin, and suddenly he felt a surge of thankfulness for Ultra Magnus—his friend. In one sudden movement, Ten scooped up Minimus in a bear hug.

Minimus squeaked, caught completely off-guard. If Ten had done something like this a few years ago, back before his identity had been revealed, he would’ve yelled at Ten to put him down immediately. But now…

Now, the stiffness in his struts began to fade in the embrace of the larger mech. Part of his processor was protesting the indignity of this, but as the seconds ticked by, that voice became quieter and quieter. The arms wrapped around him were gentle—almost too gentle, as Minimus briefly feared slipping out of Ten’s grip. It was only logical, he later reasoned to himself, that he put his own arms around Ten—only to secure himself, of course. Ten’s engine gave a happy rumble, and Minimus fought off a blush. It wasn’t like Ten would be able to tell anyone about this—even if he could, he wouldn’t. Ten was his friend, after all.

Minimus’s optics shone as he realized what he had just thought. Ten was his friend. His spark seemed to burn a little bit brighter at the thought. So, Minimus slowly let himself relax, laying his head against Ten’s shoulder with a sigh.

On the table, the irreducible Minimus Ambus figurine stood at the center of Swerve’s bar, surrounded by a tiny Ten, a miniature Megatron, a small Swerve, and the rest of the model crew. It was smiling.

#minimus ambus #tf ten #ten #mtmte #reruns zine #maccadam #tf zine #fanzine #robotswriting #transformers

52 notes · View notes

erisgregory · 5 years

Text

Satellite Call Chapter 4

cross posted to AO3

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) Relationship: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes Characters: Michael Guerin, Alex Manes Additional Tags: Michael is an Escort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added Summary: Alex is home from the air force but finds he is as lonely as ever. He engages an escort one night under a pseudonym and when the escort arrives it’s his high school love, Michael Guerin. Thankfully for both of them Michael is a professional. However one night couldn’t possibly make up for all they’ve missed. Can they keep an ongoing relationship professional? Can they learn to trust that there is something more than this transaction between them?

Michael hadn’t meant to be caught. He was just picking up more beer, he wasn’t even that drunk, but of course he had to try and rush home and Valenti had picked him up. Now that the sun was up and he was mostly sober, Michael knows what an idiot he’s been. He certainly won’t need Max to tell him.

So he needs to jet before Max gets there. The security cameras are no trouble and the keys are sitting right on the desk, just there, right where he could see them and of course that’s when Max comes in.

He looks as self righteous as ever. Michael has heard it all before though, he doesn’t need to hear it now. He’d earned the right to get drunk last night, not that he plans on telling Max the reason for it. Max doesn’t approve of Michael’s career choices, he certainly wasn’t going to understand getting wasted after seeing Alex as his client.

Instead of the lecture though, Max offers to let him out once he’s sober. Well he’s already sober, but now he’s feeling a little let down. He’s all ready to argue and Max isn’t rising to the occasion for some reason.

“What, no lecture? Why you gotta cause a scene, Michael? Why don’t you drive the speed limit, Michael? Why don’t you spend your nights like I do, crying and maturbating to Russian moralistic literature? Michael?”

Max looks tired but he doesn’t get the chance to respond because Isobel comes in and she isn’t happy with Max at all.

“What did you do?” Michael asks him.

Then Max tells them the most outrageous story about Liz Ortecho being shot in the cafe and him bringing her back. Twenty years of secret keeping gone out the window like it was nothing? Not to mention the risk it brought on Isobel, on all of them.

Michael busts out of the jail cell and tells him straight to his face how stupid he was trying to be the hero. He could have called for backup, could have called for an ambulance, anything other than risk all of their lives to save a girl he hardly even knows now.

“Everything I’ve ever done has been to protect you and Isobel!” Max tells him, but Michael isn’t hearing it.

“Everything you’ve ever done is to protect yourself!” He pushes with his power and Max and everything else in front of him flies backwards and away. Michael hadn’t meant to be so destructive, but there it is. His already frayed nerves have snapped. He doesn’t have anything left to say though, so he leaves. Fuck Max and his moral high ground.

When he gets back to the trailer there are uniforms swarming all over and the ranch owner is there too. He says he’d come knocking and Michael was gone.

“So you call in the calvary?” Michael asks. But no, that wasn’t it at all. The air force is acquiring the land. Michael will have to move and on top of that find a new job to keep his daytime cover. It’s more than a pain in the ass, though, it’s totally invasive. One of the uniforms is trying to look inside and that is the last thing Michael needs.

“Hey!” He calls, “Hey, that’s private property!” He grabs the guy by the shoulder and as he turns around Michael feels his mouth drop open. It’s Alex standing there. The last time he’d seen Alex they’d just finished having the hottest sex of Michael’s life and now here he is in his fatigues and beret looking totally official and in control. Though Michael gets the tiniest bit of satisfaction when he realizes that Alex hadn’t been expecting to see him either.

“Alex.”

“Guerin. What are you doing in there? It sure as hell doesn’t look legal.” Alex says.

Michael raises his eyebrows at that. There was nothing legal about what they’d just done the night before in the hotel together, but he hadn’t heard any complaints then. “A little weed, a lot of casual sex, oh and covert plans to violently overthrow the government. Why don’t you go tell your daddy? I’m sure he’d be real proud of you. You’d be a real Manes man then.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, but climbs inside the airstream and shuts the door behind him. Around him, all over the walls are charts and maps and all of his work, all the things he doesn’t need Alex to see. He throws off his shirt, grabs a clean one and takes a deep breath. All of this will need a better hiding place and soon.

It won’t do to try and move anything as long as the air force is still milling around outside so Michael grabs the last beer from the fridge, a little put out with himself for leaving the new pack he’d bought out in the car, and pops the top off. It’s going to be a long day and it’s going to require a lot of beer.

The email came at five which should have been too early to be drunk, but Michael was already three sheets to the wind. He’d started drinking heavily as soon as the air force assholes had left and hadn’t stopped since. Now the last thing he needs to do is make important decisions. He isn’t too drunk to know that, he’s just too drunk to care.

He reads the email several times then sits heavily on the edge of his bed. He wants to see Alex again, there is no question about that. Despite how rude they were to each other earlier. He aches to see him, to kiss him, to touch him. Years as an escort have taught him that it’s exactly these types of desires that mean he shouldn’t book another appointment. Michael never gets involved like that with clients, no matter how appealing they might be, but add into that his feelings for Alex and he knows for a fact he should stay away.

Or really he should go find Alex and tell him plainly that he wants to see him, but not as a client. On a date maybe. They could do it right now that they’re adults. No sneaking around necessary. He should do that, but then he remembers the cold look in Alex’s eye as he handed over the envelope of cash. The way he so easily agreed to keep things professional. Alex hadn’t given him any reason to think that contacting him outside of the agency email would be a good idea. Besides, he wants Alex, still. Badly wants Alex. So he’s typing a reply before he ever makes a real decision.

Talk to me about these ideas of yours.

Michael

Then he stands, digs in the cabinet, and finds a trash bag. There are probably thirty odd bottles that need trashing and even though he’s wasted he knows he’ll feel better when he can no longer see them.

Clean up is almost over when the next email comes. This time the trailer walls are almost completely still. He’s still drunk, but he’s in it now, there’s no going back.

A buddy of mine once told me about this massage parlor he went to that had a happy ending. You ever do anything like that?

Alex

Michael probably would have been hard just reading that, but being drunk had one bonus in this case. He was already making plans in his head. He’d never done a massage fantasy before, but he could imagine it so well. The oil slicking over Alex’s skin, Michael kneading the stress from his back and limbs, the way he would practically glow in the low light. Oh yeah, Michael could have ideas too.

He wrote Alex back assuring him that he was up to the challenge. He didn’t really expect a reply to come so fast, but there it was in his inbox. Alex set a date a time and Michael confirmed it. They would meet Wednesday night at the same motel. That gave Michael just a few short days to prepare.

Admittedly he spent some of that time following Liz and Max, but there’s not much to see. Clearly Max is in over his head, but Michael hasn’t decided what he’s going to do about it yet.

By the time Wednesday night rolls around, Michael is antsy. He’s way keyed up and ready for Alex, ready right then. He’d have to play it cool if he was going to get through the night with his dignity in tact.

Right at eleven he knocks on the motel door and Alex answers wearing just a towel, as they’d decided. Michael wants to crowd him up against the door and ravage him, but he’s carrying a massage table so at least he’s occupied and he can pretend like he didn’t just have that thought.

“Let me just get set up.” He says and sets about doing just that. Alex sits on the edge of the bed, waiting. It doesn’t take long. He was borrowing the table from Isobel who liked massages in her own home with her own equipment. She didn’t ask him any details about way he needed it, just made him promise to clean it and disinfect it before returning it.

Once he has the table draped with a white sheet and a towel he helps Alex hop up on it. Then Alex silently passes his prosthetic to Michael who lays it on the bed gently. Then Alex lays down on his stomach, only the towel draped over his ass. Michael licks his lips, he can’t help it. Alex just radiates sex and Michael wants.

So he pulls out the massage oil he’d bought, it’s mildly scented, orange blossom, and begins to work it between his hands to warm it up. Then he starts in on Alex’s shoulders. Now Michael isn’t a masseur, which Alex knows, but he did watch a few videos to get some ideas of how to play the part. He really wants to relax Alex and make every part of the fantasy believable and enjoyable.

He can feel Alex melting beneath his hands and it’s a bit of a power trip. Alex sighs softly here and there and occasionally moans gently when Michael finds a sore spot. He works over Alex’s neck and shoulders, down his back, lower and lower until he’s teasing Alex but never quite touching his ass. Then he switches to Alex’s legs and moves higher and higher until it only makes sense to move the towel.

“Is this alright?” He asks, tugging the edge of the towel lightly.

“Mmm. Yes.” Alex slurs. The massage is really working on him. Good, Michael thinks. All is going according to plan.

Michael removes the towel and lays it on the bed then goes right back to Alex’s thighs before moving up to his glutes. He takes his time there, deeply massaging then lightly rubbing in turns until Michael is shifting restlessly under his hands.

“Ready to turn over for me?” Michael asks, his voice uncharacteristically husky.

“Okay, yeah.” Alex tells him in a sleepy voice. He sounds so relaxed that Michael puffs up a bit with pride. Hell yeah he can do this massage fantasy!

Gently, he helps Alex roll over. Alex is already hard and the sight of his flushed cock distracts Michael for a moment. Then he remembers himself and sets to work on Alex’s chest, skirts around his stomach because apparently he’s ticklish, and sets in on his thighs rubbing deeply.

Finally, finally it’s time to change gears and Michael is excited. He’s been hard in his pants since Alex turned over. Now he finally gets to take him in hand.

He does so gently, cautiously, as if he’s not really allowed. “Is the pressure okay?” He asks, cheekily.

“Perfect.” Alex assures him.

Once Alex’s cock is covered in the massage oil, Michael begins stroking it more firmly, twisting his hand on every other motion. Alex’s hips are restless, his head thrown back exposing the long line of his neck. Michael can’t resist bending to kiss him in the hollow of his throat and is rewarded with a choked little noise.

Alex opens his eyes and fixes them on Michael. “I want you in my mouth, is that negotiable?”

And damn, it so is. “Of course.” Michael tells him as professionally as possible. He doesn’t feel like a professional though, he feels like a boyfriend making Alex’s fantasies come to life. He would do this for Alex every day if he could.

Alex gets his hands on Michael’s belt and begins undoing it. He slips it out of the loops and tosses it to the ground, then he sets in on Michael’s fly. Before Michael can even offer to help he’s got Michael’s dick in his mouth and he’s sucking it with abandon.

It’s a reach, but Michael keeps his hand on Alex and strokes him faster, in time to Alex’s sucking. God he’s good with his mouth. That was something they’d never really explored together before. Never quite had the time.

Michael sinks the fingers of his free hand into Alex’s hair, and strokes his scalp, nails digging in just a bit. He pets at him, thumb stroking over his cheek and jaw. Encouraging him to keep going, to take more and Alex takes it like a goddamn champion, swallowing around the head of Michael’s cock until Michael can;t take it any longer. He has to make sure Alex comes first.

“You’re taking me so well.” He says softly. “You feel so good, but I want you to focus here,” and with that he tightens his grip on Alex, stroking faster and harder. “I want you to come for me, can you do that?”

It takes everything he has to play it so controlled. He feels like he’s spinning out but he hangs on as Alex mumbles and nods and then he stops sucking altogether and his back bows up off the table and he comes over Michael’s hand in a rush. He comes and comes and Michael strokes him through it all.

Immediately he starts back in on Michael and Michael tightens his grip in Alex’s hair, his hips pumping his cock in and out of Alex’s mouth, using it for his own pleasure. It takes only a moment and he tries to drag Alex off, to warn him, but Alex sucks him down hard and Michael comes down his throat with a grunt.

He slips out of Alex’s mouth and bends to kiss him deep and hard, chasing the taste of himself on Alex’s tongue. It’s dirty and hot and Michael can’t get enough, but he knows he needs to back off and let Alex breathe so he does.

“Stay there.” He commands softly, then goes to wet a washcloth for Alex.

He gets the water nice and warm and then goes back to clean off Alex’s stomach. He’s prepared to do more, but Alex silently takes the washcloth from him and does it himself. Okay, so they were done. Michael needed to remember his place. They weren’t lovers. This was strictly a business transaction.

“Pass me my leg?” Alex asks, sitting up on the massage table. “Sure.” Michael says. He passes the leg over and bends to pick his belt off the floor.

Alex stands and grabs the towel to cover himself. It makes Michael feel wrong footed.

“I’m going to shower, the envelope’s on the table.” Alex says and then he leaves. Just like that he’s shutting himself in the bathroom and Michael is left to clean up. Which is fine, he tells himself, it’s as it should be. Not boyfriends, not boyfriends, but as many times as Michael repeats it to himself it doesn’t seem real. No one had ever given him a blowjob like that. That felt like something more. More intimate, more… just more.

Michael decided it was best to work on the clean up. He broke down the table and folded it up. Stuffed the sheet and towel into his beg and grabbed the envelope of cash off the table. He wanted nothing more than to join Alex in the shower and help him wash the oil from his body, to kiss him, to tell him how much it had meant to be with him again. Michael didn’t lie to himself though, he just let himself out of the room silently and headed to his truck.

He felt guilty for even letting his mind go there. He knew what this was and even if it wasn’t completely above board for Michael it clearly was for Alex. He’d made it more than clear actually and Michael needed to find a way to respect that if they were going to keep doing this and Michael really wanted to keep doing it.

The highway was empty as he pulled out and headed home. He had a lot to think about, but one thing he knew for sure, if Alex wanted to keep seeing him under these circumstance, Michael was going to go along with it. For as long as Alex wanted him.

#malex #malex fics #eris writes fics #satellite call fic

11 notes · View notes

honeynutcheerio-qwq · 7 years

Text

Not so “Fresh” Parts 6-12

//so,,, i brought this thing back from the dead :D

@alainaprana (sorry lmao)

“Eyes are the window to the soul” (Chapter 6)

It had been 3 days since the crash. Fresh had been kept in the hospital because of his unsure condition. He had been silent, not eating, and just generally out of it. Ink was a train wreck, Geno was still on life support, and Error wouldn't leave his side. Meanwhile, CQ and Alaina were watching over Fresh, Geno and Error, trying not to think about the daunting due dates of the comics they were doing. Comyet was still trying to console her son, who had no hope or faith whatsoever. In other words, this was pretty screwed up.

Calm. It was calm. Still waters, thoughts stagnant. All that mattered was existing. Fresh continued to think about this, hovering between states of consciousness. It was nice, not having to think about anything. Just... Existing. Light, a blinding light filled Fresh's eye sockets. It burned- as if someone was pouring magma into his skull. And directly into his left eye socket. It was unbearable. The vision went dark in his left eye socket, and he felt as is something was chewing on his soul.

Something wasn't right. Fresh heard an outside voice, too detached and frantic to be his own. He felt his head being lifted up by familiar hands. He was skeptical, struggling a bit in the firm grip. "Stay still Fresh, honey!" It was CQ. "M-Mom I can't-" "Shhh, it's alright honey I'm here." Fresh calmed down a bit, now that the pain has receded. But there was still a strong aching in his skull, one he just- couldn't explain. Fresh squeezed CQ, he would try and sort this out later.

"That- That's impossible." Fresh woke up to CQ's voice, but he never remembered falling asleep.

"His vision's just... Gone?" The other voices were fuzzy. "We are sure it is only temporary. His soul is trying to block out what is hurting it, and that may have been his sight." "Maybe you didn't do the test right- No, I don't want to hear it, try again, please." She sounded desperate. Fresh's eye sockets were invaded by cold- ironic, as he had felt burning pain merely hours before. The cold stayed for a while, and Fresh grew used to it. However, there was a slight sting when the cold left his eye sockets. "...Still the same?" Static. "I see," Fresh flinched as he was picked up.

Fresh knew almost immediately it was his mother, "Mom?" But he asked just to be sure. "It's going to be okay." CQ squeezed Fresh tightly, and he was slightly confused. There was some sort of burning in his chest, the other cold feeling trying to grasp it. It made him reflexively frown, and his eye sockets burned. Just when he thought the magma pain was returning, hot tears fell from his eye sockets. He was confused, so very confused, too much was happening in such a short amount of time...

CQ felt something wet hit her shoulder, she flinched a bit before moving Fresh back into her field of vision. "S-sweetie?" Fresh is crying a bit, and it is quite the scene. He is quite flustered, his sockets dark except for his left one, which has a small upside down heart. CQ stared in wonder at it. It was slightly unsettling. "M-Mom? Are you still here?" Fresh was a bit panicky, his smile still not returning, as his bone-brows furrowed. "I'm here sweetie, I'm here."

It had been a while since then, Fresh had been released from the hospital, his emotions seemed to be returning, Ink was beginning to feel better about this situation, and Error hadn't crashed in a week. Sadly, nothing had changed for Geno. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse. Everything about him was getting worse. In the occasional instances that he woke up, it was only for him to stare into space, not acknowledging anyone or anything.

