#that line has so much weight behind it. so many implications even outside of that context

[vibingvoices]

Rishi Sunak's speech yesterday about the need to "protect democracy" is incredibly rich coming from an unelected PM, and it proves the closeness we are to despotism.

I am speaking from someone who partly grew up under a dictatorship. In some ways, I actually think that we're entering an even scarier era. Where I was growing up, at least officials were open about their regime. Yes, they made their people suffer greatly. But they did it openly. Still very horrible, but fascism under the disguise of democracy is, in my mind, more dangerous. And so very near.

Sunak's speech, filled with falsities, continued what his government have parroted ever since October in reaction to what is happening in Israel and Palestine. And that is the broadening of the definition of extremism to encompass dissenting voices, potentially criminalising those opposing political and financial support for Israel. That's not an exaggeration. Sunak said as much in his rambling speech.

A ceasefire should be the minimum expectation, yet leaders of the 'free world' can't even support that. If we lived in a just world, we'd have sanctions, trials and prosecutions. We'd have an end of diplomatic ties and an end of the occupation. We'd have war reparations, restoration of land and a right of return for all Palestinians.

This week, we've witnessed the extreme act of protest in the form of self-immolation, which saw a US air force airman dousing himself in gasoline outside the Israeli embassy in Washington and lighting himself on fire. Days later, the IDF targeted Palestinians seeking aid and food after killing over 30,000 of them. It's very concerning that 24 hours after the most grotesque image of someone being bulldozed by a clearly labelled IDF tank went viral on social media, that was the statement Sunak chose to make.

And yes, his speech is in reaction to what is happening in the Middle East, but its implications go beyond. His words run deep even if the current situation was magically solved tomorrow. The very act of protesting is under threat, making his lecturing on division exploitation outside Downing Street hypocritical, considering that is the driving force behind his government. He is right. There is a group in the UK fostering extremism and threatening democratic freedoms – the Conservative Party led by him. Sunak's warnings about extremism would carry more weight if his tenure as prime minister hadn't consistently promoted it.

His speech also included an endorsement of Voter ID, disenfranchising thousands. You cannot claim to protect democracy by making it harder for people to vote. The man, who again became PM through clearing and without a public vote, also said that people voting for an MP he disagrees with is an attack on democracy. It's like we're living in a dystopian satire that not even the greatest writers of our time could imagine.

And Sunak's assertion that Britain has never been on the wrong side of history in his concluding remarks is particularly troubling, considering his background and lack of acknowledgement for his ancestors who endured colonial rule for nearly 90 years in British India.

The worst part? Sunak is just one of many. If he goes, there is someone next in line to replace him and crackdown even further.

It's like playing an endless game of whack-a-mole. You get rid of one, but another pops up, and then another and another and another until we all get sicker, poorer, and sadder and die.

#rishi sunak #democracy #gaza #palestine #geopolitics #protest #right to protest #i hate doing tags #writing this has made me miserable

[psychicmarymagdalene]

sam having to say to his mother you don't have to be scared of me oh. my god oh my god??

#SCREAMING AND CRYINGGG #that line has so much weight behind it. so many implications even outside of that context #sam #mary

[paellaplease]

HAII!! if it hasnt been done yet, could you do revali x reader with basorexia? maybe reader really wants to give him a kiss but she really cant since,, yknow she has lips and he has a fuckin beak so she just decides to give him a lil smooch on the cheek? idk that was just an idea i had in mind, u dont have to write it!

22. basorexia - the overwhelming desire to kiss.

pairing: revali x reader summary:  revali spirits you away to enjoy the new years eve festivities.

   In the darkness of your room, you awoke to the sound of a soft tapping on your window. Twisting in the mess of blankets and pillows, you pushed aside the papers and textbooks that had accumulated at the foot of the bed, noticing only then that the candle at your desk had long since extinguished. 

Head pounding, you rubbed at your tired eyes, feeling heavy. How long had you been asleep?

The tapping grew more insistent, forcing you to get up. Grumbling, you allowed yourself a second to stretch, ignoring how your room felt like water sloshing in a glass. 

"Yeah, yeah. Hold on!" You said, hobbling to the window. Brushing the mess of hair from your eyes, you pulled the curtains away and roughly pushed it open. 

The culprit hovered outside, eyes bright and smug. Revali looked very much at home though he was floating at a dizzying distance away from the ground. In the sleepy haze, he looked like a painting of some myth you had read before, with the late night sky as his backdrop and the outline of your window as his frame. 

"Took you long enough."

"Apologies. I thought some tree branches were hitting the glass." 

The Rito made a show of turning in the air. "Funny, I don't see any nearby trees."

"I know," you sighed, disappointed. 

Revali rolled his eyes and poked his head through the window, feathers brushing past your cheek as he ignored your personal space in favour of scoping out your room. The stiff turn of his neck as he looked around reminded you of the curious and confused little birds that landed on the sill from time to time. 

"Quite a dreary home you have here." Gesturing to the overall darkness, he pointed to your stack of scattered papers. "You shouldn't study without proper lighting, it's bad for your eyes." 

"I was asleep."

"Why, I'm surprised. And here I thought you were one of the festive many who choose to stay awake at an ungodly hour in order to count down the remaining seconds of the year."

"Well," you shrugged, not wanting to meet his eyes. "Not like it's anything special. New year, same shit. What difference would a countdown do?" 

Biting down on your tongue, you stopped yourself from saying anymore. The cold breeze sifted past the light shirt you were wearing, making you shiver. 

He was right, normally you were one of those people who stayed up, excitedly watching the hands of the clocktower tick til they reached midnight. You enjoyed the energy of being in a collective crowd, waiting with bated breath for the first inhale and exhale you would take into the brand new year.

The final month on the Hylian calendar brought a sense of relief and a hope for new beginnings. Usually today of all days  you were at your happiest, jumping at the prospect of celebrating along with the rest of the kingdom and yet…

That sinking weight clawed at your chest again, forcing you to clamp down on it once more.

You grimaced. There it was; that bitter feeling. Hylia. How annoying. It twisted in your brain like an angry snake, pulling down your mood and enthusiasm along with it. 

Last year you wanted to cheer and dance until the morning light. Now all you felt like was staring at the wall. Or falling asleep. 

You blinked, turning back to the window to see Revali patiently waiting for you to continue. Feeling your face warm, you hustled your brain to get a move on. A coherent thought would be great right about…now!

"Hey have you ever wondered why they don't grow trees on this side of the castle? It's not fair the more expensive quarters get all the pretty greenery. I mean, non-noble guests still need that sweet oxygen everyone keeps raving about, you get me?" Shut up brain, that's enough. I said a coherent thought. C o h e r e n t. 

Stars in his wings, Revali shook his head but answered anyway. "I agree, it's hardly fair. Also go change into something warm, we need to get you outside."

"What? Why?"

Something in the Rito's expression clued you in to the fact that he wasn't in the mood to play stupid. You've been sitting in the dark for the past few days and it didn't take a private investigator to know it was playing tricks with your head. "Fine, but when I say we go back--we go back, got it?"

He huffed, turning around to give you some privacy. "I promise on my honour."

The brightly lit lanterns of the town square made you squint as you shuffled closer to your guide, the sound of the city loud in your ears.

Though less prominent, the twisting feeling in your gut continued, making you more hyper-alert than usual to the world around you. Adjusting the sleeves of your coat, you followed Revali past the streets, the Rito expertly navigating through the sea of people. 

Somewhere along the way he had taken your hand, and you told yourself it was a good way for you both to stick together. Wouldn't want you getting lost and spending the final minutes of the year playing an elaborate game of hide and seek after all. He was a great friend like that. Nevermind that everytime you would hold his wing a little tighter to remind yourself that he was there, he would always squeeze back. 

You needed a distraction. 

Just focus on everything that's not him.

The night was alive with the sound of music. It didn't matter if you partied with an alcoholic drink in hand, or a glass of milk, everyone in Hyrule was filled with an addictive buzz that came with an event that only happened once a year. Vendors with bright smiles called out from their stalls, the smell of freshly baked sweets or the sizzle of a barbecue beckoning you to take a closer look. To your left, a group of friends raised their hands in the air, loudly welcoming a Goron that had turned up late but regardless had finally arrived. 

The archer followed your line of sight, guessing the question bouncing in your head. "Daruk is in Eldin, probably rattling Death Mountain with that story again about the Moblin camp and the barrel of explosives."

"I love that story."

"Of course you would."

"Sorry about your feathers though."

"Whatever, they grew back."

"How about the one's on your--"

"Anyway," he interjected quickly, playfully nudging you to the side and glowering at your laughter. "We've been told to 'take a break'. The other Champions have chosen to spend this day with their families and loved ones. We are planning to regroup and continue preparations in the days following."

"How about you?"

"I already said it."

Your cheeks coloured at the implications of his words, mind replaying the previous sentence. Families and loved ones. Families and loved ones. He didn't even hesitate. You both were not related. So that left you with...

"Woah!" Digging your heels into the dirt, you abruptly paused your brisk walk and saved yourself from colliding with the archer's back. 

Stopping at one of the stalls, Revali held two fingers up. You glanced up at him questioningly but he refused to give anything away, expression relaxed. The vendor returned quickly, the Rito thanking them quietly and placing the payment on the bright yellow table cloth along with a large tip in their jar. 

He turned around, dropping a square shaped pastry into your hands. It was some kind of rice cake, with a fluffy exterior and a golden baked surface that smelled of butter and felt warm like the sun. 

Taking a bite, you smiled at the hints of coconut that were hidden in its sweet flavour. The sticky treat was familiar somehow. "Is this so luck sticks to you in the new year?"

Revali scoffed, though failed to hide his own smile behind the cake held in his wing. "You said the same thing when we first met. You need new material."

"Says the baron of bird puns."

"I am the king." He punctuated the statement by biting into his own rice cake. Offering his wing, he gently took your hand once more, turning back to step again into the busy promenade. 

Following him, you noticed that the crowds ever so slowly began to thin. A lantern lit hill was coming up. The grassy expanse was dotted with a few people, though it was blessingly not as populous as the town square. "I should be the one that's surprised. Thought you hated crowds unless their attentions were all on you."

"It's tolerable so long as I am with good company." 

The both of you walked up the hill with an unspoken agreement to make it to the top. Taking a seat on the grass, you allowed yourself to breathe, chest heaving from the small burst of exercise after days of being sedentary. 

The twinkling lights of Castle Town stretched out before you. Gazing at it, you could imagine all the untold stories hidden in the glowing little pockets of the alleys and in the hushed whispers behind closed doors. Funny how in a city so full of people, one can feel so alone. 

Revali was the first to speak, breaking you from your thoughts. "I think I can understand now. Looking at it from this distance, it really can feel like nothing much has changed."

You continued to stare at the lights, trying to focus on a certain string in an attempt to ground yourself. "Yeah. Sometimes it feels like though the world continues to spin, I'm remaining completely still. Just stagnant."

Frowning, you ran your hands through the grass, feeling the dirt shift under your fingers. You could feel your frustrations building, bubbling up to the surface with no way of dragging them back down. 

"And the challenges just get worse every year. How am I going to face those old problems and these new ones if I'm still the same lost person I was back then?"

Your voice echoed at the last sentence, making you hide your head in embarrassment. That was loud. 

Some strangers relaxing on the hill turned around to flash you an annoyed glare, before quickly returning to their picnics after spotting the Great Eagle Bow on your friend's back. 

 "I'm so sorry." You wanted more than anything then to dig a hole and hibernate preferrably for the next hundred years or so. "I'm yelling, that isn't like me. I'm so so--"

"There's nothing to be sorry about. You needed to say it." He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. There was a serious element to it that made it a little hard to breathe. "There is one part of that I don't agree with, however."

"What is it?"

"That entire section about you, how did you put it, stagnanting." He twisted a wing in the air, thinking on his words before pointing a feather directly at your face. "You're fully capable of enacting the change you want to see in yourself."

You felt a little dizzy now. But another kind of dizzy, one very different from the vertigo you felt waking up in the darkness of your room. 

"And who said you were exactly the same as you were back then? You've changed. In a good way. You're stronger and more capable of things I'm sure the person you were two years ago or even less couldn't even fathom doing." 

Turning to face you, Revali gave you his full attention, compelling you to do the same as the cadence of his speech joined the steady rhythm of your own beating heart. From the back of your mind, you could barely register the sound of people gathering together, their voices floating into the cold night air. 

'Ten!'

"It's difficult to see your own progress from a distance."

'Nine!'

"So take my advice and start looking at yourself up close for once."

'Eight!'

He had that expression on his face, one that said he was thinking too hard about something. It was like watching him try to pull the planets together with just a piece of string. His brows were furrowed so deep that your fingers wished to run over his feathers and smoothe the worried creases. 

'Seven!'

You slowly reached out to him, giving him enough time to back away. Revali stilled as your hands traced up the nape of his neck, leaning in as his pulse thrummed underneath the soft pads of your fingertips. 

'Six!'

He opened his beak the moment you reached his face. You paused, half expecting him to tell you to let go and pretend like it never happened. 

Instead, he called out your name. 

'Five!'

He said your name again, though quieter now. It was enough to tug at the invisible force drawing you two together. Enough so that the polite distance nervously enforced by the both of you gradually began to dissipate, trailing away like a ribbon of smoke as you both leaned in closer.

'Four!'

"May I--," He cleared his throat, eyes darting away for a second before they were back on you again. Bright green in the lantern light. Emeralds in the desert sand. 

'Three!'

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes."

'Two!'

"Your way or mine?" You couldn't help but joke. Revali smiled, exhaling a soft joyful laugh before pressing his forehead to yours. 

'One!'

'Happy New Year!'

An earth-shaking boom rattled your ears, but all you could think of in that moment was Revali and the feel of his feathers against your skin; the utter elation of being so close to someone you deeply cared for and that cared just as deeply for you. 

In the dazzling light you lifted your head from his, both your eyes meeting for a brief moment. Hands moving, you gently angled his face with a steady hand, feeling then the soft, butterfly light brush of his wings on your waist.

Closing your eyes again, you leaned in to press your lips against his beak, the blush on your face warmer than any fever or furnace. The Rito's soft sigh was barely audible as you trailed your kisses upwards, stopping at the red circle on his cheek. 

Revali laughed again as you turned his face to press a kiss to the identical red mark on the other side. "You're very thorough."

"You deserve it." You beamed. "And this is just the beginning, just you wait at the end of the countdown I'll--"

"Actually my dear," he grinned, pointing to the sky. 

"Huh?"

Above you were the vibrant colours of the firework display. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring, but a confirmation that you were definitely minutes in to the new year.

