#i developed my pain in my current flat which is up two sets of stairs :') so every week day ill be lugging it up and down these bitches | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

papers4me · 3 years

Text

Fruits Basket, SE03, Ep3

This ep is exactly like se02, ep 24, meaning it was divided clearly into two parts. While the graduation theme unties the two parts, you can point things out exactly like ep,24:

1st part : Machi’s story= the important part.

2nd part: scattered parts here & there that concern yuki, ep, 24 his interactions with akito, here his interactions with Motoko).

plus, an ep cliff hanger: (e, 24 the dvd given to kureno, here, Isuzu’s mysterious fate).

it is exactly the same even a small kyo/tohru moment!. School graduation instead of the zodiac’s new year gathering.

Really awkward pacing, but that’s furuba, we celebrate when they DO connect dots for once! lets talk abt the REAL ep: MACHI.

-Machi’s awkward presence:

Although I love Machi, I’ve voiced my concerns abt her character in Furuba:

It seemed that Machi was solely created to be a step in yuki’s success journey more than a character on her own right. After getting motherly love (tohru) leaving the nest, Yuki needed friendship (kakeru), then as an independent man, he needs romantic love: (Machi). This is all fine initially but I was yearning for more individuality for Machi as a character. All furuba characters were given space to be unique including minor characters like Motoko who narrated her own story each time she’s on screen & we lived it with her within two seasons & a number of eps.

However, Machi’s background was introduced thro her brother’s exposition in se02 & that moment was a yuki/ kakeru bonding moment.

Thro kakeru’s exposition we learned how similar yuki & machi are (the parental neglect, high expectations, cold sibling relationship, Big brother saves himself by himself, big brother pushing for redemption & the younger sibling’s still trapped silently ). While that makes for romantic appeal between the two which makes the writer’s job easier, it steals from Machi individuality.

Then her part in ep, 24 was shown & I was given hope for Machi’s individuality as her own inner voice spoke volumes abt her as a person away from yuki (romantic interest) or Kakeru (big brother). Having a lot of screen time, while can make a character more believable to the audience, is never a factor in character’s depth nor individual worth. Heck! kyo (part of the main trio & the main character’s love interest) has only ONE ep in se02 to explore his issues & by far it is my fave ep in se02 as it established kyo’s trauma, psyche, mental issues & emotional baggage better than I could ever imagine! You can DO WONDERS with little time if you knew what to do. That’s what happened with Machi this ep (half ep).

-Machi’s shines! (trauma & romance):

I was so relieved to learn that altho both Machi & yuki despised perfection as it suffocated them, the writer (thankfully) went abt a different approach with Machi. Unlike Yuki who went silent cuz he felt his voice didn’t matter as he was used as a tool, Machi went silent cuz she was was NOT needed, & not only discarded but painted as WRONG. If you admit that raising me this way is wrong, then what does this make me? What should I do with myself? I’m wrong! boring, a failure, & a presumed killer!! all while I was absolutely doing my best! all while I was having good intentions! It is devastating but It makes Machi real. A character on her own right with her own trauma, struggle, pain & outlook on life. Although, the writer made the whole yuki/Machi meeting orchestrated by Kakeru to quickly make the two siblings one step closer, it worked cuz kakeru chose to not interfere after setting the scene. He played a subtle mach maker & tried to find happiness for his sister silently. Kakeruy is yuki’s best buddy & Machi becoming the girlfriend, the trio will have to hang out more which will slowly but surely warm Machi towards Kakeru. While the flat visit is the part where Machi open the lid to Yuki with a spark of romance at the end, the chalk scene is the romantic part! Not only did Yuki noticed her panic & saved her by breaking a piece of chalk, she secretly remembered his promise! “ lets make footprints on the snow”. The snow that was another source of anxiety attack, is now sth she looks forward to & prays for! Truly romantic!!! Well-done writer.

Side Notes:

I know furuba is shoujo & it’s abt love, but C’mon! where did Nao/ Motoko come from??!! XDD Who is left without love interest? Kyo’s rejected fangirl loved by one of kyo’s buddies? The maids in love with Akito? Momiji? Who does Kimi love besides money? XD

Yuki once observed that kyo makes tohru happy with small things, Today he did the same! A broken piece of chalk.

Yuki/ Machi romantic scenes contrast Yuki/ tohru forced romantic scene at the earlier seasons. There is no lame cringy lines like “ I’ll kidnap you & go to a vacation” or kissing a ribbon. There is NO acting or pretentious lines. Here a piece of chalk did the trick, an understanding of her tears & a head pat, a promise to walk on snow together! Congratulations Yuki, You made it into romantic boyfriends category! XD. also, good writing!

The Bra scene is the real comedy in the ep.

Arisa’s “ kyon, we won’t forgive you if you hurt tohru” is gold cuz kyo WILL. When it’s time to confess he knew kyoko & she HATES him & doesn’t forgive him, tohru would be hurt! Even if she wasn’t in love with kyo!!! Knowing your beloved’s last words were hateful is painful!! Add to this that tohru loves kyo & would be struggling between forgiving him or not!! Add to this that kyo might NOT want to be forgiven!!

“ I won’t forgive you”. kyo’s haunting reminder that he’s unforgivable is now shared by kyoko, yuki, Hana & Arisa!!

look, you might argue that furuba’s romantic writing might be a bit awkward with all sorts of romantic couples, age gaps, the need for everybody to be in love one way or the other & so on, but the traumatic behavioral writing is the best!!!!! I was never disappointed with how Takaya write abused traumatized children’s behavior. One of my fave scenes is yuki/ kyo in the stairs in se02 where kyo lashed out on yuki & yuki was over it. While that scene was rightfully celebrated for yuki’s triumphant attitude as he got over his trauma, I love it for the realistic trauma filled attitude of kyo, all charged with kyoko’s flashback! He’s in deep & he’s all by himself! Kyo will hurt tohru cuz he loves her just like how kazuma hurt him by forcefully taking his bracelet cuz he loves him. Kyo will be thinking it is for the best, who would want to be with someone that kyoko of all ppl hates!

I’ll tolerate all the weird love couples in furuba, but the moment trauma is written weakly I’ll drop the show. There is NO way, kyo will confess kyoko’s lines then go “sorry abt that tohru, we’re good?”

Back to Machi, I really hope that her trauma isn’t merely wrapped up cuz yuki loved her. Furuba was never abt love heals, it is abt love helps. We might not see more of her trauma for reasons of space, or not related to the current plot lines, but I really hope we hear her talk abt herself with yuki even few lines. Although, I feel that the focus now will be on setting her for yuki’s next stage in character development: honesty in the love confession. He’ll tell her abt the curse as the trailer hinted at. That’s their first love life struggle. But if I were to take a guess, it will be dealt with quickly like her trauma. She loves yuki dearly & as long as he walks with her in snow (human or rat, lol), it’s all good. <3

Hior’s mom is love.

Kagura’s new style is love! she isn’t dressed overly cutely anymore, but had a more comfortably style & I love her hair! also her friendship with Isuzu! <3. I wish Isuzu would really know there are ppl worried abt her in her life. Haru isn’t the only one.

Akito put Isuzu in the cat room, didn’t she? The place she left is similar to the place young Kazum wandered to in se01, ep25. & those scissors....

I never thought that the mere sight of shigure’s face will disgust me. XD. I still find him so intriguing, but yeah need time to get over the fact that he slept with Ren & counted it even with Akito, then slept with Akito afterwards! EWWW! so disgusting & I’m here to see this drama escalate!

Yuki / Machi moment was interrupted! XD It’s not fun when it happened to you, yuki? XD.

#Fruits Basket #Anime Only #sick paper #final season

35 notes · View notes

dollydeez · 3 years

Text

Chapter One Sneak Peek

I’m currently rewriting the ending and haven’t done final edits yet, but I thought I’d go ahead and post the first chapter of Lesbian Robots From Space to give people an idea of what I’m going for with this project. So here it is, Chapter One: Get Lost!

I spent most of my free time wandering around the space station. There wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen, but I’m well known enough in this sector that I pick up just as much business wandering around as sitting in my office. It’s a rough part of the galaxy, so it’s not uncommon for your affairs to get FUBAR. There’s four levels to the thing, going from the hangar at the gravitational bottom to the flats at the top, with a shopping centre and office section respectively in between. I don’t know why old space movies liked spherical buildings, can you imagine how annoying that’d be? Use a cube like a thinking being and maximize your available space. If my flat had a curved ceiling I’d start a riot. And having the hangar in the middle, I mean I guess for military constructions but what the fat cats want for their civilian developments is for people to have to walk through as much commercial space as possible.

My favourite part was checking out the hangar, and not just because it was a hotspot for people on the run. So many ships, from all over, docked here. Swear to god, I saw one that looked exactly like a pickle. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen. I mean, until the crew started spilling out and medics had to be called. People don’t land here because they want to check it out, they land here because they are out of options. We are the Saint Jude of scum. The regular clientele had an effect on the shops offered. Shite specific for those living here were automated, usually owned by the station. Stuff like furniture stores, clothes shops and the grocer’s. There were a couple people trying to hack out a living with their cooking, but… let’s just say if they were good they’d be elsewhere. Hell do I know, I never went into any of those disease factories. Most of the other shops sold guns, parts and medical supplies. It wasn’t the worst place in the world to poke around, it was always entertaining to see some lost yokel argue with someone, who’s surrounded by guns mind you, seemingly unaware that this is absolutely the place your annoying corpse would be chucked into space. I was good friends with Doc, the lad who ran the station’s main medical bay. He was a good kid, just made some mistakes early on and had to move his practice off world. Well, he wasn’t bad. Every so often he’d get bored doing his work. You’d know when to keep your issues to yourself when you saw some poor bastard limping around the food court with the wrong number of limbs, or the right number but on the wrong side. He usually stayed up in his office, however, across from mine. We were friendly enough, and he told his staff to let me wander around the wards.

The limited number of staff made this an absolutely desperate place to seek medical attention. If you weren’t of the species represented in the OR, you might have to cling to life as some doofus flips through a book trying to figure out what the hell you are. So, why not have a little conversation? I’d swoop in, say something about how they seemed to be in some heap of trouble, and most of the time I’d get a job. Money up front of course, and if they argued this point I’d make sure they were clear on how friendly I was with the medic bay. This tactic meant that sometimes they’d take my card and never be heard from again. Which is fine, credits spend the same, but it doesn’t do much for word of mouth. I knew I’d hit the jackpot when someone, gushing blood, would look up with wide eyes and ask if I was Lisa Dean. Why yes, and your price just doubled. Hey, if they know my track record I can put it up front rather than racking up bullshit expenses. If they argue about the rate their buddy got, I’d tell them that if I wasn’t worth it I wouldn’t get recommended. Here I hand them my card, because if they’re bleeding there’s someone who caused that blood and they can get looked for somewhere else. But if they approach me as I’m wandering the rest of the station, I’d invite them up to my office.

I’m still proud of how well I fixed up the place; when I moved in it was little more than a ratty little hole in the wall, wallpaper peeling, lightbulb flickering, dark and damp, reeking of mold, somehow there was a leak from the flats upstairs despite the fact this is a space station and, well, that feels concerning. But I’d moved in with plenty of disposable income and plenty of time, so I made use of the automated stores down stairs. I thought it’d be neat to get some wood inside there, so there was a jarring feeling when you walk in from the outside. Most of the station is boring polished steel, blinking lights, then you enter my office and it’s wood. Getting books for the shelf was a pain, it’s the one thing the station doesn’t sell, so for a while I looked like a real cunt with plenty of shelf space and a handful of books. People would ask about it, which was annoying but, alright, it was a compounding factor on how shady it all seemed, and I’d tell them I’d lost most of my books in the move and was waiting for them to arrive. Which was true enough, at least enough to shut them up about it. But they’d sit across from my desk and tell me the details of their woes, then I’d tell them how I’d solve it for them. It was a pretty good system. Sometimes, I’d have to get them back into the office to go over some details or expenses. I started out my practice letting the expenses slide in exchange for a favour, which people are usually grateful enough to accept, so at this point it was generally understood that you should pay your expenses when I tell you to. When I wanted to get out of the flat but didn’t want to wander around the station, I’d hang out in my office. People coming in at these times were the most annoying, because usually if I don’t want to do a job I can get out of it easily. In the medbay, they’re dying so they’re not in the position to chase after me. Elsewhere, I can either pretend they’ve got the wrong person or give some extravagant price that they won’t concede to. Every so often, I got roped into a job I don’t want to do and I resent it. I even resent it when people come into my office uninvited and put me in the awkward position of turning them away. Usually if I’m upfront about how I find their case boring or trivial, they’ll get all offended and leave. Some require more pushing.

The day began normally. I got up, got ready, and headed out into the world. I didn’t have much going on, and was on the edge of liking it that way. The station was pretty dead for once, with the usually chaotic and filled hangar being nearly empty. I think the only ships there might have belonged to the few residents that owned one. I felt sorry, and still do, for the poor fuckers stuck on that hellhole. Usually what happened was that someone, not knowing better, would land from a nearby planet with little more than a dream and an idea of the cheap real estate. Then they’d chop their ship at one of the shops upstairs, grab a place and a store front, and slowly regret their decision. It was cheap real estate, almost offensively so, but that was because no one in their right mind would show up unless under duress. Sure, Doc might get a poor family that’d gained just enough capital to get up there for his skills, but with orderlies mostly running the OR they usually were disappointed. Then they’d have a “well, we’re here, sad and hungry” meal from one of the subpar restaurants before heading back to their planet. So those who sold their way off to settle here were more or less stuck in relative poverty. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy if a legitimately talented chef or whatever risked everything to set up shop here and succeeded their way back off, but I’ve never seen it happen. Even when someone has been somewhat of a draw, it was never enough to get a ship and enough money to set up somewhere nicer. The only one I’ve seen get close is Synthia Gray, who garnered good reviews and quite a few people going out of their way to try her food. But the area’s too dangerous for anyone who could have a real impact, or the masses that might do the same, to come by. I just remember them packing up all her stuff one day, saying it’d been auctioned off. Turns out she decided to try her luck leaving the station, only without a ship or a suit. Sweet girl, I was always sorry it happened to her, but it was inevitable as soon as she stepped foot here. People don’t leave, not when they’re attached to it financially.

My theory is that the owners rig the price just so in order to attract desperate people. Those people pay rent, usually two forms of rent, while buying all their goods from the company and paying “taxes” on all the money they make. It’s an absolute racket, designed to keep this sorry excuse of a space station staffed enough to keep it used and profitable. Most people end up going into debt after settling. If the company had a heart, they’d offer some sort of way off when people go broke, but instead they allow people to run up the score. It’s indentured servitude to make the station seem full and welcoming to anyone willing to put money into a bad investment.

In any case, I was one of the few fortunate enough to have a ship still in the hangar. Which was good news for both me and the station itself, as I needed it to work. Can’t quite look into things if I’m stuck on a hunk of metal orbiting aimlessly around some nothing gas giant. I like to keep it tuned up, making sure it’s ready to go at a moment’s notice and taking it for a short spin every so often to make sure it can, in fact, work. I love my ship, but I feel like other people feel that on an entirely different level. It’s a reliable and necessary tool, but I don’t see much need in worrying about it being clean or looking nice or whatever. I’ll get a Wash Me on the window if I haven’t taken it out in too long, but I’ll just scrub it off. As long as it gets me from point A to point B I’m happy with it. After I gave it a good look over, because what the fuck else was I going to do, I headed up to the shopping area to wander around for a little bit. It was boring. Even Doc’s was mostly empty, with the one person being looked after having cut himself deeply out of sheer clumsiness. I wasn’t quite ready to go back to the flat, I wanted to keep it a space I felt good in, so I headed back to my office. And there was someone waiting for me. I did not like this, and I’m still not super happy about it.

She was sat in my office chair, usually reserved for active clients, and dressed in all black. Even when I walked in, she continued boohooing into her snot rag, you know how these mucus gremlins are, with loud and halting cries. I could see flakes of red hair poking out of her garish black hat, complete with a little veil in front of her face. I cleared my throat and she finally turned around.

“Are you Lisa Dean?”

“That’s what it says on the door.”

I made my way to my desk, and she looked up at me from her hunched posture with wet eyes. I had to awkwardly shimmy between the close wall and my desk, an act I don’t like doing in front of people who might be deciding to pay me, before sitting down. She could hardly put words together and babbled incoherently.

“I’m guessing someone’s dead?”

Mistake. This set her off with a loud wail and I had to wait it out. I flipped through an old magazine on my desk and cursed myself for not picking up a newspaper. Apparently those skis were still available with an exclusive discount. Eventually her sobs started to stabilize and it seemed as though she were about to speak, so I tilted the magazine down.

“My wife… she’s gone!”

This had my attention. A lover, possibly murdered, possibly missing, but either way a mystery? Grand, sounds to be quite the adventure.

“So, in your words, what’s happened?”

She sniffled a bit, then took a few deep breaths to collect herself.

“I woke up one day and she was gone, with a note left saying she’d left and her ship was gone. But I know she would have never done something like that!”

“I’m not saying I won’t take the case, but given the evidence she just left don’t you think this getup is a bit much?”