Fresh clung to CQ as she walked through the parking lot, towards the hospital. The automated doors slid open, a small puff of cool air spilling out into the hot temperature outside. Fresh and

CQ walk in, silent as the medicinal smell filled their lungs. It was all too familiar.

They walked up to the receptionist and told them who they were, the receptionist allowing them to proceed without further hesitations. Fresh pushed up his sunglasses and listened to the sounds around him. For whatever reason, his sight still had not returned, and now he could only really trust his other senses.

"Hey, Fresh honey?"

"Yup?"

"You've been silent for a while, are you alright?"

"No, I'm not," Is what he ached to say, but he could hear the tiredness in his mother's voice, and thought otherwise.

"Yeah, I'm just a bit all up 'n Diggity darn nervous." Even with his new emotions, his lingo still sounded the same. That was a strange form of relief. When they walked into Geno's room, Fresh felt something tug at his soul. Sadness.

With the help of muscle (bone?) memory, Fresh walked up to Geno and gently grabbed his hand. Something went wrong.

Geno was fine, with cracks on his skull, but, he was smiling. It was back to normal, but back in the hospital. Laughing, smiling and just talking. Calm. Wait, Fresh could see? It was perfect. CQ, Alaina, Aunt Com, and everyone else. Something went wrong. Geno's skull fell to pieces,

A fever quickly scampered through Fresh.

No, no, no, no... This was all wrong... Please no... Geno turned to dust right in front of Fresh. Tears. Darkness.

Fresh woke up with a start. "Fresh?"

"Mom? Where all up are we?"

"I was going back home because you were getting tired, don't you remember?" Fresh felt his face contort in confusion. "No...?"

"I'm sure you'll remember sweetie."

"...Okay." Fresh had a lot of questions, but surely they could wait for after a nap. They still had a while 'till they got home.

Hate Kills (Chapter 7)

Fresh woke up like usual, the typical darkness clouding his vision, making him wonder if he had opened his eyes or not. After a couple of seconds put toward orienting himself, he turned around and hopped off his bed, patting his dresser for his shades. They clinked as they fell to the floor, and Fresh sighed as he kneeled to feel for them again. When he finally found them, he smiled, pressing them to his face and waiting for his magic to click them into place. Feeling the familiar ping of magic, Fresh scaled the wall of his bedroom and headed for the door. He let out a muffled whine when he ran into it, reflexively grabbing the doorknob and opening the door. It almost hit him in the face, but he stepped back in the nick of time. He slipped through the hallway, waiting till he felt the biting cold of the tile floor against his feet. Reaching for the cup he knew was there, Fresh stood on his tip-toes, grabbing the cup of water and gulping it down. In a matter of seconds, he was finished, letting out a sigh of contentment. "Fresh?" A tired voice spoke for somewhere behind him. "Yeah ma?" CQ sighed as his reply confirmed her theory. Steps were approaching Fresh, light but full of purpose. Fresh pushed the fear away that came when CQ or anyone actually, picked him up. There he was, completely defenseless. Blind, weak, small and held tightly in that person's arms. "Honey, it's four in the morning. Why are you up?" Fresh thought about a plausible reason, squirming a bit in his mother's arms. "I was just thirsty." Fresh mumbled. CQ stared at Fresh for a while, and just when it began to get uncomfortable, she set him down, holding his hand. "Okay, sweetie. Let's get you back to bed."

Fresh closed his eyes, not that it made any difference, and began to drift off to sleep.

Fresh's dreams were the same as usual, except slightly warped. The colors were mixed up, and certain things just weren't there. He guessed that's what happens when you don't see anything for a while. You begin to forget what you saw in the first place. Fresh looked at his dream hands. They were less detailed, but he could still tell they were his. It scared him to think about when he couldn't. Regardless, Fresh took a deep breath and popped out his Heelies. At least he still remembered how to use them. Fresh thought-- happy to have a lucid dream-- while he skated along with his Heelies. It was nice to see again, and this was his safe haven. No mean words or aggressiveness from Error, Geno would forever be alive in here, and Decans or Mom or anyone really would never be mad or sad or hurt in any way. Fresh wished that real life could be more like this place.

Fresh opened his eyes and sat up. Someone was crying. Mom was crying. Fresh swung himself over his bed, oblivious to the light streaming through the window. Fresh ran right into the door this time, falling backward and rubbing his skull. "Mom? What's wrong?" Fresh shouted, fear beginning to build up in his chest. The door creaked open and Fresh froze as he heard a glitchy grunt. There was a cracking noise as Fresh was punched right in the jaw. Tears began to flow freely from his eye sockets, and Error pulled him up by the collar of his pajamas. "Like you would care! You j-jerk!" Error shouted in Fresh's face. Glitches flocked to Error's eyes as he punched his brother repeatedly. It wasn't long before the blows slowed and weakened. "You idiot. You freak. I hate you." The anger in Error's voice was raw and hateful, the same as the first time Fresh had said he didn't care. Fresh shivered in his tight ball, every bone screaming at him to run as Error spoke, softer, but still chock full of rage. "I hate you."

Fresh felt broken. Something inside him was broken, and he was sure it couldn't be fixed. What had broken him? Fresh wasn't sure. Was it Error breaking him physically, or Geno's death breaking him mentally? Fresh wasn't sure, and honestly, he didn't care. He didn't remember how long he had cried, no, sobbed. But he didn't have emotions anymore. All he had was the heat and pain. The heat that ravaged his bones until only the barest amount of magic was left, and the pain that followed it. Fresh kind of understood how Decans felt now. He couldn't help wondering how his best friend had lived like this for his entire life, even when he had met Fresh. Being so fragile. The slightest touch being able to bruise you. Fresh closed his eyes, trying to block you everything. He'd done it once, and he could do it again. It wasn't that hard once you had closed off your heart.

Decans twiddled his thumbs nervously in the car. His mom had agreed to drive him to the hospital to see Fresh. He still couldn't believe it. Geno was gone, and his best friend might go too. Decans sniffled, trying to keep the tears threatening to leave him inside. His mom glanced at him and placed a light hand on his shoulder. It had gotten easier at their house since Decans' dad went away. His Mom said he went to the Bahamas, but Decans knew what had happened. In all honesty, he was glad. Noko pulled up to the hospital and parked the car. She looked at Decans searching for any sign that he wanted to back out. When all she could find was his caring determination, she smiled and turned off the car. Noko got out first and helped Decans out, both of them silent. This, however, was a comfortable silence; One that spoke of resilience. Unfortunately, it was also one that crumbled the second they walked into the hospital. "U-um Fresh Queen." Decans murmured, noticing the nurse's surprise. "Of course, right this way." Decans and Noko nodded, following the lady. Not that Decans needed to since he'd been here with CQ and them enough to visit-- oh. Oh no. Don't think of that. "Not n-now..." Decans whispered to himself, trying his very hardest not to curl up and cry his eye lights out. Noko noticed and gently pulled him into the nearest room.

"Are you okay?" She whispered wiping the tears from Decans' eyes.

"Y-yeah." He whispered back. Noko smiled and stood up completely.

"Honey...? Is that you?" A voice asked weakly from the other side of the room. Decans and Noko blushed and left the room immediately. It didn't take long for the two of them to catch back up to the nurse-- in good time. The nurse stopped and let them into a plain room except for an inspirational cat poster with sunglasses on the far wall. Fresh's glasses and propeller hat were on the bedside table, along with his Gameboy, heelys, and two furbies, which was strange because Decans remembered him having only one. Decans shook the thought from his mind and approached the bed. CQ began to stir, Noko placing a hand on her shoulder. CQ glanced up, calm as she looked at Noko. Soon, she drifted back to a light sleep.

Decans took a deep breath and moved to shake Fresh's shoulder lightly.

"Don't touch me." Fresh hissed, both in fear and misplaced anger. Decans pulled away, tears filling his eye sockets as he spun on his heel and ran out of the room. Noko seemed torn for a moment before running after her son. This was definitely unexpected.

Heelie away from those Feelies (Chapter 8)

Fresh closed his eyes, wondering how he had gotten beaten into submission so easily. Error was just so hateful towards him; it seemed impossible. Without Geno to push him away, and their mom being away most of the time. Error could do what ever he wanted-- he was the judge and the mercenary, and Fresh had a death sentence. Fresh kicked with all his strength, struggling futilely against the blue strings Error was using to keep him in place. Since when has he gotten so handy with his strings? Fresh was surprised that his shades hadn't fallen off yet with all the rough treatment he was going through. A sharp blow interrupted Fresh's train of thought, his shades falling off easily. What a coincidence! Fresh sucked in a breath, his soul pounding, in his eye socket for whatever strange reason, as Error stomped on his shades and crushed them to bits. After that without another response other than a hateful glance, Error left Fresh. A couple of moments after Error left the room, Fresh fell to the ground, the blue strings dissolving as if they were magic. .

Fresh listened as he heard the front door open and close, sighing as he enjoyed the warm air from his bedroom window. "Fresh? Is everything alright? Error looks upset." CQ yelled up the stairs. Fresh sighed, heavier this time, and swung his legs through the window; heelies popped and ready to go. He would only be gone an hour.

It had been way longer than an hour, but Decans' house was a lot cozier than Fresh's right now. Things were cool between them now. They had both forgotten about the hospital event. So they talked, and Decans read books for almost three hours before the pair heard the doorbell. "That, broski, is my cue. See ya Deccy Dec." Fresh whispered, climbing back out the window. "I hope things get better for you!" Decans whisper-yelled to Fresh. Fresh smiled waving, and turned around, only to catch the attention of a wide-eyed Error. Error left the car and ran over to the front door. Fresh skated as fast as he dared-- faster than he had ever skated at any time ever. He could practically hear Error tattling on him, but it wasn't going to work this time. No, Fresh was going to win the game this time. Fresh kicked off his secret heelies into the bushes and scurried up the side of the house. He managed to get himself inside the room before CQ and Error rounded the corner. As soon as he entered the house-- no, as soon as he entered this room, in particular, he felt his body protest and give up on him. Fresh threw up his pancakes and eggs, and a bit of a grilled cheese sandwich. The memories of so many terrible things that had happened here and the idea of so many terrible things that could happen here were overwhelming. The door opened, and Fresh looked up for the first time in a while and saw what he didn't need to see. Error, right there, in all his glitchy glory, staring at him, defenseless little Fresh. So Fresh did what any reasonable person would do. He screamed, loud enough for anyone and everyone to hear. His screaming didn't have any words, just wordless terror. A loud piercing noise designed to send people to his aid. Error approached, trying to calm Fresh but only serving to scare him more.

CQ hugs Fresh, silent as she did so. Fresh's screaming quieted to soft little gasps as he let his mother embrace him. The pain and fear quickly receded like low tide at a dock. He felt his soul gradually stop its incessant pounding, and slow to a low hum.

When CQ pulled away Fresh felt a pang of something like pain, at not just her expression but even the way she was carrying herself.

"...Ma...? Why are you looking at me like that?" CQ's eyes opened, and she wondered if he could see, just like that. Fresh ignored her awe and instead picked up his shades from the ground and pressed them (in)to his face. Error broke out in a fit of hysterical giggles, and CQ couldn't help but snicker herself. She gently pulled the shades from Fresh's eye sockets, carefully maneuvering around the fragile white pupils.

When Fresh's skull was once again glasses-free, he rubbed his eye sockets, trying to get used to the gentle flow of information. His room hadn't changed at all, which is surprising since he hadn't cleaned it in months. Continuing to look around, Fresh stopped when he noticed CQ and Error staring at him. His shoulders tensed, and he absentmindedly wondered if he had missed the start to a staring game. CQ and Error noticed his intensified glare, and CQ laughed, while Error did something of an uninterested chuckle.

"Alright you th--. Two. Let's go to the park. Grab your things, we'll be leaving in half an hour." Fresh tried to control his squeal, masking it with a badly timed sneeze/cough. Error looked at Fresh in the usual confused way, except without the hate. That's a start.

I mean, what could go wrong at the park? Maybe they'd see Sugar.

Flower you today (Chapter 9)

Fresh sat under a tree, enjoying the smells, sights and sounds of the outdoors. He guessed you really don't know you love something until you let it go-- or involuntarily lose it of course. Fresh blinked in confusion when he noticed a butterfly that had long ago landed on the tip of his nose. Had he really been sitting still that long? Before he could inquire further, he recognized something else peculiar. On his right shoulder appeared to be Decans, and the other, Sugar; both of them sound asleep. Sighing, Fresh tried to remember if he had kept any markers in his fanny pack. Careful not to jostle Decans, Sugar or the butterfly, he grabbed a sharpie. Yup, this was gonna be awesome.

~ ~ Decans woke up slowly, stretching carefully as to not wake Fresh, who had dozed off. He moved to get up, smiling at how cute Fresh and Sugar were. What was on Sugar’s...? Quickly dismissing the thought, Decans walked off to a small corner of the large park to pick some flowers. He could make some flower crowns for Fresh and Sugar. Maybe even Error if he wanted. Decans racked his brain for the way Geno taught him to make flower crowns.

- - -

Geno laughed as Decans huffed in frustration.

"No, no, look." Geno guided Decans, with his calm voice.

Geno expertly wove the stems together, making a perfect, pastel flower crown worthy for that of a queen. He handed the crown to Decans pressing it into his hands gently.

"Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it," Geno whispered. "And when you do, go give it to him."

Decans flushed. "What?!" Fresh turned around at the noise, but Geno waved him off.

"You know who I mean." Geno giggled. Decans tried to protest but CQ interrupted.

"Okay, boys! Time to go!" Geno was up in a flash, and he waved his goodbye to Decans.

Decans just sat there, speechless, as his Geno ran off with his brothers.

- - -

Shortly after that Fresh got sick, Geno went into a coma, and you know the rest. Decans felt something warm and wet hit his hands. He watched as the same liquid bounced off a petal. Ha. They were his own tears. Decans hurriedly wiped his eyes and continued to weave the flower stems together. He had gotten the hang of it after a while. Lost in his thoughts, Decans didn't notice the flower floating in from of him.

"H-Hey, are you okay?" Decans' head snapped up at the glitchy sound.

"Y... Yeah." Error nodded and the two sat in silence.

"Are you?" Error didn't respond-not that he needed to. Anyone could tell what he was thinking.

"I... I miss him." Decans set down the now finished bright yellow and blue flower crown.

"I know. I-I would hug you, but I think we're both against that." Decans mumbled.

Error let out a half hearted chuckle. Decans took a shallow breath.

"P-p-please, just s-stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop hurting him. He's my best friend, and I hate seeing him so-"

"He deserves it. Geno did so much for him, and he didn't even go to his funeral. He deserves anything and everything that comes to him."

"B-But he-"

Error growled, standing up to look over Decans. "Don't try and defend him. You could do so much better."

Error walked off to the far corner of the park, out of Decans' view. He sat in silence for a few minutes, before he got up and walked over to Fresh. Careful not to wake his bestie, Decans placed the flower crown on his head. Fresh opened the eye with the soul in curiosity.

"What's all up 'n happening, Deccy Dec?" Fresh smiled, completely chill with the flowers placed on his head.

"Oh nothing." Decans grinned, his conversation with Error scratching the back of his skull. He would just ask, and then change the subject.

"...How are you and Error?" Decans inquired, careful with his wording.

Fresh didn't respond. His soul hummed a bit higher, a sign that he was nervous. Decans took careful notice, wondering if he should push harder.

Luckily, he didn't have to. "I-I- We're... E-erm. We're okay I guess. "

"Oh, so I won't see you climbing in my window tommorow at three in the morning, bruised and broken?" Decans was a bit firmer than he wanted to be, but maybe that was necessary.

Fresh didn't respond at all this time, and instead decided to pretend he was asleep. Decans didn't speak, but instead let out a frustrated sigh.

"...You know you can talk to me, right? And that no matter what happens, even if burning vampire zombies wreak havoc on all that is holy, I'll be there." Fresh said nothing so Decans continued.

"If we all die and come back to life again, only to be told by Satan himself that we're going to hell, and everyone we love is dead, I'll be there." Fresh smiled, and Decans continued, starting to have fun with these fantasies.

"Even if some sick, satanic child kills everyone we love over and over again, including us, and does it only to spite us, I'll-"

"Okay, okay. I all up and get it brotato chip."

"Okay, but do you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Jeez, you two should jusht kissh already." Sugar mumbled.

"What?" Fresh seemed completely and utterly confused. Decans, however, was about as yellow as banana peppers.

"SUGAR WHY?!" Decans screeched.

"Hehe."

Dopeness of Despair (Chapter 10)

Decans listened as Sugar slowly explained to Fresh as to what he meant earlier for a couple minutes. After a bit, he got up and decided to go and try to make amends with Error. The glitchy skeleton with gently swinging on the swing set, when Decans found him. Decans didn't dare swing on them without Fresh by his side, but he wasn't afraid to sit on them. Error noticed Decans, but he didn't greet him.

"H-Hey, I'm sorry a-about earlier... I-"

"Don't-! Don't apologize, it was my fault. Ever since..." Error trailed off, but he didn't have to say it for Decans to know. Error continued.

"I've gotten more, um, hot-headed? Mom told me I had but I dunno." Error mumbled.

Decans laughed awkwardly. "I-its fine. I just hope we can still be friends."

Error seemed skeptical. "We're friends?"

This scared Decans a bit, yellow shifting into his eyes. "I thought so..."

"...That's. Nice." Error smiled a little.

"I need someone to distract me from Fresh." Error sighed, beginning to swing gently.

"T-that might be a problem. I hang out with Fresh 60% of the time." Decans giggled.

Error scowled. "What about the other forty percent?"

Decans looked at his hands to count. "20% spent with my mom, the other ten I spend reading and the other five I spend sleeping."

Error squinted. "What about the other five?"

Decans looked away from Error. "Talking to or texting Fresh."

Error huffed. "We probably weren't friends then."

Decans sighed. "I guess not..."

Decans and Error sat in silence for a bit.