"Oh," you said, before shaking your head with a smile. "It's fine, we got 12 more months to prepare ourselves for the next one."

Revali nodded, pulling you closer so he could press your foreheads together again.

"Indeed," he grinned. "Now will you finish your sentence? What exactly were you going to do at the end of the countdown?"

fin. 

#revali x reader #revali #botw #revali botw #prompt fic #more taggs later #i wrote this entirely on my phone so apologies for any errors #been thinking about this for a long time #also very late but happy new years #paella writes

[bosspigeon]

a space between the shadows

My VERY last-minute prompt fill for @wayhavensummer, which turned into YET ANOTHER character study of my Sad Werewolf Detective~ Prompt: 🌈First Pride, Belonging Pairing: Adam/Male Detective, Bonus Found Family Vibes~ Words: 2137 Summary: Arlo has some... complex feelings around his identity, his relationship with his closest friend, and who he is supposed to be in a place like Wayhaven. CW for allusions to homophobia, slurs, and implications of religious trauma/bigotry

Seeing as someone actually bothered to submit paperwork this time, Arlo feels it’s safe to assume there will be no (or at least fewer) strange supernatural occurrences involved in this festival. Still, he’s not sure what to make of it.

“I don’t… have to go, do I?” he asks Tina.

Tina blinks slowly at him, as if he’s suddenly become the stupidest creature to ever draw breath. “Yes,” she says simply.

“I’m just a detective, and it’s Wayhaven, it won’t be anything crazy, so I don’t have to be there to keep things—”

“Oh, no, of course not,” she interjects, well acquainted with his nervous babbling by now. He’s barely exhaled his relieved sigh when she leans her elbows on his desk and grins in his face. “We’re going in a purely civilian capacity.”

“But I don’t want to,” he says quietly, and he knows he sounds like a pouty little kid, but he can’t help it.

Tina pouts mockingly right back at him. “I don’t care.”

And that sort of sums up their entire relationship, he thinks.

Adam, of course, is about as pleased as Arlo is. Unfortunately, Adam has not yet learned what Arlo knew by sixteen— that there is no force in the known universe more powerful than Tina Poname's stubbornness. She simply can't be defeated.

"She's a little bisexual juggernaut," Arlo sighs. He's annoyed, sure, but he can't keep the fondness from his tone as he watches her swan back and forth from the safety of the sitting room.

Naturally, Tina and Felix get on like a house on fire, and the two of them have commandeered Arlo's studio. The floor is a minefield of water cups, washable paint, and drying posters. Felix has Tina's flag tied around his neck like a cape.

Mason disappeared the second the first tube of paint was popped open, though his sharpy retort of "I like what I like" when Tina asked what his persuasion was (so that she could make him a poster as well) did launch her into her practiced dissertation on the intricacies of bi and pan identities, and how they mean similar things, how at their core neither are meant to be exclusive, and it is simply a matter of personal identity and choice which one suits an individual best.

"Have you been to a Pride festival before?" Nate asks, setting down two mugs of tea on Arlo's coffee table, carefully out of the way of the map of Wayhaven he and Adam are poring over. More for Adam's peace of mind than anything. It's mostly taking place in the local park, and while there will be a parade, the route is short enough to keep things contained.

"Yeah, once," Arlo says with a shrug, and he and Adam are sitting close enough on the sofa for their shoulders to brush with the motion. "When I was at uni."

Nate hums and sits down in the armchair across from them. "I assume it was… unpleasant for you?"

Arlo smiles, flustered, and rubs at the back of his neck. "It was fine. Fun, even. I mean, I went to art school, so the turnout was great. Nerve-wracking, yeah, because so many people, but seeing your anthropology professor riding a mechanical bull in little more than nipple pasties is one hell of a distraction."

He can feel the scandalized look Adam is giving him, but he knows if he turns to meet his eyes, he'll blush all the way to his hairline, so he sips deeply from his mug instead.

Nate tilts his head, lips pursed. There's a brief twitch of amusement to them, but it settles as his brow furrows thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I don't understand. If you had a good time at the last festival you attended, why are you so hesitant to participate in one closer to home?"

Arlo looks down at his mug, thumbing at a chip in the black enamel, exposing an ellipse of white ceramic underneath. The silence is heavy, and he knows if he lets it go on too long, Nate's going to start apologizing, so he sighs hard through his nose before he barrels on. "It's… it's different here. Back at school, I wasn't… I wasn't the Detective's weird brat. I was just Priestley, the weird performing arts major." He picks a little harder at his mug. "Might sound odd, but I didn't have to perform there, not the way I do here. I could just be Arlo. Not a shadow. Just… the fuckoff huge goth from your sociology lecture hall who just so happens to like men."

He doesn't look up, but he can tell Nate is chewing over the information. As he considers, Adam shifts on the sofa, closing the bare inch of space between them so their thighs press together. Arlo peeks up, and Adam's giving him that look. The one that makes him go all soft around the edges. "I know small towns can be… conservative," he begins, and his mouth twists distastefully around the word. "But I have never gotten the impression that Wayhaven was…"

"Anything but refreshingly progressive," Nate finishes for him.

Arlo looks up with a wry smile. "Yeah, no, it's great on that front. I'm damned lucky I didn't have to grow up with Rebecca's family. It's just…" He shifts his weight, and before he can sprout claws to really start menacing his poor mug, Adam plucks it from his hands and sets it out of the way. "There's a legacy for me here," he murmurs. "One I never asked for. Sure, I don't have to worry about getting called slurs," he chews his lip, "at least, not anymore after the whole Graham thing, but I'm still… I don't really get to be me here. People here don't look at me and see Arlo. They see Rook's kid. They see Detective Priestley the Second." He huffs out a laugh. "I didn't even get to come out on my own here. I honestly don't think I ever have outside of school. Everyone knows everything they want to know about me, because I've been a landmark since I was born. This month, it's just a landmark with a rainbow flag."

Nate is giving him that sad-eyed look he gets whenever Arlo and Rebecca get into it. The one that says he wants to help, but he's not sure how.

Arlo rubs his hands over the worn denim of his dark jeans, picking at a frayed thread. There’s a spiderweb of cracks forming in the fresh coat of black polish on his thumb where the nail has begun to thicken in response to his emotional state. He sighs a little, but he doesn’t have the time to sink too deeply into his own head, because there is a pale hand creeping cautiously over his.

“Why do it, then?” Adam asks, head tilted and brows drawn, as if he truly doesn’t understand. “Officer Poname cares deeply for you. I am sure she would understand if you were honest with her.” His lips twitch faintly, and the smile he gives Arlo is touching in its earnest, if stilted, effort. “Bisexual juggernaut or no. Though, she is only little to you.”

Arlo snickers weakly, turning his face away so he can hide behind the fall of his hair. Adam doesn’t let him hide, though, brushing it out of his face, knuckles skimming the detective’s cheekbone. Arlo can’t help but sigh and lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

There’s a crash and a cry from the other room, but it’s Nate’s startled noise that makes the two of them leap apart as if burned, putting a few inches of space between them.

Arlo’s face flushes hotly when Nate smiles at them, and there’s a mischievous twinkle to his dark eyes. “I wonder what that’s about!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together and springing to his feet. “I’ll go check on them, shall I? Make sure they’re not causing too much trouble.” And before Arlo can even stutter out a… something—an explanation, or maybe an apology for third-wheeling the poor man—Nate is striding off towards the studio with a spring in his step the detective can’t help but find incredibly mocking.

He closes the door behind him with a parting smile and a decisive click.

They’re left on the sofa sitting guiltily apart like a pair of teenagers caught canoodling, and surprisingly it’s Adam who breaks the stalemate by huffing through his nose and turning to Arlo again, reaching out for his hand and tugging it between his own. “You were saying?” he presses gently, his thumb tracing ticklish lines alone Arlo’s palm.

Arlo tilts his head and sighs “I guess I just… Tina’s like my sister, you know? And we wound up going to different universities in different cities, and I didn’t really get to share any of those big milestones with her. She’s not the type to be jealous I made other friends or went and had fun without her, but it feels sort of… I want to be able to share this with her, since she was one of the first people who ever bothered to… to not just care about me, but to care about me enough to…” He furrows his brow and chews at his lip, trying to figure out how to make sense of the feelings he’s never really been able to express out loud. “Neither of us belonged here, really. Sure, I was born here, but I never really felt like I was supposed to be here. I just felt like I was filling a space someone more important than me left vacant.”

He looks down at Adam’s hands, sturdy and strong, tangled up around his freckled, long-fingered one. He swallows. “Tina’s the one who looked at that space, then decided it wasn’t for either of us, and she carved out one that was.” He smiles fondly, thinking of the way Tina bullied her way into his lonely life and gave it some much-needed color. “She made a space where we could both fit. It was messy, and awkward, and we were still outcasts, but we were outcasts together.” He laughs, and it sounds suspiciously wet even to his own ears. Thankfully, Adam doesn’t bring attention to it. “Christ, I’m rambling. Does this make any sense at all?”

Adam is quiet, thoughtful for a moment, but he squeezes Arlo’s fingers to draw his eyes up again. He’s smiling, a real smile, one that Arlo is seeing more and more these days. A man could get addicted to a smile like that. “It does,” he murmurs, bringing Arlo’s hand to his mouth to brush a kiss to his palm. It’s such a simple little touch, it barely lasts a second, but it steals all the air from Arlo’s lungs.

Adam shifts, and his face scrunches a bit. “While I won’t say I am looking forward to the chaos, I am…” He looks up at Arlo again, his brows drawn, his jaw set with the same fierce determination with which he stares down trappers. “I am honored to share this with you.”

It is really not fair, the way he can just say things like that, things that would sound trite and cheesy coming from anyone else, with such naked honesty. Arlo has no choice but to kiss him. He’s rewarded by a sweet, startled noise rumbling against his mouth, but he draws back before they can get too distracted, seeing as their friends are just a room away. If Adam is pouting, Arlo’s certainly not going to be the one to tell him.

“I guess, in a way, it’s a first for the both of us, right?” he coughs, just to ease the heavy atmosphere a bit. “My first Pride in Wayhaven, and your first entirely.” He pokes Adam in the chest. “We’ll have to get you a flag. You look good in pastels.”

“Are you certain the rainbow is not too at odds with your aesthetic?” Adam teases in return.

“Goth is a state of mind,” Arlo replies archly.

They laugh quietly together, shifting again to close the distance between them. Adam turns to face Arlo more fully, their shoulders bumping in a way that is incredibly comforting in its charming awkwardness. “What is wrong with Agent Priestley’s family?” he asks, keeping his voice low so as not to draw the attention of their companions chattering in the other room.

Arlo tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a tense grimace. “Catholic,” he snorts.

Adam’s expression mirrors his so perfectly, Arlo has to clap a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t bark out a laugh. “Ah,” the vampire says primly. “I understand.”

Arlo gives up and collapses against the vampire, snickering helplessly into his neck.

#the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavensummer #adam du mortain #a du mortain #tina poname #i hope this makes any sort of sense #i know i kinda went off the wall w the prompt #but my logic is that there's ANOTHER prompt that will be for the actual festival #so this is more an introduction to the First Pride???? #fhdkjashdkjsg if its bad its bad okay #yeehaw #oc: arlo priestley #arlo's issues aren't with his identity so much as with the fact that his identity never really mattered to people in wayhaven #just who his parents are #arlo wants to be allowed to be himself without feeling like he has to live up to someone else first #and tina helped him with that #tina is the one who helped him feel pride #so he wants to be able to share this with her #its not directly mentioned here but naturally adam is trans yeehaw #pidge writes

[ayellowcurtain]

I can be your lover

Part 7

Robbe knows Sander is staring, finding the awkwardness between them funny and not gut wrenching like he is. And Robbe is happy to be around Sander too but the guilt is still in the back of his mind.

It’s a nice surprise that Sander doesn’t hold anything he did or said against him. It helps with all the other bad feelings he’s trying to subside, to pile in the back of his brain, trying to make them smaller and smaller so he can focus on what’s happening now. Sander being chill with him, so much so that it feels like he’s making fun of them for being quiet and awkward.

“You went back to the bleached hair…” Robbe tests the waters himself, wanting to know how chill Sander really is. Because he’s amazing at keeping a straight face but Robbe knows he’ll feel in his words and his tone if he’s being nice just to be nice.

Sander nods his head, drinking his beer, his eyes still never leaving Robbe’s. He’s so comfortable and relaxed, leaning against the old and fancy back porch rail, acting like they haven’t just spent years with no contact because Robbe was rude and sabotaged their first attempt of a relationship. It feels nice, the best feeling, honestly, but Robbe can’t forget as easily about the last few times they talked before this.

“I did. As another part of this...restart again.”

Robbe laughs, leaning against the side wall next to him so he can stare back at Sander and stand on his shaky legs.

“How was it? Moving back, I mean…”

Sander shrugs, looking at the view from Noor’s balcony, “I think it’s a lot easier when you’re moving with no intention of doing it again any time soon.”

“Are you staying with your parents?”

Sander looks at him and he doesn’t have to say it, Robbe knows it’s not Sander’s favorite thing to do: go back to living with his parents. They’re lovely but they’re also overprotective and Sander has very little patience after so many years dealing with it daily.

“Yes.” He grunts. “Hopefully for just a few days.”

Robbe exhales shakingly, not sure if it’s because he’s a little cold after drinking freezing cold beers or because of this conversation, face to face with Sander, “Are you looking for a place already?”

Sander nods his head again, leaning against the rail behind him again, putting his beer on the floor next to his feet.

“You wanna see some apartments with me?”

Robbe feels a heat wave rush up through his entire body right away with the implications of that, even though he knows Sander is just making a joke again, loving to make Robbe feel all types of embarrassment and fondness at the same time. Robbe daydreams for a second about seeing a bunch of apartments with Sander, thinking about how they would decorate each one, how it fits for their lives and routines, even their serious conversations about how they would pay their bills would make Robbe excited. He gently rubs his fingers against each other, no bruises or skin asking to be peeled.

That’s how it always was between them: Sander likes to tease Robbe in any way he can because he knows Robbe gets both shy and more in love when Sander is being weird.

“No…”

“I think it would be fun.” Sander snorts, smiling like Robbe hasn’t hurt him constantly for the past few years, “I mean it, Robbe. I’ll behave myself.”

“Says the one that couldn’t keep his hands to himself if we dared to be shirtless around each other by accident, or took a shower together.” Robbe teases right back, knowing he’ll lose if he plays the teasing game with Sander.

“But that’s not fair, c’mon! You’re talking about us being horny teenagers and half naked or completely naked around each other. There’s no chance of behaving in those scenarios.”