“She would never! She would never do such a thing, the possibility wouldn’t even be in her programming it’s so antithetical-”

“Whoa, stop right there. Her programming?”

“She was a robot, but what we had was so real.”

“Buy another.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bot babe was defective. Buy. Another.”

I brought the magazine back up to my face and let her spit and sputter. She seemed the type to have always gotten her way, daddy’s favourite, and I’ll be honest I took some joy in saying no. She composed herself and stood, placing a calling card on my desk.

“Regardless, I’ve heard you’re the best. If you change your mind, please give me a call.”

“Mkay.”

She kept standing there, looming over me, until I placed the square into my desk drawer. Who even does that? A square card? Where is that meant to go? A purse I suppose, so I’ll respect the specificity of use, but if she was married it was an oversight to not update it for easier storage. That said, I’m probably over analysing it and should concentrate on telling the story. That’s what’s important, the story, not any of these bullshit details. In all honesty, I might just be bored and pointing out shite like this for the drama. In any case, she took her leave and I went back to reading my magazine. Halfway into an article on exercise routines, for whatever reason, I put it down to go buy a paper because if I had to keep reading this sports magazine I’d punch a hole in the station wall.

I was sitting in the local saloon, watching Doc get absolutely hammered. From that and the blood drenching his coat, you’d assume he’d had a rough day and was having to work through some heavy shite. You would be wrong. Not to suggest he is drenched in blood on a daily basis, although it isn’t an unusual occurrence, but he did enjoy drinking until he had to be carried back upstairs. It was a bad idea to say it, or even imply it, but there was a common understanding that this habit most likely landed him on the station. It was generally accepted that you do not want to piss off the person who has a say in you getting patched up, and if you’re going to be doing something especially dangerous, do it early to be on the safe side. So he’s leaning on the bar, gripping his beer as if it was about to float away, and grimacing. The poor busboy was holding his mop by the tip of the handle to mop up the pool of blood slowly forming underneath Doc’s stool and holding his breath in an effort not to be noticed. I wouldn’t call Doc a mean drunk, as that would imply he was different the rest of the time. Bless him, he was a bastard but wholly honest about it. I leaned forward as he started mumbling, the reek of beer and whisky pouring from his mouth more freely than from the taps, just in case he was trying to talk to me. He bolted upright and grabbed me by the lapel, pulling me close and forcing eye contact.

“No one here today! Only the cunts showed! Cunts, all of them, screaming and bleeding and all but pissing themselves, whining for their mammies!”

He slumped back against the bar and placed his face into his arms, and Frankie, our bartender, looked over to me. I nodded, resenting the fact I’d need a wash after taking him to his place. He turned his head, ear now pressed firmly against the bar and seemed like he was looking for a response.

“Yeah, Doc, absolutely awful. Only job offer I got was to locate a missing bot, wasn’t about to take a salvage job.”

He pushed himself up, working his way into a maniacal laugh, and I had to put a hand on his back to keep him from going arse over teakettle.

“What’s her name?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I have her card upstairs, she wouldn’t leave until I took it.”

“She fit?”

“Not your type, I don’t think.”

“Certainly ways to change that. ‘Not my type’, feh! Insult my skills.”

Knocking my arm away, he took another swig of beer and lied back down on the counter. He should have been cut off hours ago, but Frankie was in the odd position of having to poison the man who might save her life, or he might not out of spite. Well, if you were lucky he’d leave it at that. Most of the time, the blood was from boredom more than altruism. If you made the mistake of causing a ruckus in his med bay, well let’s just say that being handed over to Doc to be handled personally usually was a bad sign. He did personally take care of station residents, at least the ones whose death would be inconvenient for him, but, again, that was only a good thing at the right time of day. Stubborn as a mule, if he wanted to be hands on begod no one would stop him. Which is unfortunate for everyone, including Doc. That’s how Frankie got her job, and it took him almost a year to adjust.

Luckily, Doc wouldn’t argue against the saloon closing and would allow himself to be walked home, usually with a takeaway cup in tow. As the clock struck three, I picked him up and half dragged him away from the bar. He woke up enough to start struggling, reaching toward where he had been with both arms extended.

“Drink!”

“Alright, give me a second.”

I sat him back down on his stool and leaned him on his arm so he’d stay upright. Frankie, who always waited and watched to make sure Doc left without a fuss, already had his cup ready and mouthed a thank you. When I handed him the paper cup, he took a few sips from his straw, readied himself and nodded. He could almost stand, so I had to prop him up by the armpit and lead him to the elevator.

“Real sorry situation.”

“Mhm.”

It was hard to make out the words, but regardless of what he was talking about I was not about to treat it as anything but gospel. He was slumped in the corner of the elevator, barely supporting himself on the banister. The one advantage of helping Doc home is that, despite how busy it is at this time of night, we’d get an elevator to ourselves for a quick trip home. It was a quieter trip than most nights, as he was just staring down at his cup. The ones where he was overly rowdy were definitely worse, but I enjoyed hearing him drunkenly ramble about some random topic. I don’t know if him being a doctor made it more or less weird, but he was well read on the most obscure topics. He once described, in detail, the history of the human homeworld, but with a topic like that it was equally plausible he was making up most of it. Either way was entertaining. But this, this was just sad. The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and I helped him out into the hallway.

“Right, so how far do you need?”

“Bed.”

His flat was fairly close to the elevator, either by planning on his part or coincidence, so it wasn’t too much trouble. I tried to prop him up against the wall to search him for his keys, but he just slid down it. He slapped my hand away when I tried to get to his pockets anyway.

“Leave here.”

“You know you’ll be furious tomorrow if I do.”

“Fair.”

Pawing at his pants, he managed to drop the keys onto the floor. I unlocked the door, then got him up and into the apartment. Ratty is the best way to describe it. I am fully aware we are off-planet, but you could easily convince me there’s any number of vermin among the wreckage. Due to his importance to the maintenance of the place, I’m pretty sure he’s paid more than anyone here, especially since most people don’t get paid at all, but you couldn’t tell from the state of his flat. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the brokest of all of us, but I don’t think that even matters to him. This wasn’t the first time I had to take him inside, but I always had to adjust to the absolute squalor. It never fully sunk in, the way he lived, if you want to call it that.

There was a relatively clean recliner in the telly area, so I left him there while I got his bed ready. I set up a glass of water and some paracetamol for him in the morning, then brought him over to tuck him in. He kicked off his shoes and curled up in the middle of the mattress, so I put the duvet over him. We were close, but it was well established that he’d rather sleep fully clothed than go through the further indignity of being stripped. The one time I tried, he fought back with tears in his eyes. I didn’t see much, but I remember a large scar across his middle. I’m happy not knowing.

After I got upstairs and cleaned myself up, I sat down on my couch. Any other day, a rejected case would be the last thing on my mind, but I couldn’t help thinking about the one I found in my office. If she wants to waste her money having someone turn up a lost appliance, I have no issue with it, but the gall of seeking me out and expecting me to waste my time with that nonsense was infuriating. But it was none of my business, I made that quite clear. I lied down on the couch and flipped on the telly, not ready to power down for the night. Nothing good was on, so I shuffled through the channels and watched the shadows dance on the wall. It would be a safety nightmare, but times like these I desperately wished we could have windows. There were a couple planets close enough to watch, sitting in a ship outside, and plenty of stars of course. I always loved the look of it, the majesty of the universe, but there was hardly an opportunity to enjoy it anymore. Well, if I wanted it I could have it, but there didn’t seem to be a point to it. I find work by being in the station, and that pays the bills. Plus, the stars just looked duller nowadays. Better off to stay at home and watch whatever brain drain they’re pumping out to the screens of the galaxy.

2 notes · View notes

thcrnson · 4 years

Text

𝑶𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒂 𝑯𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍

ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ɢ ɪ ʀ ʟ ᴡ ʜ ᴏ ᴀ ʟ ᴡ ᴀ ʏ s ᴄ ᴏ ᴍ ᴇ s ɪ ɴ s ᴡ ɪ ɴ ɢ ɪ ɴ ɢ

hey, did i just see olivia howell walking around the block ? oh ! yes ! the last time i saw her, i heard she wanted to be called liv. i hear they are a bartender. people around town say they are so adamant && loyal sometimes i wonder how they can be recalcitrant && brash. ( leather jackets, flannels tied around the waist, wavy dark brown hair, infinite indecision )

A brief character sheet can be found here on my muse page.

History.

tw: derogatory language, drug addiction and overdose, mentions of abuse, mention of abortion, miscarriage, and death

If there was ever a life doomed from the start, set on a path of anguish before she even opened her eyes to greet the world. It would be Olivia Howell. It was a rather typical story of a strung out high school drop out addicted to every variety of narcotics you can think of getting pregnant after whoring herself out for her next hit. It hadn’t matter to her nineteen year old biological mother that she should be taking care of herself for her child she was carrying her, seeing as she didn’t let go of any of her vices it was no surprised that a particularly bad spell caused complications in the pregnancy as well as put her own life at risk. Olivia was born six weeks premature with a hole in her heart, severely malnourished, she had to be cut out of her mother who was coding not long after being brought to the hospital.

Her mother died the day she was born, the hospital tried contacting whomever they could for her but it was no use, she’d had no one to care for her, and so no one to give a damn about the baby girl she’d brought into the world be left alone. So when she was healthy enough she became a ward of the state, actually finding a home pretty quickly. The parents she knew for the first few years of her life did perhaps love her, but it was never meant to be. Her misfortune wasn’t going to leave her anytime soon. When her adoptive mother passed when Olivia was just six years old her adoptive father spiraled, unable to take care of himself much less a little girl. She was at the states mercy once again, and became a child of the system from then on. Being jostled from home to home until she would turn eighteen.

The constant instability in her life and her early development was plenty to turn Olivia into a very angry young girl, and that never quite went away. She never had things normal, never had the best of influences around her, and she always stuck out. She got into heaps of trouble in her teens, even had a short stent in juvie at sixteen. Maybe she could’ve risen above her circumstances, it happened to plenty of kids just like her but not everyone’s life was destined for as much anguish as hers. From the age of ten on there wasn’t a single home she was placed in, in which she was safe. Sometimes it was shitty parents, or insufferable foster siblings, there were too many horrible things. and as she grew out of the system she did her best to forget about them all. Though they never did leave her entirely, never allowed her to sleep soundly at night, to become trusting of anyone no matter how genuine and wholesome they may have seemed.

The angry girl became an angry woman, things were tough for her and she made a lot of bad choices, hurt people by her words as well as by her actions. And as one pious woman once told her, her lack of faith and repentance would be damning for her soul. As broken as she was she could never last in a relationship no matter how good, sure there were faults in some of the men and few women she attempted to date, but even when there was none she found reason to wreak things herself, breaking plenty of hearts in the process of her own healing. Finally at twenty-three things seemed to be headed in a better direction. She managed to get her associate and began working as a law assistant while she tried to figure out where to go from there.

The job was finally one that allowed her to be independent and take care of herself like she hadn’t been able to before. she actually enjoyed her work and felt appreciated for her efforts. Her boss was great, though he expected good work he never hesitated to acknowledge her either, and he was quite easy on the eyes and charming in way none of the guys her own age had ever been. Not a few months into the job he had her all kinds of twisted, the flirtation was well on it’s way to becoming a full blown affair, despite the fact that he had recently married his girlfriend of five years.

It was tumultuous and she was completely wrapped up in him, like she hadn’t been by anyone else before, unable to see his manipulations and dishonesty. He made lofty promises that he never kept, and always pulled her back in with grand gestures when she tried to put any distance between them. When she got pregnant a year into their relationship he convinced her to get an abortion, and framed it in a way that made feel as if it was something she herself wanted. Things only began to get worse from there as she’d become dependent of his affections. Everything came to a boiling point a few short weeks before her death. His wife had learned about the affair a few short months prior and confronted them both, she’d made him leave her and end things with Olivia completely as a condition to allowing him to a second chance as she was pregnant. At this point he had Olivia convinced he was on the verge of getting a divorce and hated his wife. However, not only did that not happen she witnessed first hand just how much he didn’t hate her, how he begged and pleaded with her, how happy he was to have learned about the child she was carrying.

Once again left with nothing, the woman spiraled completely drowning out her sorrows in spirits, loosing her apartment, defaulting on her bills everything going to shit around her. When thanksgiving had rolled around she started her morning with tequila spending her day stalking her ex on social media becoming more and more enraged and heartbroken as he posted about his picture perfect day with his beautiful wife. She should not have gotten into a car that day, she was far to inebriated. She should not have shown up to their home to confront him, but she did and she exploded. Doing everything from yelling and sobbing to attacking him. And as she’d done that the other woman had tried to get in the way and Olivia had shoved her aside causing her to fall down a flight of stairs. As she lay there in pain and screaming about the baby, Olivia felt terrified and ashamed of what she’d done so she left. Speeding away still very much intoxicated and balling her eyes out as well at that point. It was a close call with a suburbian that she had swerve into a ditch to avoid that finally made her stop. Crying her eyes out until she sobered. When she finally got back on the road and the gravity of that night along with the state of her life hit her. And she didn’t stop, she kept going no clear direction as to where just knowing she needed to get far away from her current demons.

The Present.

Following that night, two months ago Olivia landed up in Multiville, if asked she couldn’t entirely tell you why it was this small town that she decided to stop in, to start over if that’s what you want to call it, mostly she was just tired. Going through the motions she got herself a job bartending at the local dive bar after going door to door to find out who might be hiring, she lived in her car for a week or two before she got a lead on someone looking for a roommate for their small mainstreet flat. Things have been okay, uninteresting she has no idea what she’s actually doing, if this where she’s staying, though she might as well since she doesn’t exact have anywhere else to go

Wanted Connections.

Someone who takes an interest in her, and wants to be friends despite her standoffish behaviour.

One or two one night stands she’s had since coming to time.

Her flatmate

Those are a few off the top of my head, but i’m down for pretty much anything!

#❛ ･ﾟ× ( ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ ʜᴏᴡᴇʟʟ )#❛ ･ﾟ× ( development › ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ )#mv intro

2 notes · View notes

waterchestnut123 · 5 years

Text

CHAPTER 3 / The Peculiar Perils of Straw Hat Parties

Common commentary throughout the 5 seas held that Straw Hat parties were notoriously wild. This is something that Trafalgar Law, as well as the rest of his crew, are learning first hand. Not that Law particularly feels like partying; after Dressrosa, the Heart Pirates Captain has a little soul-searching he’d like to attend to. But one tends to become… drawn in, to certain things around Luffy—regardless of one’s plans or intentions. This is how Law finds himself developing an unlikely and unexpected friendship with his ally’s navigator—and how that friendship, much like Luffy’s parties, grows far beyond his intentions.

More About This Fic / Read on AO3 Chapter Index | < Prev · Next >

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Chapter 3: The Consequences of Poor Party Planning

Chapter Rating: T Warnings: References to gore, traumatic experiences, mild language.

“Hard to Port! HARD TO PORT!”

Nami clung to the bannister of the top deck as though her life depended on it (and realistically, it probably did) as she shouted instructions to Franky at the helm. Remaining upright was a struggle, the vicious rocking of the ship threatening to dissolve what tenuous equilibrium she had established in her inebriated state. Violent gusts whipped her hair in every direction, cold rain pelted her face, and as a massive wave came crashing down—just shy of where the ship had been moments ago—she debated just how hard she was going to pummel Luffy when all this was over.

The storm had hit fast and hard, but she’d been able to give enough forewarning to the two crews that they were, so far, successfully staying just ahead of the worst of it. How long that would continue to be the case, however, she wasn’t sure. They were in no shape to navigate the Sunny: Usopp was completely passed out after his game of sake-scotch—tucked away in the men’s quarters by Zoro before they set off; the usually unflappable Zoro was unsteady on his feet as the ship rolled violently with the tide—a sure sign of his extreme level of intoxication; Luffy was struggling to keep his meat down, and Brook couldn’t stop laughing at Zoro’s frequent stumbling and subsequent cursing. What little headway they had made was entirely attributable to her early detection. The storm was gaining—and their ability to outrun it was rapidly deteriorating.

“Franky—we need a coup de burst! We can’t keep this up!”

“The cola engine is empty—it needs a new barrel! You’ll have to do it, though, I’ve gotta stay on the wheel!” Franky shouted back, holding tight to the spokes as they pulled violently starboard.

Nami worried her lip. Traversing the ship in her current state and in the present conditions—with every wooden surface slick with rainwater, was firmly in the “bad idea” category; but she didn’t have much choice. She eyed Franky’s wrestling match with the wheel and took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Alright—be ready! We need to head directly east by southeast to outrun the storm!”

“You got it, sis!” He then turned his attention out to the deck. “Oi! Everyone! Raise the sails!”

Wiping sopping hair out of her eyes, she gripped the railing tightly, taking careful steps towards the deck stairs. It felt like an ageless journey to get to the rear of the ship—her progress slowed by the ship’s turbulent thrashing. She was forced onto all fours as she crossed the lawn deck due to a sudden bout of nausea; though she rather hoped at the least that lowering her profile would reduce the likelihood of being blown off the ship by a violent gust. After covering in almost five minutes a distance that should have taken less than thirty seconds to cross, she found her way aft. Sliding down the ladder into the bowels of the ship, she planted her feet carefully on the floor of the cola room, wiping water from her face and taking quick stock of her surroundings.