When it became too awkward for Decans, he bailed. "I'm gonna go sit back with Fresh."

Error growls. "You could do so much better."

Without so much as a whimper, Decans leaves the swing set to join Fresh and Sugar.

"And that, my friend, ish how Decansh feelsh about you." Sugar finished.

Fresh turned around to face Decans. "B-broski. I all up and thought you already knew dat I totes felt the swiggity-same way..."

"W-what-" Decans started.

Fresh grinned. "Of course we're best-best besties!" Fresh lightly hugged Decans, and he gave a sigh of relief.

"Sugar, I swear." Decans whispered. Sugar giggled. 'Okay.' He mouthed.

The five stayed at the park until sunset, where Sugar's mom came to pick him up. Decans' mom would be doing paperwork all night, so CQ offered Decans to stay the night at her house. Obviously, the small skeleton happily accepted. Dinner was a little less tense with Decans around, and Fresh and Decans talked more than they ate. By the time it was time for them to go to bed, their bowls of extra-cheesy macaroni had been barely touched. The three changed into their PJs and CQ tucked them all into bed. Fresh and Error into their respective rooms, and Decans to Geno's. Decans listened as CQ's computer whirred to life. She must've been drawing. It wasn't long until Decans' door He opened, he sat up cautiously. "...Mom really let you sleep in here?" Error mumbled. "How could she?" Without another word, Error left.

"...Goodnight to you too, Error." Decans mumbled, drifting off to sleep. Geno's bed still smelled like him. How strange. - - - Decans blinked his eyes open, too tired to question why everything was upside-down.

"Hey, Deccy Dec it's time for-" Fresh's eyes widened. Decans was hanging from the ceiling by his left foot. Good thing he was light, or he could've fallen and broken his neck. Fresh turned around to go and get help but Error blocked the way. "Not a word." Fresh clamped his mouth shut, and Decans furrowed his eyebrows. "Now I'm only going to say this once, so listen closely." Error warned. "Leave, and don't you even think of coming back. If you do, you won't like what happens next." Error spoke calmly. When he was finished, he left the room. The blue strings holding Decans snapped and he fell directly into Fresh's arms. That was going to bruise later.

"...I'll walk to school with you." Fresh mumbled. Decans nodded. He hoped he wasn't too far on Error's bad side.

Hope vs Despair (Chapter 11)

Decans thought about his earlier encounter with Error. Fresh had been sticking by his side, but he couldn't stop the murderous glares that Error shot him. Error surely wouldn't go so far as to hurt him right? Because Decans only had one life, and he was not ready to lose it. "--And the last two pairings are Decans and Error, and Fresh and Sugar." A shiver ran down Decans' spine. "Oh sorry, read that wrong, silly me." Decans breathed a sigh of relief. "Actually, Paperjam? You are with Sugar. Fresh you'll be okay by yourself." Oh jeez. Fresh didn't waste any time. He looked at Decans, his eyes full of worry. Fresh was like an open book now that his shades were broken. "Deccy Dec you be all up careful, okay?" Fresh warned.

Decans nodded, responding, "Don't worry, nothing's going to happen."

Fresh growled, his lingo leaving his speech for a moment. "But how can you be sure?"

Decans didn't reply for a second. "J-Just... Trust me."

"I usually can... But broski– this isn't something I'm willing to play with." Fresh sighed. He tugs lightly on Decans' hand. "C'mon, maybe we can still ask the teach ta switch up the all up partners–"

"Fresh!" Fresh jumped, Decans had never seen him so worried before. "I... I'm scared too. No– I'm terrified. But this is something me and Error need to work out." Fresh didn't want to listen.

"B-But if he hurts you--"

"The projects start tomorrow. I'll see you then." Decans turned away from Fresh and began to walk home. "Deccy wait! Don't..." Fresh trailed off. He had already gone around the corner. - - - "Okay, everyone! There has been a slight change of partnership. Decans, you'll be with Fresh and Error, you'll be with Sugar and Paperjam." Decans squinted. He looked to Fresh, but Fresh didn't meet his eye. The rest of the day was tense. Anytime Fresh tried to strike up a conversation, he would either get snippy remarks or the silent treatment. By lunch time, everyone had begun to pick up on the tension between Decans and Fresh. They were usually stuck to each other like glue, but they were off today. And at that same time, Fresh decided he'd better say something.

"D-Deccy Dec, I'm sorry okay? I know you all up and swiggity said you'd had it covered, but... I think you're the bomb diggity, brotato chip. I-I don't want you to get hurt."

"L-Listen. Fresh, I feel the same way about you."

Fresh perked up. "T-Then you all up and understand why--"

"But I'd think you'd respect my wishes if you really liked me." Decans got up and left without another word, letting his harsh words sink in. Sugar and Paperjam, who happened to be sitting across the table both looked at each other. Paperjam wolfed down the rest of his food and stood up with his tray. "Well, I think I'm going to brainstorm for my project. Wanna join me Sugar?" Paperjam used his head to gesture towards the door Decans exited out of. Sugar blinked as if he had just noticed the situation. He hastily got up and frowned. "Y-Yeah, I'm coming." Sugar hesitated, wondering if he should really leave Fresh all alone, but he didn't have much of a choice when Paperjam pulled him out the doors.

"Well, would you look at that! Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes skipping school! This is what you call a once in a lifetime experience." Paperjam whispered. Sugar glared at him, and Paperjam quickly quieted. "Shorry Jammy, we have to keep a closhe eye on Decansh." Sugar sighed. Paperjam looked confused. He cocked his head and asked, "Why?" "Becaushe of the fact that my two besht friendsh' friendship ish collapshing, Jammy. The ship is shinking." Sugar mumbled, getting a bit louder. Paperjam took a deep breath. "W-What does that have to do with us?" He shrunk back in fear as a twisted smile made its way up Sugar's face. "We've got the life jacketsh." Paperjam looked away from his friend. "So what do we do?" Sugar looked back in the direction Decans was going. "Well, we can't let Decansh out of our-" Sugar popped out of the bushes. "Where did he go?!"

Decans growled. Why had he been so stupid back there? How could he have said such a thing to Fresh?! Fresh wasn't able to deal with that kind of thing yet. And right after the death of his brother! Wow, Decans had really done it this time. Fresh just bared his soul to him and Decans just... Rejected him. Not even to the friend zone. Not even close. "Ahh, this is all just so... so stupid!" Decans shouted to nobody in particular. He wanted to kick something but he could hurt himself in the process. Thinking of this, Decans let out another string of frustrated noises. He didn't even care about where he was going. Just as long as it was very far away from the school. But this... This was a bit too far. You'd think the rules would be a bit more flexible, you'd think that Decans would actually have to go inside the house for bad things to happen. But you'd be wrong. Oh, so, so wrong. But don't worry, the cracking noise was too soft to bother anyone.

"How far away do you think he is?" Paperjam mumbled. "We've been walking for hours..."

Sugar sighed, flipping his nonexistent hair. "It'sh been five minutesh. You're sho dramatic."

Paperjam laughed. "Oh, I'm dramatic?" Sugar nodded. "Yesh. You are. Sho very much."

"Come on now Sugar, let's be honest, between the two of us, you're more dramatic than I..." Sugar stopped dead in his tracks. "...Am..."

"...Do you shtill have your mom'sh phone?"

"Yeah."

"Error, don't lie to me. Did you, or did you not?" CQ said as she held Error still. He was a pretty good actor when he wanted to be. "I'm t-telling you, I-I didn't do it on purpose! H-He snuck up on me, and I r-reacted." Error sniffled. CQ looked Error in the eyes for a moment before sighing and letting him relax. She looked over to Fresh who was sitting next to Decans' bed, holding his hand gently. It was going to be hard to take him back home. CQ'd better start now. She placed a light hand on Fresh's shoulder. He didn't react in the slightest. "C'mon Fresh, we need to--"

"I'm staying here." CQ blinked. She had known this would happen, but now that it was happening, she didn't know what to do.

"Listen, Honey," CQ kneeled next to Fresh and placed her hand on his. "I know this hurts. But Decans wouldn't want you to sit here and worry about him. He'd tell you to go do something and take care while he couldn't. Plus, you've been here for hours. It's time to go."

"You wouldn't say that if this was Geno." CQ flinched. "In fact, you would probably be happy that I seemed to care." Error looked up. Fresh could feel his gaze burning into his back. But the words had started, and they weren't going to stop anytime soon. "It's always been, 'Geno this, Error that,' Don't you think I noticed?" Fresh smiled in a sad kind of way. "But maybe you thought, 'The emotionless child doesn't care. He's fine.' and I was fine. But now I'm not, and I know that. The only time you looked at me other than to make me apologize to Error, or take Geno to the park or something, was when I was lying in a hospital bed with a life threatening fever." Fresh rambled on, not even sparing a single thought to flick away the tears landing on the sheets of the bed. "Is that how it works?" Fresh questioned. "Do I have to be sick for you to pay attention to me?" Fresh heard a chuckle come from him, he didn't force it. This was just so... Funny all of a sudden. "And now, one of the only people-- Geno, is gone, and now the only person in the world--" Fresh sniffled, trying to catch his breath. His vision swam with tears as he forced another statement out of his mouth. Another empty question. "T-the on-only other person w-who actually cares is d-dying... And you-... You're t-telling me to just-- just-- leave?" Fresh broke down into a hysterical laughing fit and CQ stood up. She didn't say anything to Fresh. She whispered something like "Let's go," to Error, and they walked to the door. CQ paused for a moment. "I'll get you in the morning." Fresh didn't respond. Decans didn't stir.

A bit later into the night, a nurse by the name of Grace (I'll see if you guys can make the connection >:3) came and brought Fresh some food, kindness, and comforting words. She opened up the couch-bed for him and offered a nightlight. He politely declined, but she brought him one anyway. After he zoned out for about an hour, Fresh retired to the couch bed. He closed his eyes and opened them immediately after. He placed the simple nightlight into an outlet near the couch-bed and watched it turn on. There. Fresh closed his eyes for the final time, with a contented sigh sprinkled with worry. He drifted off instantly.

Darkness.

Fresh looked up to see Decans, sitting down with him in a sunlit flower patch, handing him a Flower Crown. He seemed proud. Fresh put it on and hastily made one out of lavender for Decans. Decans laughed and placed it on his head. A bit further in the flower patch, Paperjam and Sugar were pointing at random constellations and giving them different names. Constellations? But it was-- Fresh gazed at the sky, squinting, expecting to see the sun, but his eyes widened when he saw the sky. He felt a tap on his shoulder. He saw Decans trying to say something to him. Fresh couldn't hear him, his metaphorical ears were ringing. Darkness started to crawl in from the ends of the flower patch. Fresh tried to pull Decans closer but pushed him instead. The darkness swallowed his best friend up without a second thought. After a few seconds, all the Fresh could see where the flowers under him, and the abandoned flower crown in front of him. He closed his eyes.

Fresh sat up without a sound. He saw movement somewhere in front of him, and his half-awake brain managed to say the thing that made the least sense at the moment. "...Decans...?" Fresh managed to scare Nurse Grace, who was changing the IV and checking Decans' vitals. "Oh, I'm afraid its just little old me, sweetheart." The nurse offered her usual way-older-than-you-think-I-am smile and stopped for a moment. "Ah yes! Your mom popped over and told me to tell you that she was going with Ms. Noko to court to finalize a divorce." The nurse grew dreamy-eyed for a second. "I remember my first divorce..." Fresh tried not to laugh, as it could've been a touchy subject. "Your first divorce?"

Nurse Grace laughed as if it were more than a high-school crush. It sounded like one. "Believe it or not, I was quite the looker when I was younger." She teased. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." Fresh giggled. Nurse Grace knew just how to cheer him up. Just like Decans. He tried not to think about it that way. "Alright, it'll be our little secret." Nurse Grace pushed a finger to her lips and winked. She gathered some of the stuff she had brought into the room and pushed it on a cart to the door. "Your mom will be here in an hour. I put some food on the table there for you." She listed. And finally, with a smile, she added, "Make sure to rest a bit sweetheart." With a swish of her short hair, she was out of the room. Fresh sighed, silent for a moment. He looked to the table for his food. What? He smiled warmly. How did she get pancakes?

Pretend is a Wonderful Game (Chapter 12)

//quick note. I thought about letting Decans live in this chapter, but it was more fun to write it this way!! <33

Decans didn't improve. But, he didn't get worse either. He was stuck in the same lifeless state, and he would stay that way for God only knows how long. Fresh couldn't handle it if Decans left him. He had already lost so much. Everybody around him knew this too. He had been broken too many times to last through this.

Even Error couldn't deny that he felt the slightest bit of pain for him. Decans didn't deserve what happened to him. He deserved anything but that. And while Error wasn't exactly fond of it, he tried to be there for Fresh. He kept an eye on him and tried to be the brother Geno had been. Fresh would've appreciated it so much more if every time he looked at Error he didn't see the face of the person that had hurt his best friend. The person who had potentially killed his best friend.

CQ had tried to keep Fresh and Error away from each other, but no longer because of Error. It seems the tables had turned a lot since what had happened. Sugar and Paperjam said they were there for Fresh if he needed to talk, and they had stuck true to their word. It wasn't unusual for them to show up at 2 o' clock and stay 'till 7.

And Fresh was trying. Everyone could tell he was tired, or upset, but they didn't comment on that. He was glad for it. He wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Geno had just been ripped away from him-- he couldn't lose Decans too.

So everyone pretended that it was fine. They smiled and laughed and joked like nothing ever happened. They smiled as if Decans wasn't laying deadly still in a hospital bed. They laughed about things that didn't really matter.

They didn't get to pretend for very long. - - -

"We're sorry for your loss." The doctor spoke the words he said to everyone who had ever experienced this. Hollow words coming from a person who had never known Decans. Who had never seen him smile, or laugh and been given a hug. Someone who had never been through the darkest times with him, or someone who had never shown every side of themselves to him. Someone who didn't learn a thing from him or listen to him joke about things you shouldn't joke about. Someone who hadn't known Decans. CQ gripped Fresh's hand tight enough for it to hurt. He didn't react. He didn't feel it. Come to think of it, he didn't feel anything. He didn't want to feel anything.

A tense second passed. Two. Possibly, three, four, maybe even a couple minutes.

"Fresh, I--" CQ started.

"It's fine." Fresh deadpanned. CQ startled, as she had expected him to break down in tears, not console her.

"Can we just go home?" His voice shook a little bit as the harsh reality settled around his weary soul.

CQ's heart ached to wrap her arms around him and tell him it would be okay. But she knew how it felt for those words to come from someone who didn't really know the one you lost. The pain caused by taking those words to heart and nodding. She had seen the boys' friendship blossom the very first time she had met Decans. She hadn't gotten much time to speak to him or get to know him, but the mother knew he was sweet.

CQ remembered the way he squirmed and introduced himself, and the way Fresh smiled and took him from the situation. She remembered how surprised she was to see he actually cared for someone. She remembered the looks they gave each other and the inside jokes she had never learned to understand.

CQ pursed her lips and nodded. "Yeah." ~ ~ ~

"W-What if she doesn't like me?" Decans mumbled, letting Fresh gently pull him along.

"Brah, who could not all up like you?" Fresh replied, snorting.

"What if your brothers think I'm weird?"

"Trust me Deccy Dec, ya don't gotta worry about dat."

"What if--"

Fresh stopped, turned around, and gave Decans his best serious face. "Why are you all up wiggity-wiggity-worryin' so much? You're gonna make yourself all up sick."

Decans studied the pavement. "I just wanna be careful. F-First impressions are everything, right?"

Fresh sighs, giving Decans' hand a light squeeze. "Deccy Dec, ya don't have anythin' to worry about. You'll be a-okay. Promise."

After a moment's hesitation, Decans nods. Fresh smiles and hops up onto the front porch of a house.

Decans squints. "What are you doing?"

"We're all up already here." Fresh snickers.

"Oh."

Decans fiddles with the drawstrings of his hoodie for a moment. "Well, are ya gonna just stand there all day?"

Laughing, Decans looks up. He takes in a breath to say something.

" " ~ ~ ~

Fresh opens his eyes. It's still dark. Silent, Fresh sits up and checks the clock.

4 am.

He thinks about lying down and trying to go back to sleep before deciding against it. Hopping out of bed, he slips down the stairs and into the kitchen. His feet clack against the cold tile as he opens the fridge. The light temporarily blinds him. Fresh grabs a cup of water and heads into the living room. The T.V's light dances on the walls. It's raining. He checks the clock.

5 am.

Expecting to hear CQ get up from her computer, he drinks the cup of water. It's empty.

6 am. ~ ~ ~

Sitting up for the second time, Fresh groans. He checks the clock.

7 am.

He glares at it for a bit longer. It's Saturday, right? Yeah. He lays down and pulls the cover over his head. It's still raining. A shiver escapes from Fresh, despite the fact that he's hot under the heavy comforter. He remembers what day it is. It's Saturday. He presses his eyes shut. The funeral's tomorrow.

//so thats that! sorry for all the angst lmao

#not so fresh

3 notes · View notes

kawaiidragonpotato · 7 years

Text

A Heated Heart (Peter Parker x Reader) Part 4

(Warnings: Cursing, more making out, teenage hormones man)

Summary: Reader is pissed cause it has been a few weeks since her rescue make out with spiderman and ever since then Peter has been avoiding her like the plague. When she finally gets the chance to talk to him, she let's loose and Peter can't hide his staring and she figures out why and his secret identity is no longer a secret.

Alright. She can take a hint. (Y/n) wasn't born yesterday, nor was she raised under a rock, she could tell when someone was avoiding her. And that little bitch Parker was avoiding her. No, no, she shouldn't let her anger get the best of her. But it had been almost a whole month of him seeing her in the hallways, only to turn the other way. Of switching seats in every class they had and secretly begging teachers (she got nosy) to keep her busy as their TA. If she got to be near him long enough to speak, he'd stick his earbuds in or talk to Ned if they also shared the class together. She was not sure what she did wrong, if she remembered correctly it was Parker who had left her high and dry on their study date, so she should be the one avoiding him.