They laugh it off, looking at each other until it fades out back to silence, staying quiet for some time, looking at each other, surprisingly keeping their distance and the light, playful conversation. The pile Robbe was trying to minimize is completely gone now.

“Are you missing your old life already?” Robbe puts his head to the side against the wall and he notices Sander losing his focus, staring down at his exposed neck before meeting Robbe’s eyes again.

“No. Not really. I just got here so maybe it’ll happen later. But I’m happy to be home, even if living with my parents for a second.” Sander looks down, smiling to his thoughts, and up again, suddenly with those puppy eyes with a hint of cockiness if Robbe can stare long enough to find it, “And are you happy that I’m home?”

“Yeah…” Robbe takes a deep breath in, filling his lungs to the maximum “I’m sorry for making your life a mess the past few years. But yes, I’m selfishly happy that you’re home. It doesn’t mean anything, of course…”

“It can…” Sander says just above a whisper, in that challenging way he can use whenever he wants that something to happen. It’s hard to have a normal conversation with someone you’re clearly still very much in love with. Robbe knows him too well not to notice these changes in his gaze, in his tone and he’s still able to understand what each of them means.

“I see you came to this party just to make my life more difficult...”

Sander sighs, grabbing his beer from the floor to finish it at once, licking his lips, putting the empty bottle back on the floor. He shakes his head slowly, as if even he isn’t sure himself of his negative movement.

“You think I’m too hurt to give us a second chance and that you don’t deserve it if I do. And you feel bad that you’re the main reason why we spent the past long years apart. You were always the overthinker and that’s okay. I was always the one that only cared about us, fuck the rest. And that’s okay. We’re different people, you not being able to make a life changing decision so quickly doesn’t make you a bad person. Me still desperately wanting you back after everything doesn’t make me weak for a bad person.”

Robbe swallows the little saliva he has in his mouth, slowly trying to digest all the hard truths that were just said, put out like it was nothing when it felt like the heaviest weight on his shoulders for all these years. Sander is not wrong but hearing him say it so blunty, a very Sander way of doing things if Robbe can say so himself, makes everything feel a lot more real - and meaningless compared to the thunder storm Robbe had in his mind whenever he thought about it privately - and it’s easier for Robbe to fully comprehend when someone explains it to him by their point of view.

“It wasn’t fair to keep you in the middle while I was...struggling mentally all over again.”

“It really wasn’t fair for you to not give me a choice but I get it in a way. It’s not the same but if I was brave enough I wouldn’t want you around when I have an episode. But I’m too attached to ask you to ever leave me alone like you did with me.” Sander exhales, smiling at him, “Now that we got that out of our way, can we leave?”

Robbe laughs, in shock, opening and closing his mouth, wanting nothing more than to leave with Sander. But he’s sure everyone is watching them from the inside, wanting to know what’s going on. The second they get inside and go straight to the front door, he knows his friends will tease them about it. Every time they stop talking, Robbe can almost be sure that the music inside is a little too low for a party.

And it still feels uncertain, how they’ll feel about this once they’re awake tomorrow, thinking more clearly, the adrenaline of finally seeing each other and fixing what they can of their problems out of their system after a good night of sleep and hours to get rid of all the alcohol they drank.

“Yes.” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since Sander left in that plane years ago. Even if he’s scared, his brain doesn’t seem to give him any other option because why would he say no to running away with Sander?

Sander grabs the bottle from the floor and Robbe pushes himself to stand up properly, turning around to push the glass door open, hearing the soft music playing inside quickly embrace them too - definitely too low for a party - and he can only hope the balcony door has a level of soundproofing. He can’t look at anyone in the eyes so he makes a bee line to the front door with no excuse in mind, hoping Sander is following him.

He can’t hear a single comment or a laugh but he can feel the anticipation of everyone noticing how they are already leaving, and together, and he laughs under his breath, rushing past the door, closing it behind him, waiting outside, not even sure at this point if this was what he was supposed to do.

Sander appears after a long, nerve wracking minute, closing the door behind him, smiling at Robbe.

“Did they say anything?” Robbe asks, feeling dumb for staying outside even if just for another second. Anyone can come out and make fun of them.

“Noor came with me to the door. She was staring and not saying a word and they were laughing. I’m pretty sure some advice was whispered but I wasn’t paying that much attention to take notes. You want me to go back inside and check…?” He points back, threatening to go back inside and Robbe holds the sleeve of his jacket.

“No!”

Sander laughs and Robbe shakes his head, blushing, rushing downstairs, finally. It does feel like an escape, makes his heart beat fast and he laughs when he hears Sander’s snort echoing around the building.

He holds the massive front door open for Sander and they start walking home. They know where they’re going and to do what but Robbe can't bring himself to kiss Sander on the street like he so badly wants to do it.

“Use condoms, you dirty boys!” Moyo screams, half his body out from the apartment window and Milan appears too.

“And lube! Lube, Robbe!”

“Will do.” Sander doesn’t scream back, but answers anyway, loud enough for anyone on the sidewalk level to hear, showing his thumb up to the boys that wave back to them and blow kisses.

“That wasn’t embarrassing.” Robbe smiles, looking around them, a little more at peace when he doesn’t find anyone on the street or looking at them from any window.

“It could be worse.”

“How, exactly?”

“They could be coming with us to buy those things…” Robbe laughs because that would really be a lot, a lot worse.

Robbe bites his bottom lip, walking sideways to look at Sander.

“So you don’t have condoms...or lube…?” He frowns, very ashamed to be asking.

“I didn’t want to assume anything coming here tonight.”

“Good. Right. You’re right.”

“Thank you.” Robbe is still thinking about them, stopping to buy condoms and lube on their way home, when he feels Sander’s hand going from one of his shoulders to the other one, finally hugging him, pulling Robbe to face him, walking back, hoping Sander is looking at where they are going.

“Fuck, I miss you, Robbe.”

“I miss you too.” Robbe feels their hearts beating almost just as fast and as loud against each other, and he puts his arms around Sander’s waist inside his jacket, pressing them closer, looking up in a quiet way to ask for a kiss, “I can’t believe you’re home.”

#wtfock #robbe ijzermans #sander driesen #sobbe #robbe x sander #*screaming in excitment!!!*

[archonanqi]

fragile as dust  / 3

🔖 [first] [prev] [next]

---

ch 3 | first impressions

    Please, sit,” the man offered. His voice was back to the way it was before, quiet, gentle and solemn. You obeyed, sitting gingerly on the edge of one of the wooden seats. “May I have your name?”

    “Hansi, sir.” Quickly, you add, “though sir can call me whatever sir likes.”

    “Hansi,” he murmured. In his lips, your name — something that’s been baggage all your life, a reminder of the woman who threw you away — sounded like divinity. “Please, call me Zhongli.”

    Okay. The meeting was not going at all how you expected. But then again, it was what you figured: honorable in public, but behind closed doors—

    “Yes, Mr. Zhongli,” you nodded.

    “Would you like some tea?” He gestured to the other cup in the middle of the table. It was filled with a faint, golden liquid. “Please, help yourself. It’s Pu’Er.”

    You only froze for a second. Sure, you’d play along. You thanked him, reaching for the cup. It burned your fingers through the porcelain, but Archons be damned if you were going to drop and break it. You took a small sip. It scorched your parched throat all the way down.

    “How is it?”

    “It’s good, sir—“

    “Zhongli,” he reminded you gently.

    “It’s good, Mr. Zhongli.” It was not a lie — you wouldn’t be able to tell good tea from boiled grass, but the cup you just downed warmed your stomach and soothed your frayed nerves.

    “I’m glad to hear that,” he smiled, and suddenly — too late — you realized that maybe you shouldn’t have drunk something that you hadn’t watched this strange man prepare. You knew of the drugs that these men sometimes slipped into the food they gave to street rats like you, you’d seen many a woman and child stolen away because of it.

    You cursed yourself — what had happened to keeping your guard up? Was a soothing voice and pretty face all it took to earn your trust these days?

    You stiffened as he raised a gloved hand. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but you certainly were not expecting him to launch into a monologue about the history of Pu’Er tea.

    He did, anyway, losing you somewhere between “harvested from the caves of Ling’ju Pass” and “aged delicately for fifteen years”. To say that his behavior had transcended bewildering was an understatement. Was this some kind of setup? A sick joke that rich people played on their new servants and slaves?

    You realized that he’d stopped talking, clearly awaiting a response.

    “Wow, aged for fifteen years. That’s a uh, long time,” you offered lamely. Archon help you.

    “It may seem so,” Zhongli mused, “but it’s precisely that fermentation process that gives the Pu’Er tea its signature flavor. Fifteen years is but a small price to pay for such a unique experience, don’t you think?”

    Briefly, you remembered all the trinkets and wallets and jewelry you’d stolen from passersby, how desperately you’d pawned them off at the nearest willing merchant for the promise of a meal or two.

    “Yes,” you agreed, even though you couldn’t begin to imagine being rich enough to wait fifteen years to sell something.

    It had been a few minutes since you’d drunk the first sip of tea, and you were still fine. Besides, he was drinking from the same pot. Maybe the tea was safe, after all. You took another sip, finishing your cup. Despite yourself, you found yourself hoping that Zhongli would continue talking in that silky voice of his, even if it was just about fermented tea leaves.

    “I do apologize for rambling the evening away. I’m sure you’re exhausted from your journey.” He continued, “If you’re finished with your tea, perhaps we should head home. We can talk tomorrow, once you’ve rested.”

    Home. You swallowed a dry retch, the implications stuck in your throat. Of course. It served you right for forgetting what you were here for. Behind closed doors—

    “Yes. We can go if that’s what pleases you, Mr. Zhongli.” Your voice broke twice in that sentence. If Zhongli noticed, he did not say anything about it.

    He rose from his seat, and suddenly you realized just how tall, how solid he was. If you ran, he would catch you. If you fought back—

    Sweeping by you, he opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing into the night air. “After you.”

---

    You trailed a few feet behind him as you two walked through the quiet, twisting alleys of Liyue. You thought you knew the city well enough, having lived on its streets for as long as you had, but he seemed to know the back roads of the city like it were an extension of his own body.

    You took a deep breath to calm yourself. He left behind a faint lingering scent of flowers — like the glaze lilies you’d stolen from Yujing Terrace to pawn, but mostly, he smelled of warmth — earthy, spices, the fresh spring grass.

    Seeing Zhongli in all his standing glory made you suddenly and horribly aware of how unsightly you were in comparison. You’d been cleaned up before the escort, but there were still yellowing bruises that the damp cloth couldn’t erase, chewed fingernails and frayed hair and rib bones that jut out from under pallid skin. And while the dress you were wearing was the nicest thing you’d ever owned, it was but rags in comparison to the elegant outfit Zhongli was clad in.

    Your gaze stopped at his waist, and the golden gem dangling at his belt.

    “Is that a Vision?” you blurted, and immediately regret it. “I’m sorry, it’s not my place to ask about you, Mr. Zhongli.”

    “Please, never apologize for speaking your mind,” Zhongli answered, without missing a stride. “And to answer your question, yes. A Geo Vision.”

    The one at your chest is still warm against your skin. “That’s amazing,” you say, and you meant it. Vision users were powerful people capable of unbelievable feats — even raised on the streets, you knew that. You wondered how Zhongli got his Vision: a fight, perhaps, against the ferocious monsters that roamed the wilderness outside Liyue Harbor?

    If Zhongli had a Vision, there was no longer any doubt about it: the Vision given to you was a mistake. How could you ever hope to compare to someone like him? “You must be an incredible person, if Rex Lapis himself acknowledged you.”

    Zhongli did take pause at that, peering at you with a strange look in his eyes. A small smile danced across his lips. “That is one way to think of it,” he acknowledged, as he continued walking. “It has been said that Rex Lapis only grants Visions to those he deems the most worthy.”

    The rest of the trek was silent, until he stopped walking so suddenly that you almost bumped into him. You looked up from the ground, and found your breath taken away by the sculpture before you. It was a statue of Rex Lapis — there were plenty around Liyue, but tonight, silver stone gleaming under a sky full of stars, he looked ethereal.

    “This was cast by the first generation of Hanfeng Ironmongers, long before mankind mastered the properties of flame and the forge,” Zhongli said, citing the name of the most famous clan of blacksmiths in Liyue Harbor. “Each time I pass it, I like to take a moment to stop and admire it. It’s a beautiful statue.”

    “Beautiful,” you echoed absently, “he’s beautiful.” This was the Archon who had saved your life with that Vision, whether he’d meant to or not. You offered a silent prayer — of unyielding gratitude, for forgiveness, and for mercy. When you opened your eyes, Zhongli was eyeing you with a strange look on his face.

    “I would ask you what you prayed for,” he chuckles, “but some superstitious folk would say then that your prayers won’t come true. Shall we continue? We are almost home.”

---

    After ten more minutes of walking, you could feel your ankles trembling under the weight of your body. You and Zhongli had left Liyue, and begun walking through the forests on the outskirts of the city. Finally, he came to a stop in front of a house tucked into the foliage of a valley. It was a sizable estate, with a walled back garden and two floors, but you were mildly surprised that he hadn’t brought you to a castle, at this point.

    Zhongli unlocked the door and gestured, again, for you to go ahead. Your stomach in knots, you took your first step into your new home — and prison.

    It was warm.

    Embers crackled in the fireplace of the living room, casting a faint golden glow on the tasteful, lavish furniture that lined the floor. There were tapestry scrolls on either side of the fireplace here too. You don’t understand the poetry written on these ones, either.

    “Welcome to my home,” Zhongli said, walking past you. He did not touch you. “We have much to discuss, but that can wait until tomorrow. You look like you’re on the brink of collapse, and we can’t have you getting sick from exhaustion.” Despite yourself, you feel a small twinge of something at that — you’d never, in your life, had someone care about your health. He probably just doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of a sick servant, you told yourself.

    “Let us go to bed and have a good night’s sleep first,” Zhongli continued, and anything you’d felt quickly soured.

    Bed. You swallowed the panic rising bright and hot in your lungs. You might not be as educated as he surely was, but you were not naive. You knew that sleep was not what you would be getting tonight. The plea got stuck on your tongue. What could you say, to stop this rich, powerful man from claiming what was his?

    “Let me show you to your room.” He beckoned at you to follow as he strode down a long hallway. You blinked, too stunned to obey for a moment, before running after him.

    “My room?” You asked.

    “Yes.” He paused at the end of the hallway, opening one of the doors to reveal a cozy bedroom. Like everything else about Zhongli, it was tastefully decorated — lush, dark green curtains framing a circular window. A bed sat in the corner of the room, adorned with thick blankets and more pillows than you’d ever seen in your life.