The cola engine was currently filled with empty barrels as Franky had said, and she quickly set about removing them. She struggled to place the full, fresh barrels in their place—heavy in their own right, made worse by the unsteady ship—but eventually managed to work all three into place with a final, frustrated kick. She breathed a sigh of relief as she heard Franky shouting instructions topside, then the whir of the engine coming to life.

She turned to make for the ladder again, grateful that it would soon all be over—however that was where she made her mistake. Grabbing hold of the rungs, she didn’t get more than four feet up before she heard a particularly strong wave violently crash against the side of the ship, and felt a sudden, sharp lurch. With her weary grip and wet shoes, she lost her footing and tumbled down the ladder, landing harshly on her ankle and feeling a resounding crack followed by a sharp, shooting pain in her ankle.

“AGHHH!”

Her vision went briefly white as she hurriedly pulled the injured leg out from beneath her, cradling it delicately between her palms. Eyes tightly shut and leaking tears, she grit her teeth against the searing ache, feeling her stomach turn in response to the pain. She had barely repositioned herself comfortably at the base of the ladder when she felt the force of the coup de burst push her against the rungs, briefly stealing her breath. The laughter of her crew above followed quickly after, echoing down the chute and signaling their escape from the storm’s clutches. She had that to be thankful for at least.

After a minute, as the ship began to slow, she let out a slow, shaky breath and turned her head up, eyes still leaking pained tears. Now she just needed one of those idiots to carry her to the infirmary.

“Oi! Luffy!” she shouted up the chute, voice pitchy with pain. “Get your rubber ass down here and give me a hand!”

—:—:—:—:—:—:—

“What did you do?”

Law stared down at the swollen mass that was now her ankle with an amused, if dumbfounded, expression, Chopper’s ice pack resting beside her calf atop the infirmary bed. They had managed to find an island nearby with a protected cove at which to make repairs; and it was good, too, as the ship had gotten quite a good trouncing in the storm. Or perhaps it had been their abysmal reaction time. Either way, they had a ship to fix.

And a navigator too, apparently.

Nami grit her teeth as Law gently turned her ankle to examine it, still a bit tender as the local anesthetic had yet to take full effect. A broken tibia was Chopper’s diagnosis—and quite bad, too. No sooner had they had docked than Chopper hailed down Law in his sub who, according to the tiny doctor, was far better equipped to mend such a break with his ope ope no mi than he was with only his hands. Er, hooves.

“I slipped and fell down the ladder in the energy room,” she ground out, attempting not to flinch at the gentle pressure of his fingers.

Law released her ankle, turning to her with a raised brow. “You know you really should have been more careful going up a wet ladder while drunk,” he commented mildly.

She glared at him, eyes narrowed and expression distinctly unamused. “Shut it, Doctor spots. Can you fix it or not?”

He repressed a bemused smirk as he stood, crossing his arms as he eyed her ankle thoughtfully, then turned to Chopper.

“Bring her to my operating room on the sub—I can reset the bone and mend the damage to the surrounding tissue, but it will require surgery. It shouldn’t take too long, but even if I speed up the healing process, the recovery will still be almost a week—and she’ll need to be careful for another month after that. We can go over follow-up care once I’m done.”

“Oh, good!” Chopper breathed a sigh of relief, tense shoulders relaxing. “Thank you so much!”

But Nami’s ears were still ringing with the word ‘surgery’. A wave of anxiety washed over her, momentary visions of an old memory—of bloody scalpels and chunks of flesh littering a concrete floor flashed through her mind; but just as quickly as they came she shut them out, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth until the images ceased their assault. As she opened them she forced the anxiety down, allowing the much more manageable emotion of anger to take its place. Grinding her teeth, she turned towards the open door, shouting with renewed irritation for the closest thing she had to a punching bag.

“Where is that rubber idiot?! I am going to give him such a beating!!”

—:—:—:—:—:—:—

Chopper, in heavy point, carried Nami onto Law’s sub, down an elevator and into the operating theater where he placed her gently onto the operating table. Once she was situated, Chopper wished her a speedy recovery and departed to tend to the rest of the crew’s numerous scrapes and bruises.

Law busied himself preparing additional anesthesia for injection, as well as pulling out the needed equipment. Nami eyed him warily as he worked, placing scalpels, cotton pads, and other supplies upon a metal tray.

Finally ready to begin he turned, activating his room to encompass the bed—only to notice his patient gripping the sheets beneath her in a white knuckled grip, her eyes periodically darting anxiously towards his tray despite the otherwise cool expression of her features. He paused before reaching for his scalpel, eying her thoughtfully. After the roughness of Punk Hazard and Dressrosa, he wouldn’t have thought she’d suffer from something like medical anxiety.

“The surgery shouldn’t take more than an hour,” he said carefully as he pulled the tray towards him, situating himself near the foot of the operating table. “You can stay conscious while I operate, or I can sedate you, if you’d prefer. You won’t feel anything either way.”

“Sedation,” she said without hesitation.

He nodded, reaching for a mask draped atop a metal canister beside the bed. As he approached, he noticed that her posture had not relaxed, and she eyed the mask apprehensively. Drawing upon his patience, he gently pushed her down flat onto the bed.

“It’ll be over before you know it.”

She closed her eyes, fingers clenching and un-clenching as she took a calming breath, and Law seized the opportunity. Quickly raising his arm, he gently pressed the mask against her face and activated the flow of gas. Her eyes flew open and she attempted to sit up again; but his hand on her shoulder was steady, and though he was briefly subjected to her signature glare, her gaze quickly became unfocused and her eyelids fluttered shut.

Finally, he could begin.

The surgery went smoothly. Her fracture was, as he anticipated, quite bad, and the surrounding tissue severely irritated. Thankfully, though, it had suffered little actual damage. Copious evidence of a previous fracture in the same location suggested that to be the reason for the severity of the break; the bone structure was already quite weak.

In total it took no more than an hour, and by the time the sedative was due to wear off, he had finished the surgery and already started a healing acceleration treatment.

The sound of her groggy voice alerted him to her wakefulness, words faintly slurred.

“Mmmm… ’s nice,” she mumbled.

He lifted his head, glowing palm unmoving from its location atop her ankle. He’d been told by his patients before that the treatment felt vaguely like warm water gently flowing through the affected area—it seemed Nami agreed. Slowly, her eyelids struggled open and amber eyes turned to gaze blearily at him. He could tell from the slightly vacant look on her face that, though wakeful, the sedative was keeping her higher faculties from emerging.

She blinked slowly, repeatedly, gazing at him with her head cocked against the pillow in confusion, “Wha… Hi—hi Torao. Hi. Whas… whas’re you doin’?” she glanced from his face to where his hand rested atop her ankle, then back to his face, expression full of childlike curiosity.

“Healing your ankle,” he answered noncommittally.

She blinked at him, then shifted slightly on the operating table before her eyes widened and she attempted to sit up on her elbows

“Where did you put my foot?” She asked urgently.

Law repressed a snort. While the sedative had worn off enough for her to wake, the local anesthetic may not have, and it was likely sensation from the mid-calf down was, at the least, muted.

“Your foot is securely attached to your leg, Nami-ya. As you can see.” He gestured with his free hand towards the ankle he was working on. She followed his hand with her eyes, but didn’t look convinced.

“But I can’t feel it. You must have taken it off.”

“You can’t feel it because I numbed your ankle for the surgery. Your foot is still attached,” he reasserted firmly, if with a hint of annoyance.

She narrowed her eyes as she examined his face closely. “And what’d I need surgery for, hm? HM?”

He glanced up, feeling his eyebrow twitch with growing irritation as he answered, “Because you broke your ankle.”

At his words her eyes widened, and she nodded with sudden clarity. “Oh—OH! I broke my ankle!” Then, more softly, “I broke my ankle…”

He rolled his eyes, adjusting his hand with a quiet sigh. He never was a fan of dealing with sedative-induced delirium. He had hoped he might be done before she woke expressly so that he could avoid this, but luck was not on his side.

For several minutes she seemed content to watch him work, lying back against her pillow silently as she stared down at him. Then, suddenly, she grinned, sitting up on her elbows again as her gaze rose to his face with childlike enthusiasm.

“Hey—hey Torao… ask me if I’m orange.”

Law’s eyes rose to meet hers, and he felt that twitch in his brow return.

“No.”

She immediately frowned, looking thoroughly put out. “Oh, come on! Ask me! Pleeeeease?”

He sighed, drawing on his patience. He was almost done, he reminded himself—almost done.

“Are you orange, Nami-ya?”

She continued to smile at him, biting her lower lip to withhold her glee, before finally blurting out, “No!” and dissolving into giggles.

He stared at her flatly as her chest heaved with her laughter, feeling a distinct desire to put her under again. Thankfully it seemed her poor attempt at humor had, for the moment, satisfied her; for as her laughter died down she simply settled more comfortably on her elbows, eyes curiously watching his glowing hand slowly, carefully tracking over her ankle.

He was rewarded with another few moments of peace, before she broke the silence again.

“What’re you doing?”

He momentarily shut his eyes before forcing out an answer. “I’m healing your ankle. Like I told you.”

She frowned slightly, clarifying her question. “No, I mean… aspif—epsific—specifically.”

“I’m accelerating your body’s natural healing process by increasing blood flow and feeding your cells mitochondrial energy.”

He had hoped the specificity of his answer would disinterest her from further query; but no. Of course not. Instead, she raised her thoughtful gaze up to his face, blinking rapidly as she inquired further.

“How d’you do that?”

“By feeding you some of my life force,” he answered noncommittally, readjusting himself on his stool.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, expression becoming sharp despite the bleariness still coloring her expression. “Is… that doesn’ seem like it would be very good for you.”

He shrugged. “By the time I’m done with your treatments, it will probably have taken a few days off my lifespan.”

With unexpected speed and strength she pulled herself upright and yanked his hand off her ankle, expression horrified.

“No!!”

He eyed her with a furrowed brow, crossing his arms over his chest in distinct irritation. “No?” he echoed incredulously, “You were the one who complained about the recovery time.”

She shifted in the bed, moving her arms to support her weight on her hands as she started to sway. The sudden move had clearly been an effort. “I was… I was just mad ‘cuz I didn’t want to have surgery! Don’t waste your life like that! You can’t!”

Once more Law rolled his eyes, moving his hand back to her ankle and re-activating the acceleration. “It’s just a few days, Nami-ya. I lost years on Doflamingo.”

Again she surprised him with her strength as she leaned forward in an attempt to shove his hand away—but this time he wouldn’t be deterred. He grabbed her with his free hand by the wrist to hold her at bay; but she just reached for him with her other hand to pull him off her ankle—and before he could understand how exactly it had happened, they were engaged in slap fight, with Nami managing to muster a shocking amount of speed and strength.

But that strength didn’t last long. Her precision and speed quickly faded and she began to sway in her upright position. Taking advantage, he grabbed both of her wrists, holding them away and her upright, exasperated and irritated in equal measure.

“Nami-ya!” he commanded sharply, “Would you stop.”

“No!” she asserted stubbornly, weakly struggling against his grip. “You just got your life back, and at a huge cost—I won’t let you be so quick to waste it—especially on me!”

That was… not an answer he was expecting. His surprise caused his grip to slacken and she used the opportunity to slip free of him, settling her arms across her chest with a frown. His eyes moved to meet with hers, and though her gaze was still a bit hazy, they were nonetheless resolute. His brow furrowed and he frowned, thinking. He had not anticipated she would be upset about this, nor that she would seem to carry such… strong opinions, as to how he spent his life force.

“This is the nature of the Ope Ope no Mi, Nami-ya,” he said carefully, “Certain abilities feed on the user—that’s just how it works.”

He allowed a moment for his words to sink in before placing his hand back on her ankle, re-activating the acceleration; and when she weakly reached to try and remove it again he grabbed her wrist with his free hand, eying her sharply.

“It’s a worthwhile use of my abilities, and a relatively small sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he said with finality, the glow under his palm igniting again. “If there is anyone between our two crews we need able-bodied, the navigators are at the top of that list. Stop fighting me or I’ll put you under again.”

She frowned at him, and as he released her wrist she thankfully settled back against the pillow instead of making for his hand again. She let out a frustrated breath, closing her eyes. Her posture seemed weary—the energy expended fighting him off had clearly taken it out of her. She remained still and silent for some time, and Law used that opportunity to examine his progress. The swelling had gone down significantly, and he could now feel the bone beneath her skin, smoother now at the break site as the bone began to knit neatly back together.

“Luffy said you made a room so large on Dressrosa he couldn’t even see it,” she said quietly, breaking the stillness. “Is that what cost years of your life?”

He raised his head, seeing her sitting up on her arms again as she eyed him.

“Mugiwara-ya didn’t regale you with the details?” he commented lightly before returning to his examination. She frowned.

“He’s not a complete idiot, you know. He does know when something’s personal and to keep his mouth shut. When I asked, he only told me the basics, and said I should ask you if I wanted to know the rest.”

Law turned to study her annoyed expression, surprised by her words—and Luffy’s. He had assumed that the whole of the battle would become common knowledge to Straw Hat’s crew, as much as he wouldn’t prefer it.

Luffy’s… unexpected tact—a concept he would never have ever thought could be associated with the lunatic captain, was… appreciated.

He turned his gaze back to her ankle, sliding his hand beneath it to examine the tendons. Given that he doubted she would remember much, if any of this conversation later, he decided to humor her.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

She stared at him wide-eyed, expression dumbfounded.

“Why?”

“…Why?”

“Yeah—why would you just… waste years of your life like that?”

“To maintain situational advantage,” he answered absently, carefully feeling along the achilles tendon. “And the years weren’t wasted—they ended up saving my life.”

She stared up at him with something suspiciously like concern, voice quiet. “What happened?”

He paused, eying her a moment, contemplating. It wasn’t something he particularly liked to dwell on, but…

“I was shot by Doflamingo. Twenty-two times, I believe. By keeping up my room too large to be seen, I was able to remove the bullets and heal myself while Doflamingo was busy with Luffy, thinking I was dead.”

She sat up fully, her eyes widening in alarm and a hand moving to cover her mouth. Silence, and the occasional metal creak of the Polar Tang as it shifted in the waves were the only sounds to fill the space between them. She said nothing for several moments, and he was content to leave it at that—but then she quietly spoke, voice soft and words unexpected.

“But… you were still shot, right? The Ope Ope no Mi can’t stop you from… feeling all those bullets—right?”

He held her gaze briefly before offering a small but clear nod.

Her eyes widened a moment before she let out a breath, turning towards the wall, eyes far away.

“I thought you seemed different when you came back to the Sunny with the others,” she said softly. “Luffy told me that you used to be a member of Doflamingo’s crew until he killed someone you cared about; that you had allied with us only because you wanted help getting revenge, and were willing to do anything to get it.” She lifted her head and her eyes met his—her gaze uncomfortably knowing.

“I get it—I do. An old captain you hated, who took someone you loved away from you…” She closed her eyes, one hand raising to unconsciously rub her tattooed shoulder. “I would understand more than anyone else. I’ve wanted to ask for a while, but… I wasn’t sure you’d want to talk about it.”

She opened her eyes and gazed at him with a small, sad smile.

“And why would you understand?” he asked coolly, though with the unexpected turn in conversation he felt suddenly anything but.

She turned her gaze down at the thin cotton blanket lying across her lap, thumb gently stroking her tattoo—though, in looking more closely, he could see her thumb was actually circling a scar hidden beneath the ink.

“When I was ten, the Arlong pirates invaded my village, taking over my island and demanding everyone pay tribute or be killed. We were poor, and my mother had only enough saved to pay for my sister and I. So… Arlong shot her, right in front of us. And when he found out I could make maps, he kidnapped me and forced me into his crew.”

Her voice had grown small, and Law could tell, recalling these events was difficult for her. He felt uncomfortably voyeuristic; as though he were becoming privy to something too intimate, too… familiar—things not meant for the ears of a rival. He was about to tell her she needn’t continue—he felt fairly confident she wouldn’t have were she not under the influence of a drug; but what she said next halted his words on the tip of his tongue, and curiosity overtook his better judgment.

“I hated him so much,” she said with a venom unbefitting the quiet atmosphere. “I spent eight years as one of his executives—robbing pirates to try and buy back mine and my village’s freedom. That was the deal I made with him. The villagers didn’t know why I joined, and they hated me for it—or at least, thats what they wanted me to think.” Her anger dissipated slightly, and she let out a sigh.

“When I had finally gotten almost all of the money, he sent his marine lackeys after me to confiscate it all. He never had any intention of honoring our agreement—never intended to let me go; just wanted to give me false hope.”

She closed her eyes and took a breath, then turned to him, a self-deprecating smile on her lips.

“I found out later that the villagers knew all along—they’d just been playing a role so that if I ever wanted to run away, I wouldn’t feel guilty for abandoning them and leaving them all to die. When they found out about Arlong’s duplicity, they finally decided to go after him. I gave up and went with them; I thought I had no other way out. I was going to kill him, or die trying.”