"Alright Parker, two can play at this game" (Y/n) grumbled to herself, her new mission set in place the next day. She started it off simply enough, she stopped trying to catch his attention or confront him. With a few days of her doing this, and him now sneaking worried glances her way, she bumped it up a notch. She started to wear revealing clothing. Yes, it was a bit childish for her to show skin, and get Peter to react cause of this, but she was past the point of not being petty. But it got her the reaction she desired. When she walked into biology in a sun dress that was borderline skimpy with the way it looked (but it did in fact cover enough of her, looks can be deceiving), she looked fleetingly at everyone in the class, her eyes landing on Peter long enough to see his eyes wide and jaw slack. Her eyes showed disinterest as she flicked her bangs away from her face and she sat in her seat, seeming to forget she was wearing a dress as she lifts her feet and plops them on the teachers desk like she usually does while in this class. While there was a few snickers no one made a bigger scene then Peter who promptly slammed his head against his desk on accident (he was leaning on his hand when he saw her do this and his hand slipped).

"Is there something you wish to say Mr. Parker?" The teacher asks as Peter scrambles to sit properly and shakes his head flustered.

"A-ah. No n-no sir n-not at all. Great job" Peter gives the teacher a awkward smile and thumbs up before rubbing the back of his head. The teacher hums with a slightly questioning look, before turning to see what could be the reason for the quiet sniggering and smacks (Y/n)'s feet causing her to jump slightly and shift her legs enough for Peter to catch a sight of her underwear. He groans and covers his face in embarrassment and misery. They were Lacey and seemed to have a pattern on them. Upon noticing everyone looking at him Peter rubs his head as he looks at the teacher apologetically. "S-sorry"

(Y/n) sniggers as she is asked by the teacher to help Peter, who has been struggling all period and seems to be making a mess. Once she reaches Peter and Ned's table she notices how Ned looks sympathetic but isn't helping Peter one bit. You get behind him and lean over Peter, noticing how he tenses as you look at his scribbles in concentration to try and see where he is messing up.

"Geez Parker this is grade school stuff where your messing up at. Right here you got the variables switched up" (Y/n)'s voice talking in his ear has shivers down his spine as he's brought back to the day in the alley, her hot mouth ravaging his and how he had to go home after he got her home safely and ja- take a shower. He snaps out of it when he sees her smooth (s/c) hand reach over his shoulder to point at the variables she spoke of. "Right here" she whispers, her breath warm and comforting, he catches a whiff of what he would consider heaven (but he knows must be some perfume or body spray she put on that appeals to her natural scent) as she looks at him.

"O-oh. R-right. Um, thanks" Peter stutters out lamely as he fumbles with his pencil to erase and switch the variable's. He didn't know he made such a bad error, but he was really distracted by (y/n) lately. She had begun to ignore him and not even acknowledge him anymore, not even attempting to talk to him. He cursed at himself because he knew it was because of him avoiding her every time he saw her in the hallways, or ignoring her himself when they were in class. But every time he saw her all could remember was that time in the alley and he didn't want to reveal to her who he was and ruin what they had, and he also wanted to keep her safe from the danger his super hero life entailed.

"...Peter! Dude, c'mon class has been out for a while now, I'll meet you at the lunchroom alright man?" Ned asks, causing Peter to snap out of his inner turmoil as he nods his head in confirmation and gets his stuff ready to leave. (Y/n) notices this and instantly swoops in. She enjoys the twinge of satisfaction she feels when she pinches Peters ass and he yelps because of this, only when he turns and realizes its her does he make a noise similar to a squeak and seems to be speechless and he stares at her. He looks flustered as she traps him against the table and she glares at him.

"Alright Parker I don't know why you have been avoiding me but I'm officially pissed so you better tell me before you make me do something I'll regret" (Y/n)'s voice sounds calm enough but Peter can hear the undertones of raw and pure anger.

"Me? A-avoiding you?! I-I don't know what your talking ah, um about" Peters face flushes a noticeable red as he keeps sneaking glances at her lips and licks his in response. (Y/n) notices this instantly since she has been staring at him intently. Once his eyes flicker up to hers he seems to fidget and look away with rosy cheeks, biting his lip.

"What is up with you Peter?!.....did...did I do something??" Peter quickly looks at her in what seems to be horror as he grabs her hands and holds onto them tightly.

"W-What?!! N-no you haven't done anything! I just-" Peter groans as he subconsciously looks at your lips in what seems to be longing and licks his lips again and looks away with a long sigh. "I'm sorry to make you worry (y/n)" he lowers his voice and your eyes seem to slightly widen as you recognize that tone instantly.

"No fucking way, you have got to be shitting me" You say as you look at Peter in disbelief and he cannot help but to look at you in confusion. But all you do is shake your head and look Peter up and down. "That's why your acting like this Parker? Cause your spiderman?!" You whisper yell this as you peer around to make sure the teacher took their lunch break. Peter's eyes look like their about to pop out of his head

"Wh-what?! N-no no I'm not Spiderman, why would you say that?!" Peter whisper yells as he tries not to freak out too much. Your not buying it as you roll your eyes.

"Cut the crap Peter. No way did you suddenly become obsessed with my lips. The only person I've made out with this last month is Spiderman and judging by how your acting like a virgin when you get near me, you really need to work on the whole secret identity thing dude. Control your hormones a bit" You snort a bit but by the end of your statement your staring at Peter with wide eyes as you finally are processing what has gone down. Peter Parker, the cute, geeky bastard you have been falling in love with, is SPIDERMAN.

Both of you stare at one another for a long time, neither paying attention to how much time has passed or how much time is left in lunch, no doubt Ned was probably wondering where Peter was. But that was the farthest thing from either of your minds. Your eyes widen when you watch as Peters eyes get slightly hooded and he grabs your face, registering what he mumbles under his breath.

"Fuck it" Peter mumbles before he kisses you with as much passion as he can put into his second kiss. He feels a bit insecure not sure if he is doing it right, but he sure as hell got a confidence boost when he feels you melt into his body and moan into his mouth as you wrap your arms around him and thread your fingers in his hair. He let's out a grunt before he slips out a moan of his own as he brings his hands down to your hips and pulls you even closer than before. He nibbles slightly on your lips like he's been daydreaming about, pleased to find out that you like it as you moan and open your mouth, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues fight for dominance before you give in and decide to let Peter have this win as he happily explores your mouth before he begins to pull away, leaving you breathless.

"So glad I made out with you in that alleyway" (Y/n) gasps out as Peter can't help the goofy grin he gets on his face as he pecks her cheek and holds (y/n) close to himself.

"I'm glad that was my thank you" You lightly smack his chest but don't fight the smile on your face as you snuggle up to him.

"Guess this means were dating right?" (Y/n) questions as Peter grins and looks at her with awe and adoration on his face.

"I g-guess so, well, I mean I hope so" Peter whispers shyly as you smile and reach up to kiss him lightly on the lips. You were glad you found out his little secret, cause if you didn't you were sure he wouldn't have gotten the courage to confess (in his own weird way). Sure you were still upset about the long ass month of what seemed to be him avoiding you out of embarrassment, but you were okay with it if it all added up to this moment.

~alright that's it, its done, might have to make one more chapter with smut maybe or just a cute epilogue with reader having fun with her new boyfriend being spiderman. Either or it will be a epilogue that I might do.~

39 notes · View notes

followmetoyourdoom · 7 years

Text

Childhood // Chpt 2: The Raid

So for Lolirock Appreciation Week I knew I might not have time to do all the prompts so here is Day 1 and Day 2 combined in the form of a new chapter about the twins childhood, since Praxina and Mephisto are my fav female and male characters respectively.

Homeless, orphaned, and with only each other to cling to. How will the twins survive; and where is their Papi?

Read it on ao3 or below:

Days had past. Maybe even weeks, the twins didn't know. All they knew was that every day was a fight for survival. They lived in the ruins of their once beloved kingdom, the streets unrecognisable, and the few people that remained, fundamentally changed.

Their uncle, Papi, was not one of them. Neither Praxina nor Mephisto could find him, and soon they started checking the bodies they came across.

Just in case.

Praxina's hand was still wrapped in blood encrusted rags, the cut too deep to have fully healed yet; but the hairpin was now in her hair. Mephisto had made her promise to keep it there, untouched. Her head slightly clearer, but still shaken, she'd agreed and bowed her head for Mephisto to fasten it in.

As for Mephisto, he wore his father's ear cuff, fixed on his ear ever so carefully with magic since it was still a little too big.

When the children were forced to beg for food, those that had once been nobles sneered down at them. If they had such pretty headpieces then surely they could trade them for food instead of begging like rats.

And so that had been the first night they had spent with empty stomachs.

It wasn't the hunger that woke them every night however. Nor was it the cold wind that buffeted them in the nooks and crannies they found to sleep in, or the uncomfortable floor, or even the screams and cries that carried on way into the night.

No. It was the nightmares and horrors that plagued their minds, cursing their every waking moment and destroying every sleeping one.

Praxina saw her parents' bodies twisted grotesquely far worse than they had actually been. Mephisto - his imagination much stronger than his sister's - saw Praxina driving the hairpin deeper and deeper into her flesh. And not that of her hand, but rather of her chest.

So young, and already death had shaken them to their very core.

Whenever these thoughts and images crossed their minds, each would scramble for the other; a reminder that they weren't alone, that they still had family.

Sometimes holding each other closely was enough to ward the nightmares off.

Sometimes it wasn't.

They distracted themselves with games: who could send a crystal the farthest (Praxina), who could tell the longest story (Mephisto), who could get the most food from strangers (always a tie; they rarely got any). Soon, even games weren't enough.

The children started to lose hope.

They became angry, searching for something - someone - to blame. It wasn't fair, none of this was fair. They should be home with their parents enjoying a hot meal, their uncle popping in unexpectedly and uninvited.

And somehow, that's exactly what happened.

The twins had gone into the ruins of their town trying to find their Papi, and instead he had found them, almost three weeks later.

However, it was not the happy reunion the twins had been looking forward to.

It had started as a morning like any other. Mephisto waking in a cold sweat, gasping for breath; and Praxina waking up immediately after, hurrying to comfort her brother.

"It's okay, I'm here," she had mumbled, rocking him gently, "I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. Promise. We'll always be together, I'm here, I'm okay. You're okay, okay?" Because, of course, she knew about his nightmares - they told each other everything, they always did, and always would.

Or so their naïve minds believed.

It was as Mephisto was recovering, small hands still clutching onto his sister's sleeves, that they first heard the rumbling.

"W-what is that?" Mephisto whispered, snuffling slightly.

Praxina shook her head and quickly got to her feet, pulling Mephisto with her. "Whatever it is, I don't like it. We should go, Mephisto."

"But we're safe here ," he pointed out, "we should stay here."

"Well I'm older and I say we leave. Now."

There was so much conviction in her voice that Mephisto caved immediately. He nodded and allowed himself to be dragged along as Praxina navigated the ruins of the cottage where they'd spent the past three or so nights.

Other survivors were anxiously looking around, the noise not yet loud enough to shake them from their nests of scraps and leftover belongings they'd managed to scavenge. But all the twins had was each other, the clothes on their backs, and the trickle of hope inside them that still hung on by a thread. They continued on, stirring up dust and ashes as they went.

The more they picked up the pace, the louder the noise got - they were like ants trying to escape a vacuum.

Scattered, scurrying, and scared.

By this time other people were starting to move too. Whatever this was, it was big enough to cause quite a stir amongst even the grumpiest and decrepit of homeless citizens.

A man wearing rags of the riches struggled to carry a burnt wooden casket; a woman with grey hair and dull eyes was deaf to the cries of the children she dragged along; a group of even smaller children shuffled along unsupervised and huddled together for comfort; somewhere a baby wept in the arms of its mother who had starved to death in the night giving her baby its last meal.

The twins had seen all this and worse, and so they continued without stopping.

They were never offered any help, so why should they give it. They had each other, that was enough.

Out here in the real world, the world they'd rarely even seen, you looked out for your own. But only your own. There weren't enough resources for people to think of anyone but themselves and perhaps those closest to them, if they cared enough.

Praxina held tightly onto her brother's hand as the rumbling became thunderous and refused to look back, for that would be to give into the fear, to give into whatever it was that was chasing them.

They didn't even notice the first magic attack that flew past them until a man running ahead of them became encased in a dark crystal like substance.

Panicked, Mephisto looked back. But his demeanour soon changed as he saw the culprit.

"PRAXINA! LOOK!" He let go of his sister's hand and stopped dead. "Papi! Uncle Papi, it's me!!" he waved his chubby little arms in the air, not thinking for a second about the risks this could pose. Papi was family, of course he would never-

"LOOK OUT!" Praxina tackled him to the ground, shoving him out of the way just in time.

Where Mephisto had been stood mere seconds ago was a crystal trap just like the one from before, only this one perfectly sized for a small child.

Mephisto stared dumbfounded at it. Surely there had been a mistake? Papi was quite a way away even now, maybe he hadn't recognised his nephew, maybe it had been one of those other men riding alongside his uncle on pyrolems - dark creatures from the Voltan forests, rare (and usually insane) were their riders.

Either way, it couldn't have been Papi, not intentionally.

Praxina had no such doubts.

"He tried to… he…" She shook with anger, standing up protectively in front of Mephisto as she raised her hand, calling her own magic, tainted red with rage. "You dare attack my brother! You, my own flesh and blood?"

There was no warning for the next attack.

This one was different from the other two and wasn't even aimed at them; but the shockwave of it sent Praxina flying backwards and Mephisto sliding even further into the dirt.

Dust flew up all around them, separating the twins from their enemies, but also each other.

Coughing and spluttering, Mephisto crawled to his knees and squinted in an attempt to find his sister. "Praxina? Prax, are you here?" Blindly he made his way out of the dust cloud, hands carefully held out in front of him. "Praxina!!"

But there was no reply.

His voice became desperate, his feet moved faster, his breath shook with fear. She had to be okay. She had promised him and Praxina never broke her promises. Never, ever.

It was only when he fell to his knees once more that he saw her. A crumpled figure slumped against one of the half standing buildings, head hung down, motionless. Her hair draped over her face, the hairpin still firmly in place glinting unfairly peacefully in the morning sun as its crepuscular rays filtered through the dust.

But Mephisto didn't have time to be entranced by the beauty of the scene; he tripped to his feet only to crash down next to her moments later to begin shaking her.

"Wake up, Praxina. Please, c'mon! You have to wake up!"

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched at his sister, pleading with her to wake up. His words became blubbering nonsense, and his head fell to her chest. Blood mingled with tears and sweat, and dust and dirt. Distant screams and explosions ravaged the land outside the dust cloud while Mephisto's screams of anguish billowed about inside, racking his entire body and spilling out however it could.

Praxina heard none of this.

But Mephisto could hear another sound cutting through the din.

A steady sound, a rhythmic comforting sound. A sound that changed Mephisto's tears of sorrow into ones of hope and joy.

Her heartbeat.

When his sobs turned to hiccups and eventually even those faded away, he could hear her breath too. She was alive, if barely.

Mephisto steadied his breathing and hands, lifting his sister into his arms as carefully as he could, struggling a little but determined to get her away from here, to get her to safety. Wherever that was.

He didn't take more than two steps before another shockwave knocked him back to his feet; and this time, he did not get back up.

#lrappreciationweek #lolirock #the twins #mephisto #praxina #day 1 #day 2 #my writing #:>#angst

14 notes · View notes

heyymonkey2 · 7 years

Text

First Night Back in Fuuga Ch 37: Reigning Down

AO3 Link to Chapter 37

Summary: Yona is so done -- she takes charge, her way

The air is charged in the vast clearing between the forest and palace walls.

Six armed Sky Tribe soldiers stare in shock.

Yona faces them, hands empty but expression serious.

“Don’t just stand there,” a Sky soldier orders his comrades, “There’s only one way now -- kill her and the messenger!”

Hak’s eyes flash, the messenger pinned beneath him.

A seventh soldier appears out of nowhere behind Yona. Hak doesn’t breath -- he’s off the messenger instantly, sprinting toward his pregnant wife. Five armed men step in between.

"Big mistake," Hak growls.

A sixth warrior heads for the messenger.

As Yona sees the men around Hak flying in odd directions, she feels the soldier behind her. Hears the metal of his armor scrape as he lifts his sword.

Hak sees the scene in the distance, that blade reach toward the sky, his worst nightmare on replay.

“The messenger!” Yona calls out to Hak before glancing over her shoulder fiercely at the insubordinate Koukan behind her.

Muscle memory, Yona twists from the blade’s downward path in a move that Hak taught her well.

THCK! The blade sticks in the dirt. The baffled soldier looks toward Yona. She’s already charging.

“What the…!” he lets go of the stuck blade and staggers backward.

Yona knees him in the groin, then juts the palm of her hand up under his chin, sending him falling backwards.

Cool, Yona is amazed that worked -- Hak never actually let her do that move on him, just taught it in theory. With a little more confidence and pride, Yona moves quickly to the blade stuck in the ground, strategically kicks the flat part to loosen it, then yanks it free. Why, thank you, Hak-sensei.

Five gravely damaged warriors lay on the ground around the Thunder Beast. He looks desperately toward Yona in the distance -- and is amazed to see the soldier down, Yona pointing that guy's blade at him. Hak finally breathes with a proud smile, “Atta girl...”

Then he sees the rogue soldier that’d gone after the messenger standing over a motionless body and training an arrow on Yona in the distance.

“Princess!” Hak cries out as he starts to run again.

Yona looks toward Hak, not understanding what danger he’s signaling. Now anxious, she looks over to what’s been approaching in the distance since she first stepped out of the woods, closes her eyes in hope, then looks down at the warrior looking up at her.

“Why?!” she pleads, “For who are you doing this?”

The warrior sadly shakes his head. Yona can see it in his eyes -- a man desperate to answer, but who can’t. Then her face pales as she realizes: she recognizes this man. From earlier days at the palace.

“DOWN!” Hak screams as his thrown glaive misses the arrow flying for Yona.