    “This room was a study until very recently, and so these drawers are still currently full of my things,” Zhongli gestured to the bedside table, “but the closets are empty and free for you to use. I was thinking that we could go shopping for some clothes for you tomorrow, if you were feeling well enough. I do apologize for not purchasing any in advance, I was not sure of your measurements—“

    “Wait,” you said, afraid to let yourself hope. “Wait. We won’t be sharing a bed?”

    He turned to look at you, surprise briefly flashing in his eyes, and you’d never wanted to take back a sentence so badly in your life. A palpable silence draped the room, as Zhongli studied you so intently that you thought you might fall over dead, right then and there.

    “Truthfully tell me,” he said, voice as low as a hum. “Is that what you would want?”

    It took all of your courage to shake your head.

    “Then we will have our separate rooms,” Zhongli said, with an air of decisive finality, and continued like he hadn’t just shaken your world. “I will show you around the house tomorrow. There is water in the jug by your bed. Is there anything you might need for the night?”

    You shake your head mutely, again.

    “Very well. My room is right across the hall — please do not hesitate to shout if you need anything.” Zhongli smiled, and it’s so beautiful that you had to shake the shivers from your spine. “Good night, Hansi.”

    There it was again, your name in his lips — divine.

    Zhongli closed the door gently behind him, and you sunk to your knees, all the strength suddenly gone from your body. You’d survived the first evening with your new master. You’d survived.

    Once you picked yourself back up, you peeled your Geo Vision out from under the dress, taking your first look at it under the proper light of an oil lamp. It’s unframed, of course, unlike Zhongli’s, but the golden gemstone was identical in all other ways — catching the light in all its facets with a dazzling shimmer. When you put it into the bedside drawer, shoving it under the piles of scrolls and parchments, you were surprised to feel a twinge of sadness.

    Stupid. How could you miss something that was not rightfully yours?

    Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little excited as you clambered into the bed — your first very bed! Sinking into the sheets (they smelled heavenly), you let out an embarrassingly loud sigh of contentment.

    There was a little voice in the back of your head screaming — and part of you still knew, irrefutably, that you can’t trust Zhongli — but the call of sleep is much, much louder. You let your heavy lids fall shut, and quickly fell into the most comfortable slumber of your life.

#zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli fanfic #genshin fanfic #zhongli fanfiction #genshin zhongli #fragile as dust #my writing

[mggpleasedontlookhere]

it should’ve been you pt. 2

summary: after getting suspended after the incident on the jet, y/n has a hard time dealing with the aftermath of the situation, only then she realizes that her and spencer are one and the same

word count: 3,825                                                                                     reading time aprox: 14 mins

masterlist

part 1

3 months.

It has been 3 months since Spencer had been charged with suspension in participating in any cases. In regards to the reprimands brought upon me by Hotch, I had received a mere 1 month of suspension for my violent act on the jet. 

Truth be told, the 1 month was worth it 

The words that ardently escaped Spencer’s lips that day sat perpetually ingrained on my mind, next to the lingering memory of his belligerent eyes. Despite my indignation of Spencer’s behavior, his words added to the ever growing grief of Ryler’s death, self reproach fueling my mind. 

But at the end of the day, some of the blame could be brought on Spencer. He should’ve spoke up sooner if he had clue that I wasn’t efficient in the field. He should’ve done something to prevent Ryler’s death. 

Right?

I had just gotten back from my suspension, completing the final reports of a case and handling the tedious paper work that nobody wanted to deal with. I wasn’t permitted to investigate any cases with the team yet considering that I was still under surveillance. But I kept my distance from them, especially Hotch, knowing his attention would linger on me slightly longer than the other agents. 

I sighed, finishing up the latter of reports and standing up to submit the files to Hotch. As I ventured through the lively commotion of agents and supervisors, I spotted the team near the kitchenette of the bullpen. They were all in a fit of laughter, a sight that was infrequent with the career we possessed. A bubbling sensation burned in my stomach as I watched their faces contort in bliss. I clenched my fingers around the reports, creating small indents on the corners of the files, while a grimace replaced the once nonchalant expression I displayed. I shook my head in disapproval, then trudged off to get my task over with. 

They should be working, not fucking around. If only I were there, maybe things would get done faster 

Barging into Hotch’s office, I discarded the work at the front of his desk, muttering a small sentence that indicated I was finished. I didn’t dare to entertain his unrelenting scrutiny, knowing well that he was already halfway into profiling my demeanor. “If that’s all, I can go back to my desk...” I said, the tone of my voice monotonous and lifeless. “Sir” I nodded, using his silent response as a signal to leave. 

“Agent Y/L/N” He interrupted, setting the paper work I finished aside along with other files that camouflaged the surface of his oak desk. “Take a seat please” He suggested, gesturing to the two office chairs that faced him. I complied still not meeting his gaze, settling down in front of him, as I fiddled with the threads at the ends of my blazer. 

“Y/L/N” He repeated, only this time I looked straight into his eyes. “We’re happy to have you back in our unit” He began, a sense of sternness in his voice, similar to one a parent would use to scold their child. “I hope you took this opportunity as a break away from all the chaos we deal with” He lightheartedly joked, an amiable smile apparent of his face. 

Despite his change in demeanor, my feelings of resentment coexisted beside his expressions of colloquialism. “Me, taking a break from work or was it so the team can take a break from me and Dr. Reid?” I challenged, folding my hands on my lap. 

“Y/L/N” He disrupted lifting an apprehensive hand. “I’m aware of the tension between you and Reid ever since what happened back in New York, so I made the decision to give you and him the opportunity to-” He justified. 

“No sir, with all due respect, your agents are out there laughing their asses off instead of working. Yet I’m the one who’s being put under scrutiny for being human?” I asserted, standing up from where I sat. “Yes I made a mistake. But for months Reid has done nothing but bludgeon everything I work for in the bureau and none of you have ever done anything about it” I scoffed as I paced in front of his desk.

“Y/L/N I’d have you know that me and the team have had numerous conversations with Reid about what hap-” 

“YES THAT’S MY POINT!” I exclaimed, raising my voice slightly, although that didn’t last long due to the cautious stare I received from Hotch. “You’ve always checked up on Reid, but what about me?” I spit, narrowing my eyes at Hotch, noticing the discernible silence I received as a response. “Aren’t I part of this team? Because frankly ever since that case in Manhattan it seems like everyone can’t decide whether to blame me or pity me” I admitted, looking over to the window where I had a clear view of the people of my unit. 

“Y/L/N please take a seat” He commanded, but I declined standing my ground. He sighed, tucking in his blazer as he stared at me in disbelief. “Y/L/N I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt like that but you’re on this team as much as Reid is” He claimed, an empathetic tone surrounding each word that emitted from his lips. “You’ve made a mistake and yes, it’s affected a majority of the team, but take this opportunity to grow from that mistake” He consoled, his eyes softening back into a lamentable gaze. “Use this to be a better agent” He stood up, walking over to where I was positioned and placed an affable palm to my shoulder. 

Vulnerability is often used as a bridge between the connection of others. It’s used to initiate an understanding bond, to break people down to their foundations, and to help one to recognize that people aren’t alone when it comes to implications in life. Although vulnerability wasn’t the theme of mine and Hotch’s interaction. 

It was pity

“Is that what you think will make me feel better? T-to make me feel accepted into this team?” I ridiculed, snatching my shoulder away from his overbearing touch. Incredulity seemed to fuel the words leaving my mouth as my glare advertised bitterness. “Do you think I’m that incompetent? That a few appraising and heartfelt words are going to make me fall in line?” I challenged. 

“Y/N, please don’t make this diff-” 

“DON’T ‘Y/N’ ME, HOTCH” I warned, knowing I set off an alarm inside of him as he backed off in reluctance. I knew I had attracted a few curious ears from outside of the office, but I was too blinded by my oncoming emotions to act with clarity and reason. 

“YOU K-KNEW” I stuttered, my hands beginning to tremble at my sides as I wiped the sweat accumulating on them. “You knew that I wasn’t r-ready. I WASN’T READY!”. 

My mind had accelerated to a thousand miles per hour, I felt numb at every word I had verbalized as if my cerebrum had malfunctioned. I hadn’t even noticed the tears that had dampened the apples of my cheeks. “Y-you knew I-i wasn’t ready, a-and you...let me go in” I sucked in a staggered breath, feeling my esophagus cinch up at the sudden inhale. “You k-killed him” I whispered through my gritted teeth, feeling all loss of competence. At this point my hormones were driving my actions, “You KILLED him” I accused, flailing my hands at his direction. 

“Y/L/N go home, you’re not stable enough to be back here yet” He stated monotonously, striding back to his chair in a collected manner. 

“What?” I spewed.

“Y/L/N it’s obvious that you need more time. I’m giving you a 2-weeks-leave, and I suggest you take it” He replied, taking a moment to look up at me. “I can assign you the bureau’s therapist, Dr. Montgomery, if you would like”

“N-no Hotch, are you kidding me?” I scoffed in defiance. 

“Y/L/N I will have you escorted out of the building if you don’t follow my direct orders, understood?” He threatened, peering into my eyes. “Now go home” He sighed, looking over some files without giving me a second glance. 

I huffed in disbelief, pulling open his office door to make an exit, ready to dash out of the room, until his words broke my stride. “Oh and Y/L/N” He spoke up, making me spin around to look at him one last time. 

“While you’re on that break...learn to forgive yourself too” 

-

From the time that phrase came out of his mouth to where I stood now seemed like a blur. The autumn drizzle trickled from my forehead to the base of my chin as the sky darkened; an omen to the place where my feet had lead me. 

Spencer’s apartment

Stepping a foot into the complex, the coldness of the water droplets on my skin masked the fear that hid behind the many layers of antipathy, turbulence, and helplessness. 

I felt paralyzed, contrary to my feet that continued to venture through the halls to find Spencer’s residence, my unconscious mind remembering the very dinner party the team organized months ago to celebrate the new addition to the BAU: me. 

My range of emotions had thrown me into a downward spiral, feeling everything then feeling nothing simultaneously. It was as if I was drowning then pulled up to be given air, only to repeat the process continuously. I knew to blame myself, but I couldn’t help but bear to place the accountability to the members of my team because the weight was too heavy for me to hoist. 

I am selfish, I am weak, and I hate every part of that. 

My anger became the device to alienate myself from others. My loss of control lead my impulsivity to fester and lash out on the ones who only wanted to help. Finally, my ignorance costed me my impartial and sensible mind. It allowed me to turn a blind eye to any impurities that didn’t corroborate with my narrative. 

I twisted the facts to match the theories, rather than twist the theories to the facts. 

At the foundation of it all, the matter derived from my inability to conquer my grief in a sufficient approach. Although at that affair, I remained alone...almost. The only other creature who had endured more than they can handle was Spencer. 

Despite out disagreements, we held one thing in common: the event that defined our declarations of hate towards one another. 

So here I have my feet planted complementary to his front door, my arms glued to my side, and my head hanging low as I raised a skeptical fist to knock. 

With the first attempt to gather his attention, the was no response except the buzzing of the radiators that hummed throughout the building’s halls. With another set of knocks, scuffling feet could be heard coming closer to the entrance and every thud against the floor, elevated my heart rate. When the door had flung open, it wasn’t Spencer that I had witnessed. 

It was a ghost of him. 

At least that’s what it had looked like to me. Spencer sported his head of hair like a bird’s nest, his clothes looked besmirched, his silhouette appeared scraggy, but most of all his face looked inert and lacked pigment. 

In spite of my initial impression, his emotion ridden expression gained it’s flare back at the acknowledgment of my appearance. He was about to turn away, pushing the door closed when I stuck a foot in the crevice of the door frame, causing me to wince in agony. 

This caused Spencer to return his focus onto me, fixating at my foot that obstructed the door. “If you think that hurts, try getting stabbed” He mentioned maliciously, referring to the death of his comrade. I ignored his snarky comment, pushing the door ajar to face him. “What do you want Y/L/N?” He deadpanned, holding an emphatic countenance. 

I composed myself, sighing as I explained that I wanted the opportunity to discuss the latter with him, and to my surprise he obliged, diffident to let me enter. 

I took in the unveiling of his home. The walls were lined with bookshelves that contained a copious assortment of books that ranged from education to recreational. Renaissance art was found in between some of the shelving units, but the one thing that caught my attention were the various frames that surrounded Spencer’s childhood pictures. Although, the majority of the portraits were only of him and his mother; his father only making a debut in earlier pictures. 

“I thought you were here to talk, not profile where I live” Spencer commented, interrupting the inquisitive observations I’ve made of his place. I mumbled a quaint apology, finding myself a chair to sit on as Spencer did the same. 

Apprehension preoccupied the silence that followed after we took our seats. I fiddled with my hands, running over my lines and organizing my thoughts as I thought twice about my presentation. 

“It wasn’t my fault”

“What?” Spencer spoke, tilting his head at me in bewilderment. 

“It wasn’t my fault that Ryler died...It was my choice” I began, pushing the loose hairs behind my ears as I sat up straight. “I made that choice to follow through and go in, knowing I was going against Hotch’s warnings and that-” I paused, gazing into his emotionless stare. 

“Killed Ryler” Spencer deadpanned, continuing off where I couldn’t finish. I nodded in compliance, the same feeling of dread creeping up my stomach, similar to how I felt on the crime scene. 

“There’s no amount of ‘sorrys’ I can say that will ever fill that void that’s in-bedded in the team...but at the same time, th-there’s nothing I can do to bring him back, Reid” I declared. 

He wore a tight-lipped grimace, staring at the wall behind me coldly. “Yeah, there’s nothing you can do to bring him back” He scoffed. “You’re wasting your time being here” He professed, shaking his head with hostility. 

I pinched the bridge of my nose as I bent over to place my head on my hands, feeling the overbearing sensation of frustration bubble over the sentiment. “Yes I know Reid” I disclosed, animosity slowing slipping into the enunciation of my words. “I just- I don’t always want to be in quarrel with you whenever we’re at work” I confessed. “I just need you to-” 

“To what?” Spencer cut me off mid sentence. “To forgive you?” He jeered, narrowing his eyes at me in vengeful amazement. 

“Spencer-” 

“You want me to FORGIVE you?” He stood up from his seat, walking over one of the bookshelves adjacent to the window. The faint sunset beamed an orange tinted glare through the drizzle and into the living room, giving pigment to Spencer’s skin as his back faced me. “Am I just supposed to forget about him like everyone has already, am I supposed to pretend that everything’s back to normal without him?” He questioned, running his finger along the spines of a select novels. 