She stared at him pointedly, then—eyes both fierce and gentle. Her gaze felt strangely piercing for a woman only on the cusp of cogency; and yet he found himself unable to maintain her gaze. He turned his eyes back down to her ankle.

“What happened?” He asked quietly as he shifted his fingers over her ankle bone. She smiled fondly.

“Luffy.”

Ah. Figures.

Silence pervaded once more, and after a moment she settled back down onto the bed, closing her eyes with a quiet exhale.

He allowed himself a moment for his mind to drift back through her story. She was the one Straw Hat he’d gotten to know the least. Their interactions on Punk Hazard had been rushed and frenzied—as most of the endeavor had been, and they’d been separated throughout the events of Dressrosa. Yet it seemed they had more in common than he ever would have guessed.

“I think I would have missed you, y’know,” she said suddenly, unexpectedly, pulling his mind from his thoughts. He lifted his head to find her smiling softly, eyes still closed.

“If you’d died on Dressrosa,” she clarified. “You’re a good guy and a good captain. You’ve grown on me,” she added, her smile broadening just a bit.

Law’s brow furrowed as he gazed at her sincere smile, unsure how to take, let alone react, to the sentiment. He decided instead to deflect.

“Me, or my bear?” he inquired coolly, thinking back to the night before. Nami laughed.

“Okay,” she said with a yawn, “You and the bear.”

Silence stretched between them once more, and Nami hummed contentedly as he moved his hand back to the top of her ankle. He forced his attention away from her face and back to his work, fingers trailing over the the site of the break one last time.

“Thas’ nice…” she murmured, settling deeper into her pillow, “I take it back… you can spend your life force doing that any time.”

Law felt a small smile pull up the corners of his lips, but he didn’t respond, focusing instead on finishing his examination. It seemed just about where he wanted it to be for now—mended enough to get her through until tomorrow. With a flick of his wrist he stopped the acceleration, looking back up ready to pronounce her treatment finished for the day—but instead he found that she had fallen back asleep.

With a breath, he slumped back on his stool with a weary sigh. The acceleration always left him feeling drained, but her argumentativeness—and the unexpected conversation, had taken more of a toll on him than he’d anticipated.

Had he not spend so many years as a pirate, he might find it difficult to imagine she had ever struggled against such hardships. She certainly didn’t carry herself that way; she was clever and headstrong, at time ferocious and at others, playful. Though he hadn’t seen much of it for himself, he knew from the other members of her crew that she could be… tempestuous and domineering; though they remarked upon it with the utmost fondness.

She was flirtatious and often smiling; yet if her words were to be believed, she had suffered—isolated and alone, most of her life. But still she found a way to be cheerful, and to demonstrate seemingly genuine care about his own hardships, even though there was little reason to. He was a captain of a rival crew, in a temporary alliance with her own—beyond his abilities to fulfill their agreement to take down Kaido, there was nothing to be gained from deeply and truly caring. He was torn between thinking her abundantly kind or outright foolish.

But, then again, when had anyone on Mugiwara’s crew ever made much sense?

And though he was loath to admit it, she had struck a cord. Under the lingering influence of the sedative, she was just so damned sincere in her concern. He couldn’t even remember the last time a relative stranger gave two shits about the things he’d been through—maybe the nuns at the church in Flevance. He’d certainly never met anyone with a story like his before, either.

And though he was even more loath to admit it, he was also left feeling guilty. He shouldn’t have let her carry on the way she had. Even if he couldn’t have stopped her, he should have at least tried; but, perhaps selfishly, he’d found himself wanting to know what made her tick. He knew she wasn’t in her right mind, and if she remembered any of their conversation when she woke up, he suspected she would be cross at best, furious at worst.

Though, he couldn’t help the small smile which curved up his lips as he thought back to her final comment. He’d grown on her, huh?

A quiet, yet firm knock came at the door and he wearily stood from his stool. With a click he turned off the brighter overhead lights and opened the door, finding Penguin on the other side.

“Lunch is ready, captain,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Do you want me to bring something for you and Miss Nami?”

Law glanced over his shoulder at her still and slumbering form. Turning back to Penguin, he shook his head. “No. I’m just about done here, and Nami-ya is asleep. I’ll meet you in the mess hall in a bit.”

“You got it, Captain,” Penguin smiled before turning and heading back down the hall.

Law shut the door quietly, turning back towards the operating table. He’d just have to deal with the consequences of their conversation later, when she woke up again. Hopefully she wouldn’t remember, and he’d have nothing to deal with at all.

He began cleaning up his tools and equipment, pausing briefly as Nami shifted in her sleep. He chanced a glance at her; the arm that had risen to her tattoo now rested loosely atop her waist, her head fallen slightly to the side. Orange curls framed her face like a strange halo, and her dark lashes lay peacefully closed.

His mind cast back to the night before—to Luffy’s party out in the middle of the ocean, and his and Nami’s conversation on the aquarium bar balcony. One moment in particular stood out to him—when she’d taken his hat. He could easily have taken it back using his ability just as he’d done with his wallet; but for some reason, he let himself get drawn into her game, just as he’d let himself get drawn into conversation with her not ten minutes ago. And when he had her cornered against the far wall, blinking up at him from beneath those lashes, he’d felt… drawn to her; caught in the orbit of her gravity and unable to pull out.

He could chalk it up to the alcohol. She was a beautiful woman, after all, and had been looking up at him with those impish eyes, face cast in the silvery light of the half moon. He was only human.

She hummed quietly in her sleep, and the sound jarred Law from his reverie. He forced his attention back to the task at hand, picking up the remains on his operating tray before sliding it back into its proper place. He needed to stay focused. Now that he had been reunited with his crew, taking down Kaido was next and that would be no easy task, requiring every ounce of his attention and focus especially with Luffy in the picture—and she was beginning to take up too much room in his head.

As he headed for the door, he quickly checked her IV and tossed the remaining refuse into the medical waste bin on the wall. Reaching for the handle, though, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. She still lay quietly on the bed, her chest rising slowly but steadily with her breathing.

Yes, she was taking up far too much room in his head.

He pulled the door open and stepped out into the hall, shutting it softly behind him—and with it, all wayward thoughts of the navigator asleep within.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

More About This Fic / Read on AO3 Chapter Index | < Prev · Next >

#One Piece #FanFic #OP Fanfic #FanFiction #Nami #Trafalgar Law #One Piece Nami #T Law #Trafalgar D Water Law #LawNa #LawNami #Law/Nami #Nami/Law #Law x Nami #Nami x Law #Polar Tang #Law's Submarine #Tony Tony Chopper

5 notes · View notes

fogboundsurvivor · 5 years

Text

No Mither

NSFW Fanfic by D. Johansson

David worked at the generator tirelessly, fumbling with the wires inside. He was so dead tired of running. His friends had already fallen and for whatever reason the escape shoot had not appeared for him. It was as if the Entity wanted to be an extra bitch on this cold night in Haddonfield. He tapped the wires together, hoping to make a spark, which he did, but only made the generator jump and let out a loud noise. It sputters and dies. He curses inwardly.

Ghostface stalked David from the shadows, crouched down and in Night Shroud. He could tell this particular iteration of David was different from the last. This one had a beard and he definitely didn't seem to know his way around the generator. He had already had his way taking down all of the other 3 survivors in the trial but was surprised to see that this David didn't even seem to know that. This sent an excited chill down Ghostface's spine, he was going to enjoy this. He would go about scrapping a knife against the wall, making a noise loud enough for David to hear but not know the source of.

David gulps...and moves toward an open window, but the window’s paneling comes undone and he falls backwards with a grunt. He looks up at the window and sees that it’s been blocked off by the entity. He was confused, but he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise when he heard the sound of a knife dragging against a wall. He made a move for another window, only for the entity to block it off to. He turns to the doorway..

To find that there was nothing there.

There was a moment of pure silence before suddenly David was grabbed from behind, a knife's point immediately being pressed against his neck.

"Gotta be quicker than that, Davey boy! The Entity doesn't like any slow poke survivors."

The Ghostface's voice was giddy, like he had caught a mouse in a trap that wasn't dead quite yet. Oh he couldn't wait to do all the things he wanted to do to this David

“Wait...Wait...please don’t.” David pleads, eyes darting for anything he could use. His own heart was in his throat. He could just faintly smell the vaguely minty breath of his captor. And also some rather fragrant cologne. Guess the killer wanted David to know he was there. David tried to get out of his grip.

“Oh I'm not going to kill you just yet. I've been a good little boy so the Entity said you're free for me to do what I want before I send you back to another campfire."

When he noticed the struggling, he would go forward with making a slight cut on the neck that wasn't fatal but also sent the point across that if he struggled it would only make things worse.

“Maybe if you're a good sport, I'll let you escape. Just got to play along and don't be a brat."

David grits his teeth and slowly puts his hands up* “What do you want with me...?” *David asks quietly, he was afraid to make another move, he could feel blood trickling down his neck, staining his black undershirt.

“You Davids have been running me rabid all damn day. With your altruism, getting in the way of hits and always being there to help your survivor friends on the hook."

The hand that was previously twisting one of David's arms in an uncomfortable position moved away to grab the man's ass.

“You help me vent my frustration and the hatch is all yours."

David’s eyes widened at the grab..and he shuddered. Partly due to fear...and partly due to the first stirrings of arousal. He shook the later thought away. Nobody’s touched him in god knows how long.....

”No.” He told himself. This was a killer. Who just murdered his friends. That took away the arousal and he heard Ghostface click his tongue

“I’m...sorry.” David said...trying to keep him talking.

"Oh, David. You have no idea how excited that makes me. An unwilling participant this late into the game is so much fun."

Ghostface sounded disappointed in the beginning of that but it turned into excitement very late into it.

“Thank you for this opportunity."

With that, Ghostface would move the hand off of his ass and onto his shoulder. With his far superior strength granted by the Entity, Ghostface basically sprinted forward with David coming along for the ride. It would go on for a moment before Ghostface came to a stop, only he let David go. He let David go right into a freefall down the staircase to the basement, Ghostface finding a sick thrill out of watching David ragdoll down to the landing in the stairs.

David groans and yelps when he hits the bottom. He could tell that his ankle was definitely broken. He turns and crawls for the front door, before being blocked by the body of Dwight. His shirt and pants had been sliced open and his face had a used condom thrown ontop of it. Along with a Polaroid photo of...Ghost face facefucking him. David, grabbing the wall, pushed himself to his feet and he stepped over the violated body of Dwight and limped into the street. He made it to the cop car and went around it, sliding to the floor and looking over the hood. He could see Ghostface walking out of the house. A predator in its element. He was definitely doubting his chances of the hatch at this point. He looked to his already bruising ankle and let out a quiet moan of pain. Trying to stifle the sound by breathing through his nose.

“Bastard...” David whispers to himself. He looks back at his ankle then back towards the Myer’s House. Ghostface was gone and David felt himself turn pale. Panicked now, he limped into a side yard.. a hedge park by the looks of it. several rows of park benches lied within. He sat himself down slowly by a hedge and took off his jacket and shredded it. Trying to make some bindings for his ankle. What he didn’t hear was the click of a camera just out of the way..

There was Ghostface, looking at the slowly developing polaroid in his hand. He seemed to be enjoying himself, chasing after the injured David.

“Wow, David. Getting too excited and ruining all the fun for me? I wanted to tear up the jacket myself."

He would walk over and kick the man over, getting him down onto his back before he would go to step down firmly on David's crotch, hard enough to cause some mild pain but not too hard just yet.

"You like what happened to Dwight? Little nerd did better than I thought. Better than Jeff and Jake, that's for sure."

David groaned as his head hit the grass, he felt Ghostface pressing a boot into his crotch and let out a whimper. He looked up at him, trying not to let his fear express onto his face.

“You..did that to all of them?” David asks.

"Well, why not look for yourself?"

He tossed down two polaroids for David to look at.

One was of Jake, he had been caught just as he finished sabotaging a hook and Ghostface had kicked him down right as the hook fell down, right on Jake' poor leg. The picture had Jake with his eyes rolled back as he was taking Ghostface from behind.

Next was two for Jeff who was currently suffering a similar fate. He was mid chase when he accidentally leaped a window right as Ghostface did. Thanks to Ghostface running Bamboozle, Jeff was effectively stuck in the window. The first polaroid was of Jeff's backside, flooding after a few uses and the other polaroid was his front side, his hair being the only visible identifier as his face was completely coated.

“They're nice photos. I took them myself."

David’s eyes widened and his chest heaved. He tried to move backwards, pushing with his good leg, but Ghostface’s boot on his crotch kept him in place. The pictures of his friend’s stretched open holes and the subsequent demises fresh in his head. He turned to look away, before laying flat on the ground.

“When they entity took me in, they told me I could have anything I desire as long as I killed you fools for it."

There was an unzip before Ghostface would move his foot away, leaning over to grab a handful of David's hair before sitting him up. He would sit him up so David could be meet face to face with Ghostface's massive cock.

“I told it I wanted this. I get to have my fun and the entity gets it's sacrifices. Quite the equivalent exchange."

David felt it against his face and he blushed a little. The man’s cock was massive...much, much bigger than he’s ever seen. He felt a little emasculated by the size of it. He looked up pitifully at Ghostface.

“You’re huge..” David said quietly...feeding Ghostface’s ego.

“How about we strike up that deal now? You take this to the hilt from both ends, and the hatch is all yours. If you reject it now, I'll do it anyways before I shove you on that hook."

He would cock slap David. Seeing the normally confidant David suddenly made into a whimpering bitch felt amazing. He loved it so much and couldn't wait to feel this again with other Davids later on.

David always thought he was straight...until he was pulled into the realm of the entity that drunken night. He spends what felt like eternity of lonely escapes before he ended up surviving with Jeff one trial. The two met back at the camp fire and Jeff asked David if he wanted to talk about the trial..David reluctantly agreed. It ended with Jeff going for the first kiss... then introducing David to the first pierced cock he’d ever seen, licked, sucked and taken.

David closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, before nodding. He looked up at him and opened his mouth wide, licking the tip of his captor’s cock.

A flash would appear in David's face, Ghostface taking a picture for memories sake. He had to show the other killers he never messed around after all.

“Got it for publicities sake, anyways go faster." Ghostface demanded, and its all David would get before Ghostface would move forward and part of his cock was shoved into David's mouth.

David took it a step further, taking as much of the cock he could down his throat. Tears running down his face and he bobbed his head onto it, one hand going up to fondle the large set of balls underneath the monster cock as well. He gagged and saliva ran down his chin and as worked the cock as aggressively as he could. Trying to get the ordeal over with. Hoping if he came...maybe he wouldn’t violate him further.

Ghostface would grab his head to make him stop, in order make him look up at him.

“Remember our deal, the whole thing has to go in that mouth David."

He would let go in order to let him proceed.

David tries his best, struggling to get down to the hilt of his cock. He gets onto his knees and feels a mix of salvia and pre cum fall out of his mouth. He gets frustrated and grunts, trying to take it further. He ends up choking and letting the cock slide out of his throat as he gags on air and sputters. His vision swimming from the coughing fit.

“Got 10 seconds. Start now! 1..2...3.."

Ghostface gave David 10 seconds to get a nice breath before he gets back to work on his cock. He had plans later, like gloating to Joe's smug mask about how much better of a killer Ghostface was.

David goes in for it again, only gagging immediately. He whines in defeat before looking up at Ghostface pleadingly.

“Please..I can’t do it...” David admits..face red from both embarrassment and effort. He lays on his back and spreads his big thighs apart “Please...just fuck me...use me...just don’t kill me like the others..” He whined.

“I’ll be good...so good...please.” David begs, tears running down his face.

Ghostface would go around back to his mouth.

“Oh don't be a fucking bitch David! You're going do it whether you like it or not!"

He would grab his head and in one quick motion, shove his cock in and jam the entire thing down his throat. He knew the Entity would make it to where David would only dry heave and he knew the Entity was above allowing asphyxiation being a cause of death here. He would hold him for a few seconds before letting go of David.

David sputters and chokes on air...feeling his throat get throughly resized. After realizing he couldn’t choke to death, he grabs Ghostface’s cock and shoved it down his throat pushing Ghostface’s hips towards his face as if to say “Use my mouth.”

As sick as it was David was kind of turned on by being used like a slut by someone stronger than him...perhaps that’s why he enjoyed fighting and violence. The pain always was his drive...

He felt drool slides down the sides of his mouth as the spit and throat slicked cock pumped in and out his mouth. His lips were bruised and cracking at the strain.

"I was planning on sending you back to the campfire with a souvenir. My cum all over and inside your pathetic body."

It was rare that Ghostface broke someone and it was extremely rare that it was a David. This was getting far more interesting. He was going to make sure everyone at that camp fire knew exactly what happened here.