Yona falls forward onto the soldier. He tripped her?! She can feel the air stir above her body as the arrow meant for her whooshes past.

The soldier pins Yona on her back, knocking the wind out of her and regaining his sword. He points it at her neck, catching out of the corner of his eye what’s fast approaching from the distance. He makes no move to harm her, but also none to free her. He just waits for a split second for what's coming--

PIERCE! The speed with which Joo-Doh flies off his horse and ends his turned warrior’s life is incredible. Yona sees the blood that has splattered onto her robes, then looks up to see the Sky General’s look of sheer terror and disgust at what he just witnessed.

Hak is only a second behind him, instantly on his knees at Yona’s side, “Are you hurt?”

“The… messenger…,” Yona is still getting her air back as she points beyond the men.

Hak looks back over his shoulder, “There was another guy. He’s gotta still be around here somewhere.”

“What the hell were you two doing out here?!” Joo-Doh chides as he glances over the field turned battleground.

Hak rises, in no mood for an interrogation -- “I told you not to speak in front of the princess like that. And we could ask you the same thing.”

“It’s my job to keep you two safe,” Joo-Doh clarifies.

“Then keep a closer eye on your tribe, I’ll take care of us,” Hak cuts.

“That’s what I was doing!”

“Boys,” Yona is now on her feet next to them, “The messenger.”

The three reach the messenger’s body -- now only an empty shell of a man.

“Killed their own guy,” Hak shakes his head in disgust.

Yona is deeply troubled. Whatever this corruption is, how long has it been going on? How dark could it be? She looks up at Joo-Doh, searching the general’s face. He’s deep in thought looking down at the messenger, processing this terrible occurrence. Then he turns to her looking at him. It’s a powerful moment of apology and all Yona needed to see from this man right now.

“We need answers, but the only warrior left alive got away... and it all happened so fast I don't think we could recognize him,” Yona frowns.

“There’s a chance…,” Joo-Doh bends down and furiously digs in the messenger’s clothes. His hands suddenly stop, then he gently pulls a rolled up piece of parchment out of a fold. He hands it to Yona.

Her eyes brighten just a little as she unrolls the scroll and scans over it, “Hak, look -- it’s written in a code. Like Soo-Won used with Ogi.”

“Then it's probably something…” Hak confirms.

“Let’s get it to Min-Soo right away!”

Yona starts marching up toward the castle with determination.

Joo-Doh is about to say something as he gestures toward his horse, but Hak lifts a hand to stop him, “I know. But it’ll only slow her down.”

Joo-Doh nods. At this point, he knows well that Yona is not still the little girl he remembers.

As the men begin to walk, Hak continues, “And thanks… for saving her back there. I… I wasn’t sure what you’d do.”

Joo-Doh admits, “Likewise... in however a terrible way, to know you were telling the truth that a Sky Soldier raised a sword to her, I'm comforted. I’ve now seen it with my own eyes. And I’m ashamed. I am going to get to put an end to this.”

Somehow after those two not quite compliments, the men feel a peaceful understanding.

Hak adds in agreement, “Let’s weed them out.”

Lili and Jae-Ha are still chatting in a palace courtyard when--

“Didn’t Yona go away with Hak last night?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Cause holy shit what’d he do?”

“Oh my,” Jae-Ha rises at the sight.

Yona approaches them, hyper-focused, blood-splattered across her robe, and her hair the only feature looking as expected -- as though she’d just been ravaged in the woods.

“Yona Dear, are you hurt?”

Not even noticing her friends’ shocked expressions, Yona smiles up at the green dragon, “Don’t worry, Jae-Ha, we can catch up over dinner tonight,” then turns to her raven-haired friend, “Lili, I’m so relieved you’re here. I really need to talk to you right away. But first, I’ve got to get this to Min-Soo. Follow me!”

Lili chases after Yona who has already marched halfway across the courtyard because her pace is insane.

Jae-Ha scratches his head watching after the girls, then turns to see Hak and Joo-Doh entering.

“Don’t. Say a word,” Hak warns, following after the girls, looking like he’s about to kill someone. Or an entire tribe of someones.

Joo-Doh looks deep in thought. Distant and disturbed.

Jae-Ha takes a seat, "Alright, dinner then."

Yona rises in the study, leaving the scroll with Min-Soo who studies over it furiously. She approaches Lili who’s been waiting patiently at a table in the center of the room.

“They attacked you?!”

“It’s not even the first time,” Yona frowns, then she takes Lily’s hands in hers, “Please, don’t mention this anybody just yet. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it before long and until then… there are a couple very important things that need to happen.”

Lili nods.

“You’re my precious friend, Lili, and I would never want to put you in danger. You’re also someone I admire and trust most. There’s something I’d like to ask of you, which… just let me know how you feel about it in your heart. However you feel, I want you to know it’s OK.”

“Anything.”

“Would you be interested and willing to take on the role of the next Water Tribe General?”

Lili feels her jaw drop, then quickly pops it back up and tries to look professional, “G-general?”

“I know you didn’t meet them, but I can tell you all about some female warriors in Xing who were as powerful as any man.”

“I can just look at you for that,” Lili smiles, “But… I don’t know how to fight.”

“I’m still learning myself,” Yona encourages, “It’s for your unique contributions beyond fighting that I think you’re a strength we very much need in our leadership. Still, I think, if we have another of the generals train you in some technique to gain understanding, you’ll do great.”

“Another general…,” an image of Geun-Tae appears front and center in Lili’s mind.

Yona wonders why Lili just got lost in her head and is smiling so big, “Is that a yes?”

Lili snaps her attention back into the room. She thinks for a second about the water crest, her people, her father, even about Jae-Ha’s respect. About the moments in her life that made her realize she needs to step up and do more. To save lives.

A corner of her mouth rises, “I’m honored. Yes.”

Yona’s fists tighten in excitement, “I’m so relieved! Our first Generals Meeting is later today. I’ll make the announcement then.”

Whoa. Lili feels apprehension swell in her chest, but she feels something right deep inside -- she’s got to make this work, “I’ll be there.”

Yona exits the study and starts down the hall. Hak is already at her side.

“Did you find Mundok?”

“Not yet, I… didn’t want to leave you.”

“You were out there that whole time? You’re not my bodyguard anymore, Hak. You should have come in!”

“I know that conversation was really important to you, I didn’t want to intrude. Besides, I sorta needed to calm down.”

Yona pauses to look at him. Hak's brows are pulled together with such a sadness, his hands slightly shaking from remnant adrenaline.

“My heart stopped out there,” he admits, his voice cracking.

“Hak…” Yona takes his hands in hers, suddenly feeling awful for having neglected his feelings after what happened -- she's absolutely taken for granted that he's so strong all the time. She nuzzles against his chest, hears his burdened heart beat, “Oh, Hak, it’s OK. I’m OK.”

He lowers his face into her hair, taking in her scent, tenderly kissing the top of her head, then he wraps his arms around her body, holding her close, feeling her warmth and realness.

“I’m not going anywhere. You taught me too well. You made me love you too much. I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles at that as he weaves a hand into the beautiful crimson hair that could only be hers, “I thought that night was the worst pain I could ever feel. I was wrong.”

“Shhh,” Yona squeezes him tight, then caresses his tense back, “I’m right here with you.”

Yona reaches up and pulls his face down to hers, their lips meeting in a deep, treasured kiss -- savoring each other, beyond grateful for continued life together.

Then Yona pulls back to tell him, “You were so romantic last night. I want you to know I won’t ever forget how perfect it was. Thank you.”

Hak laughs a little looking down at the blood on her robes, “I’m gonna kill those guys.”

“You… did.”

“The other ones.”

“Calm down, Hak,” she strokes his cheek, her other hand in his dark hair as she stares up into his pained sky blue eyes, “We’ll find the best way to restore peace here. You should talk with Mundok while I get cleaned up for the Generals Meeting.”

Hak nods, knowing he’s in a very bad way right now and Mundok could definitely help talk him down back into his cool and controlled usual state.

Still having trouble letting go of her though, Hak requests, “Please… don’t leave my side until we get to the source of this corruption. And when that’s not possible, keep Droopy Eyes with you.”

“I’ll carry a blade, too,” Yona promises.

Hak sighs, really wishing that wasn’t necessary.

“I saved my own life today thanks to you. I don’t exactly feel rested after our getaway, but I do feel motivated and a little stronger.”

Hak smiles, “I’m also feeling very motivated.”

“We're going to make it through this. For Kouka, too. See you at the Generals Meeting,” Yona reaches up and pulls her love into one more kiss for encouragement and very much looking forward to the warmth of his motivated, safe arms tonight.

#first night back in fuuga #akatsuki no yona #hak x yona #fanfic #yona of the dawn

7 notes · View notes

benbarnesescape · 7 years

Photo

Dive - Part 2

Warnings: SMUTTY Barnes (18+)

A/N: Sorry for the delay luvs! I’ve been in the ER so that's been my life but at long last an update - enjoy!

Ben watched you from across the cafe, his dark sunglasses masking him from the rest of the world. You were wearing a floral skirt that was short and flowed around your legs loosely. The simple tan cotton tank top hugged your body, tighter around your chest, teasing your cleavage and he sipped another long sip of his coffee, trying to forget the way they tasted.

After that evening where you had admitted your betrayal you both had lied in bed, getting lost in each other. Ben had pleaded that you make a decision – that you put off going back to him but you had been insistent. It was bigger than you. You didn’t want to lose your family and you were sure that would happen if your father found out.

So you ended it, saying he deserved better. Deserved more. In the back of his head he knew you was right.

That had been two weeks ago.

Looking up at you, watching you as you licked an ice cream cone, your sunglasses resting on your forehead, your hair blowing in the small breeze he knew you were also wrong.

You were made for him.

A man walked out of the ice cream shop, wrapping a casual arm around your shoulder, kissing your forehead tenderly. You gave him a light smile, wrapping your arm around his waist and raising your cone up for him to take a lick before kissing you softly on your nose and they stood there, wrapped in each other, looking like the world's next best couple.

He was handsome, the man he presumed to be Charles. He was tall, with dark hair like his own and pursed full lips. His blue eyes were friendly but dangerous, and his arm protectively pulled you to him whenever he saw his friends give you a once over. His dimpled chin defined the rest of his face and Ben watched as you wiped ice cream off his chin and he bent down to kiss you, causing an involuntary frown to pop on Ben’s face.

The kiss was brief but you still blushed, pulling away from him quickly. He watched Charles look at you longingly as and his friends teased you both and he brushed them off easily as you rolled your eyes. He mumbled something into your ear and you gave into a smile, shaking your head as you looked at him with sarcasm laced in your eyes. He wondered what their conversation was like. You were obviously the trophy wife to him. Was that why you left him, he wondered, seeking Ben’s bed instead of his?

You were bored now, been bored since he saw you walking down the street with him. He watched you as your eyes began to stray, taking in the busy LA scene. Then they fell on his, causing you to smile. You had been eating your ice cream and stopped, your mouth set around the waffle cone. He remembered what you looked like, that same heart shaped mouth wrapped around his cock and he got up, needing the distraction.

He chucked his coffee cup in a near by trashcan and tucked his newspaper between his arms. He crossed the street, his eyes never leaving yours, hidden by his dark shades and you watched him deliberately. Your companions were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice as he walked by, you watching him. He went into the ice cream shop, buying a small drink and asking for the bathroom.

He followed the dark hallway to the back of the shop, where the bathroom sat among forgotten boxes. He walked in, locking the door behind him and pulling out his phone. He found your number easily and he texted you out a quick message.

B: Can we talk?

He waited a beat, leaning against the door.

Y/N: …..what are you doing Ben?

B: I just need to talk to you.

Y/N: you told me to choose. I chose.

He frowned, angry at himself and at you. You were right yet you were wrong. His hands responded in kind.

B: You didn’t choose what you really believe. You just chose what you thought was right.

He waited a beat for your message.

Y/N: ...Fine. Five minutes. Where are you?

He smiled.

B: Back of the ice cream shop. In the bathroom.

Y/N: ….. I’ll be there in a minute.

He inhaled resting his head against the door. What was he doing? This was wrong. He knew it was wrong and yet he couldn’t imagine not doing anything. Not fighting for you. You had pulled him into this murky mess and despite trying to save him from it, he couldn’t help but swim back. Minutes passed and he heard a light rap on the door behind him, causing him to quickly turn to open it.

You were standing there, licking your ice cream, your eyes still flicking toward the front of the shop. To him. He wanted to reach out and touch you but he knew that was dangerous so instead he cleared his throat and said,

“Come in.”

You obliged, maneuvering around him and entering the small bathroom. He closed the door behind him, locking it and you turned toward him. The hand holding your ice cream cone was shaking and you watched him, waiting.

If he knew anything about you during their six months together it was that you were just as stubborn as him. You wouldn’t say anything until he did.

“I can’t do this.” He finally murmurs and you frown, your mouth never ceasing its actions of enjoying your cone.

“I can’t just pretend that what we had for six months was nothing. That I’m ok with you moving on with your life.”

Your eyes soften for a second before sighing, biting your lip.

“Ben, maybe you need time…” you finally murmur against the cold cone and he scoffs, his head falling back against the door.

“No.”

“You just haven’t found the right woman.” You insist.

“I’ve dated plenty of women and none have ever made me feel the way you do. It's you Y/N. And you know it to.”

You swallow deeply, your eyes cast down. You throw your ice cream in the waste basket and lean against the sink, crossing your arms. His eyes flick to your cleavage that you had inadvertently pushed up and he bites his lips, imagining the taste of your skin against his mouth.

“I’ve just watched you with him. You’re not happy. You might care for him, sure, but you don’t love him.” he walks toward you, catching your chin and making you look up at him.

“Look at me.” He whispers and there's tears in your eyes.

“Look at me and don’t tell me you don’t believe in this. That you don’t love me.”

“This isn’t right Ben.” Your voice cracks and he nods, cupping your face in his hands. He knew that. He’d been debating with himself about the whole situation ever since you left. Because now you were trying to do the right thing and he wanted to do the opposite.

“Then loving you isn’t right and I know that can’t be true.” He smiles a little at the corny joke, causing you to laugh. He missed that laugh, the way it carried to his ears when you were truly happy.

“I forget how much of a goofball you are.” You mutter but his mouth is already on hers. You wrap your arms around his neck and he's pushing you against the sink.

This was how they met, drunkenly making their way to a family restroom, fucking each other senseless at a concert while others danced to the lively sounds of a band.

He wanted you to feel that way again, and his mouth consumed yours while his hands ravaged your body, needing to feel you again. Your hands raked through his hair, pulling him closer to you and he smiled against your lips.

You pulled away from him for a second, your eyes looking deeply into his.

“Really Ben. This isn’t right.” you mumble and he nods his head knowingly. His hands skim down to your exposed thighs, lifting you up so you were sitting on the sink. He spreads your legs slowly, watching you squirm as you close your eyes, your head slightly falling back.

He kisses the exposed skin on your neck, nipping at the tender area and you moan loudly, bringing him closer to you.

“I know. But I love you and right now, that’s all that matters to me.” he mumbles, his hands pushing up your skirt as his kisses move to your jawline. His hand skims over your center, not surprised to find the area wet and you whimper, pulling away from him and he smiles.

“I shouldn’t have started this to begin with.” your eyes are hooded and you have that smile on your face - the one that always challenged him and he tsks, shaking his head.

“No you shouldn’t have.” his hands reach the band of your underwear and he pulls them off easily, having them hang from your ankle, caressing against your wedges.

“You can’t fuck me in an ice cream shop. Not with my boyfriend waiting for me on the other side.”

“Who said anything about fucking you…” he murmurs, bending down and dipping his head between your legs.

“Ben….” you bite your lip, your back arching involuntarily. Ben’s tongue licks up your folds, savoring your taste before finding that special bud and sucking on it softly.

You try to stop the scream building in you, trying not to lose yourself as Ben inserts two fingers in you while continually lapping at you.

“Benjamin…” you purr and he smiles against you, pulling away to mumble,

“How I’ve missed your sweet little cunt darling. I could sit her on my knees eating this all day if you’d allow me too.”

His mouth goes back to licking you, sucking on that sensitive area while his fingers speed up their pace. It takes all of you not to scream as he makes you see light, your thighs trapping him as he eagerly laps at you coming undone around him.

You go slack, your legs limply falling on his shoulders as he pulls his fingers out of you. His mouth nips at your thigh, kissing it softly before looking up at you with a smile on his face. It was that charismatic smile that had won the hearts of millions. It was what had made you say hi to him in the first place.

“That was amazing.” you mumble lazily, trying to regain your strength. He stands, helping you find your equilibrium as you pull your underwear up and you look at him, shaking your head.

“Ben….I can’t. I told you why I can’t. It does’t matter that I love you - I can’t let my family down.”

He cuts you off with a kiss, and you sigh into it. It tastes like you and him, mingling against your tongue and he groans pulling back.

“I’m letting you know now that I’m going to fight for you.”

You turn around to check yourself in the mirror, a sad smile plastered on your face. Of course he was. Ben put 110% into everything he did. You knew the moment he told you he loved you that you had to end what you had started. But you didn’t and now you were conflicted. You loved Ben. You wanted a future with him. But you also loved Charles.

You were a selfish bitch.

You tried to fight back against the stinging tears as you checked yourself in the mirror. Ben walks behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“See me tonight.” He murmurs against your skin, his lips giving you soft kisses.

You holds his arms, drawing him closer to you. Memorizing the way he smelled and how happy you felt when he held you. Trying to stay in the illusion.

“Charles has a company event tonight. I have to go.”

“Come after.” His lips were making its way to your neck, nipping at the skin.

“Ben I can’t – I…..” you let the words trail out of your mouth he looks at you in the mirror, watching you.

“Tell me that I don’t make you happy.”

“You know you do.” You smile. Sad but true.

“Tell me that you’re not miserable with him.”

“I just don’t love him like I do you…” you manage and he smiles, proud of himself.

“Come see me after,” he whispers in your ear, “And we’ll figure something out. I only want you.”

“This is wrong.” You repeat and he looks back at you.