“I’m not telling you to forget Ryler, and it’s not like the team doesn’t honor-” I began, but was cut off abruptly by Spencer’s spiteful words. 

“Are you fucking kidding me Y/N?!” He exclaimed, turning around to glare at me. “For the past couple of months, no one- and I mean NO ONE has mentioned Ryler. I-it’s as if NOBODY CARES” He shook his head in frustration, running his hand through his curls. 

“That-s not tru-” 

“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” He blurted out, an incredulous expression planted on his face. “Name one person, aside from me that had thought about Ryler in the past month” He challenged, making determined strides towards where I sat. 

Veins began protruding on his forehead as he came closer, the wrinkles on his forehead became indistinguishable, despite the sun masking his face in an angelic light. “I- um” I gulped, unable to recall any mentions of the agent. 

“Exactly” Spencer deadpanned, walking back over to the shelves. 

“But that doesn’t give you an excuse to berate me” I uttered quietly, feigning a collected composure where the confidence lacked. I pushed myself up from my seat, promenading up to where he stood. “You can’t assume the future of my career based on a mistake I made” I stood parallel to his back, reaching a hand up to place on his shoulder, but proceeded to hesitate, leaving them at my sides. “You don’t have to forgive me Reid, but at least forgive yourself” I spoke, reiterating the same words Hotch passed onto me before leaving the office. 

I saw his shoulders lose tension as he sucked in a breath, his fingers unraveled from his balled fists while he hung his head low. On the cue of his sedated composure, I placed a decided grasp on his shoulder in attempt to soothe the rigid atmosphere. 

Unbeknownst to my perception of the situation, Spencer suddenly grabbed a hold of my wrist, flipping me over to where my back hit the bookshelves with immense force, sending a painful chill down my spine. I winced as the rivets of the metal screws scratched the soft skin of my lower back. Although this didn’t prevent Spencer from further pinning my body into the shelves while his firm fingers dug into my wrists. “What makes you think you can tell me what to do or what to feel” He whispered darkly, a menacing grimace taking it’s form on his mouth.

I resisted against his grip, but his strength proceeded to show itself through my inability to overpower him. Fueled with frustration, I bore at him with a vindictive sneer. “Reid, fucking let me go” I muttered through gritted teeth. “I swear to fucking god Reid, let me the FUCK GO!” I challenged, pushing harder against his tall frame. 

He responded to my catty reactions with an arrogant smirk. “Look at you writhing under me” He patronized, his face shadowing over mine as his breath fanned over my own. “You’re a weak bitch Y/N” He continued, his eyes lingering on my bottom lip. “You’re an even worse agent” He inched closer at an achingly sluggish pace. I felt my lips twitch in anticipation as his mouth hovered over my own. 

So, I took the opportunity to spit at him.

He stumbled back in surprise, wiping my saliva that landed inches away from the bridge of his nose. “What the fu-” He spewed, looking at me incredulously. But I took no hesitation to make determined strides at him. 

“You have no right to call me a bad agent. You have no right to call me weak” I heaved, shoving him at his shoulders. “Especially when you can’t even face your own feelings” I verbalized, glaring at him. “You’re a coward” I muttered, glaring up at him as we were chest to chest. 

Both of us stood in our own heated ambiance, the silence amplifying the intensity of the circumstances. I could feel the sweat dripping off of my forehead as I witnessed a crack in his arrogant countenance. His hard features relaxed into a woeful expression as the fight of reason in his mind intensified. But I didn’t have the time to wait on his judgement. So with a novel sanguine air, I began marching right up to his front door with the persistence to leave all the negative energy behind me. 

That was until he spoke up

“Y/N I-” 

I shook my head, resting my hand on his doorknob. “No Spencer, you listen” I turned around to face him, leaning my back on the oak surface of the door. “You don’t get to defame my career, I’ve worked too hard for this and out of all the people in the world, I thought you’d understand” I stated, pushing myself up the door so I was no longer leaning on it. 

“Y/N-” 

“I made a mistake, but that mistake’s going to make me a better agent. I can’t take back his death and I can’t make it up to you, but all I can do is make his death count” I persisted, my legs venturing back to where we stood prior to my attempted exit. He stared back at me with an afflicted gaze that hid behind a feigned emotionless expression. “I’ve spent months blaming myself for his death...” I positioned myself across from him, reciprocating a compassionate expression that contrasted from his own visage. “And I think you do the same too” I remarked, taking my bottom lip between my teeth as I expressed my concerns. 

For the first time, Spencer didn’t know what to say. Not statistical fact or analytical approach would resolve the woman that stood confidently before him. 

“You’re right” He admitted, sighing as he combed the back of his head. His eyes flickered to the prominent features of my face, then back to the apparently interesting view of the floor. He shut his eyes in defeat, dragging both of his hands over his face as if it was to bring clarity and closure swiftly to him. “I-i didn’t how to...th-then everyone started forgetting- and I couldn’t” He desperately was at a loss of words. “I’m sorry Y/N” He repented, laying a hesitant yet tender hand on the side of my arm. 

“As much as I appreciate you apologizing to me Spencer-” I laid my hand over his own, clutching onto it in a solacing grasp. “You seriously need to figure yourself out first” I sighed, using my fingers to tilt his chin up to disrupt his forlorn expression. “You need to learn how to forgive yourself Spencer, and I’m not the one to say because I’m still figuring that out myself, but that’s the only way you’re ever going truly move forward”

He cringed at my mention of the future. I noticed the cogs running in that brain of his, unable to process his grief. I could tell he was still holding onto a lot of baggage, the pained look he wore revealing it all. “I shouldn’t have told you that it should’ve been you back there” He apologized, referring to the whole conflict that unfolded on the jet. “I don’t know how to do it Y/N” He confessed. “I c-can’t just move on like that”

“Nobody’s asking you to Spencer” I consoled. “We can never really be able to move on completely. But that’s a part of living, it’s remembering that gives our life meaning” 

“Well actually, traumatic occurrences can actually be repressed by the unconscious mind in order to dissociate th-” He rambled, a faint smile tugging on the corners of his lips. 

“Don’t ruin the sentiment Reid” I laughed, nudging him playfully. He reciprocated the same gesture, reverting back to a more relaxed visage. 

“Thank you...Y/N” He spoke passionately, pulling me into an amicable embrace. I breathed into his shoulder, taking in the seldom occasion as all the hatred that existed in the room previously, dissipated. 

“You’re always welcome...Spence” 

-

A/N:

that’s a wrap, im actually really proud of this so i hope you all enjoy it. tell me whatcha think about it after :)

i honestly was struggling with how to end the whole thing, so i compromised on an angsty-fluff/platonic but not really ending, if that at all makes sense lmao, anyways have an amazing day

-

taglist: @a-dorky-book-keeper @ilovespencereid @fancystarlightpirate @aperrywilliams @liaabsurd @thatsonezesty13 @ashwarren32  @ithinkilovetruecrimetoomuch @yoongi-holland @guessthatswhyiliveinhell @peterspickledpepper @tiktokslut @britishspidey​ @marciscaspar​ @ tteessaa13 @marylanddgirly @todaynotseen 

[disgruntledspacedad]

Exit Wounds

pairing: Steve Murphy x Javier Peña, buddies or pre-slash, up to you. Not part of the Better Love ‘verse.

summary: Steve comes to several realizations all at once. Steve Murphy POV.

words: 1.9k

warnings: 18+ - violence (beyond canon-typical), GSW, ambiguous ending, ANGST. You really probably shouldn’t read this one at all, my dudes.

a/n: unbeta’d. For those sharp eyed readers, there’s a slight canon change regarding Brady’s murder.

“Stay back,” Steve mouths, lifting a hand to Javier’s chest. Behind him, Steve can damn near feel Javi rolling his eyes, but he keeps still, both of them hardly daring to breathe as they pause at the corner of the stairwell. 

Feo is waiting for them. Steve just knows it.

Dread and anticipation are rising in him, age old instinct and adrenaline converging into a single minded awareness that sharpens every sense. Steve’s heartbeat thrums in his ears. Reality glitters around him. Javi huffs softly at his shoulder, eager, impatient. 

It’s like having a superpower. 

Carefully, Steve edges his gaze just around the corner, and leaps back as a single round grazes just past his left ear. He feels the zing of displaced air before he’s even aware of the crack of gunfire. 

“Shit,” he hisses. 

That had been close. 

“Think you found him,” Javi supplies helpfully. 

Above them, there’s a scuffle, receding footsteps. Javi doesn’t wait - he’s already tearing around the corner, glock extended, giving chase.

Steve leaps at his heels.

He’ll never admit it, not to anybody and especially not to Connie because she worries, but this is Steve’s favorite part of the job. There’s something primal and evocative about chasing a bad guy through the streets of Medellín. It calls back to that little boy in Memphis, playing cops and robbers with the neighborhood kids until long past the streetlamps had lit. It awakens that visceral sense of masculine justice that’s simmered just beneath the surface of Steve’s thoughts since he could remember; the burning need to protect, to avenge, to do the right thing.

And fuck, it’s just fun.

He grits his teeth and digs in, running for all he’s worth. Chases in Medellín are all sticky heat and creaking rooftops that pop beneath a grown man’s weight, the smell of spices and gunpowder and unwashed bodies. The air is thick like soup. It stagnates in his lungs, stifles his breaths. His heart pounds wildly. Sweat pours down his back and clings to his shirt, and Steve basks in it all, loving every second. 

Javi ducks into one of the zócalos, taking a short cut on a hunch. Steve follows. The world narrows, the entire cramped room smelling of tortillas and goat milk. The darkness inside is a stark contrast to the midday Medellín sun, and Steve barrels into the tiny kitchen table before his eyes can fully adjust. A child shrieks, and Javi pauses just long enough to wince toward her mother as Steve staggers to his feet. 

“Sorry,” he bleats, already stumbling out the door.

Outside, they are faced with a choice. Stairs going up to the rooftops. Stairs going down into the alleyway. Absolute silence. 

Steve takes the street and Javi takes the high ground. There’s no discussion, no pause to consider, no flicker of eye contact and a question. Steve and Javi move as one unit in two bodies, working in seamless tandem that comes from surviving and thriving together in countless life or death scenarios.

Feo is not in the street, it’s apparent immediately.  Steve has gone the wrong way. 

Well, win some, lose some. The comuna is built into a slope, like so many comunas are, and Steve makes for the top of it, determined to get a better view. Maybe he can cut Feo off while Javi herds him forward, though it’s unlikely. 

He reaches the top of the hill and whirls, shading his eyes against the sun as he glances over the rooftops, searching. 

Javier shouts in Spanish. Steve cranes his neck toward the sound. He’s close.

There.

A shot rings out. That’s nothing new - shots are always ringing out in Medellín. It’s practically how the sicarios say hello. 

But this time, it’s different. This time, Javier staggers back like he’s been punched in the solar plexus, and Steve’s world converges into two undeniable facts - dread, and absolute certainty.

Javi’s been hit. 

Somehow, Steve has the sense of mind to radio for backup with medical, an instinct honed from years of beats in the shadier neighborhoods of Miami. He doesn’t bother listening for the garbled response, he’s just running, tearing down the hill with one ominous thought replaying through his mind. 

He can’t see Javi anymore.

Steve shakes away the implications and focuses on what he can remember - where Javi had been standing, the direction of his voice. His lungs are burning, heart pounding painfully in his chest, but Steve’s totally unaware of that. It shouldn’t be possible, but he’s flying, feet hardly hitting the ground as he tears through the comuna, making his way once again toward the rooftops.

His best friend’s life is on the line.

And isn’t that funny? If you’d have asked Steve an hour ago, he’d have laughed in your face at the idea that Javi was anything more than his work partner. Javi’s an asshole. A self-righteous, arrogant, hypocritical, sell-you-to-the-fucking-cartels-on-a-whim cuntstain of a human being. Yeah, Steve can admit that Javier Peña is a decent agent. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. There’s also the fact that Javi knows all of the best dives in town, and that he’s always good for a drink after a long shift, and sure, maybe he’d stuck up for Steve that one time with Messina, but friends? Yeah, that’s a long shot.

Except now, it’s not.

The stairwell Steve’s been climbing ends abruptly. He’s standing on a three foot square platform, looking up at a ten foot wall.

Shit, shit, shit.

Javi is right there, just on the roof above him.

Steve doesn’t think, he just leaps, the tin edges slicing his palms as he scrambles for the ledge. He kicks his feet hard, banging his shins with enough force to bruise as he rolls gracelessly onto the roof. Later, when Steve tells Connie that it was a feat of athleticism that would put the best of his college buddies to shame, he’s not lying.

And there’s Javi. 

Steve drops to his knees beside the body. Javi’s lying crumpled on the ground, curled on his side in a fetal position that is far more vulnerable than Steve is comfortable witnessing. 

“Javi?” Steve calls, shaking his partner hard as he hauls him over onto his back. “Shit.”

Javi doesn’t answer. The concrete beneath him is a pool of red blood. It’s smeared all over Javi’s pink shirt, an ominous, dark stain originating from somewhere near his shoulder. 

And it’s still pumping steadily from the wound. 

Steve catches a breath, reminds himself that this is a good thing. Dead people don’t bleed. 

Automatically, he presses one hand over the most saturated part of Javi’s shirt. Hold pressure. It’s basic first aid, but basic first aid is prioritized in the academy because it saves lives. Steve punches his palm into Javi’s shoulder for all he’s worth. 

But Javi’s still not moving, not responding. Carefully, Steve cups his free fingers gently over Javi’s mouth and nose. Soft, quick breaths pulse hot against his skin, and a tight bubble of tension bursts in Steve’s chest. 

Javi is breathing. Thank fuck, Javi is breathing.

Blood spurts through the cracks Steve’s fingers, warm and deep crimson, and Steve has a sudden, wild thought that it’s much more slippery than he’d have thought, more like motor oil than water. He’s seen blood in this quantity before, many, many times, but never this close, never fresh and red on his bare hands, never gushing in slick rivulets from the body of his partner and friend. 

Steve flashes back to that one sting gone horribly wrong in Miami, to being held at gunpoint in the doorway while Brady bled out onto the dirty motel carpet. 

He shakes it away. Not this time. Never again.

He shifts his position, tilting Javi’s head to the opposite side so he won’t choke and exposing the wound so he has better access to it. He can’t see the edges, and hell, he’s definitely not looking, but the blood seems to be coming from the juncture of Javi’s neck and shoulder, just to the edge of the kevlar strap of his tac vest. 

Fuck.

An inch to right, and Javi would have walked away with a massive bruise, maybe a broken clavicle. An inch to the left, and it would have all been over.