David could feel Ghostface’s balls rest on his face. He pulled off the monster cock and sucked and licked on them, stroking the massive cock above him...he even got bolder and went to give Ghostface’s hole a sloppy lick. He was lost...hopeless and wanting to please the man that held his current fate in his hands... He tongued his hole and then went back to furiously and sloppily sucking on his monster cock. His ankle throbbed and he was getting covered in various viscous layers of saliva. David’s rebellious attitude was lost..only a cock hungry slut remained. He wanted to please his captor so bad...he felt the tears still running down his face but he didn’t care anymore. He just wanted to live and pleasing this monster was his only way out. That did not fly so well with Ghostface. He would force David off his cock and would pick him up and slam him down bent over a picnic table.

“That wasn't in our little deal, Davey.... I guess you can't teach a dog to listen. The hatch never opened, Davey. Your chance of escape was done the moment you fell down those stairs. Might as well enjoy what happens next before you go back to the campfire." Ghostface taunted.

He would line up with David's hole and without even giving him a moment to brace himself before just shoving inside of David. He had some mercy before but this was nothing held back. If only David had listened.

He could feel Ghostface trying to penetrate him through his sweatpants and he let out a startled chuckle. “Think I may need to lose the pants before ya do that..” David taunts. Since his fate was sealed, he felt adrenaline pump through his veins.

There a moment before a knife came down directly down on David's back, narrowly missing his spine or anythint vital, before it would go back to cut open his pants and boxers.

“You want to be a little shit huh? I'll show you want little shits like you deserve."

With that, the hilt of the blade would go up David's ass without any sort of grace or theateric Ghostface was known for.

David howled at the sudden penetration. He could feel it go about four inches inside before being stopped by the guard of the blade. He let out a groan, leaning into the table. He could feel the cold air around his as his muscular ass, balls and limp cock were exposed to the air.

“Motherfucker...ahh...shit...” David spat out.

“I was going to make it quick but bitch decided he wanted to do slowly."

He was not happy, he'd reach in his coat to pull out another knife. He'd pin David's head down before he would very roughly cut away at his beard, with sense of caution or percision when it came to it.

David watched his facial hair hit the table sadly. He was really enjoying his beard...he felt humiliated as he could feel his hole tighten around the hilt of the blade. He shifted his position slightly and moaned quietly as the hilt rubbed against that spot inside him. His face and ass both felt raw now. “Fuck....I’ve...been bad.” David groans into the table.

He would grab his hair and pull his head up, getting semi close face to face.

“You're damn right." Ghostface whispered huskily into his ear.

The knife would come down to pin David's right hand to the table before Ghostface went to the back, removing the knife before lining up with his cock instead. With the same amount of mercilessness, he would shove his cock inside of David.

David lets out a bloodcurdling scream as he feels his hand get pinned to the table. Before he has time to process that, he feels all 13 inches of Ghostface’s thick cock tear open his abused hole. He lets out a painful yelp and groan before feeling his legs turn to jelly. Ghostface would thrust with wreckless abandon as he mostly did it for the sake of punishing David at this point. Even though every wound on David was going to disappear after the trial was over, he wanted to make sure David was going to remember the pain for a very long time. David looked down and he could swear he could see Ghostface’s cock rearrange his guts through his stomach. He swore he could see it poke the flesh of his belly from within. He felt sick...but he felt the thick member continue to hit places inside David he didn’t know he had. He cried out again...his eyes wet and swollen as he felt his own cock swell with arousal...all this pain was beginning to feel way too good to him. “You’re going into shock.” He tried to remind himself to no avail.

“Fuckme....fuck...me....please...god hurt me...” He moans out.

"I'm going to ruin you, David. I want to make sure that nobody is going to make your ass feel as stretched as I make it tonight. Everytime your whore ass tries to take someone smaller, you'll remember me."

He had no doubt in his mind that nobody else the Entity had in their grasp came close to his size. This was going to be David's torture, the constanty longing for Ghostface's cock that he'll never feel again. It was going to be so sweet. “God...I can...feel you so deep...!” David says, and pushes back into Ghostface’s cock and arches his back. Taking the punishment with vigor now. He could feel his hard cock rubbing against the rough wood of the bench now. He was lost in lust now. He knew Ghostface was ruining his hole, and he loved every second of it...maybe after this he would get the guys to run a train on his so he could try to feel this kind of deep, unrelenting pain again.

Ghostface would go for what felt like forever, using whatever ungodly stamina the Entity had given him. Ghostface has already had a plan for after the trial. It took thousands of perfect trials, gritting his teeth through Mettle of Man, Borrowed Time, and Adrenaline on survivors or purple rarity flashlights to get 4 Kills for it.

He begged the Entity and he got it. The survivors of this trial were being sent to a different campfire, one where Ghostface or any killer he allows can enter, and use the four broken mindless slut survivors.

David was half collapsed onto the table, broken and a groaning mess. He had already cum twice onto the bench seat and his balls were swollen beyond belief. He was just waiting for the sweet release of death and Ghostface at this point. He could barely feel his hole anymore, only the massive sex organ rearranging his guts inside. He wondered how much energy Ghostface had left at this point..

Ghostface would slam to hilt inside of David before he came deep into the quote unquote survivor. It was massive and it felt so nice to get another load off for the end of the trial for Ghostface. He'd pull out and let it flood out, similar to the backside of Jeff polaroid.

“Well thanks for playing this game, David."

Finally, Ghostface would pull out his knife from David's hand.

David whimpered at the knife being pulled out and sunk into the table, he could feel the cum pushing its way out of his abused hole.

“Do it....finish me off...” David says quietly, pressing his forehead into the table.

“Gladly." The Killer says,

With a flash of his blade, he would raise it up and then....

David would open his eyes to find himself back at the campfire.

“Holy shit...” David says, feeling his face to find his beard miraculously still there. He looked around to see Jake, Jeff and Dwight all sitting there quietly staring at him.

“What?” He asks, before he feels a gallon of cum slide down his leg. “Oh fuck...that was..”

“Real?” Jeff finishes.

David lets out a soft whimper as he strips out of the pants and cleans himself off. He throws the remains in the fire and watches it burn. He pulls on some track pants and shudders.

He silently wonders what the hell did it mean.

2 notes · View notes

thebeethathums · 5 years

Text

Soaked 2/2

Mycroft Holmes x Reader

Mycroft was quick to catch you, pulling you back to him tightly. Once you’d recovered your balance, you leaned into him, unable to quell the soft whimper that left your lips as you tried to put weight on your foot. “You’re hurt.” He stated worriedly, lifting you into his arms with a careful sweep after he closed the umbrella and hooked it on his forearm. You looked up at him with a little frown, “And you’re getting all wet from both me and the rain.” He didn’t respond, instead carrying you up the steps to the door, which you quickly unlocked. He waltzed through the now open door, gently kicking it closed behind him.

You rested your head on his shoulder for a moment, “I think I can make it up the stairs myself if you’ll let me down.”

He shook his head, already climbing the stairs up to the flat, “Nonsense. You’ll only make your ankle worse.” You sighed, you’d often heard him use that tone with Sherlock, it meant there was no arguing with him and that if you did he would get his way in the end anyway. He stopped at the door and you laid a soft knock on it, reasoning that Sherlock was already going to be angry that his brother was here and it was probably better if the two of you didn’t come bursting in. There was no answer. You let out a frustrated sigh and Mycroft kissed your temple softly before you knocked again and called, “John Watson you open the door this second. I don’t care what kind of hissy fit his highness is throwing.” There was a shuffle of hurried movements and the door swung open to reveal a wide-eyed John, “Sorry (F/n). He said it was Mycroft…” He trailed off at the end as he took in your current position and you rolled your eyes, “Well he wasn’t exactly wrong.” Mycroft pushed past him as John quickly asked, “What the hell happened?” “I slipped on the steps,” you called over his shoulder to John before shaking your head at Mycroft as he went to set you on the couch, “I need to change before the entire flat ends up wet. Just set me down on my feet.” He hesitated but saw your point and did as you asked. You hissed slightly as your foot came in contact with the ground and you felt Mycroft lift you off the floor slightly with the arm still wrapped around your waist, obviously on the verge of picking you up again. You tried to give him a reassuring smile but he wasn’t buying it, returning you a worried little frown to which you sighed, “Perhaps it would be best if you put me down in the bathroom.” He lifted you to his chest again and you twisted to look at John, “Would you mind grabbing something dry for me to change into?” He shook his head, still a little puzzled by this whole situation, and went to get you some clothes from your room. Sherlock watched the whole thing from his chair with narrowed eyes. He was unhappy that John had let Mycroft in but concerned over your well being and over Mycroft's sudden presence in your life. When Mycroft and John returned, John posed the question that was on both of their minds, “What exactly happened and how did you get caught up in it Mycroft?” He sank down into the couch before responding, “She got caught in the storm on her way home from work. I spotted her a couple of blocks away and offered to walk her home under my umbrella, a gesture she gladly accepted. We arrived here and said our goodbyes and then she slipped going up the steps out front. I managed to catch her but I'm afraid her ankle twisted in a manner that looked rather painful.” John nodded at his explanation, the whole thing seeming to make sense to him, but Sherlock frowned, “And you just happened to be in the area to offer her your umbrella?” Mycroft glared at Sherlock, “I don’t like what you’re implying.” “I don’t like that I’m right to imply it.” Sherlock snapped back. “Leave him be Sherlock. I knew he’d been spying on me.” All their eyes snapped to where you were leaning heavily against the door frame, dressed in a dry set of clothes, attempting to run a towel through your hair without falling. Both Mycroft and John bounced up to come to your aid but John was closer, he pulled your arm over his shoulder and helped you to the couch. Once you were settled in next to him, Mycroft looked at you with a little frown, “You knew?” You nodded, letting out a soft whimper as John sat on the coffee table and pulled your foot into his lap, “Of course I knew. You were always popping up at random times claiming you just happened to be in the area. You can only use that once or twice before it becomes tired.” “Why didn’t you tell me (F/n)?” Sherlock asked, watching you carefully. You gave a small shrug and laughed, “I liked seeing him and it wasn’t like he was threatening me or anything.” Mycroft gave a triumphant smile at your answer as you leaned back into the couch and closed your eyes. John was probing your ankle gently, trying to find the exact source of your pain through the bruises and swelling that were already developing. When he hit it, you cringed and pulled from him slightly, causing Mycroft to reach over and intertwine his hand with yours, giving it a little squeeze for comfort. Your eyelids fluttered open and you found him looking at you with concern clouding the intelligent depths of his eyes. You leaned your head on his shoulder, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze back, “It’s alright love. I’ll be fine. More likely than not it’s just a sprained ankle.” John nodded in agreement to the end of your statement before doing a little double-take at what you’d said before that. Neither you nor Mycroft noticed as your eyes had slid closed again when your head hit his shoulder and he had nuzzled his nose into your damp hair fondly. John gawked and Sherlock slammed the book he’d been reading before you came in down on the side table next to him, “You are not allowed to date her.” You both looked at him with furrowed brows and you stated matter-of-factly, “I’ll date who I please Sherlock.” Mycroft nodded, "Agreed. I have every right to date (F/n). Your dislike of it does not change that." John interjected before Sherlock could give you his rebuttal, “How long has this been going on?” You and Mycroft didn’t skip a beat, simultaneously answering, “A while.” You exchanged knowing glances. While it hadn't been quite clear before it was obvious now that your relationship up to this point had been pretty much dating without the physical perks. Sherlock sighed, watching the two of you interact. He may not like it but he wasn’t stupid, you obviously had feelings for his brother and Mycroft seemed to return them. He wasn’t going to be able to stop this from happening and it wasn't really worth it to try. Mycroft wouldn't hurt you, he knew that, and you seemed happy. He would lecture you later about safety and his brother's faults but right now he'd leave you be. You leaned into Mycroft’s side happily when he wound an arm around your shoulder and John went to retrieve some ice and an ace bandage. You enjoyed the silence as he wrapped your ankle securely and then placed a pillow underneath it on the table and the ice on top. When he was done Mycroft kissed the top of your head and you pulled away to look at him, “You have to go don’t you?” He nodded, “I’m afraid I do, duty calls, but I’ll be back to see you soon.” You gave him a small smile and he leaned in to place a soft kiss on your lips, John still gawking at the two of you. When you pulled away, he murmured, “Goodbye my dear.” “Bye love.” You breathed airily, making him want to stay all the more. He stood to leave and you tried to follow him but he pressed you down into the couch, leveling you with a commanding and unamused look, “You are to stay off that foot. Understood?” You pouted and he cocked an eyebrow at you, daring you to defy him, “(F/n)?” “Fine.” You sighed exasperatedly. He turned to glare at your two flatmates, “Make sure you two keep out of trouble until she’s healed.” Sherlock looked bored but John nodded, knowing full well there would be consequences if they didn’t. Satisfied with both answers, Mycroft left, giving you one last little smile before walking out the door. Both John and Sherlock set into you as soon as he was gone but you tuned them out, pressing your fingers to your lips to keep the pressure that had come from Mycroft's just moments before. You were so very glad you’d gotten caught in the rain today, even if you did end up sick tomorrow. You glanced up at your friends, they were now arguing about how to properly scold you, and grinned softly. This was going to be an interesting development indeed.

#BBC Sherlock #Sherlock #reader #mycroft Holmes #sherlock holmes #John Watson #mycroft Holmes x reader #mycroft x reader #mycroft holmes x you #hurt and comfort #fluff #Mycroft can be sweet #reader-insert #reader insert #fanfic #fan fiction #one shot #soaked #thebeethathums

92 notes · View notes

wideworldofwhump · 5 years

Note

Sherlock 15. 🙂

15. Favorite scene you’ve ever written

Hi, thank you for the question! I have 2 Sherlock stories in the works; one completed and one in-progress. So far, (and this is SO hard to select a favorite) a scene that I am really pleased at how it turned out was, surprisingly, a non-whumpy scene. It’s from my current work, “The Tiger and the Shark” where Sherlock is tasked with a job one would not, immediately, assume is in the detective’s wheelhouse. It has the added boon in that one does not need to read the story in order to enjoy the snippet, below, as it stands quite well on its own:

________________________________________________________________

Somewhere, his mother had a very extensive list detailing those things with which Sherlock either did not like or was woefully deficient. Child minding rated as both. However, there were three things which necessitated him doing so that particular morning. The first; John was presiding over a minor flu epidemic at the clinic and wouldn't be back to the flat until at least half 4. The second; Molly was dissecting her way through exactly three alleged murder victims and was up to her elbows in viscera; pleasant but also unhelpful imagery given his current, beleaguered, status. God, he missed murders. The third; Mrs. Hudson's hip pain somehow meant she was incapacitated. That she was fully functional in all other ways, for whatever inane reason, did not seem to factor into an ability to coo and feed and change a nappy. If those herbal soothers of hers weren't up to the task, double the intake. Hardly genius thinking, that.

Those complaints hovered somewhere left of central, however, as Sherlock stood just before the threshold into the kitchen. Dummy in one hand, plush blanket in the other, his preparations for putting her into her cot abruptly sailed away without him.

Rosie giggled as a thick glob of something dark and gritty trickled down her chin and spattered on the floor amidst a similarly composed mess. The same substance coated the lower half of her face, her hands, and a good portion of her jim-jams.

“Watson, are you eating... coffee grounds?”

In answer, the toddler lapped at her hand, shuddering against either the taste or the texture, and giggled again. “Dat uppa, Shoo-Shoo!” Her pronunciation of cuppa was scarcely better than his name. Strive, though he would, proper English eluded her. If it wasn't for John and his damnable attachment to her broken tongue they'd be much farther along with her articulation.

“I was gone exactly thirty-eight seconds!” Setting aside the blanket and dummy, he approached – though he fisted his hands several times – reluctant to touch the massacre. He was also able to take in more of the murder scene; toppled bin, scattered refuse, day old coffee filter... Were children naturally vile or was Watson a special case? He couldn't fathom doing the same as a baby. Mycroft, however...

“Well, that throws a spanner in the works. Putting you down for a kip is, clearly, out.” Naturally boisterous; high on caffeine and mayhem she would be absolutely shirty in about ten minutes.

Calling for Mrs. Hudson was an option, certainly. However, once he factored the requisite paddy, as well as the time wasted with her shuffling gait up the stairs, John would have returned and discovered exactly how inept his flatmate was with the care of his child. It was a near thing but pride won out in the end. And thus came the ruin of many a man; pride.

Armed with several soaked flannels, Sherlock set about the business of wiping spent coffee from the face and arms of the wriggling banshee.

A bit more time saw her changed, both nappy and jim-jams, and the predicted strop had begun to set in rather forcefully. “No, Shoo-Shoo! Want, waaaaaaaaaant!” Voice rising to an ear-ringing pitch – enough that Sherlock turned his head in a wince. Articulation fled along with her normally even temper – though John had often pointed out that his daughter was not yet ready for full sentences.

“You may not have the Büchner flask. It is quite fragile and in your questionable hold I fear the result would be a disaster of unfathomable proportions.” It wasn't like him to be so excessively hyperbolic. However, in this instance, the sentiment was warranted. He'd seen what the child could do to a jar of peanut butter.

Her rebuttal was another shriek, a sharp twist of her body that suggested the disturbing flexibility of a feline, before her foot slammed into his pelvis.

Two things he was immediately grateful for. She wasn't wearing any shoes and she did not have longer legs. Still, the pain managed to leave him winded enough the he forewent attempting to carry her and allowed her to furiously bolt up the stairs to her room.