“I know. But I can’t change how I feel. I can’t let you go. I’d hate myself if I did without fighting.”

You looked at him, knowing he was right. You sighed. This was going to topple onto itself, like a huge fucking deck of cards.

“Tonight. Later. To talk through this.” You turn toward him, holding his face in your hands. “I want you Ben, your right. I want to spend my life with you. But what you’re asking me in return is to abandon my family. To shame them. And I don’t know how to deal with that.”

He nods, holding you until a knock on the door causes you both to stiffen. Before you hear his voice you know its him.

“Y/N are you in there? We wanna head to the movie soon…”

You look at Ben, panic spread across your face and he smiles, kissing you softly on your lips before pulling away. He ducks behind where the door will swing open and holds one finger up to his mouth, a smirk across his face. You check yourself one more time before you open the door to find Charles looking at you, a soft smile on his face.

“Hey sorry, wasn’t feeling well for a second.” you feign a smile, pulling the door close behind you and walking past him. His hand softly grabs your arm as you walk by and you turn, looking into his blue eyes.

Those eyes used to know how to captivate you. Knew how to make you smile when you were having a bad day, knew how to make you feel loved. Now they just felt empty. He had betrayed your trust and had never earned it back so you went looking for love somewhere else.

“Y/N...please tell me that you’re still not mad at me.”

You sighed, the sadness etching the sides of your smile and you tried to shrug non-nonchalantly.

“Don’t do this Charles. Not with your friends outside and an event tonight.”

“I love you Y/N,” he brought you closer to him and your body stiffened before relaxing as his lips caressed your forehead. When he used to do this, your whole body would shiver with happiness. You remembered a time that you thought that his hands were the only ones who knew how to praise your body. Then they went away, abandoning you. He abandoned you. You hadn’t realized until you were in Ben’s arms. Charles never gave himself to you fully. Never could.

And now that your heart belonged to another he wanted to give all of himself to you.

“I know what I did was wrong and that it might take me a lifetime to make it up to you but you’re the only one for me.”

You didnt realize that you were crying until he wiped the tear falling down your cheek away. His hand had bought you closer and you felt his lips ghost over your own, his breath mingling with yours. You wondered if he could smell your lingering scent and you blinked up at him as his hands cupped your face

“I knew you were mine from the start.” he kissed your lips softly, tenderly and you felt your stomach churn. You still loved him despite what you both had gone through and you hated yourself for it. You pulled back, biting your lip and holding his arms.

“Charles, lets go to the movie. I wouldn’t want us to be late….”

You turned, unaware of the longing look on his face before he followed you. Or the man on the other side of the bathroom door who had heard everything.

#ben x reader #ben barnes #imagines #requests #benbarnesescape

59 notes · View notes

woozletania · 7 years

Text

Living with Rocket 4 (GOTG slice of life)

Off all the people Rocket might bond with, Nebula seems the least likely. But hey, monsters gotta stick together, right?

*****

Things soon settled down to a routine on the Milano. After Ego, many bounties and assorted interpersonal dramas the crew were learning to live and work as a family. Mantis was proving surprisingly useful in many ways; Rocket was teaching her the rudiments of equipment repair, she was useful as a non-threatening negotiator (valuable in a crew full of thugs) and of course there wasn't a single crew member who didn't need therapy of some sort, even if that was sometimes just a sympathetic ear.

Everyone was learning, in fact. Of them all only Star-Lord was what you'd call "reasonably well adjusted" and his impulse control needed a lot of work. Rocket had his little furry hand slapped enough times that he at least tried to control his maniacal impulse to take things apart and make them work better (or build bombs out of them), Drax was getting better at understanding admittedly basic social cues and even swiftly growing Groot, who took after his “father” Rocket in all sorts of unfortunate ways, was slowly turning from an angry little tree to something a bit more like formidable but gentle Old Groot.

So it took something out of the ordinary to throw a spanner into the works. Something like a visit from Nebula.

Gamora's sister still had the Ravager fighter Kraglin gave her from the Quadrant's hangar and after the contact request the two ships met at Challenger Station, little more than a floating fuel depot way out in Varnax sector. She showed up, exchanged an awkward hug with Gamora and then sat in the Milano's common area to negotiate trade. She needed repairs and Units and she had a shipload of supplies to trade. Best not to inquire too closely where she got the stuff, everyone agreed.

"Why didn't you just sell the stuff somewhere? Why come to us?"

Nebula shrugged at Star-Lord's question. "You know the answer to that."

"There are places even outlaws can go to trade," Gamora ventured.

"And this is one of them," snapped Nebula. "Now do you want these supplies or not?"

Rocket sat in the corner, teaching Groot how to use the Yo-Yo Quill had found in a junker store. In an hour of haggling he spoke up only once to say he'd pay for the crate of random spare parts Nebula was lugging out of his own pocket. Anything that kept his dangerously clever hands out of the Milano's guts met with Peter's approval and ultimately the raccoon paid for half and Star-Lord the other on the basis that most of what Rocket made benefited the crew in some way. Discounting the weaponized coffee maker that shot Drax through a bulkhead last week, anyway.

Though the raccoon seemed disinterested in the whole affair his furry ear twitched every time Nebula moved and no one missed it when he slid from the chair, handed mini-Groot off to Mantis and followed Nebula out of the room. Peter and Gamora shared a look but shrugged. It was none of their business and Mantis spoke up at that moment, asking Peter something about Nebula. Never the most focused individual Quill slipped easily into the conversation and didn't much note when Gamora left as well, followed by Drax.

It wasn't that Rocket tried to be stealthy. His guns-first manner made that impossible most of the time anyway. It was just that when you are less than three feet tall and maybe forty pounds soaking wet you don't make much noise walking. Nevertheless Nebula noticed.

"What do you want, fox," she said, just off the Milano's boarding ramp and halfway to her own ship.

"Your cybernetics are fucked up," Rocket said with his usual tact. "I can hear 'em whining. Three blown servos in your left arm alone. And a joint grinding. More stuff elsewhere."

"So?". The cyborg shot the smaller, cuter (but equally angry) one a look. "Why should you care?"

"Because I can hear them," Rocket said. "Fucked up machinery bugs me and the whine is driving me crazy." A cup-shaped furry ear flicked as Nebula turned to face him. "Lemme have a look." His little clawed hands twitched as he repressed the urge to just run up and start working on the problem. Rocket's need to fix thing bordered on the manic sometimes, a product of 'programming' he couldn't easily shake off.

"Don't you have a dog bed waiting for you somewhere, fox?"

"A what?" Rocket tilted his head to the side.

"I've seen that thing you sleep in."

If Nebula thought to enrage Rocket and get him to drop his interest in her cybernetics, she underestimated him. "I know what it is. I know where Quill got it too. But it's comfortable. I don't need a whole you-sized bed and space is tight on the Milano. I can drag that thing anywhere and sleep where I'm working."

Nebula was genuinely curious now. "It doesn't bother you to sleep in a pet bed?"

"Lady, I got lotsa problems. A comfy bed ain't one of them. Now let me look at that arm."

It was the longest conversation he'd ever had with Nebula and almost to his surprise she shrugged and sat down on the metal decking. "Fine."

He'd never been within arm's reach of her before and she was sure he'd never gotten a good look at her cybernetics but in five seconds he had her upper arm half disassembled. One furry hand dragged a pouch around that had previously hung above his tail and the handles of specialized tools popped out as he lifted the flap. Many of the tools looked homemade and some were definitely made expressly for working on cybernetics and bionics.

"You should have got this worked on by now," the raccoon grunted as he examined the guts of her arm. He sniffed and grimaced. "Got burnt connections all through here. No plasma burns on the outside though. How'd it happen?"

"When the Sovereign attacked on Ego I had to power the drilling lasers with my cybernetics."

"Oh yeah. Good job. Mine don't have the power to do that or I'd have tried it. You have high-power cybernetics, go through power cells like crazy, mine all run on chemical energy they get from my metabolism. Means I have to eat a lot and they're a lot weaker than yours but all I need is food and it all keeps working."

"You're strong enough," Nebula said, remembering how the little raccoon hefted weapons as large as himself.

Rocket grunted an affirmative and tossed a burst servo module into the corner. Somehow it didn't surprise Nebula that he had spares in another pouch. Over the course of ten minutes he painstakingly disassembled her arm and then rebuilt it. Externally it appeared unchanged but when his clawed fingers snapped the last panel shut and she swiveled her elbow there was a smoothness and a strength to the rotation she hadn't felt in months.

"Lemme see your leg. Left leg."

"Watch where you put your hands, fox."

Rocket grinned cruelly. "Why? Do you even still have..." he trailed off, looking away. "Sorry. Forget I said that. Just need to see the knee, I can hear a bearing grinding in there."

Nebula hadn't been around Rocket much but she knew he didn't say 'sorry' unless he meant it. "Why are you really doing this, fox?"

Rocket had her knee partly taken apart and his hands kept working even as he talked. They knew what to do with no input from his brain. "Because when I had to stun Gamora and order the ship off Ego, you were right there. You coulda stopped me. I had to get us off that rock. I didn't want to, but someone had to give the order. Had to save as many lives as I could."

"Even if it meant leaving some behind."

"Yeah. Try the knee." The difference wasn't as dramatic as the arm but her leg bent without a catch in the movement he hadn't even noticed until it was gone.

Nebula remembered the scene in the Quadrant's entry bay. Giving that takeoff order had crushed Rocket emotionally and she was amazed he'd recovered at all, much less so completely. It would have been simple to walk over and break his neck then and there but she needed to get off the exploding planet just like the rest of them. The fact that he'd stunned Gamora to protect her was part of it too, of course.

Rocket was...sniffing her? His whiskers twitched as he looked her over from uncomfortably close range, his little clawed fingers poking and prodding. The raccoon had no sense of personal space at all when he was working on something, and Nebula supposed she was his current project. He touched her in indelicate places but she bore it as she would bear a doctor's examination, which was what this was. A furry, less than three foot tall cyborg genius of a doctor, but a doctor nevertheless.

"Lotsa internal faults. Look, I can do the stuff on the outside, but I can't do flesh stuff. Someone's gonna need to cut you to get at some a this and I know a guy I trust."

“Not interested."

"Suit yerself. I didn't wanna get worked on either, but the crew leaned on me." Somewhat to her surprise Rocket didn't flinch away when her only partly cybernetic right hand slid up his back until it stroked the fur of his neck. That made it simple to grab a handful of scruff and yank him off the ground.

"Ow! Leggo, leggo!" Rocket's fangs came out and he clawed hard at her arm in the beginnings of what looked like a violent panic attack, but even that arm has half mechanical and he barely scratched her.

"How many bombs did you just put in me, fox? Why are you really doing this?"

In the entryway Gamora put up her hand as Drax reached for his knives. The last time anyone manhandled Rocket this way he'd panicked and bitten Peter but the raccoon was stronger now. She saw the flashed hand signal for 'wait' even as he squirmed and growled theatrically. Naturally their presence twenty feet away was no secret to his senses, even if Nebula missed it.

"All right!" Rocket yelped, hanging limp from his scruff now. "All right. I didn't put any bombs in ya. Word of honor. And I did it because I know what it's like!"

"Know what, fox?"

Rocket looked away. "To be someone's toy."

Nebula winced and dropped him. He landed easily on all fours, rolling back to sit cross-legged next to her. He rubbed his scruff for a moment, then spoke. "See, whoever did Gamora did top-notch work. I hardly have to help her with her cybernetics at all. Me, I'm a rush job. They didn't care if everything hurt all the time. I'm just a project. Someone's little monster. Sound familiar?"

"Yes." Nebula leaned back against the bulkhead. "So you could tell."

"You got it. I could hear ya wince, smell the bad connections and where the flesh is trying ta heal same time it tries to reject the implants. I know how much that hurts. You're even worse off than I was, lady. I can do a little, but you need to see a doc."

They were silent for a moment and Rocket idly traced circuit diagrams on the dusty floor. "I know what it's like to be a thing. Not a person. Just a thing someone makes. They don't care who you are, what you want. Just how they can use you. And then when they're done," he drew a resistor-squiggle in the dust, "They just cut you up and use the parts in their next project."

This time when Nebula reached out she didn't grab his scruff, but gently stroked his fur. It didn't keep his fangs from coming out as he savagely erased the dust diagram. "But sometimes their little toy gets loose and kills 'em all, like I did. Or gets away, like you. And then you gotta live your life, and that means takin' care of yourself and even maybe making some friends. We're both monsters. We just hafta be the best monsters we can be, okay? Specially if you wanna kill Thanos. That ain't gonna be easy.:"

"So you know a guy."

"Yeah. Real cybernetics expert. One a the team that made me and the guy I saw when the crew made me have my back worked on. Best stupid idea they ever had. I never realized how much it all hurt until he fixed me up. I'll take you ta meet him but you gotta promise not to be jumpy. This guy's a friend and I don't have so many a those."

"I thought you said you killed them all."

"'Cept him. Only good one a the bunch. Weren't for him I wouldn't be here. So you be nice to him, okay?"

"Okay." Nebula stood, stretched, and swiveled her arm again as she tested the repairs. "All this after I shot you?"

"Prob'ly saved my life when you did that, lady. Just took me a while to realize it. And again later. Weren't for you I'd a been floating frozen in space like, like happened to Yondu." For the first time there was a catch in Rocket's voice. "But he died doin' good. I woulda just been dead for nothin'." He paused. “Can't just die for nothin' any more. Groot needs me.”

"All right, I'll be in touch." Nebula took a last look around, still not spotting the other two Guardians lurking in the shadows, and headed down the hanger toward her ship. When she was out of sight Gamora and Drax finally came out of hiding.

"That was surprisingly diplomatic of you," Drax said.

Rocket shrugged. "Monsters gotta stick together."

"You're not a monster, Rocket," said Gamora. "Maybe you were once, but not any more."

"Oh, I'm a monster," the raccoon said with a grin. "But I'm your monster." He slipped the last of his tools back into their pouches and rose to his feet. "I need a drink. Drax, you still got that bottle a blue stuff?"

"Indeed," Drax rumbled.

"So Rocket," Gamora said a few minutes later as Drax poured glowing blue liqueur into shot glasses, "How many bombs did you plant in my sister's cybernetics just now?"

"You wound me," said the little raccoon with a grin. "Told her the truth. Didn't put one bomb in there."

"What about kill switches, cybernetics disruptors, trackers, remote control access points?"

"Well," said the raccoon after slugging back a shot, "Maybe just a few."

#Guardians of the Galaxy #Rocket Raccoon #gamora #drax the destroyer #nebula #BABY GROOT #Star-Lord #mantis

12 notes · View notes

ramblesandmumblesofanerd · 7 years

Text

Occasional Mumble: Transformers: The Last Knight Review

Warning: Lengthy Post Which Includes Spoilers

Transformers certainly has come a long way since the mid-1980’s. Not only is the original cartoon series hailed as one of the many staples of the era, but several cartoons and comics have been created to keep the franchise fresh and alive ever since, for better or worse. I’ve gone into excruciating detail about one of the good pieces of the franchise, More Than Meets The Eye, in some of my earliest posts, but now it is time to talk about the ever present mediocre portion of the franchise; the live action films, or more specifically the most recent addition: Transformers: The Last Knight.

The “basic” plot of the film is as follows: Optimus Prime has left Earth to find his creator, who hired a bounty hunter to apprehend the Autobot leader and kill anyone else who stood in his way. He eventually meets the being known as Quintessa, the “Prime of Life”, who has turned the ravaged, war torn planet of Cybertron into a vessel currently on a collision course with Earth. Quintessa, enraged by Optimus’s participation in Cybertron’s destruction, brainwashes him into thinking that the only way to revive his home world is to drain Earth of it’s energy, which will subsequently kill the oldest enemy of Transformer kind: Unicron.

Meanwhile, Transformers have been declared public enemy number one by all but the Cuban governments, and are now being hunted down. Cade Yeager (the protagonist from the previous film played by Mark Walberg) is considered the highest on the list due to aiding and abetting the Autobots, and has now discovered a talisman from a dying Cybertronian that may be the key to stopping Quintessa from destroying the Earth.

Now that the basics have been addressed, let’s talk about pros versus cons. Believe it or not, in spite of most reviews, there are actually some points of merit in this film (at least from my perspective). Firstly, this film does attempt to have continuity with the previous films by showing locations and Easter Eggs from said films, though this is executed in an admittedly sub-par manner. Secondly, and more surprisingly, the film is written in a way that allows the Transformers, good and bad, to have more screen-time in comparison to their human allies/enemies. This has been an issue in previous films, as audiences were more interested in the title characters than the persistently lukewarm human characters. While it is necessary to have human characters for the audience to relate to, if they have more screen-time and speaking lines than the giant robots who are supposed to be the starring characters, there is a problem. Speaking of the robots, some of the characters were actually written in a way that made them tolerable. John Goodman’s Hound is as much in top form as he was in Age of Extinction, being both amusing and actually competent on the battlefield. Another robot I enjoyed was the “Headmaster” Cogman (you’ll see why I put quotations around that later). Played by Jim Carter, this four foot tall clockwork robot butler acts as a supporting, slightly comedic character with psychopathic tendencies. He had some genuinely funny moments and lines which made him probably the most enjoyable character out of the roster.

Now, no more beating around the bush. This is a Michael Bay Transformers film, so there are plenty of cons to talk about, and not the ones from Cybertron. First and foremost, there are plenty of aspects in this film that are not addressed or explained. As seen in the trailers, Bumblebee has this miraculous new ability to literally pull himself back together after being broken. I thought for sure this would be explained as Cade using his technological skills to make some sort of magnetic deus-ex-machina device, but no. Also, certain fangasm inducing aspects appear in the film, but are never utilized to the fullest extent, like Cogman’s Headmaster ability, which allows a small robot like him to become the head of a larger body. There were even some rumors spreading prior to the movie’s release about Cogman ripping the head off one of the Decepticons and taking the body as his own. But, unfortunately these rumors were either false, or the concept was scrapped. Another example is this submarine used to find a sunken Cybertronian vessel in the ocean. The submarine was declared a Transformer by the human characters, but not once did it transform into what could have been a massive robot, nor was it ever given a name. It might as well have been just a normal submarine. There are also other various unnamed/unmentioned Transformers scattered around the movie with no real purpose. If they had never been in the film at all, nothing would be different.