“Of course it would be your shoulder, Javi,” Steve bites out between gritted teeth. It it were an arm or a leg, he’d have already used his belt to make a tourniquet. But that’s not an option here, and by the way Javi’s breathing - fast, quick little pants that are quickly turning his lips blue, Steve wonders if there might be something wrong with Javi’s lung, too.

Fucking Christ. 

“God, get here already,” Steve mutters under his breath as he presses both palms into Javi’s chest. Shit, the bullet’s gone all the way through. Steve can feel the heat of Javier’s blood seeping into his jeans. 

‘All bleeding eventually stops,’ he remembers Connie saying after a terrible shift at Ryder. Her tone had been flippant and thoroughly blasé, cynical like the humor of all nurses who work trauma call is cynical. At the time, Steve had brushed it off as a one-off, a ruthless, humorless joke made out of frustration. 

With a slow dawn of horror, he suddenly understands exactly what Connie had meant. 

“Fuck,” Steve mutters desperately, pinning Javi’s body between his knee and his fists, locking his elbows and pressing both hands as hard as he’s able into the wound in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. 

His wild thought of ‘where the hell are they going to land the chopper?’ is cut off as Javi shifts and groans.

Steve panics. Javi’s lost a lot of blood, far, far too much blood. It’s all over Steve, all over Javi, all over the concrete, and Steve has just now gotten it under control. 

Javi needs to be still, dammit. 

“Don’t you dare fucking move, Javi, you hear me?” Steve’s voice is brittle as he leans in close to Javi’s ear. 

And oh god, somehow, the situation is suddenly so much worse now that Javi isn’t completely out, now that Steve knows that in some capacity, Javi is aware of what’s happening to him. 

Fuck.

But Javi just huffs one shuddering breath, and then goes so completely still that Steve’s heart lurches in his chest. 

“And don’t you fucking die, either, you hear?” Steve shouts into his ear.

Really, that’s more important than anything. 

Javi grunts something in response, a word that Steve, in his frazzled state, doesn’t quite catch. Later, when he relives this day over and over again, Steve thinks it might have been “asshole.”

The ensuing silence is stifling. They lay there on that rooftop for an eternity, Javi sandwiched between Steve’s fists and his knee, Steve’s back and arms burning with tension. Javi’s breathing speeds and shallows. His entire face is ashen now. Little beads of sweat have broken out on his forehead. His blood is cooling, congealing dark between Steve’s fingers.

“Please, god, please.” Steve hasn’t prayed in years, but this is different. Important. He’s not asking for anything for himself. Not for Connie, even.  

He’s begging for Javi’s life.

In the distance, the blades of a chopper are beat, beat, beating against the wind.

LINK TO SPACEDAD’S MASTERLIST

#Javier Peña #Steve Murphy #Steve Murphy x Javier Peña #narcos #narcos fanficiton #pedro fandom #pedro pascal #boyd holbrook #narcos netflix #pedro fanficiton #angst #hurt no comfort #slice of life #steve's voice was surprisingly easy to find here #I might need to write more from his POV #if you want more medical notes on what's going on with javi and how he could recover i can gladly provide #covid has done a number on my brain you guys

[chalkrevelations]

Episode 31 of Word of Honor, and in many ways OH MY GOD YES, but also, no, show, wtf?

As in, wt actual f is going on? Literally, what is happening?

(Spoilers, so scroll away and come back later, if you need to.)

So, first thing’s first: I feel like this one may end up a bit short, because a lot of it is likely to be just a bunch of keysmash flailing? (EDIT: No, I just came back up here to the top from the bottom, because this is NOT AT ALL any shorter than usual.) I’ll attempt a bit more than exclamation points and worry over whether my poor heart is able to take this, but we’ll see how it goes, because the first thing I’m going to do is say I knew it! and I told you so! I knew you weren’t planning to die, Zhou Zishu. I did call you a liar after Ep 30, and I was right. I mean, what’s the point of having the terrifying master of the Ghost Valley as your boyfriend husband if he’s not going to rescue you after you’ve been kidnapped for attempted ravishment by the evil prince? And get you the best wedding present ever, i.e., a bunch of new disciples? Omg, Zhou Zishu’s face when Wen Kexing finally calls himself a disciple of Four Seasons Manor! (I think he’s so overwhelmed, he doesn’t even realize when WKX calls him “shixiong” a minute before that!) Wen Kexing’s tiny pained smile that he just can’t seem to help when ZZS lays his hand on WKX’s head! That long shuddering breath ZZS lets out, and the way his shoulders just drop, like he’s finally let go of a huge weight! (The worry this brings me, because there are five and a half episodes left, my dude, and your husband is a troublemaker, and I would not be getting complacent, if I was you.) The fact that WKX has knelt to ZZS and called him zongzhu in front of the Ghost Valley contingent – there’s gotta be some political implications to that. Horseback riding! The way WKX keeps holding (up) ZZS! Lol at WKX being all, you all can leave now, we can take our honeymoon alone from here! ZZS knew he would come (I told you so)! Their smiles! Their soft little faces! (Merciless killers! How so fucking adorable?) The hairpin! MARRIED, Y’ALL. Censorship? I don’t know her. ANYWAY, that’s all just a bunch of flailing reaction to the first almost 20 minutes of emoporn. Also, Zhang Zhehan, you should not do suffering so pretty. It makes me feel like a bad person for still enjoying your face so much when your character is in so much physical and emotional distress.

Secondly, show. We need to talk. You should not be this opaque. I’m trying to piece together everything that’s happened in (vaguely) chronological order:

Sometime before dying (before breaking his heart meridians?), Han Ying tells Wen Kexing about the Four Seasons Remnants back with Prince Jin. All of Ep 30 happens, with Zhou Zishu and Xie Wang both making a mess of Awful Prince’s/Yifu’s plans. Xie Wang, the rest of the Scorpions, and the Ghost Valley team retreat back to a lair. Which lair? Who knows, at this point. Cao Weining talks to Fan Shishu. (He explicitly tells this to A-Xiang.) But does he also confront Mo Huaiyang? Because I feel like it must be significant that we get the same turn of phrase to describe Zhao Jing’s relationship with Xie Wang – asking a tiger for its skin – from Mo Huaiyang to Fan Shishu, and then attributed to Cao Weining when A-Xiang quotes it to WKX in the same ep. The show even emphasizes this for us to catch by drawing attention to A-Xiang’s use of it via her struggle to remember the idiom properly. (A. This episode’s convo between Mo Huaiyang and Fan Shishu, which is when we see Mo Huaiyang actually use the idiom, happens AFTER Cao Weining and Gu Xiang leave Gentle Wind Sword Sect. I went back and checked, and it is Mo Huaiyang who uses it, not Fan Shishu. B. In this same convo, Fan Shishu says he still needs to explain all this to the disciples somehow, so C. Was there a prior, unseen convo between just Cao Weining and Mo Huaiyang in which Mo Huaiyang practiced his excuses on poor, hapless Cao Weining first?)

Anyway, Cao Weining then goes to A-Xiang, who’s lit. and fig. in the dark at this point, in her rustic cabin outside the gated community. I notice Cinnamon Roll already has his bag packed. He is done. He lays out the current political web, and A-Xiang seems pretty sure of Liu Qianqiao’s ultimate loyalty to WKX. This is probably important in what happens next. Gu Xiang and Cao Weining decide to run away and elope but then … get captured and taken to the lair. On purpose? A-Xiang did see Liu Qianqiao with Xie Wang in the Secret Cave, standing shoulder to shoulder with Du Pusa as an apparent top-tier henchwoman, and she probably expects to be protected, but this seems like a pretty big gamble. I suppose you don’t survive the Ghost Valley without learning to take some risks. A-Xiang then leads Xie Wang and the Ghost Valley contingent to WKX (at burned-down Four Seasons Manor?) to, she says, let WKX take down Xie Wang. She notes Xie Wang’s use of some potion to control everyone – I assume the Drug Man potion, and I assume the monthly antidote is what’s keeping everyone in the Ghost Valley from going full Drug Man?

WKX and Xie Wang confer in secret. Probably about how much they both hate Awful Yifu. I mean, I assume Xie’er still hates Awful Yifu at this point, but who knows what tomorrow will bring? Probably a key point here: WKX is hiding whatever this was about from his husband. My dude, why are you still like this? I guess that explains the pained cast to that tiny little smile earlier. WKX then takes some of the Ghost Valley contingent and coordinates with the Four Seasons Remnants back in Prince Jin’s territory to rescue ZZS. Husband safely rescued, WKX now heads back to Ghost Valley, to … abdicate? He promises A-Xiang he’s going to come back safely, and my dude, I’m trying to believe you. I really am. I’m trying to have as much faith in you planning to be back all along as I had in ZZS not planning to die in Jin Palace all along, but here’s a key difference: HE LET YOU IN ON HIS PLAN. Which you were a key part of. I find your secrecy, by contrast, concerning.

Other things:

Love the little moment between Gu Xiang and Liu Qianqiao and Luo Fumeng when Beauty Ghost and Tragicomic Ghost turn to Xie Wang in righteous indignation and want to know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing to their little girl. Compare the reaction of these two moms to Happy Ghost being all, “Nope, this is a complete and total in with Wen Kexing right here in a pretty pink dress.” The show continues to draw a fairly bright line between the characterization of the women in the Department of the Unfaithful - who are terrorizing certain people, true, but also watching out for each other after ending up down on their luck – and the general run of men in Ghost Valley, who are basically rotten sociopaths straight out of Batman’s rogues gallery and will sell you out in a minute for their own gain. Yes, this has been made fairly explicit in Wen Kexing’s and A-Xiang’s commentary in past eps and later in this ep about trying to get the Department of the Unfaithful out of the line of fire while not caring if the jianghu burns down the rest of Ghost Valley, but this isn’t just favoritism or a whim, just some fond memories of Luo Fumeng being kind to them a couple of times in the past. I think there’s some commentary here on the kind of men who are so far gone they find themselves outside the bounds of “civilized” society and the kind of women who do – how much easier and quicker it is for a woman, that it could be any woman in the wrong circumstances, and how much further gone a man has to be than a woman to be considered a “devil.” We’ve seen these supportive interpersonal relationships among the women since Gu Xiang “adopted” her two girls in the first handful of episodes and told off Lovelace with the threat of Tragicomic Ghost – and the show is continuing to show it, not just tell it. It’s one of the things I’ve found frustrating about Wen Kexing a couple of times in past eps, when he’s trying to get A-Xiang’s two girls, or other women from the Department, to just leave and go do something else – I feel like even though WKX realizes their circumstances and their personalities are different from the rest of his Top Ten Devils, he’s not fully comprehending that they literally have nowhere else to go, that if they had any other options, they wouldn’t have ended up there in the first place. He called the two girls “puppies” when he talked about A-Xiang having to take care of them, but as Ghost Valley master, who’s enforced the independence of and protections for the Department of the Unfaithful, he’s walking away from his own basketful of puppies. Not to mention, this is one of the vanishingly small places in this particular version of the jianghu that we’ve seen women have any autonomy and power. I … think there may have been a few young female cultivators in Yueyang Sect, but while I’d have to go back and watch to be sure, I remember the Hero’s Conference being a whole bunch of men throwing their … weight around. Anyway, I also love that it looks like A-Xiang tries to kick Happy Ghost in the shin, because of course she does.

Visually, they had a cool thing going on there with the Tian Chuang behind WKX falling in concert with WKX lowering his fan, but they didn’t quite coordinate it enough, and then they cut away too soon. Bah. It was set up to be a very cool visual, if only they had committed to it. Meanwhile Duan Pengju, this asshole, omg. He’s trying to pull off the Collar of Evil and is not succeeding. Srsly, his Collar of Evil is droopy. It doesn’t stop him from monologuing like he’s the actual villain and not some sad-sack lackey. You showed the correct amount of amused disdain during your interaction, but I can’t believe you left him alive at the end of it, Wen Kexing.

I wasn’t really feeling Jing Beiyuan and Wu Xi up until this ep when Jing Beiyuan was teasing A-Xiang about her lack of shame over running away with her lover. OK, fine, you can stay, Qi Ye. Also, wow. Speaking of lack of shame, I can’t believe you just accused your husband of bride kidnapping right in front of everyone’s salads, because that is totally what just happened there.

So the band is (almost all) back together, minus Chengling, who has definitely found out in the worst possible way that one of his dads is the terrifying master of the Ghost Valley that massacred his family and sect. So, this should go well.

Lol at Xie’er lounging in Wen Kexing’s Ghost Valley master seat like some kind of consort. He’s already got a husband, Xie’er. One that would not be happy with a concubine running around, I think. I do wonder what the full scope of their plan/understanding is, bubbling away under this stare-down.

A note – WKX’s hair is styled differently in this ep in the Ghost Valley master scenes than it has been before. Previously, those side bangs were further forward and a little bit chunkier, which, I think, narrowed his face and also helped emphasize the wild-eyed look. They’re wispier and back further, now, which I think softens his face, even when he’s trying to look imposing. Makes him look more, dare I say, human.

And now, I’m going to go have a few Han Ying/Bi Xingming thoughts, actually. God, those months after ZZS left, can you imagine what that was like for them? Han Ying having watched those nails placed in Bi Xingming’s shifu in the first ep, and then having to turn around and go to Bi Xingming and tell him that ZZS was gone, with the seven nails in him? Both of them trying to hold the Four Seasons Remnants together – and then Ying-ge comes back one day and says he’s found ZZS? Mutual aid and comfort, my dudes. Also some projection. I’m just sayin’. Meet me, I guess - this kind of sideline action and extremely rare pair thing is how I tend to roll.

#zhou zishu #wen kexing #gu xiang #cao weining #liu qianqiao #luo fumeng #xie wang #jing beiyuan #wu xi #zhang chengling #han ying #bi xingming #word of honor #word of honor episode reax

[bimswritings]

This Is Our Way

Ch.1

Summary: What happens when you make the mistake of thinking you can steel from a Mandalorian? You land yourself and job and a plethora of adventures and emotion you could never even dream of.  The question is; where will those emotions lead.

Warnings: Typical canon violence, NSFW implications and scenes later on

You can also read it on my Ao3 account.

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Clouds. Dark, impenetrable, depressing grey clouds are what greet you as soon as your eyes open, just like they have every day for years during your existence on the scrappy planet of  Corellia. Home to the most desperate and cruel criminals, along with the enslaved and weak civilians and captives. All mixed in with your average day citizen trying to get by.

A great place to live.