Of course, that's when John sent a text.

Just checking in. How are you and Rosie?

The impulse to ignore was fleeting. As a father, John had managed to develop an excess of anxiety regarding the ongoing state of his offspring. Too long a delay and Sherlock's phone will be beset by a string of messages that will rapidly descend into parental panic. Gripping his mobile he tapped out a reply that encompassed both his irritation as well as the squalling tantrum one floor up.

Fine. We're out of chocolate biscuits

The following three texts he did ignore. Having established proof of life he felt less than compelled to engage in further nattering.

Ten minutes wandered by before it occurred to him that the flat had gone silent. “Oh, Buggar!” he breathed.

His long stride carried him upstairs in seconds – bypassing John's room for the former storage wardrobe now converted into a baby room.

Rosie was asleep on the floor.

Perhaps a more sentimental caretaker would coo over the scene and label it something disgustingly diabetic. Surrounding the child, in a five foot radius, was a halo of talc. The emptied, economy sized container, lay fetched up against the foot of her cot. To Sherlock, the display resembled little more than a passed out smackhead wallowing in kilo of product. At least it was baby powder, this time. He felt no compulsion to wake her for another bath. Instead, wary of her twitching limbs, he gathered the blanket from her cot and spread it over her. The double thick padding beneath the rug made for a soft surface and he had no doubt that she would be comfortable where she was.

Back in the sitting room he found that John had left an additional four texts.

He rolled his eyes and bothered with continuing the dialogue if it meant hurrying things along.

If you've no more tongues to depress nor arses to swab then come home and care for your child

John's text back was a single image. Sherlock hadn't realized there was an emoji quite that crass.

Of course, with Rosie now sleeping off her caffeine high, Sherlock felt less urgency to find a more qualified minder. However, with peace restored, there came with it the thumping pressure at the back of his brain. The stimulus of his Work had always kept it at bay, for the most part. That Work, however, had been in short supply the last few months. Not an unusual circumstance, of course; he'd once had a dry spell of 29 days that had culminated in a massive row between himself, John, and five members of the Fire Brigade who'd only just managed to prevent the blaze in the basement flat from taking down the entire building (their assertion, of course, the “blaze” had barely consumed a quarter of the flat and with the amount of mold present in the room the likelihood of it roaming farther was minuscule). His point; that there wouldn't have been any fire had John not compromised the oxygen saturation of the room, mid-experiment, by insisting on opening the door to investigate the “odd smell”; had been ignored by all present. Whether by fortune or his brother's involvement (Sherlock heavily favored the latter in that scenario – fortune was never so fortuitous) there was a case, the following day, requiring his eye.

4 notes · View notes

sidpah · 6 years

Text

Unsigned

5:22 pm 11/29/2009

For the record, it’s currently, tonight, November 29th, 2009. Shall I continue to prolong the inevitable? I’ve already shuffled to my bedside, kicking off slippers for the last time. They’re torn open around the big toes, and the cushioning has been beaten into flat nonexistence by years of my feet on the cellar stairs, and pacing these narrow confines like a chimpanzee in research cell… They’ve served me well, the slippers have.

I sit on the edge of my mattress, bare feet flat against dirty hardwood floor. Black curls of shed hair, loose clouds of clotted dust cling to mattress and ring the base of the walls. In my left hand is a small brown bottle of laudanum – my five-flavored tea. I’ve not yet tasted it. Initially, I’d planned to use sleeping pills. The old standby. Two Ambien every four hours to help me coast steadily through. I’ve never taken either, the pills or the laudanum, but dissuaded by Zolpidem Tartrate’s more egregious reported side effects: lack of dreams, nightmares and sleepwalking, (along with the more distressing variants: sleep-eating, -driving and -phone calling) all of these wholly defeating my purpose, I felt laudanum to be the more reasonable option. Clearly, I’m not concerned about developing a tolerance or dependency. This leaves me free to increase the dosage should I, at some unearthly narcoleptic point, feel the need has arisen. Carefully though; someone of my size and meager narcotic history could overdose on as little as a few teaspoons, and that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m not aiming to poison myself. I just want a slow steady dream that will fade into oblivion.

One of laudanum’s many benefits to this end is that it should relieve the pain and soreness I’m virtually guaranteed to experience from remaining in bed so long. Another is that it promises to increase oneiric activity rather than squelch it. And I want to be there, I just don’t want to be here. To fill those vacant forms awaiting animation...

Originally, to swallow the Ambien I’d allotted myself two eight-ounce bottles of water. I’d rather not linger on for weeks. I wasn’t sure how much I would need to drink to get the pills down, but I was not about to rely on my own willpower when the thirst hits, as it will, inevitably. I envisioned myself sleep-drinking, guzzling down case after case, entirely oblivious to my error. Four bottles instead of two could have prolonged my survival by one more day. I’m not a fat man, but I’ve read that the body can last for four to six weeks without food. The thought of bedsores and cannibalized muscles doesn’t interest me in the least. Again, this is where laudanum becomes the obvious choice. Already a liquid preparation, there’s no need to consume additional water, which again shortens my life expectancy while downsizing the likelihood of needing a bathroom break, (aided further by the fortuitous disclaimer that laudanum may cause constipation). I know that in my final seconds I will soil the bed like an infant, and I’m okay with that. I simply want that nothing should impede my comfortable retreat. This is a vacation after all, not capital punishment.

I unscrew the dropper and place three drops on my tongue. This will only get easier. I set the bottle of laudanum next to four others, all with tops mostly unscrewed, droppers canted delicately in their necks so I won’t need to wake for more than a second or two to administer another dose. (I won’t mention how much this little gathering cost me, suffice it to say, my meager bank account has already accrued more in daily fines due to its failing to maintain the minimum balance than it actually contained to begin with; there clearly is no stepping back from this precipice. I will not disclose my source for the drug as, as I’m sure anyone reading this is aware, it’s a regulated Schedule II narcotic and obviously not easy to come by through legal means, especially in such quantity. I am not about to indicate complicity on the part of anyone kind enough to aid me on this journey.)

While the subject has been broached, I do have to laugh a little at myself for having opted so quickly for this obscure drug. Aside from its apposite elegance in all the ways already mentioned, my motivation here is terribly transparent. Perhaps it’s my emulation’s greatest work. It possesses a certain mythic sophistication, laudanum does. I can lie back on these stale sheets and easily imagine myself not blanketed under the watchful disapproving gaze of my pale childhood walls, breathing in the complete stygian darkness and faint phantom breath of old burned incense embedded in altar cloth and curtains, but rather in a hazy opium den, a hidden basement off a rubbish-strewn alleyway in late 1800s Europe. I’m lacking only an absinthe chaser. If not a renowned novelist or libertine, then at least a taste of a life I never could have lived in this flesh...

I am going to be as rigorous about this journey as I would a transcontinental road trip. Albeit, one on which I have made no prior reservations and plan to seek out the night’s shelter and morning’s sustenance on the off-chance that those needs should arise. Though I intend to limit my ingestion so as not to overdose, I can’t bear to leave my clock plugged in, red numbers at eye level, visible without sitting or fully waking as they have been for decades. I trust that I can be careful without documenting every dose. I gladly unplug the clock. Fuck you, Alarms, Schedules, and Planners, I’m sleeping in from here on out.

A second layer of curtains have been hung over the already thick blue polyester drapery. I must keep the room as dark and timeless as possible. As much as I love sleep, I’ve always had difficulty napping during the day. Even when, as a child, I was kept home from school (as I so frequently was) by tonsillitis and strep throat and ear infections and bronchitis, often two or more of these occurring at the same time, lying in bed, uncomforted, watching trashy daytime television game shows for the elderly and unemployed. A tonic of voyeuristic hope that was apparently lost in my youthful ennui… An unease about the stomach and shoulder blades, pressure in the upper rear quadrant of the skull, a tension through the back of my neck I’m sure the laudanum will alleviate should those feelings that come with the combination of warm sheets and daylight rear their heads one ultimate time.

The thermostat has been set at a cool 60 degrees. I’ve never been able to sleep when the air is hot. (I sound so fickle… so fragile, and yet sleep has been the paramount activity of the last eight years of my life…) I will wrap myself in five layers of blankets, throws, and handed-down afghans, and curl up, content and fetal. At that temperature I could still survive for up to ten days without any water. This strikes me as too long, but the laudanum is an unknown. There will be no food in my stomach to impede its effects and I haven’t read any studies on cases such as mine.

Driven by decades of unrequited longing… A pitiful creature filled with a hot broth of misery and sorrow that rises to overwhelm the dam of her self-control, and before she can fortify it with sandbags of antipsychotic medication, she’s swept away in her own emotions’ tidal flood… A middle aged man so repentant about one of his many past indiscretions that he deems himself beyond redemption, unrehabilitatable, and so concludes that the only object powerful enough to surmount his guilty memories of that lone infraction is a single .452 inch long hunk of lead sent careening through both hemispheres of his brain almost simultaneously… Ridiculous, asinine clichéd attributes of the suicidal mind as it’s all too often portrayed in popular media. This is where I separate from the pack. I am not miserable or despondent. I am not calling a hotline because I’m lonely or starved for attention. I am not shaking in a corner with a butter knife pressed against my wrist. I am rational and cool. I am tired, but I am content. This body has fulfilled its use, transcended its purpose and is now an empty canister ready to be discarded. A building in natural collapse. Let those old movies play on one last time before the theater closes its doors!

My mother died recently, but I’m not at all depressed. It would sound terrible to say I’m relieved, so I won’t. Not that that would be quite accurate either. It’s a relief from that tense ever-present Not Knowing. Eight years of that queasy, prickly hum, gone… Wondering when it was going to happen, if it would be today, tomorrow, in another twenty years… Not Knowing can break a man. That said, I’ve always had a knack for adjustment, for living with what I have. It feels as though most of my adult life has been one of servitude, caring for her as if, without prior consent of mother or child, our roles had been irrevocably reversed...

Not that I ever longed for more traditional action. Writers mustn’t live busy lives – Eventful, but not busy. If you think something of relative value (there isn’t, in truth, any value in these pages, but we’ll pretend like there’s a crumb or two so we can play our respective roles of writer and consumer for one last day…) it must be caught immediately, with that metaphysical butterfly net, and pinned squirming to the page while the energy is still vibrant and sharp. No one’s going to feel them or love them if they get stale – Words get stale too, just like saltine crackers and three-day worn underwear…

It seems the laudanum is already taking hold… That was quicker than I expected. But then, how much do I really expect?

I’ve just turned thirty, surpassing the natural life expectancy for most figures in human history. This is nothing more than my early retirement. Why submit to thirty more years, early-to-bed and early-to-rising only to loathe my job, my rut, my loneliness or, gods-help-me, my wife, and be forced into suffering the ravages of old age, illness, disease and paranoia of a hastily approaching death? I’d much rather greet death on my own terms. Here I am, ye olde red-handed bastard! Serving myself up on a silver platter for your grim dim black toothless maw!

I’ve never needed to support myself by employment and I have no interest in starting now. My mother received a decent pension from her years working at the plant. It was plenty for our meager means. But there wasn’t enough left in our savings to sustain me for more than a few years eating crunchy rice and beans in a cold house with no electricity to cook them. And now, thanks mostly to her prodigious medical bills and co-pays, even most of that’s gone. In truth, I feel rather guilty living off of that ill-gotten blood money any longer. Fed by those poor brainwashed souls… Of course I feel equally sick at the prospect of having to work a day job or, more likely, a night job, for the next thirty to forty years. I don’t feel that the world owes me a living; I just don’t feel I owe it to the world to live.

My name will die along with me, and I’m perfectly fine with that reality. I have no siblings and no young men in the family bear this surname. Perfect annihilation. Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha!

In a second I will pull the chain to switch off the lamp, the last light these eyes will ever register, set the pen next to this little pad and this large stack of collected papers, and then wait to discover with joy and the baited thrill of adventure to which strange lands my dreams will deliver me…

To whomever reads this note, know only that you’ve found the remnants of a profoundly satisfied man, a man untroubled by the tribulations of his world. And that he is even more so, untroubled, now, having been irreversibly freed of his bodily restraints, devious calculating mental formations, and purged of his seemingly endless memories.

With great love and optimism…[1]

[1] Unsigned

#fiction #depression #suicide note #sleep

1 note · View note

torentialtribute · 5 years

Text

MARTIN SAMUEL: Do not blame Sky TV if your child isn’t into cricket – look closer to home

If your child supports a soccer team, this is probably your soccer team. My father's team, my mother's team.

The reason why Michael Apted's brilliant documentary followed people at every stage of life began the Seven Up! was because of a Jesuit maxim: & # 39; Give me the child until he is seven, and I will show you the man. & # 39;

Children can be influenced. Children can be formed and influenced. Charles Dickens wrote Oliver Twist because he saw how easily children were used criminally and recruited criminals.

England won the Cricket World Cup in a manner of playing against New Zealand last weekend

[Engeland] The Cricket World Cup in New Zealand

So it's not Sky TV's fault that your son or daughter won't play cricket this weekend . And it is not the ECB or the ICC's fault to also sell their product to the highest bidder.

Even if cricket was primetime and engulfed your brood, it would still need an adult – and probably a parent – to play their part. coaching, youth development and improved facilities.

Due to the higher income the women's cricket court has a professional design on an international level. And two World Cups – men and women – have now been won because the ECB has unrivaled support staff.

Does the BBC want to help fund that structure? Does it want to enter a ballpark from Sky & # 39; s recent investment of £ 1.1 billion? It doesn't.

Which means that we must excuse broadcasters from the responsibility to nurture your child's fitness for sport. Ultimately, if you want to make a junior cricket player, it's up to you, a friend or family member or the school.

It's not Sky TV's fault that your son or daughter doesn't play cricket this weekend] <img id = "i-ca011e00f843b61d" src = "https : //i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2019/07/18/19/16220236-7262133-image-a-16_1563472851105.jpg "height =" 428 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-ca011e00f843b61d" src = "https://ift.tt/2LuxmHm" height = "428" width = " 634 "alt =" It's not Sky TV's fault <img id = "i-ca011e00f843b61d" src = "https://ift.tt/2SlUWGW -image-a-16_1563472851105.jpg "height =" 428 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-ca011e00f843b61d" src = "https://ift.tt/2CqCUN8 07/18/19 / 16220236-7262133-image-a-16_1563472851105.jpg "height =" 428 "width =" 634 "alt =" It is not Sky TV's fault that your son or daughter will not play a cricket this weekend that your son or daughter doesn't play cricket this weekend

This is the enthusiasm ousiasm for the majority. The influence of adults. A 10-year-old child inspired by the free-to-air show of the English World Cup still has to find a club, find some fairly expensive equipment and then stick to what testing is, time-consuming, technical sport, often full of pounding disappointments and occasional painful strokes.

No child is hanging on the cricket ground without the support of an adult. In any case, if terrestrial television would only be able to mobilize the children of Great Britain, Olympic sports would preserve the revival of interest that takes place every four years.

Just about every sports player from which class, thanks to a parent or teacher for their sacrifice.

It is much easier than to blame Sky or the ECB and imagine that placing the Ashes on the BBC would somehow enthuse your child for the Under 11s at the local cricket club as you were still in bed when the game started every Sunday morning at nine

Schools also don't want cricket. Health and safety, costs, maintenance. Football can take place on any old mess, but cricket with a hard ball needs a flat, reliable surface or it is dangerous.

And at a time when state schools barely have money for books, the paraphernalia needed to equip the cricket team is also priceless.

<img id = "i-471a24d452b2a6ba" src = "https://ift.tt/30Hg3Xs 20 / 16221998-7262133-image-m-18_1563477246008.jpg "height =" 448 "width =" 634 "alt =" The recent investment of £ 1.1 billion from Sky has allowed women cricket to get a professional set -up to have

Sky's recent £ 1.1 billion investment has allowed women cricket to have a professional set-up Most talk is slippery, as if it were the

Most of the talk is slippery, as if it were the smallest step of watching a game and playing it Four children, one ball, you have football; two children in trainers, you have athletics, but cricket, good cricket?

This is a large-scale project.

Michael Gove was understandably criticized when he As Education Minister, he reduced the £ 162 million budget for the School Sport Partnership program by 69 percent in 2010.

Indeed, in a country that was not going to do well, it had continue to work very well. However, it was the age of austerity.

When Alan Watkinson, a gym teacher at Feltham

[bewerken] Community School, took 11-year-old Mohamed Farah to Hounslow Athletics Club because he was passionate about the sport and saw a young man who clearly saw a was an exceptional runner and needed a direction, that was a cooperation program.

Now apply it to cricket.

But they do have something that clubs desperately need: human resources – influenceable children, who are not naturally lazy, because if you ever see them at play time, they run everywhere, even when it's not needed.

Schools do not have to tell children to stop walking down the hall or stop walking down the stairs. Running. That's their thing – so start there.

The money from Sky TV finances a lot of coaching, youth development and improved facilities

The clubs have something that the schools want and the schools have something that the clubs want. This is a symbiotic relationship for which the involvement of the education secretary is not required.