Also, the Decepticons are barely given any presence in the film, in spite of my previous statement about the robots getting more screentime. True, there was a moment when Megatron (yes, Megatron, not Galvatron) introduced his “crew” of the day, and his minions were given more character and actual voices rather than standard growls and snarls, but most of them are killed off in mere moments. Some of their names are absolutely silly as well, such as Mohawk, Nitro Zeus and Dreadbot. Not to mention one of them, poorly named Berserker, is not even allowed to join his Decepticon brethren on the battlefield, resulting in him being completely pointless in spite of having a toy out in stores before the film was even released. But none of this even matters anyway, as most of the Decepticons are killed mere moments after being introduced.

Speaking of villains with minimal explanation or presence, Quintessa was the most underwhelming antagonist right next to The Fallen from Revenge of The Fallen. She did absolutely nothing but provide exposition, act like a Tesla coil when she tries to drain the Earth, get shot by Bumblebee of all bots, and have a “surprise” appearance in a mid-credit scene to build up another sequel. If she had been replaced with a cinematic version of the Quintessons, the five-faced creators of the classic Transformers, I think the character would have had at least some impact on an Easter Egg level at least.

Even some aspects of the plot itself are absolutely ridiculous if not plain stupid. The magical MacGuffin in this film is a staff that was passed down from ancient Transformers to one human. That human was…(wait for it)...Merlin. Yes, Merlin the Wizard. The very same wizard who helped King Arthur claim the throne. Merlin is an actual character in this film, or at least in the beginning. And it gets worse from there, as Merlin has a family tree that has continued into the modern era, resulting in the second protagonist of the film (played by Laura Haddock) being a direct descendant of Merlin. If you just heard a small popping sound in your head, that was the sound of a few brain cells suddenly exploding from the absurdity of this set-up.

Finally, the Bay-isms. Good lord, the Bay-isms. These films persist in having poorly written characters, immature humor which never makes me laugh, nonsensical plot points and character motivations, and yet somehow gets away with it. Yes, the blame rests upon the shoulders of the audience and myself for watching these films in the first place, but the blame also rests upon the numerous writers for never providing audience members with something beyond this monotonous cycle. Many critics, both professional and amateur, have complained about the repetition of these elements, and yet neither the director, nor the writers have ever done anything to change or improve the formula since the first ever film back in 2007. While I am known to enjoy these films as what is classified as a guilty pleasure, even I have grown tired of the Bay-isms. However, maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel, as numerous sources say that Michael Bay may be leaving the studio, allowing future films in the franchise to hopefully be made under a more competent director.

In the end, Transformers The Last Knight is not a good film. I know, “shocker”. The story is both ludicrous and silly, and not even in the fun way, most of the characters are underdeveloped, poorly written or absolutely pointless and the “humor” is horrendously dull, never once receiving a laugh from me. There were points that intrigued me, but they were not enough to distract me from the glaringly terrible elements which loomed over the film like the planet Cybertron over Earth, except there was no hero to save this film from its collision with it’s own mediocrity. Hopefully the rumors of Michael Bay’s departure from the franchise are true in spite of Mark Wahlberg's insistence to the contrary, because there may be hope for future films if that is the case.

But in the meantime, never stop rambling, TM

#transformers: the last knight #review

1 note · View note

junker-town · 7 years

Text

The State of Louisiana vs. Cardell Hayes

The city of New Orleans claimed two men the moment Will Smith was killed

by Tyler Tynes | Mar. 1, 2017

In the middle of Dixon Hall at Tulane University, on a dark stage, New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu sighs before a tired crowd.

He’s done this so many times. So have they. There’s always a speech to give about the violence in this city.

New Orleans is sick, drunk on violence. If that was never understood before, it was clear on April 9, 2016 at 11:31 p.m. when Cardell Hayes tore open Will Smith’s body with eight hollow point bullets, seven to the back. And 18 days later, the day before Hayes would be indicted, Landrieu laments that this disease ravaging the Big Easy often prevents folks from remembering that there are two sides to every shooting.

“His death leaves a wife alone, his children without a father, his teammates in shock and a hole in the heart of a hurting city,” Landrieu said about Smith. “It has been rightly said about all these murders that tragedy is on both sides of the gun. In this case, on the other side of the gun is Cardell Hayes. He’s in jail. But he has a family, too. And a 5-year-old son.”

There is silence in the hall.

Will Smith was a football deity in a city starved for hope. He anchored a defense that delivered a Super Bowl on the heels of Hurricane Katrina. Smith is a symbol for a team that accomplished the impossible when good never felt like a reality in New Orleans. He was a football phenom that mattered to this football-fevered city.

He was beloved by politicians. He befriended cops. He was a philanthropist. When a man of his stature gets killed, people rush to his defense and to his story.

But here’s the reality of that night in April: Two men, two outsized New Orleans personalities, had a bad night that escalated in the worst possible way. People aren’t made in absolutist terms. No man is really a saint. Those killed aren’t rendered wholly good by death just as those who take a life aren’t necessarily in a perpetual state of evil. That’s not human nature.

When you live in Louisiana, where nearly half of the households in the state own guns and gun homicide rates are three times higher than the national average, you can’t expect that those carrying won’t fire when provoked. That’s not human nature either.

Not for Will Smith, the man painted as an immortal, and not for Cardell Hayes, the man rendered a ruthless vigilante.

That telling is only half the story.

“One life lost, many more lives changed forever, swallowed by a cycle of violence that came and went so fast it was almost a dream or in this case a nightmare,” Landrieu said, disrupting the peace in the auditorium.

“And a city is left to wonder why.”

Joe W. Brown Memorial Park holds Victory Field where Cardell Hayes and the Crescent City Kings played football in New Orleans. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The man who shot Will Smith to death was just trying to get home that night. That’s something he really wants you to know. This was before the three-car crash, before some pudgy man ripped off his shirt and started swinging, and before one of the most fearsome defensive players New Orleans has ever seen spilled onto the concrete, dead.

You probably know him differently by now, though. Or at least you do by his mugshot: This 6′6, more than 300-pound black man — round-headed, a thumping beard and waving dreads — known as Cardell Hayes. His hood in the Ninth Ward calls him “Bear,” naturally. He looks like one.

On April 9 last year, the night he shot Smith, Hayes woke and sold his last pit bull puppy. “Bullies” as he calls them. He breeds them by the book; even does the artificial insemination himself. He played with his son, Cardell Hayes Jr., or CJ for short. Hayes ran some errands, went to football practice, and then hit his favorite neighborhood spot by night’s end.

Lance’s Barbershop sits down Ursulines Avenue in the Treme neighborhood. It’s a haven for Hayes, a calm place to ease his mind after a day driving a tow truck, dealing a pit, or pouring cement.

Dwight “Whitey” Harris frequently leapt on Hayes’ back when Hayes would enter, “It’s like man versus Bear,” Whitey says. “When I attacked him he picked me up by my ankles.”

Lance Rouzan usually orders some extra-large pizzas while barbers trim heads. It’s frequently busy. Late night Saturdays in New Orleans tend to get like that.

A pocket in Hayes’ jeans vibrates. Kevin O’Neal, his best friend, had been calling all day. Rouzan and the boys saw his face crack a grin. “What’s going on?” one asked. House party. Uptown.

Some high school friends were having a get-together. Hayes would scope it out. He’d call if it was worth a drive.

It turned out to be a bust. Maybe 20 people showed and were playing Pictionary. It was lackluster enough to head home early.

The problem was that O’Neal rode to the function in Hayes’ Hummer. They had to go back to the shop to retrieve his truck. That much is indisputable. How the next part goes, though, depends entirely on whom you’re talking to.

One of the corridors where Will Smith and Cardell Hayes’ vehicles collided. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

Right after 11 p.m., the duo zoomed down Magazine Street. The Hummer jolted. A Mercedes SUV was behind them. Hayes pulled over. The Mercedes sped away. The Hummer drove after it. Maybe Hayes could get the license plate. He had already been in an accident once, and insurance ain’t cheap.

Hayes will tell you he tried to call 911 while chasing the Mercedes. The prosecution insists Hayes is a liar. Hayes says he tried to pump his brakes during the chase but accidentally hit the car. The prosecution says he rammed that SUV.

A man named Richard Hernandez exited the passenger’s side of the Mercedes. Hayes says he didn’t leave his car until Hernandez charged at him and ripped off his shirt. Prosecutors reluctantly agree. Hayes also says Hernandez wrapped a “shiny object” in the shirt and swung at him. Prosecutors say Hernandez wasn’t the aggressor.

The contested points of that night haven’t found any resolution in the months since. You’ve probably heard different versions of these depending on which lawyer’s mouth said it. How Hernandez’s actions made Hayes get his gun. How Hayes claims Smith hit him “three or four times” in the face. And how, maybe, the Smith party taunted him for not using that pistol.

“Nigga, you got your gun? Well I’m gonna get mine and I’m gonna show you what to do with it,” Hayes, under oath, recalls Smith yelling.

“What else can I think other than he’s trying to kill me?” Hayes says. Still, at that point, Hayes hadn’t drawn. Smith started fighting with his wife, Racquel. She pulled him from the scuffle. She reminded him of their kids waiting at home: Lisa, Wynter, and Will Jr.

The Smith family finally reached its vehicle. The Hernandez family had run away. Will Smith then reached into his car. The whines of police sirens are about to blare down Felicity and Sophie Wright Place.

Hayes raised his pistol while he begged Smith not to grab his gun.

“Please don’t do this, bruh,” he can be heard saying on video from last summer entered as evidence. “Please, please don’t do this.”

Racquel shrieked in the direction of her husband. “No, baby, no.” Hayes insists that he didn’t wanna pop this guy.

“I didn’t have nowhere to run,” Hayes says. “If I turned and run, I’ll get shot and killed”

Hayes saw the man turn. A bang. Hayes released eight shots. As the smoke cleared, bystanders could only see a giant crying next to a dead body. He bellowed into the night, praying an ambulance would answer his calls.

AprilApr

April 9: A driver in a Hummer runs into the back of Smith’s SUV. An argument ensues. Smith is fatally shot and his wife Raquel is wounded in the legs. Hayes is arrested on the scene.

April 11: Surveillance video shows Smith’s SUV bumping Hayes’ Hummer moments before the crash that preceded the shooting.

April 12: Police say they found a loaded handgun in Smith’s car, that Hayes told officers on the scene he was the shooter and that in addition to the .45 used in the shooting officers found a revolver in Hayes’ vehicle.

April 13: An attorney for Smith’s family holds wide-ranging news conference during which he says Smith didn’t brandish a gun during the altercation and had a concealed-carry permit. But a lawyer for Hayes says a witness saw Smith with a gun that night. A coroner says Smith was shot seven times in the back and once in the side.

April 15: Hayes’ lawyer calls for the New Orleans police to recuse themselves from the investigation, claiming their competency and honesty are questionable. The request is later rejected.

April 16: Funeral services are held for Smith.

April 28: Grand jury indicts Hayes on one charge of second-degree murder, which carries a mandatory life sentence, and one charge of attempted second-degree murder.

MayMay

May 5: Smith’s wife, Racquel, accepts his posthumous degree from the University of Miami.

JuneJun

June 3: A defense lawyer says test results show Smith was legally drunk the night he died.

JulyJul

July 14: Hayes’ lawyer tries to get the New Orleans District Attorney’s Office off the case, saying the DA made “baseless and inflammatory” statements about him in a report sent to law enforcement agencies.

July 22: The judge refuses to remove the New Orleans DA and his staff from the Hayes case.

OctoberOct

Oct. 28: Racquel Smith offers her first public remarks since her husband’s death, speaking at Will Smith’s induction into the Saints’ Hall of Fame.

NovemberNov

Nov. 16: Judge rules the jury will be sequestered during Hayes’ trial, which begins Dec. 5.

DecemberDec

Dec. 5: Trial begins.

Dec. 11: A jury convicts Hayes of manslaughter and attempted manslaughter.

Source: AP

Across town, Nandi Campbell’s phone started ringing. The lawyer got a midnight call from bounce artist Big Freedia. Hayes made national news. Homicide by shooting. Road rage turned murder in New Orleans. Somebody had to go find Nandi’s cousin.

Campbell saw Hayes in a police interview room and told him for the first time that Smith, a Super Bowl champion, was the man he killed. Hayes couldn’t believe it. He used to watch Smith’s game tapes and study his moves as budding defensive lineman. He idolized him.

Hayes crumpled next to Campbell.

“My life over with,” Hayes said. “They gonna make me look like I shot and killed this man. I looked up to Will as a football player.”

“No, baby. Ya life not over,” Campbell said in a New Orleans drawl, placing a hand on his back. “Don’t say that.”

Hayes is not innocent in the realm of moral court. He killed a man and may have maimed a woman. But Hayes isn’t denying that he killed someone — he’s arguing that he was within his right to do so.

Formerly named Thurgood Marshall Middle School, this is the Mid-City building where Bryant Lee says he met Cardell Hayes. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The state of Louisiana wants Hayes to fry on the plantation fields of Angola, the Louisiana State Penitentiary. That has become evident over the 246 days between the killing and Hayes’ conviction.

That might seem like an eternity. But not many people in New Orleans have seen a man go down as fast and surgically as Hayes. In 2015, there were 16 murder trials in Orleans Parish. The average time from arrest to trial was 3.2 years. The shortest was two years.

Hayes was arrested overnight. He was indicted in 18 days. He received a bond near $2 million an hour after. He was sent to trial eight months later. Then he was convicted after a six-day trial under the first sequestered jury in over four years in a parish that couldn’t afford it. That’s how much the state wanted justice for Will Smith.

Attorney Peter Thomson, who represents Smith’s family, said days after the killing that Hayes was a “cold-blooded murderer,” that he intentionally rammed the Mercedes, that he was “deranged.” New Orleans Police Superintendent Michael Harrison said hours after the killing that the NOPD vowed to “build a strong case,” allowing the prosecution of Hayes to be done to the “fullest extent of the law.”

Saints quarterback Drew Brees spoke for five uninterrupted minutes on his former teammate’s death. He called the violence an “epidemic.” He said he thinks the young men feel like they have been abandoned, or are lacking family, or are lacking a father. At one moment it was drugs. At another, it was gang violence. He was sad for New Orleans, and angry at New Orleans, and taking wild swings at making sense of it.

“What that tells me is that the person who’s pulling the trigger in many cases has no regard for the life that he’s about to try to take,” Brees said. “He also has no regard for his own life, because there’s consequences with that and they have to recognize those consequences.”

New Orleans head coach Sean Payton said “our city is broken” the same week because his former player got killed, and he even called for an end to guns.

Defense attorney John Fuller presented himself as the only man with a difference in opinion. Hayes retained the up-and-comer who took the high-publicity case to bolster his own practice and profile, delaying a criminal court judgeship in the process. In Fuller, Hayes had a gem, one of the most intimidating, eloquent, problematic, God-fearing black defense lawyers the South has to offer — or at least one who didn’t mind leaning into that role.

Fuller got to work quickly, spoon-feeding the city a defense based on a vice familiar to New Orleans: corruption. It was evident in the investigation of Hayes’ case, or at least, that’s what Fuller was selling. And to sell that, he needed a big audience. So he started his months-long sermon in the pulpit of the media.

“Cardell Hayes,” Fuller said to gathered TV cameras on a dreary April afternoon four days after the shooting, “was tried and convicted before I got out of church Sunday morning.”

My Redeemer Missionary Baptist Church is where Pastor Sha’Teek Nobles, a family spokesperson, says Cardell Hayes was a member. It sits off S. Claiborne Avenue in Central City. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

In the eight months Hayes spent behind bars awaiting trial, not many cared to look into the man behind the late-night mugshot or the man he killed. The Saints lost a soldier from their defensive line. All anyone knew was that some rogue gunslinger killed him in cold blood.

Stray blogs said Hayes did security for the Saints, which was never true. USA Today said his “bullies” are “loyal, protective and potentially dangerous—characteristics that apparently Hayes shares.” Sports Illustrated capitalized off that rhetoric, running a story titled “The Saint v. ‘The Thug.’” Tyrann Mathieu, an NFL defensive back and former prep star here, said on Twitter that April that Hayes was a “hating ass coward.”

“Everyone starts on the side of the Saints,” Derwyn Bunton, New Orleans’ chief public defender said. “The sentiment, overwhelmingly, was that folks assumed Mr. Hayes was some hot-head thug that killed a beloved member of the community.”

Racquel Smith’s husband was that beloved member of the community.

“I don’t want sympathy,” Racquel said during trial. “I want justice for my husband … He loved New Orleans. He loved the people and the community and he did so much for the community. We loved it because we both came from humbling beginnings. It was us.”

“Would you exaggerate or leave out parts of what would happen to preserve the memory of your husband?” Fuller asked her on the stand.

“No, sir,” she said.

“Would you do anything to save his public image?” Fuller said.

“No,” she said before circling back. “I know the truth.”

Racquel Smith testified that she didn’t believe her husband had a temper, though it was reported in 2010 that he dragged her by her hair out of a Lafayette, Louisiana, nightclub. She says she doesn’t remember how much he’d drank, but on the night Smith was killed, blood tests showed he was three times past the legal alcohol limit.

Will Smith died with gunpowder residue on his hands. Of the two bullets that hit Racquel, one bullet’s origin can’t be conclusively proven — it’s still embedded in her leg. She testified that a doctor told her it was too risky to remove. But no one attempted to either prove her claim or negate that claim. Her testimony went unchallenged.

Presented with a chance to finally dispute the corruption narrative that Fuller fed the media — that the case had been manipulated to get quick justice for the local celebrity — Racquel didn’t waver. She told you. She didn’t want empathy. She just wanted justice. Regardless if, like she admits, she never saw the person who shot her.

If it’s worth anything, though, she swears it was Hayes.