The sound of tie-fighters overhead is what first woke you, screaming as they made their morning flight overhead, acting as an ever present reminder of the Empire's presence and signaling the start of your day. Bones and joints crack in sync as you push yourself up, rubbing your eyes and crawling from the busted old weapons crate that acted as a poor supplement for a bed. Its lid laid discarded to the side, allowing the cool night air of one of the only dry nights of the month to flow in while you slept. The hard metal lining was barely tolerable, even when padded with the few scraps of fabric you had managed to snag over the years, but it was sturdy and the lid provided great protection from the ever present rain on the overcast planet.

Taking care not to trip while climbing from the enclosed space, you stumble out onto the main section of the roof and stare over the city as you stretch, trying not to cringe as certain bones popped back into place painfully. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and not even the fresh breeze that floated in from the sea could make it any more appealing.

Boring, industrial buildings stretched as far as the eye could see in varying colors of black and steel, hardly standing out against the horizon of equally dull colors only punctuated by the occasional crism Empire flag. In the middle of it all was the only decently maintained and sizable buildings on the planet, where the majority of ships for the Empire were produced. It was thanks to the presence of that one building that there was even an economy here, keeping it from turning into a more dreary and wet version of Tatooine, the outlandish world it was. The sight was enough to make your stomach churn, but had nothing on the aching pain that radiated from the organ and had you mind wondering when you had eaten last. Three, four days maybe? It didn’t matter. However long it was, the meager scraps you had managed to find behind the restaurant district of the wealthy were but a distant memory. It was this very hunger that drove you from your safe space, forcing you to climb down the pipes lining the outside of the building you resided on.

The metal creaked and groaned in protest under your weight, but you didn’t give it a second though, knowing there was nothing to worry about. You had been climbing along these fixtures for years, nimble hands and feet finding the smallest of purchases as you move along with ease.

When the ground was close enough you dropped, rolling through the impact to your feet and taking shelter behind an abandoned stall as you momentarily stumbled, vision swimming and black dots dancing before you. Force, you really need to get something to eat soon. Rainwater could only fill your stomach for so long before it lost its abilities to hold you over.

Peering around the corner, your eyes scanned the narrow alleyway, looking for any sign of stormtroopers or other rough characters that would cause trouble. You were never much of a fighter, but today especially was a day you were feeling particularly weak.

‘Alright. All I need to do is slip out, grab a couple of credits, and get back. It should be fine as long as I don’t run into-’

“Well well well. Look what we have here.” Leon’s voice spoke from behind, making you cringe and berate yourself for not being more careful. This was the last thing you needed to deal with, and Leon’s sickly smooth voice only served to grate on your nerves more as you turned to face him and his three lackeys, identifying them as Sho, Everett, and Corin.None as dangerous, but all as bad tempered as their leader.

Glacial blue eyes stared from pale skin beneath his shock of blond hair, a combo that drew ladies like flies to him. Pair that with pearly white teeth and he could have been a poster boy for some prep school on Coruscant. If not for the tattooed arms and green vest that held the insignia of a ranicore tooth, marking him as one of Sozin’s many street enforcers. His kind was the one you hated most. Cocky guys who thought that just because they were someone in some gang they had power over everyone else, not giving a second thought to those they hurt, be it man, women, or child. As long as they got a nice cut at the end of the day they were fine. Despite your hate for them, by all means joining a gang was the best way to survive here. It promised food, shelter, and constant work. All you had to do was give up your own self respect and humanity in return.

“The little Jawa had finally come out from her fortress. Tell me,” He smirked as the others formed a loose circle around you, effectively caging you in. “Get anything good lately.”

You wanted to spit at him, slap that stupid smirk off his face and leave him to go crying back to his boss. But you didn’t. Instead, you took a more casual, defensive stance, ready to get away the moment you had the chance. Slapping a fake smile on your face, you cocked an eyebrow in mock teasing.

“Please. If I had anything of interest I’m sure you of all people would know.” You were getting more nervous now, keenly aware of how close Sho was getting to your current position. Far too close for your liking.

“And with the patrols increased and punishments cracking down, things have gotten harder.''

“True, but I just never know what those sticky fingers of yours may manage to pick up. Your skill has a reputation after all.” His eyes skimmed over your body, not even trying to hide the way he was practically undressing you. The slimy bastard had been pining after you for years, ever since he had watched you lift a number of things from a trooper when you were both just young teenagers. He claimed it was for your skills but it didn’t take a genius to see he was looking for something more. “Maybe you could give me a live demonstration some time.”

And there it was.

You said nothing, only pushing yourself further against the cool metal of the wall behind you in an attempt to create some sort of distance in between you. Your stomach, the traitor it was, decided that it would be the best time to voice its own opinion, letting out a loud growl of protest that didn't go unheard.

Leon’s face took on a mask of concern and sympathy, and you might have fallen for it had you not known any better. His tone took on a softer, more whispery tone, like he was speaking to a stray feline. Not that far off if you thought about it.

“You look hungry. Why don’t you come back with me. I can get everything squared away with Sozin, and I promise, I’ll take real good care of you.”

His hand extended out in invitation, strong fingers that had ended the lives of so many gently relaxed, the other crossing behind his back in a mock gentleman pose, as if he even knew what being a decent guy even started with.

“C’mon. Think about it. No more empty stomachs or fighting for every scrap. You’d even have a nice bed to lay in at the end of the day. No more sleeping on the filthy streets.”

Scoffing, you summoned the last of your confidence, brushing past him and ignoring his invitation. “I’d rather take the streets than your blood soaked sheets any day.”

That should have been it, and it would have been for anyone else on just a code of respect among those here. But Leon wasn’t known for taking no for an answer. Before you could even make it  three steps his hand closed on your elbow, bringing you back closer to him. Despite all you twisting and pulling, his superior strength kept you close, breath fanning your skin as he spoke.

“Listen here, I’ve been more than kind in my advances. A saint some may even say, so you’re not going to walk away from me, understand? No your going to come back and-”

“Hey!” A shout from the end of the alleyway interrupted him, drawing all your attention as the squadron of storm troopers rounded the corner to the alley, falling in line behind their captain.”You there! What’s going on?”

At the sight of the local law enforcement and their blasters, Leon’s grip loosened a fraction. Just the smallest amount really, but enough for you to be able to slip from his grip and between Sho and Corin before they could stop you. You ignored the shouting of the officer, sprinting in the opposite direction and around the corner into the main streets of Corellia.

‘Good luck trying to find me now.’ You smirked, pulling your hood up to conceal your face as you effortlessly blended into the crowd, becoming just one of the thousands of faces that traveled through as you continued on your way. Now it was time for the real work to begin.

Just as with the seasons, your own hunting grounds changed, ever rotating through the different sectors in order to keep law enforcement off your tail. It was one of the first lessons you had ever learned; never hunt in the same spot for more than a few weeks.

Today was a fresh start in the port district, leaving an abundance of new and unaware targets. It was a popular place for travelers as well, who were especially naive, but even with that you knew today would be a challenge. It hadn’t been a lie when you told Leon that the troopers were cracking down. More patrols and increased severity of punishments had started to begin in order to ‘cut down the crime’, as your senator put it. Fat chance of that though, as one could argue that Corellia ran on crime. Still, the effort put forth was really putting the pressure on smaller people like you, who were just trying to survive, not to mention the street vendors and shop owners had installed their own new security measures in place, leading to an unfavorable combo that led to your current weak and hungry state. So you were here, looking for some oblivious fool to cop a few credits off from your perch just outside the mechanics.

As your eyes scanned the crowd, looking for visible money holders or those with liftable jewelry and other items, you saw him. He was hard to miss actually. The beskar he wore from head to toe shone proudly even without the light of the sun hidden above, speaking of its own durability and care shown by the owner. Alongside him was a pod, closed, and most likely carrying whatever supplies he had picked up from the market. The brown cape around his shoulders did nothing to hide the gun scross his broad back, nor the dozens of smaller weapons strapped to his person.

He stood tall above the crowd, most parting like water around a stone to avoid him, and it was no wonder. Even you had heard the stories about the Mandalorians. Fierce warriors and fighters who could track their prey to the ends of the galaxy. They were the best bounty hunters and hired guns on the market. You had been witness to more than one lowlife being pulled from their seat in the cantina by his kind, kicking and begging to no avail as they were carried away, dead or alive.

Teeth gnawing on inside of your cheek, you debated with yourself. On one hand, he was a high risk target, undoubtedly being used to these kinds of places and the people who lived here. Stealing from him would earn you a blaster shot to the head if caught, that is, if he were feeling merciful enough not to crush every bone in your body. But then, he was a bounty hunter. They always carried a lot of credits, and ones worth more at that. One swipe from him could set you up for days, if not weeks! He was also the only target you had seen open worth any value the entire day, and you weren’t sure you could go much longer without food.

You debated with yourself, going back and forth as you watched him grow closer to where you sat. If you didn’t make a decision soon you would lose your chance all together.

As if detecting your hesitance, your body made the decision for you, loosening another growl from its depths, prompting you forward and before you knew it you were on the move. Pulling a small guide book from your pocket, you pretended to be grossly interested in the useless thing, eyes moving to falsely skim the words as you carefully adjusted your path closer to his, threading between the crowd with as much ease as he cut through it.

The moments before were tense, each step leaving you feeling more electrified as adrenaline coursed through your body, only feeding your blind confidence as you counted down.

‘6..5...3..2..1….Now’

You pretended to stumble, tripping on your own feet as naturally as you would walk, veering from your course and bumping into the armored man. You winced slightly as your shoulder made contact with the metal, which made your grunt of pain that much more believable and distracting while your hands got to work. Like all bounty hunters, he kept his money in front of him, just slightly to the left of his leg. A tactic to prevent pickpockets like you that frequented the scenes they often found themselves in. Smart, but you had gotten used to this tactic before, and it was a simple swipe of your hand as it quickly entered and retreated the pouch, fingers closed around an unknown number of credits, all within a fraction of a second as you mumbled apologies, raising your opposite hand in distraction as your other moved to pocket your catch.

As soon as your own fingers left the pouch, you knew you were in trouble. Years of being on the streets had taught you when you had the upper hand in a situation or not, whether you were the predator or prey. In that moment, that small fraction of a moment, you went from poised victor to the most demure of prey.

And the man in front of you was the hunter.

His hand, even quicker than your own, moved to latch onto the retreating limb. The very one holding the credits you had thought had been yours.

Head snapping up to meet his, you were faced with an unfeeling gaze in the form of silver surrounding a small ‘t’ of inky darkness that prevented you from seeing his face. You tried to pull away, only to have his stern grip tighten even more, the leather of his glove squeaking in symphony along with the crackling of the joint. Yet you still refused to drop the credits, stubbornly holding onto them out of spite and fear. If he hadn’t seen them yet, there was no way he could indefinitely prove you had taken anything from him, though the way he focused on it told you he already knew the truth.

Kriffing hell. Why had you even thought this would be a good idea. He was a Mandalorian, and in your hunger driven brain you had somehow managed to convince yourself it would actually work. Well congratulations, you had the credits, but now you were as good as dead. If he didn’t decide to deal out his own justice and kill you then and there, surely he would turn you over to the stormtrooper.

The skin on your back tingles and warmed at the thought, memories of public whippings flashing in the back of your mind and doubling your heart rate and raising your panic even more.

Maybe you could still get out of this though. He was a man, as far as you could tell anyways, and all men were susceptible to one thing, hardened warrior or not. You could distract him, try to get a trade or compromise in return for forgetting about the situation. If not him then the clones. Maker knows they were always willing to pass up small crimes every once in a while in exchange for a way to sate their horniness. Though you had never tried the practice yourself, you had heard of numerous others getting off the hook that way. How hard could it be?

Your thoughts were interrupted by movement, bringing you back from your blind panic of plotting how to get out of this. The Mandalorian had tilted his head, t-visor still trained on your face as he observed you. Those around you were all too eager to ignore the situation, walking past with explicitly diverted eyes as they went about their business. The hand not holding yours moved, making you flinch back but with nowhere to go as he kept you trained in place. It moved towards your face and you braced, eyes scrunched and ready for the impact of a palm or fist making contact.

Yet, it never came.

Instead, the soft worn leather gently pressed against your face, fingers gently running along the curve of your cheek, highlighting the bone that protruded with hunger. The occasional scrape of his beskar along the skin makes you shudder, but if he even notices he doesn’t say anything, only continuing to stare as his hand tips your face every which way for him to examine. Then he just...let go. Without another word he had dropped his hands, stepping around and continuing on his original path, leaving you behind him, frozen in place and in a state of shock.

You could have stood there for any measure of time, be it seconds or minutes. Your brain was too busy trying to process what had just happened to even think about anything else. It was only when someone rudely bumped into you, almost knocking you to the ground, that you finally snapped out of it, and suddenly you were running. Feet pounding the uneven ground as you gained speed, faces flew past as little more than blurs as you continued to put more space between you and your should-have-been attacker. If it had been any other time you might have been proud of the speed you had, the burning in your lungs of little significance. Not even when you had seen Leon once again did you blink, blowing past as he called out and tried to grab you.

Before you knew it you were rounding the alley back to your little home, leaping more than climbing up the pipes with record speed as your feet barely touched the rickety metal. You practically dove into your little crate of a home, pulling the lid and locking yourself in darkness as you tried to sooth your pulse, taking deep breaths that did little to help. Absentmindedly, you began humming to yourself. A song so out of tune and unrecognizable it would have made a wookie weep, but it was what you needed as you pressed the burning and sticky skin of your forehead against the cool metal of the wall.

Eventually, after countless repetitions or the short tune, you managed to steady yourself, bringing enough sense back to realize you were still holding onto the credits from before, which were now gripped tightly in your hand. Enough to the point where the skin had turned a pearly white and your fingers hurt to move as you slowly unclenched them, revealing angry marks and even places where the rectangular currency had bit deep enough into the skin to draw blood. But oh what a beautiful sight it was.

One hundred credits laid in your fist, clustered together in a jumble of varying amounts and different kinds, but a total amount of one hundred. You normally only got this after a week of extremely successful hunting in the summer months. The sight of it now was enough to make you cry.

Despite the urge to go and get food from the nearest vendor, you knew better than to go out right away. For all you knew he had only let you go just to follow you back to your base, probably thinking he could turn you into the stormtroopers for a bigger ransom than what he lost, or loot your own place for anything you had stored up. Jokes on him if that was the plan, because he would only get back what you took from him.

The thought stayed stuck in the front of your mind, forcing you to stay tucked in your hiding space for the remainder of the day and keeping you awake through the night. Every little sound made you jump, convinced that you would once again find yourself at the receiving end of his burning gaze, the helmet he wore only masking his expression and leaving your fate uncertain. He never showed though, never ripped the lid off your container or dragged you out into the open.