The school lends the school its groundsman for an afternoon and the much spare equipment it can collect, and in turn entrusts the club to help with the production of the cricket. team.

It does not require government support or free broadcasts, or even a brainstorming session at the ECB.

Just enough adults – club coaches, club members, teachers, parents – to recognize some very simple options. It can be done.

The next step is to work out how to keep them interested when they are 15 and hit No. 10 for the 3rd XI, because a dressing room of useless boys will not give way and put them on the order. That is harder.

The signing of the city signs

Eliaquim Mangala & # 39; s impending departure from Manchester City with a free transfer recalls how the club has changed under Pep Guardiola.

His influence as a coach is regularly recognized, but he does not receive sufficient credit to transform City's recruitment policy. Mangala was bought from Porto for £ 42 million, but can return there for nothing.

From the same period: Jesus Navas, Stevan Jovetic, Alvaro Negredo, Fernando and Wilfried Bony, all expensive and equally underwhelming. and the transfer policy has been drastically improved. When he leaves, the loss will be felt from top to bottom and far beyond the training field. He's a judge.

<img id = "i-c5c639dbd300bac2" src = "https://ift.tt/30Hg3Xs 18 / 16220052-7262133-image-a-10_1563472509669.jpg "height =" 447 "width =" 634 "alt =" Eliaquim Mangala & # 39; s approaching departure shows how the city has changed under Pep Guardiola

So why is it always?

So why is it always

General approval is also greeted

There is very little criticism of Manchester United's desire to make Harry Maguire a £ 80 million player, despite disturbing errors in the UEFA Nations League finals, the arrival of Daniel James from Swansea.

This must be Ed Woodward when United falls short, and his stewardship is dismissed as hopeless.

Nothing is said at that time, when Alexis Sanchez signed, while the d Considered to be worthy, the consensus was that United would have done well to persuade him to reject league leaders Manchester City – where he would be introduced to Pep Guardiola – and to pay a premium.

<img id = "i-9a862d00a9f69b14" src = "https://ift.tt/30Hg3Xs 18 / 16220118-7262133-image-a-11_1563472555984.jpg "height =" 417 "width =" 634 "alt =" There has been little criticism of Man United's desire to make Harry Maguire £ 80 million player

There is little criticism of Man United's desire to make Harry Maguire £ 80 million player

Same with Romelu Lukaku The current negotiations with Inter Milan show that the player has a special relationship with Antonio Conte and should have signed up for Chelsea.

Woodward paid the bill and got it written as far as Paul Pogba is concerned, do not believe in the speech that Jose Mourinho is not the player

But when these deals didn't work as planned, it was Woodward who carried the bus, he was very enthusiastic, very ocal and set.

Perhaps he will be able to do it again if the United States has a positive effect. For the time being, however, United invests in ambitious young British players and follows what is considered the club's blueprint. Everyone is very enthusiastic.

It is only when plans go wrong that Woodward is left to blame alone.

RFU on tiptoe around Billy and his religious views

An uneasy ceasefire seems to have been achieved between Billy Vunipola and the RFU over his support for Israel Folau.

Vunipola affirmed statements by Folau – since fired by Rugby Australia – that hell was waiting for gays, putting the RFU in a dilemma.

If they have disciplined him considerably, it may have challenged the right to freedom of religious expression; if they did nothing, they allowed opinions that many found homophobic.

There was criticism that the simple reprimand that was delivered did not go far enough. Vunipola spoke about the controversy for the first time this week. He would not delve deeper into the subject, nor would he apologize or withdraw his comments.

It is an impasse because players of the Pacific Island descent, who are often raised with fundamentalist Christian beliefs, are also vital for England's design for the RFU to make an example of Vunipola .

They will simply have to live with it and hope that the element of fire and sulfur will keep peace.

An uneasy ceasefire seems to have been achieved between Billy Vunipola (photo) and the RFU "

had been reached between Billy Vunipola (photo) and the RFU"

An uneasy ceasefire seems to have been achieved between Billy Vunipola (photo) and the RFU

Silverstone switch handled Brexit battle

A no deal Brexit is really the gift that keeps on giving.

Lewis Hamilton led the calls for an alternative date, after seeing his historic sixth Silverstone victory blown out of the bulletins by England.

Next year could be so bad, with the Grand Prix scheduled to clash with the Euro 2020 final in Wembley.

Ideally, the Grand Prix could be moved to coincide with the first weekend of Wimbledon – the Sunday that is only used when the tournament has lost a lot of time raining.

A no-deal Brexit could be the biggest obstacle to the British Grand Prix] <img id = "i-c997e1b649f7cc23" src = "https://ift.tt/2LsPZeK" height = "423" width = "634" alt = " <img id = "i-c997e1b649f7cc23" src = "https://ift.tt/2LsPZeK" height = "423 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-c997e1b649f7cc23" src = "https://ift.tt/2SlVs7Q -13_1563472681134.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" Brexit cannot be Brexit can be the biggest obstacle for the British Grand Prix the most important obstacle for the British Grand Prix

However, this could mean that the British Grand Prix will be running in a row with other races in Europe – and the F1 has been warned of serious delays at the border, at least in the case no deal.

& # 39; I agree. & # 39;

The owners of Silverstone received a government briefing stating that incoming heavy trucks had to wait three or four days during the first six months or twelve months if Britain had no deal. back-to-back races in Europe would introduce risks & # 39; s not acceptable & # 39 ;, said Stuart Pringle, chief executive of the British Racing Drivers & # 39; Club, owner of Silverstone.

& # 39; It is unlikely that an F1 paddock could have been set up in that scenario in a week. & # 39; And this is a minor, fairly trivial Brexit complication. Imagine the consequences of the big one.

It's not a big concern, Justin

Given that the company has found $ 70 million every year until 2027 to reward the 150 best golfers, It seems rather rude for Justin Rose to claim that the FedEx Cup throws in major disasters with large tournament schedules & # 39; s.

Rose does not like the idea of a monthly major from April to July because it gives players little time to prepare for the biggest events.

On the other hand, it doesn't seem to be doing much harm to Brooks Koepke. Shifting the PGA Championship also boosted this competition this year and provides an intense, exciting period of top golf tournaments.

A more justified concern would be that there is little to engage the wider sports audience with golf after the Open, unless it is Ryder Cup year.

Anyway, some will always be able to withstand change, but if the season really is the worst professional golfer to overcome, it's not a bad life.

<img id = "i-6696a1b612b4c29d" src = "https://ift.tt/2Y6ClkB 2019/07/18/18 / 16220166-7262133-image-a-14_1563472786258.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" British golfer Justin Rose does not like the idea of a monthly major from April to July

British golfer Justin Rose does not like the idea of a major major from April to July.

However, there has been a difference in the case of Jacob Rees-Mogg , between players born here for immigrant parents and those who came to school children here, and Jofra Archer, who reached an international cricket player with a huge promise and benefited from the easy change in the ECB's rules on international qualification

Archer has an English parent and wanted to play

This is his choice, everything is to follow s done the rules, he is now English, a World Cup winner and a fan favorite.

But unlike Jason Roy, Ben Stokes, Mo Farah and Raheem Sterling, we had high expectations when I arrived. And, undeniably, this makes his story different.

Source link

#MARTIN SAMUEL: Do not blame Sky TV if your child isn’t into cricket – look closer to home"

0 notes

gaiatheorist · 7 years

Text

Coming down with the ‘flu.

I’m not, or at least I hope I’m not. I have my traditional September sore throat, I’m prone to tonsillitis, but because I don’t go to the doctor every time, I don’t ‘flag’ on NHS systems as suffering from it often enough to require a tonsillectomy. Apparently the surgery is less straightforward in adults than children, and that might be why ‘some’ adults demand antibiotics every time they have a sore throat. That’s their business, but in my non-medical opinion, it’s counterproductive, and increasing the risk of more antibiotic-resistant strains of all manner of super-bugs.

As is ever the way with me, I have multiple thought-strands colliding on this one, which loops back into a Guardian article linking poor sleep to a plethora of other ailments. My circadian rhythm most closely resembles a drum-kit being thrown down a flight of stairs.

My throat hasn’t been ‘this’ sore since about 2007, it’s a sudden-onset attack of pain best described as ‘spiky’, I last had ‘this’ sore throat on a camping trip, we were on the Isle of Whithorn, which isn’t really an isle, it’s a promontory peninsula. Gods, I’m pedantic. I remember the spiky-pain, both due to the speed of the onset, and how unwell I was, miles away from nowhere, trying to make cheese sauce for pasta, in a tent, with powdered milk. That went about as well as you’d expect, but I was still married to that lunatic, who insisted on ‘trying a bit further down the road’, resulting in us arriving at camp-sites as it was getting dark, and all the shops were closed.

I need to be careful to avoid generalisation here. I married a man ill-equipped to ‘adult’, so my touching on the old cliche of ‘”When a man gets a cold, he has the ‘flu.” is in relation to him as an individual, not a suggestion that all men are rubbish, and all women paragons of virtue. I was REALLY ill at the end of that holiday, but there was no option of going to bed, there wasn’t a bed, we’d pulled up after the site had closed, we were in the ‘late arrivals’ field, which didn’t have a flat space the size of a tent anywhere on it, it was all lumpy-hillocky. It was dark, and there were no flat pitch-spaces at all. The ex thought it would be a BRILLIANT idea not to bother with the air-beds, and just throw the tent on the longer grass at the side of the field, how we didn’t end up in a ditch was more luck than judgement. Ah, holiday memories.

The thing that’s irritating me nearly as much as my tonsils this morning is what I did then, what I’d always done, and how it links in to my disability and current predicament. What I did then, what I’d always done, and what I’m exceptionally conscious that I’m still doing, I ‘got on with it.’ The feisty-fierce phoenix-front is a facade, I’ve spent most of my life being a door-mat. I project this pound-shop Wonder-woman persona, because the wrung-out reality isn’t as palatable.

Me, incredibly unwell, trying to make cheese sauce in a tent, (Then, a couple of days later, ‘nursing’ the ex through the same bug, fetching and carrying, after he’d taken himself off to bed.) me, doing all of the housework while the ex did none, me, taking on additional duties at work, because “If I don’t do it, who will?” I need to take my Personal Independence Payment claim to tribunal, because the Atos-assessor and ‘decision maker’ have decided that I ‘can’ complete all of the ‘descriptors.’ For the record, I never attempted to state that I couldn’t, for each relevant ‘descriptor’, I stated that I had difficulties, and needed aids, assistance, or adaptations.

My life, since the brain haemorrhage, is strikingly similar to coming down with the ‘flu. That weird, vague-disconnected stage, where you know you’re not-quite-right, but can’t quite figure out why. Every day, for two and a half years, if you don’t count the days when the cognitive fatigue hits, that’s like HAVING the ‘flu, everything is completely impossible. It’s exhausting just ‘being’ me, and, although more often than not I ‘can’ “Prepare a simple meal” or “Manage own toilet needs”, or “Wash upper and lower body” it’s not as straightforward as it used to be. Two splits on that, I ‘can’, because “If I don’t, who will?”, and I haven’t always been like this, I remember how effortless life was before.

A small part of it is being raised with the standard stereotypical ‘female’ expectations, the ‘wife’ has to cook and clean, and fetch and carry, to be compliant-submissive to the ‘greater’ needs of the ‘husband.’ I’m white working-class trash, there will be more enlightened people out there who would have told the ex to iron his own clothes, or stop lounging on the sofa, and wash the dishes, I wasn’t one of them. Another part of it is my tenacity, even when I want to ‘give up’, I don’t. I have three ingredients prepared for dinner, and it took me over an hour to do that. (It’s just after 9am, and I’m compensating for the fact that I will be physically fatigued by dinner-time.) Sometimes, it takes up to an hour to change my bedding. All of my life now is spent in that fuzzy-foggy stage, before the ‘flu hits, and there’s no obvious pattern as to when I floor myself. I do it to myself, because it’s what I’ve always done. I’m not willing to admit defeat, and wear the same set of clothes for days on end, I can’t live on ready-meals, because I’m developing an increasing range of foods and ingredients I’m sensitive to. I’m doing this to myself, because I won’t degenerate into allowing the disability to define me. I’m more than the tangles of metal sitting in my brain, but that pride, that tenacity places me at a disadvantage with various systems.

I have just less than three weeks to lodge the paperwork requesting the tribunal, whilst ensuring I’m logging enough hours of actively seeking employment to prevent my Universal Credit being ‘sanctioned’. I’ve emailed my ‘local’ Headway branch, requesting assistance, but I know that the last time I requested their assistance (for a student, not me), it took longer than three weeks for the case to be allocated. The chasm between what I ‘was’, and whatever I ‘am’ now is a bone-deep aching wound that I have no way of healing. I won’t give up, and that compounds the issues, because even ‘going through the motions’ of waking, washing, dressing, eating is exhausting. DWP has me in a pincer-movement here, my disability claim being declined means that I still have to apply for ‘any suitable’ vacancies, on pain of sanctions. What I am, my hyper-aware ability to risk-assess, and look for probable outcomes, means I know that a 9-5, Monday-Friday role will burn me out again, I need to ‘break’ my working hours to avoid the risk of harm to self or others. That most likely means either working part-time, in a role I’m qualified for, or working in customer service, and spreading my minimum-wage working week over the weekend. Minimum wage, full-time, wouldn’t cover my outgoings, I don’t lead an extravagant lifestyle, but my rent was over 1/3 of my monthly salary, and the Universal Credit is less than half of my salary. I need the PIP, because I’m disabled, I can’t work to the same pattern as a fully-able person.

Enough of this, now, I’m disabled AND unwell, and I need to assess whether I can spend the requisite number of hours job-searching today, or whether I call it, and roll today’s hours onto next week. I also need to strip and change my bed, whilst feeling like I’m coming down with the ‘flu. If I don’t update for a while, it’s highly probable I’m trapped inside my duvet-cover.

0 notes

fonsfabula-blog · 7 years

Text

E.V.I.L

This top paragraph was provided to us by my English 100 Professor at A University of Hawaii College. It is not my work, the only thing I own in the FIRST paragraph is the character Ulysses. The rest is mine.

[ It was dark when Ulysses awoke. Too dark. Was the power out? Ulysses fumbled for the clock on the nightstand and in the process knocked it to the floor. His fingers brushed the smooth face of his phone, which he grabbed tightly and laid upon his chest. His head was pounding and he was terribly thirsty. After clumsily kicking off his covers, Ulysses held the phone upright and pressed the ‘home’ button. The harsh glow of the screen hurt his eyes and he squinted at the sharp, bright background image of a tropical beach. The bar at the top of the screen read ‘no service,’ and only 10% of the battery remained. There were also about a dozen missed calls and a bunch of text messages from friends and family. At a glance, most of the texts contained the word ‘HELP,’ which Ulysses did not find amusing. You guys sure picked a great time for practical jokes. But what made Ulysses gasp and sit up was the date and time, floating over the clear, blue water and the dappled white sand like some sort of mirage. August 29, 2016. 11:34 p.m. That’s impossible! How could I have been asleep for an entire week?! ]

From shock or simply the inability to hold objects for a long period of time, his phone soon slipped out of his hand, crashing down onto his face. With a yelp and curse he sat up and angrily watched the phone slide down his chest and onto his lap, teetering on the edge of his thigh before clattering to the foor. “Serve’s ya right, fucker.” He flipped off the phone and lay back down, turning his body away from the phone, as if he had a personal vendetta towards it. “What the hell's going on…” Glancing back down, he adjusted his body and reached for his phone, setting it back down on his nightstand. His mind reeled, scenarios of what may be going on outside began flashing through his head along with panic and worry, hand gripping the bed sheet to somehow ground himself. Taking a shaky breath, Ulysses stared up at the ceiling and rubbed his face with his free hand, a frustrated snarl escaping his mouth when he realized there was no rational solution available as to why he was asleep for an entire week.

“Folly! Come Folly!...” He waited a moment, perplexed. No sounds of nails on the wooden stairs, nor the hardwood hallway all that was there was a thick air of choking silence. “Ain't no use sittin around waitin’ for Folly, though that's all I do.” Bitter laughter filled the room as he gingerly picked up one of his legs and swung it over the edge of his bed, doing the same with the other. Ulysses looked around the room and whined softly, seeing his wheelchair so far away from him made his stomach churn. ‘Someone must have been in here while I was out...I always leave it right next to me before I sleep…’. He kept eyeing his wheelchair, sighing softly at his luck. I mean, who would have thought that a diver would get paralyzed from falling out of a window? Freediving and spearfishing was his own personal sport, with being so close to a marina he had access to ships that would take him out to the sea, where he felt most at home. Owen’s mother always chided him and told him that that hobby of his would get him killed or hurt. At least he can still tell her she was wrong. The window was truly an accident that shouldn't have happened, he had been trying to fix the squeak that came out of his second story window per Owens forceful request, the sound was getting on both of their nerves but Owen’s frail body made the annoyance painful. When he leaned on it instead of the wall, the windows framework came loose and he fell with it down to the concrete sidewalk. To everyone it was a blessing that the only severe consequence to that was being paralyzed from the thighs down. Shaking himself from his trance, he decided he had enough of reminiscing. Thankful that the house seemed empty, Ulysses held his breath and let himself tumble to the floor, exhaling sharply when the room and his head stopped spinning.