“No one sympathized for me. He was putting lies about my family,” Racquel said.

“You are reading all these horrible things, that are false, and you don’t say a word?” a prosecutor asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Racquel said.

“Did you wait to tell these ladies and gentlemen of the jury your story?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes ma’am,” Racquel said.

“Is this the first time anyone showed any sympathy for your case?” the prosecutor asked.

“Absolutely,” Racquel said.

This is the last place cardell Hayes lived, as provided by public record. It sits in New Orleans East on Morrison Road. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

Hayes made his home deep in the Ninth Ward, a place plastered on network news during Katrina when the levees broke. His last known residence leads you down Morrison Road, in New Orleans East.

It’s a fleeting oasis here, narrowly missed by tornados that struck nearby in early February 2017. Small homes with overgrown bushes dot opposite sides of the canals. It’s working class renewal sprinkled amid desolation. A shotgun duplex here. An orange spray-painted X there.

Hayes’ house is big enough for him and his girlfriend, Tiffany, to raise CJ in. The neighborhood is lively. School kids yell and run down sidewalks in the afternoons. Girls in colorful barrettes hoot for “Angel” or “Rosie” or “Tyrell” or “Kevin.” It’s a normal hood for a middle-class family.

Down Crowder Boulevard there are a slew of gas stations and markets separating highway entrances from exits. You can get fried chicken by the bucket and gas past dusk. If you’re really hungry, a smaller stand by one gas pump sells fresh po-boys.

Ten minutes east, Hayes laced his cleats in Joe W. Brown Memorial Park. He played for the Crescent City Kings, a development team the papers don’t even waste ink on. Plenty remember “Bear” as CJ’s father, Dawn Mumphrey’s son, Genitra Mumphrey’s brother, a familiar face at Lance’s, a football star from Warren Easton High School, a businessman, and much more.

Warren Easton High was where Cardell Hayes became a touted defensive lineman, rising up recruiting websites as a top-50 recruit in Louisiana. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

Leonard Brooks, 42, helped raise the boy from these blocks. Brooks, who says he’s Hayes’ uncle, has been choked up by the proceedings. Hayes is a churchgoing boy, he says, a role model to Brooks’ other, younger family members. No one’s denying he killed Smith. But few seem to recognize that this may have been self-defense.

“All they want to do is bury my nephew,” Brooks said. “As God as my witness, I would trade places with him so he can be with his family because, I know, in my heart, he was protecting himself.”

Bryant Lee, a store owner, met “the real silent dude” at Thurgood Marshall Middle School. They went to college and sweated in football camps together.

Lee had a brother who got locked up way back. A middle-class man could go insane counting the bills. He asked Hayes for advice, and Hayes gave him $1,000. When Lee tried to return the money, Hayes laughed it off. You can’t give back a gift.

“That’s just not his character. He’s a loyal dude. He’s family-oriented and giving. He’ll give you his last,” Lee said about Hayes’ portrayal. “If I was in the situation, I would’ve done the same thing. Out here? It’s kill or be killed.”

Five years ago, Casandra French saw him at a brass band parade.

Hayes was introduced as “the man with the American bullies.” Her husband desperately wanted to get a litter together. They needed the extra cash. Hayes was big in the game. So he handed her husband a hound and stuck around to help get their litter together.

Soon they were doing inseminations. And their daughter got a scholarship to play second baritone at Alabama State. Due to his unasked kindness, she now has spending money.

“Because of him, now we’ve had six litters and that’s what keeps us going,” French said from the front seat of her car. “He was never a troublemaker. I just pray for the man. The glimpse I have of him is a very good person. To do what he did, he’d have to be pushed.”

Lamont Simmons met him on the gridiron at Victory Field. Simmons played a few steps behind him on defense. Hayes came on the team midseason a year or so ago. He learned the plays in two weeks and gave the team the lift it needed. Hayes’ push got the developmental gang to a championship game.

Between those lines, Simmons learned about “Bear.” He saw a doting father who brought CJ to practice and let his boy ride his shoulders and play in his dreads. He befriended a man who coached his son in pewee kickoffs and kissed him whenever he could. He understood the mild-mannered giant that “led by example” and broke up fights as Simmons threw haymakers at opposing offenses.

“He was a mediator, he was always calm, except during a double team,” Simmons recalls.

It’s the weight of all of this that momentarily had Joe Howard in knots on a bench outside one of the court hearings last year.

Howard went to high school with Hayes. His wife’s sister is a friend of the family.

“He doesn’t have that aggressive nature that was put out,” Howard said with a huff. “But that’s with anything. A black man goes to jail, the public sees the mugshot and you are automatically labeled.”

The corner of Gravier and S. White St. sits Orleans Parish Prison, a holding cell blocks from where Cardell Hayes was tried in December. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The Orleans Parish Prison is an uninspiring behemoth of a building. It’s not a last stop. It’s a holding cell, a nationally known repugnant penitentiary.

OPP is just a peek at the hell Angola offers.

The Life and Legend of Leadbelly describes Angola as a place that kneels defendants in courtrooms upon sentencing. It’s America’s largest maximum security facility where 85 percent of prisoners never leave. “One of 10 inmates” annually get shanked there, according to the book. It sits in the middle of nowhere on a bend by the Mississippi River. The only things around for miles are an airstrip, a rodeo, and a radio station.

This is what Hayes had been grappling with in the months leading up to trial. At worst, he’d stay caged in Angola on a life sentence for second-degree murder. It’s possible that in Louisiana — the only state besides Oregon where all 12 members of a jury don’t have to unanimously agree on murder — that he could’ve gotten a reduced sentence. Negligible homicide isn’t the worst bid for killing a football king down South. At least he’s alive.

At best, like his lawyers said, he’d go not guilty on all charges. He’d walk free after a few days of court. But with the way Hayes’ case was handled, that option seemed further away each passing month.

Parties surrounding the case didn’t understand why the defense was failing. Plenty thought the overconfident Fuller was to blame. One lawyer close to both the prosecution and Fuller said the defense attorney could have received bad information from his client.

“He looked kind of silly when he didn’t come out with [any] video,” the lawyer said after Fuller didn’t present additional evidence during a Nov. 7 hearing. Fuller had been publicly promising video evidence that Billy Ceravolo, a former NOPD captain and friend of Smith, moved a gun from Smith’s car. It was a key piece of the corruption narrative that titillated observers into thinking there’d be an actual showdown between the sides at trial.

Another lawyer, who is close to the defense team, walked around between the lulls of court and asked, “Why doesn’t he just show this video?!” before offering his smartphone, which replayed an inconclusive video of an unidentifiable man at the scene of the shooting. Fuller introduced no such video at trial in April, and Ceravolo explored bringing a defamation suit against him.

The prosecution hinted at those missteps during trial. They asked O’Neal, Hayes’ best friend, when he testified about comments he allegedly made describing Fuller as a “sell-out,” a “nobody,” harping on a feeling that family and friends expected Hayes home months ago. O’Neal didn’t hide it. He hated the legal system, Fuller, and the timeframe that kept his companion confined to a cage.

“I’m heartbroken and tore up,” O’Neal said. “It’s extremely OK for me to be emotional.”

If you’re Fuller, you want justice to work as slow as you remember, with no rush to judgment. He pleaded in court for months to move this trial back. Who could possibly get convicted eight months after killing a man?

“I cannot, in good conscience, say I’m going to (delay),” Judge Camille Buras said in September when Fuller asked to move trial after the NFL season, hoping to ensure a fair tribunal for his client.

“That does not, to me, seem like a good legal reason.”

An emptied park in Cardell Hayes’ neighborhood where the effects of Katrina still linger. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

“I don’t know how we can automatically make these assumptions that are so vulgar about black men,” Dyan French Cole or “Mama D,” a Seventh Ward resident protesting Hayes’ arrest on the corner of Tulane Avenue, said one December morning at the start of trial. Surrounded by half a dozen protestors, she pointed toward the criminal court where Hayes prepared for the week that would decide his life.

“They are guilty when they walk up these steps, not after they go inside.”

This much is a given here: Louisiana’s criminal justice system is in need of reform, and New Orleans along with it. Cole’s refrain is a common local opinion about Hayes’ case. New Orleanians empathize with him — not many, but enough to garner attention. They’ve seen plenty of “Cardells” before. They’ve seen black boys disappear into a courtroom only to never return. Hayes isn’t the first and won’t be the last.

Harry Connick’s 30-year run (from 1973-2003) as the former district attorney is one cause for their angst. A southern Democrat that used music to leverage political power, the “Singing District Attorney” ran an office laced with controversy when he wasn’t humming at nightclubs in the French Quarter.

The U.S. Supreme Court chastised his regime in a 1995 opinion, describing an office culture that repeatedly failed to turn over exculpatory evidence. In that case, a man spent 14 years on death row and was nearly executed before missing evidence exonerated him. He called his predecessors weak, “moral midgets” and received dozens of misconduct complaints.

Leon Cannizzaro, the current DA, came in 2008 billing himself as a reformer. Yet in 2011, he was asked why his office mishandled a murder case by not turning over evidence. Cannizzaro responded that the defense counsel never asked for it. “If he doesn’t, we aren’t obligated to give it to him.”

During the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in 2005, Henry Glover’s charred body was found in a roadside Chevy, having been burned by NOPD officers after they’d shot him. Two days later, cops shot six unarmed black people on Danziger Bridge, killing a 17-year-old boy and a 40-year-old man. Both resulted in police cover-ups.

A Justice Department attorney called these crimes the “most significant police misconduct” prosecution since Rodney King’s beating. Eleven years later, the city paid more than $13 million in a civil rights settlement.

That’s why Byron Cole was outside of criminal court most of the sweltering summer. Cole wanted to personalize this case. He felt the need to watchdog this system. He, Simmons, O’Neal, and many others marched with signs and megaphones. They broadcasted their message over live streams on Facebook. They passed out white “Free Bear” T-shirts with a bear’s face on the front and dreadlocks raining from its head.

This wasn’t just that they thought Hayes was being prepared for a ludicrous trial in a kangaroo court. He was the son of New Orleans they saw themselves in the most.

“We live under a stranglehold in New Orleans, man,” Cole said one day in November. “It’s really just status quo racism. Modified black laws. Modified Jim Crow.”

More recently, the community was stung by similarities between Smith’s shooting and that of Joe McKnight, a rushing powerhouse and national mega-recruit killed by Ronald Gasser one parish over in early December. The makings of Gasser’s case are similar to Hayes’ — a local football hero gunned down in an act of road rage — except for one detail. Gasser, who is white, left jail 24 hours after he shot a former NFL player. After public outcry, Gasser was charged and indicted. Hayes, who is black, hasn’t been home since April 9.

The McKnight shooting’s aftermath enraged Hayes’ family and friends. One day, it led to a heated argument outside of court.

“We just watched a white man execute a man in cold fucking blood. Cold fucking blood, stood over him, witness are out there saying what they saw,” O’Neal said on a video which was posted to Facebook, with Simmons behind him and Big Freedia to his left.

“This man is at home, bruh! This man is at home. Cardell Hayes was attacked by Will Smith, as well as Will Smith��s entourage, and he’s sitting in jail for murder. For murder! He’s sitting in jail for murder with a $1.7 million bond and don’t none of y’all give a fuck about that.”

The prosecution doesn’t understand the fuss. “What happened in Jefferson Parish has nothing to do with this case,” prosecutor Laura Rodrigue said, to which Buras nodded during jury selection.

“Whatever happens in this case, it won’t reveal anything new to me,” Chuck Perkins, a local radio host said from his studio in October. “The only thing it’ll do is reconfirm that there are different legal systems for us black folk and the wealthy or the white.”

A man runs out of Orleans Parish Criminal Court one December afternoon during the week that decided Cardell Hayes’ life. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The second floor of the courthouse in Mid-City sings from the scuff of prisoners’ shoes sliding across tile. Men and women in orange jumpsuits shuffle through wooden doors along the hallway during the week of Hayes’ trial.

New Orleans courts are more picturesque than most. The roof is decorated with Victorian chandeliers. Parthenon-style oak columns balance Buras’ stand, which is anchored by Louisiana and United States flags with two angels dancing on the flagpoles.

“That’s what this was, this was murder!” prosecutor Jason Napoli screams in his closing argument. “April 9 was an execution on the streets, and the only verdict in this case is guilty as charged.”

The families are separated by a center aisle, the Smiths on the right, Hayes’ family on the left. During testimony, a member of the Smith family had flashed a middle finger at O’Neal. Hayes’ family had the tendency to laugh during Racquel Smith’s emotional three hours on the stand. Another night, there was a minutes-long staring contest as court let out after a long, contentious day.

The Smith family has a police escort. Racquel Smith is accompanied by crestfallen women wearing goose egg-sized diamond rings. On each arm are battered-looking NFL men.

Hayes’ family and supporters carpooled or came on the bus, arriving with their own expressions of grief etched on their faces. A lot of the time during the trial, bailiffs kept them from entering the court. It was a fire hazard to have that many people on one side of the room.

Racquel Smith cried during the swings of the trial. Her kids had lost their dad. She’d lost the love of her life. And by her and her friends’ accounts, Hayes was evil. He purposely pulled the trigger and put those bullets in her legs. Sending him “back to the streets,” as Napoli says on that last day of trial, was not an option.

“The most important evidence in this case is buried with Will Smith. Those are his wounds,” Napoli says before crying in front of the jury. “Will Smith played defense for this city. He was defenseless that night. Now it’s your turn to play defense for him.”

The crescendos of the prosecution draw ire from Hayes’ supporters. Many of them believe the truth was thrown aside to get justice for just one family in the case: Hayes was legally allowed to carry in this state, one with Stand Your Ground laws. That he drew and fired at a threat didn’t make him devilish. It made him Louisianian.

“Don’t throw away this boy’s life like this. You owe this family more than that,” Fuller says to the jury. “We have the rich and famous and the poor and the powerless. Don’t jump to conclusions. This boy deserves to be treated like everyone else.”

By the time court recesses, each side thinks it won. Fuller shakes old women’s hands, leads the gathered public in prayer, yucks it up with bailiffs. The prosecution surely doesn’t mind Brees hugging Cannizzaro midcourt as a horde of Saints stars sit and comfort Racquel Smith.

The heaviness of this case weighed tangibly on family. The mornings grew to afternoons and crept into nights. They spent every day, at times 14 hours, in court for a six-day trial reliving the night that changed everything.

One of those evenings, Hayes’ mother, Dawn, ducked to St. Bernard Avenue for a quiet meal. In the months her boy had been behind bars, she’d lost a lot of weight, Bryant Lee said. Fair-toned with skin the color of sweet potato pie, Dawn Mumphrey’s hair is graying around her temples.

At the only table in the joint, her head shifted between a window and her hands.

“You gotta eat something, grandma” a waitress said.

“I’m trying,” she replied. “But I can’t hold anything down.”

The place started to close as Dawn finally picked at her plate. Her pupils grew red. Her voice cracked, and she whispered as the shop grew empty.

“I pray for strength,” she sniffed. “I know he’s coming home. I just know it.”

Another corridor where Will Smith and Cardell Hayes’ vehicles collided. Photo: Bryan Stewart | Edit: Tyson Whiting

The jury finds Hayes guilty of the manslaughter of Will Smith and the attempted manslaughter of Racquel Smith after five hours deliberating. The verdict comes right as Sunday Night Football ends. Media reports later described how pressured the jury felt to convict. The members wanted to write letters begging for leniency at sentencing.

“In between, there were lots of tears,” a juror told the New Orleans Advocate. “This was gut-wrenching.”

As soon as Hayes is cuffed, his momma glues herself to the mahogany pillars on her left. His pastor tries to hold her as she wails, her body cranking like a metronome. What do you tell Dawn Mumphrey when the state takes her only boy away for good?

“Do you need a drink?” Hayes asks, unable to help her with two bailiffs anchoring him.

Hayes’ family waits in the empty chambers that night sobbing as the Smith family departs with its police escort. Payton flew back from an afternoon loss in Tampa Bay to hear the verdict in person. He bear-hugs former tailback Pierre Thomas, who was with Smith before the shooting, and slaps his hand so loudly it echoed the empty halls.

“We did it,” he said.

Racquel Smith cries into her coat as she exits, her friends shaking deputies’ hands. As they pass, Hayes’ family can’t seem to leave.

They are stuck to this place and their last minutes with Hayes. Rouzan, his friend from the barbershop, has tears wedged in his thick beard. Hayes’ sister, Genitra, had been smiling all week and running around with CJ, Hayes’ son. Now she ducks under a pew.

Lawyers from each side bolt out of doors from different angles of the courthouse. Fuller, who beamed every time the spotlight was on him, left through one side door downtrodden, trudging into the darkness surrounding the building. The prosecution, content that their version of justice has been delivered, darts out of a different side door with smiles earned after an emotional battle.

“This was the murder of a hero,” Cannizzaro says hours later, explaining that his office wants Hayes, 29, to serve 60 years. “Mr. Hayes is not going to hurt anyone ever again.”

A deputy slams the doors behind Hayes’ family members as they drag themselves down those main courthouse steps. Big Freedia fought off cameras so Dawn and Genitra could sprint to a nearby SUV.

With two families destroyed and the courtroom battle finished, it is finally clear that justice is not the same as recompense. “There are no winners in a situation like this,” Deuce McAllister, a former Saints running back and close friend to Smith, tells cameras outside as he walks out with Racquel.

The only lights left shining are the red twinkles from an ambulance speeding down Tulane Ave. Camera crews spinning the news are met by a group of citizens at the place that had sent so many of them away over the years. People parked their cars in the middle of intersections. They cried into Snapchat apps and live feeds as the news spread around New Orleans.

A middle-aged man in a hoodie walks up to the courthouse from the dark. He begins yelling at ESPN’s cameras, beseeching them to “tell the truth.” When asked, the man declines to give his name, only identifying himself as “a concerned citizen of New Orleans.”

“That was a good kid. Y’all know what it was. This is a set-up and a game.”

He pauses.

“Cardell Hayes was guilty when he walked up those steps.”

0 notes