Each time he lifted his body with his arms, pulling it a few inches forward, he felt a chip at his pride. “Goddamn...bullshit-” He took a deep breath and collapsed next to the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Ulysses held his wrist up and began to talk to his watch. “-L.I.V.E. assist me, if you still can.” The L.I.V.E watch was one of the first devices given out by the L.I.V.E company. Its main function is to locate other devices that have also come from the company. Surfing the internet taking pictures and notes was another attribute to the watch, it was highly durable and received updates from the company wirelessly. Rolling his eyes, Ulysses somehow wasn’t surprised that the watch still worked, uncomfortable relief flooding his veins as he heard the contraption whirr to life. “Right away, Ulysses O’Malley, what would you like me to write down for future use, Ulysses O’Malley?” If looks could kill, surely the watch would be instantly vaporized. “One, just call me Ulysses, I thought I programmed you already? Two, scratch the note and scan the area for my rebreather, and my mobi-pack.” A couple beeps and a click later, Ulysses was relieved to hear the watch let out a magnetic pulse. Though an unsettling feeling churned in his stomach, had the company updated the watch? This seemed plausible due to the fact that it was acting as if it was wiped clean. If so what could they have possibly changed? After All the slogan was ‘Almost Too Good to be True’. The pulse was something that didn’t really faze Ulysses, L.I.V.E corporation got the heat for that in the early stages of development, though they swiftly reassured the public that the pulse wouldn’t hurt human nor animal. Even so, after the blast was sent out, he heard the faint sound of something scurrying around downstairs. . Combing a hand through his apricot hair, he scanned the room, naturally assuming he shouldn’t stay in one place for too long. ‘Okay, come on think, grab a bag a couple changes of clothing and I guess a tooth brush?’. Taking another exasperated yet deep breath, Ulysses heaved himself onto his wheelchair, reaching down to adjust his legs, making sure they were in the proper position. Moving about his house would be easier now that he was in his chair. Probably.

Wheeling himself around, he grabbed his duffel bag and sat it on his lap, tossing in his phone, a couple notebooks and pens. Glancing back towards his window, the beams of light coming through pointed directly to a shelf in his room. Maybe a book won’t hurt? Ulysses moved over to his shelf and reached up, pausing when he saw how beautiful his ring looked when it was in the sunlight. He felt his blood go cold when the thought finally hit him. Where was his husband? Where was Owen? “L.I.V.E, scan the house for Owen, NOW.” He growled into the contraption, another whir brought the watch to life. “Your RE-BREATHER is downstairs in the keybowl, and your MOBI-PACK is under your pillow.” Ulysses felt his eye twitch, muttering a thank you between angered breaths. “Owen Argall is not in the establishment, last seen location of Owen Argall is half a mile from your current location, four days ago.” Beeping, L.I.V.E went back into sleep mode. At this point, Ulysses had enough of dawdling around.

Now frantic to find out where Owen had gone, he tried to move as fast as he could, rolling his chair over to the bed. Reaching under his pillow and pulling out the mobi-pack never felt so good. With the pack back in his possession it should be easier to get around, the L.I.V.E company tried its hardest to make life easier for those who affected by disabilities. By switching it on it could attach to a person’s wheelchair and motorized arms would push and pull the wheels wherever you wanted them to go. This is another feature of the watch, after syncing to the pack, all you needed to do is make your hand into a fist and tilt it in the direction you wanted to go. “Thank god you’re still here buddy!” He tapped the on button, and felt all hope in his body drain when all the contraption could do was weakly alert him of its low battery. “With my damn luck…” Grumbling, he hung the pack on one of his wheelchair handles, making his way to the bathroom where he grabbed some soap a toothbrush and toothpaste. He wasn’t about to lose hygiene just because he’s in a dire situation, though it was strange. Ulysses pondered the thought, letting it consume him as he mindlessly packed clothing. ‘How is it possible that I've been asleep for a week...and, and my teeth aren’t even close to being nasty? I mean, s’like I brushed em a couple minutes ago, save for the minty freshness.’ Adjusting the bag, he made his way to the door and leaned over, flipping the touch pad off of the door sensor in favor for the manual buttons. 8566. The door clicked and slowly creaked open, swinging out and gingerly bumping the wall as it came to a stop. ‘Time to see what hellfire my house looks like, without Owen this place turns into a pigsty’.

Ulysses moved out of the room, arms rolling his wheels forward slowly, tentatively. Hearing his floorboards creak normally would fill him with warm relief, but now, it was ice cold. Stopping just above the ramp next to the stairs, he grabbed the clip that secured his wheelchair to the railing, so he wouldn’t slide down and crash. Carefully, he eased the wheels over the edge and onto the ramp itself. The descent was slow and tedious, though Ulysses would raise hell if he had to climb back onto his chair due to recklessness.

Clutching his chest and the wheel on his chair, he leaned forward to get a little glimpse of what his living room had in store for him. Nothing so far, that was good, or was it? Ulysses unclipped himself when he felt his wheels hit flat ground again, caution gripped firmly in his hands. ‘Where would you go...why did you leave?’ Questions filled his mind as he went around to the kitchen, moving about the house seemed natural as if nothing was wrong. Though when he passed through the threshold, a sound made him stop in his tracks. “Grrrawll…” A cold sweat soon overtook his body, hands becoming awkwardly clammy and shaky. “What the fuck…” Ulysses stopped all movement, eyes now focusing on the two furry masses in his kitchen, shifting to the pool of blood on the floor that was gradually getting bigger. The sounds of squelching and the crunches of bones made him sick to his stomach, a hand quickly coming up to cover his mouth. Wide eyes darted around his home, wanting to find something to put between himself and whatever was in his kitchen. Gasping softly, he did a little victory wiggle when his eyes landed on his speargun, happiness relief and confidence flooded his veins, clouding his judgement and actions for just a brief moment.

“Hell yeah!”

Oh boy did he regret shouting. Ulysses could only marvel at how fast his body moved. From the kitchen came an agitated sound, like claws trying to get a grip on tile, and a howl that’ll shake you to the bone. His arms ejected him from his wheelchair to the ground, landing on his stomach put him almost close enough to reach the gun. Gripping the carpet, he hauled his body forward and grabbed the weapon. He turned on his side, bracing the butt of the speargun against his knee to pull the band taut and ready it for firing. Ulysses never got that far. He turned onto his back when the snarling got louder, quickly holding the spear up as he tilted the tip vaguely in the direction of the animalistic sounds. Saying a quick goodbye to Owen, he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, ready to feel the sharp fangs sink into his flesh and rip him to shreds. But as Ulysses failed, so did the creature, it never got to feel the satisfaction of annihilating another victim. Feeling the warm blood trickle down his hands shook him from his trance.

Slowly his eyes opened, a choked sob left him at the sight of what he stabbed. “F...olly?” Ulysses screamed and threw the spear to the side, the body of the animal moving with it, falling lifelessly to the floor. It had been his beloved service dog, a five year old corgi, Folly. “No, come on girl, come on that- that can’t be you right? Right!? Folly up! Come on dear, please!” Ulysses crawled over, shock overcoming reason as his hands gripped blood soaked carpet, the fibers drinking up the fluids easily. He pulled himself closer, tears already forming and falling. “What happened to you girl?” This wasn’t the dog that he grew up with, sure it was her body but, it's as if she went feral. Ulysses took a shaky hand and gently pet Folly’s head, scratching behind her ear. A sliver of hope still remained that she would respond and get up, unscathed, as if she wasn't impaled through the chest. Dead to the world and bleeding out in a room she once brought to life.

After wiping his tears away, Ulysses knew that he had to quite literally pick himself up and carry on. Between heaving breaths, he pulled his body back to the wheelchair, which had toppled over in his haste to the weapon. ‘What the fuck is going on...first Owen now Folly? I need to get outside…’ Ulysses grunted and tugged the chair back to its upright position, yanking his body back onto it. Taking a few more gulps of air into his lungs, he tore his eyes away from Folly’s body and leaned over to put his bag back onto his lap. After fixing the position of himself and his belongings, Ulysses reached behind him and made sure the mobi-pack didn’t fly off as well. Finding the pack’s location satisfactory, he moved into the kitchen, stomach lurching once more. “Oh jeez!” Freckled hands flew up in surprise and nearly toppled the duffel bag off of him a second time. A corpse of what used to be the neighbor's cat was sprawled out on the kitchen floor, guts painting a macabre picture for the aghast man. “I thought this thing was an indoor cat?” Ulysses readjusted the bag and continued wheeling himself forward, wincing at how his wheel slid on the pool of fresh blood.

He rummaged around the kitchen for what felt like hours, heart and mind still numb from losing his best friend, hands mindlessly throwing canned food into the duffel. Making his rounds through the home wasn’t easy, without Owen to reach the things that were put on higher shelves, he had to resort to some interesting tactics. Ulysses would like to think that he’s gotten better at some of his many alternative methods. Finally shaking off the majority of his grief, Ulysses emerged from the last room in his home, sporting a pretty sizable black eye. Turns out he wasn’t as good as he thought.

For once he was glad that Owen enjoyed gardening, the gloves he found made it easier to stomach the blood that had been smeared onto his wheels. Moving past the corpse, he froze his movements when he heard it squelch. Surely it can’t still be alive, right? Turning his head, all of Ulysses attention was on the cat, eyes widened with fear as he saw the head jerk towards him, pupils dilated and fangs bared. He wheezed and shifted his chair away from the beast, taking a note that its snarling sounded a lot like Folly’s when she attacked. Whatever made Folly go deranged had to also have affected the poor feline. Though for once in this whole ordeal, Ulysses could let out a semi relieved breath, for Folly’s incursion had severed its hind legs and crushed the fore. Ulysses took a couple seconds to mourn the loss of the two pets, trying to forget one of the two was currently hissing menacing threats to him. Looking down at Folly, he took another moment to truly remember all of the times they brought joy to each other's day. Gnashing his teeth in anger, he looked away and used his sleeve to wipe away stray tears, laying down a blanket over her body when he became composed. Moving towards the door, Ulysses took a glove off and grabbed his re-breather, switching the solar option on and putting the bite bar in his mouth. The apparatus covered his nose and mouth, allowing the air to be filtered through the device, making it breathable again. With a shuddering breath, he slipping the glove back on as he steadied his hands on the wheels, gripping them firmly, it was time to go.

What did he expect on the outside of his home? Not much, the neighbors next door asking if he’s seen the cat. The ones across the street questioning him if the mailman had come by yet, the same old same old. Ulysses was determined to open the door and see his neighborhood just as he left it, full of life but still quiet and quaint.

Chaos.

Fire licked at the heavens, using the city’s skyscrapers to extend their reach, engulfing anything in its path towards the holy. Distant sounds of screaming and wailing creatures wafted through his neighborhood, shaking him to the bone. He carefully maneuvered his chair through the carnage on the street, hundreds of animals lay dead and massacred, some decapitated and others shot full of holes. From dogs to cats, birds mice and even deer and a couple bears lay dead on the asphalt. His eyes narrowed as he moved along, crossing the street to avoid some of the larger creatures. Family pets he had seen playing in their yards were hung by the street lamps, the poodle that terrorized the mail keeper had been pierced on a stake. Ulysses felt a thick coat of anger latch onto the back of his throat, choked sobs leaving his mouth as he hung his head, forcing his eyes to only focus on the path ahead. Childishly, he tried to avoid the situation altogether by simply not acknowledging it.

Ulysses wouldn’t have minded traveling like this, just mindlessly strolling down his sidewalk in search for his husband. But with the added corpses it become a different story, for now the only thing that hasn’t changed was the goal of finding Owen, the thought still lingering in the back of his mind. But because fate has a funny way of apologizing, Ulysses’ goal just became a little more realistic.

Due to the lifelessness of the neighborhood, the once moderately boisterous street now could be used as a meditation hall. This being said, sound could now travel down the long road uninterrupted by other meaningless noises. A squeak, heard a couple houses down brought some life back to Ulysses, his head raising up after what seemed like an eternity.

“Uly? I-Is that you?” Stuttered a voice, Ulysses looked up quickly and let out a breathy laugh. There he stood clutching what looked to be a modified baseball bat, spikes coming out of the tip, it wasn’t the circumstances either of them wanted to meet in but this would have to do. “Oh my stars, Owen!” Emerald eyes shimmered with hopeful tears as he excitedly pushed his wheels as fast as his arms could go, suddenly not caring if he ran over a mouse or a stray bird. “Ulysses! I was just coming back to the house, how did you...g-get past Folly?” Owen’s voice was naturally soft, a gentle sound that was often compared to a songbirds. With his husband being so mellow it was shocking to Ulysses to see blood splattered on his clothing and body. “She was rabid..All I could do was leave you in that room and go for help...Did she hurt you?” Owen asked, tucking his own long locks of hair behind his ear, face still dutifully relieved that Ulysses was seemingly unscathed.

“Glad to see you were coming back fer me! And yeah…” The mood became somber, Ulysses slipped off the gardening gloves, gently taking Owen’s hands in his. A tender action, carefully smoothing them over, face grimacing at the callouses that Owen had accumulated over the past few days. “I...had to put her down...she’s in a better place, somewhere far far away from here.” Looking up, he raised Owen’s right hand up and kissed it, the pair gazing into eachother’s eyes. For a moment their glances fell upon their rings, both reflecting the sunlight beautifully. Ulysses was the first to break the silence. “Now that i’ve found you...do you mind telling me about what this whole world has come to?” He chuckled, bashfully looking away when Owen took his hands back, Uly’s own donning the gloves again.

“Well...The company who helped us purify the air, and make technological advancements with the Mobi-Pack, they...were working on something…” Owen got behind Ulysses and helped push his chair along, a soft thank you coming from Uly. “I ran into a lot of folks that were trying to escape, ones that worked in the building.” He paused, moving the chair around a carcass of what probably was a deer. “They said the company had two new ideas to make a better profit. One was to harness the raw abilities of animals.”

Ulysses could feel the anger crawling back up his body, having an inkling where this was going. “How would they even attempt at doing that?” He asked, looking up at Owen.

“I’m not too sure about that...but the second one...wait, do you still have your watch?” Owen��s eyes widened and he squeaked, letting go of the chair in favor of moving to Ulysses’s side to take off and crush the watch. “WOAH! Babe what are you doing? What’s that for?” Now at a loss as to what’s happening, Ulysses could only gape at Owen.

“I-I’m sorry but I had to! Every time I used my watch to try and contact someone or check for any updates from the company the animals would go insane.” Lifting up his shirt, Owen revealed a poorly bandaged area of his stomach. “Do you remember the chubby cat that Mrs. Dorris had?” Owen inquired, to that Ulysses nodded and snorted.

“The really fat one that can't even use the doggy door?” “Yes..that's the one, it attacked me out of nowhere right after I tried to contact you. Even Folly started barking and growling at me!”

The pair shared a worried glance and with Ulysses nod of approval, Owen tossed the mobi-pack to the side. “The re-breather too, it was all lies Uly...I can breathe just fine and I’ve been out here for a week straight...They were lying, to get us to invest in them…” Cautiously, Owen reached for the breather, taking it off of his partner.

“This is just insane...we’re like a herd of sheep...did you meet anyone else?” Ulysses asked, discarding the gloves to his lap, rubbing his temples out of pure exasperation. “I did. It was one of the scientists.” “Did they have a cure?” Ulysses asked, disbelief in his voice, anger pooling in his fists. “No...Not yet, there are a few scientists holed up in the company's lab, trying to fix this mess they started.”

The pair stopped at the exit, looking down the hill that their homes resided on, overlooking the city and all that it used to be. Cars piled on the side, bodies of animals and humans alike crushed together, various screams and pleas for help still rung clear to Owen’s and Ulysses’ ears. “So what now?” Owen whispered, hands gripping each other so hard they had forgotten what circulation felt like. “Its simple.” Ulysses took Owen’s hand again, trying to soothe his anxious nerves. “We get to the lab, we fight back.”

“Can we do it?”

“We’ll never know until we try.”

“Together?”

“Together.”

Owen smiled down at Ulysses, the pair looking beyond the city. The glow of the evening sunset already began to take over the sky, an almost eerily calm view. “There's a place I’ve been staying at just down the road, we’ll be safe there.” Owen said, his resolve coming back thanks to his lover. Nodding at Owen, Ulysses couldn't help but wonder what they’ve done to deserve something like this. ‘We’ll take back our world.’ Ulysses thought, eyes looking down at a flier from the L.I.V.E company, floating helplessly in a puddle of rainwater. ‘I don’t know if we can do it alone, but we have to try. I’m not gonna let their mistakes change my future.’ He reached down to grab the flier, holding the soggy paper carefully, turning it around and sneering into the back of it. ‘You took our lives, our home, and our Folly. You’re not having us.’

Ulysses dropped the paper, now forgotten on the ground. The flier now being fully translucent, showed the reversed text that seemed to laugh at their plight, almost saying to the pair ‘you’re doomed’. If only it knew how wrong it was.

#E.V.I.L #my writing #short story #i think??#maybe a #novelette #Ulysses O' Malley

0 notes