By the time you managed to fall asleep, your body finally running out of its immense supply of adrenaline, the city itself had just begun to awaken below to the wee hours of the morning, and the fighters had just begun their morning rounds once again.

‘Maybe...maybe just a few hours of sleep.’ You thought to yourself, burrowing down into your small nest of blankets. What could be the harm?

Well, apparently a lot.

You had woken up in a panic, cracking the lid to see that the sky had already gone dark once again. Swearing to yourself, you emerged once again like a Nightshrike from its cave. Foregoing any normal rituals, you allowed your body to stretch itself as you moved, hustling from rooftop to rooftop, something you only did under the cover of night. The last thing you need is someone seeing you and discovering your home up top. You would never be able to get any peace after that.

You were in a rush though, and the thought of wasting a day of work didn’t bother you nearly as much as the thought of your favorite shop closing. With the amount of credits you had now, you wouldn’t have to worry about money for a while, so the only thought you had while the dim lights of the city flicked to life below was getting there as soon as possible. Who knows, maybe you’d even have enough to treat yourself to some fruit, an expensive and rare treat for anyone on the planet.

Skidding to a stop just before the end of the row, your eyes lit up at the sight of the shop still open, clearly readying to close. Shimmying back down to increasingly deserted streets, you were already drooling at the thought of biting into something and not having to wonder what it would taste like. No more than ten minutes later you were leaving, pockets now full of brick bread as the owner locked the doors behind you.

The plan was to only eat half of one on your way back, the nutrient rich and dense pastries giving you enough energy for the day in a single bite, but not even halfway back you found yourself licking the crumbs from your fingertips, hardly holding back from grabbing one of the four remaining loafs. Instead you reached into the opposite side and grabbed the meiloorun fruit you had managed to snag.

Now this was the main event.

Sinking your teeth into the soft skin, you nearly groaned as its taste exploded on your tongue, making your taste buds dance and sing as the sweetness became so intense it almost hurt. You still loved it.

Your stomach was full for the first time in forever, almost foreign as you had begun to forget the feeling. Juice dribbled down your chin as you continued on your way home, making a deliciously sticky mess to be wiped away and cleaned by your lips, intent on not letting a single morsel go to waste.

Thankfully the trip back was less eventful than your previous outing, helping instill an eerie yet calming silence over the city and prompting you to take your time.

You always enjoyed it up here on the roofs. Hardly anyone came up, not many having the same confidence and agility possessed by you and few others, and there was an ever present breeze up here that didn’t quite reach the lower levels. Not to mention the view it gave, which was one of the main reasons you had chosen a roof as your spot for a base camp. If only you could see the stars, but alas, the sight was as rare as greenery here, leaving it up to your own imagination to construct an array of bright lights on the top of your crypt.

Finishing the fruit, you paused at the edge of the building before your own. Small lights danced in the darkness, the occasional lamp illuminating a hustling figure and the street walkers that lined the corners of streets, calling to anyone in sight. The occasional search light of a patrol ship would shin above the buildings as it made its rounds over the city.

‘Must be looking for someone’ you mused, turning back to return home. No reason to get caught out tonight, especially when you were looking at a few days of relaxation.

As you turned, a familiar flash caught your eye, triggering a new taught panic response. You could hardly believe your eyes, rubbing them extra hard just to make sure you were seeing things right. But alas the sight before you neglected to change, unfortunately not a trick of the eye like you had hoped it was, and the Mandalorian you had thought you escaped the previous day continued walking down the dark alley.

You began to sweat backing away from the edge and further out of his line of sight, trying to still keep him in yours as you peered back over and tracked his progress as he got closer.

‘Kriff. I should have known he would want his money back.’

Panicking, you began going over all the escape routes near you. Ones through city street and sewers that would be much too small for him to fit through. Though, if he had tracked you here then chances were he would be able to find you wherever you went. This really wasn’t good. You might not even be able to go collect what meager possessions you had back in your box.

Then, materializing out of the darkness as if he were made of it himself, was Leon. He stepped into the path of the Mandalorian like he had no fear and, knowing how stupid he was, you thought he might actually not have any for the bounty hunter. But why would he when he was the primary enforcer for Sozin and still had his own backup, the three from earlier.

“Hey there.” He spoke in a voice that promised nothing but trouble, hands casually resting in pockets that undoubtedly concealed a weapon of some sorts. "I've been meaning to have a talk with you. The shiny Mandalorian warrior everyone is talking about."

This, you thought, was not good.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din dijarin #din dijarin x reader #x reader #star wars #fanfiction #star wars x reader #baby yoga #grogu #mando #mando x reader #boba fett #star wars fanfiction #the mandolarian

[fermented-writers-block]

Just how important IS Hooty?

You know, I can’t help but wonder if some of the secrets and codes in the episodes have been working as a bit of misdirection, diverting our attention away from the deeper mysteries tucked underneath the surface. 

After all, I’ve been seeing plenty of speculation about stuff like Eda’s curse, the Boiling Isles titan, and King’s backstory/possible true form, but not a whole lot about the titular Owl House itself, the silly goofball pictured below:

Now, to be fair, he is particularly easy to overlook due to the lack of focus and weight given to him and his actions beyond the apparent role of sheer comedic relief, and much of what he has said is rather dumb-sounding with others emphasizing how annoying his voice is, but it feels very telling to me that this whole show isn’t named after Luz and Eda or their adventures in particular. 

I mean, while the show has mainly been focused on the main characters of Luz, Eda, and King, they are the inhabitants of the Owl House, not the Owl House themselves, and with the way this show likes to reframe seemingly minor jokes and offhand lines as important in later episodes, I get the sense that the same might especially happen with Hooty but on a much grander scale.

We’ve seen throughout the series how he can manipulate different parts of the house like the weather vane and shutters, and in Hooty’s Moving Hassle alone, we both learned that the walls literally breathe and had the demon hunters - who were noted at the beginning to capture and sell the most powerful beasts - view Hooty as some sort of house demon tied to the house.

Though the latter could possibly be chalked up to the demon hunters mistaking a powerful display of animation magic from Luz, Willow, and Gus as a demon, the way that Hooty grew feet and the kind of aesthetics with the house’s design makes me wonder about the kind of importance Hooty could potentially be revealed to have.

Namely, that he either used to be or will become one of THE most important, powerful characters on show.

As @elementalist-kdj​ has noted before, the stained glass eye window of the Owl House comes from the tower behind it, but it has always struck me about how closely the whole house resembles the owl mural - or perhaps the Owl Deity as I’ve speculated before.

For those who don’t know, I’ve made a post before about how the mural and a few other parts of the Owl House seem like they could have come from some kind of temple or building dedicated to an owl spirit/deity that Eda may have found as a kid rather than having made it herself, and said “Owl Deity” appears to be reflected in stuff like Owlbert’s depiction on Eda’s wanted poster and etc, with particular focus on the following:

Obvious house geometry and chimneys aside, the front of the Owl House to me looks both like a more abstract and more realistic depiction of the Owl Deity than the mural itself. For comparison, let’s look at an actual life horned owl, one with brown streaks and a white spot in lieu of triangles and a diamond shaped star:

The dark brown streaks in the chest plumage are hardly uniform or symmetrical, and the kind of “diamond shaped star” that can be imagined with the spot of white in the center of this owl’s chest is less outlined as a clear star and more as a splash of color.

Now, with the Owl House, all of the glass windows on the front besides the eye-shaped one could be abstracted into right side up triangles while at the same time realistically varying in size and placement just like a real owl. And just like the white splash of color in the above picture, the door - aka Hooty - is placed roughly around the same spot on the house as the diamond on the Owl Deity in the mural. Heck, the owl weathervane could be interpreted as a stand-in for the subtle flame/crown above the Owl Deity’s head.

Just turn the eye-shaped window ninety degrees, make the outside more feather-like, and add some horns/ear tufts above the eye, and you could get what would likely look to be a more accurate version of the Owl Deity - albeit one with the wings tucked in as if roosting rather than spread out in flight - with some slight alterations to the feet of the following picture and getting rid of all the dirt right below the house and above the legs:

All in all, what I’m suggesting is that - as Hooty IS the Owl House itself - he could be either a reincarnation of/a new vessel for/an aspect of the Owl Deity, or a severely weakened and amnesiac Owl Deity that Eda had discovered and incorporated into her house. 

With this, I believe that the power of the Midnight Conjuring and its effects on Hooty could be an indication that it would require both a LOT of magical potential/power to restore/bring back the Owl Deity in full force, AND the correct spell or ritual to do so. 

Obviously, Luz and her friends easily fulfill the first requirement with their showing in Hooty’s Moving Hassle, but that incident merely channeled that power through Hooty rather than into him, and as such, Hooty’s true potential only partially manifested itself with very limited independence. 

Heck, it didn’t even manifest in the correct manner at that, what with the feet in the above failing to match the kind of feet the Owl Deity and the IRL owl have as @sepublic​‘s pointed out to me before, so to me, the implication seems to be that for as powerful the combined might of Luz and her friends under the Moonlight Conjuring was, that is still just a flash in the pan compared to the sheer amount of power required to actualize the entire Owl Deity.

As for what is the exact relationship between Hooty/the Owl House and the Owl Deity, I suspect that it could be related to how Hooty’s been often described as the house’s defense system and ‘guardian’ both in and outside of the show, and if my theory about the mural and curtains having come from just one of many rooms out of a whole temple is correct, then maybe the Owl Deity is a guardian being that has a mutually symbiotic relationship with its supporters.

Specifically, a being that is the temple housing said supporters itself.

In exchange for offering protection and maybe even some ancient wisdom as befitting the traditional image of a large and incredibly powerful owl in pop culture, its followers may have taken up residence within this temple and ritually offered to help bolster the Owl Deity’s strength and abilities with their own magic, which helps it more easily manifest its true power and knowledge.

However, I’d like to propose that something might have happened to the Owl Deity’s followers a long time ago, whether from something like all of them dying or being killed, the Owl Deity having fallen in some kind of battle or fight and such that led to its followers being forced into hiding, or its supporters somehow being swayed over to the side of someone else - perhaps someone with a closer association to corvids and ravens rather than owls.

From there, the Owl Deity lost a good amount of its power and strength, its temple body eroding away by the currents of time and its legacy falling into complete obscurity until a chance discovery by a young Eda Clawthorne during her studies at he Hexside School of Magic and Demonics.

And within these ruins, she found a miraculously intact room containing the owl mural and its associated curtains, among which she also uncovered a young/infant owl-like ‘house demon’ she brought back with her, eventually giving it the name “Hooty.”

Though I know the justifications for this theory are admittedly rather circumstantial and flimsy at the moment, I just can’t think of any other conclusion that feels anywhere close as likely to actually happen within the show.

I mean, a very recurring semi-major character often being the only one constantly being re-established as ‘just silly comedic relief’ among a whole cast of characters whose small quirks and funny antics constantly returning to show hidden depths?

And the owl mural itself - a topic of much theorizing - is a part of the owl house and therefore part of Hooty himself much like the breathing walls in the ‘living’ room, so wouldn’t that mean that Hooty has a MUCH closer relationship with it?

How about all the points brought up about how Hooty is supposedly a “state of the art defense system” and how Eda has a LOT of people after her who ought to have been able to get past Hooty despite his many showings of incompetency?

Either all of this is just coincidental set dressing and have no actual bearing on Hooty and his role in the story, or this is all part of a massive bait and switch where, between the idiocy and comedy, things are subtly building up towards a MAJOR demonstration of just why the show itself is named not after any of the inhabitants of the Owl House, but after Hooty himself. 

#the owl house #owl house #owl house theory #the owl house theory #hooty #theory #speculation #long post #amnesiac owl deity hooty theory

[procrastinatorimagines]

REQUEST:  Hey! I love your imagines, they’re perfect.... would you mind write an imagine with hank? It would be nice if you could write something like how he fell in love w y/n and finally express his love, and it gets all cute and lovely...or something like that... ❤️

Word Count: 1,761

You’d fought your way to where you were now, they’d called you too bossy, too bitchy, too full of yourself, but the men in your law practice? Confident, in control, leader material. But you persevered, you always did, and soon you found yourself prosecuting some of the worst of the worst in your city of Chicago, a job that ended up getting you involved with Chicago’s Intelligence Unit. It wasn’t a straight forward case, the perp was well connected, but their sergeant, Hank Voight, was determined to see him brought to justice, and you couldn’t have agreed more. In the end you’d managed to do what multiple lawyers had failed to do, and you put him behind bars.

After that you’d worked along side Intelligence on numerous cases, they even started calling you specifically when they needed help on a case. A more recent one had gotten a little out of hand, however, as a witness who had been in the protection programme for six years was finally able to testify against the man who killed her family. How the guards had missed a gun entering the court room was beyond you, but you’d seen the muzzle out the corner of your eye, the defendants brother you were told later, trying to silence the only person who could put his brother away. One minute the gun was coming out, the next you’d had him on the floor, flipping him over your shoulder and disarming him before the guards could even reach the two of you. 

Needless to say it had been quite impressive, and after sentencing you’d joined the Intelligence Unit at Molly’s for the first time, Sergeant Voight putting your drinks on his tab. You’d talked long into the night, and many nights after that when you’d helped them on cases, and even when you didn’t. A lot of men, ex-boyfriends included, had thought you were a little too much to handle, intimidating even, but the more Voight seemed to learn about you, the more he had been drawn in, not pushed away.

But he had always held back, never quite telling you what he meant, or how he felt, there was still a wall between the two of you that you didn’t think you could break through, it was one he had to take down himself. You were prepared to wait, the way he looked at you, how relaxed he was around you, you knew he was starting to realise he had feelings for you, and you had feelings for him too. You were like equals, you matched each other, understood each other, he wasn’t put off by the others sides of you, and you weren’t by the other sides of him. It was a good match, but you could tell he wasn’t ready yet, and that was fine by you, you enjoyed his company and certainly weren’t about to make him uncomfortable.

Today was different, however, you’d spent the day working another case with Intelligence, trying to flip a robbery crew, and you and Hank had ended up being the last ones upstairs, sitting at his desk finishing off the last of the paperwork.

He’d been glancing up and you while you worked for a while, and you did everything you could to pretend you didn’t notice, trying to focus on your work, which wasn’t easy when he kept looking at you like that.

Finishing off the last line you glanced at your watch and shook your head, “god is that the time?” It was definitely later than you’d thought, and Hank stopped what he was doing to properly look at you now.

“Finished?” He asked, ordering his own papers and neatening them up.

“Yeah finally, trial shouldn’t be too bad next week with this done though,” you told him, “DA’s office has been chasing these guys for a while, without you guys we’d have been no where, so thanks.” He laughed at little at your remark, like you had it all backwards.

“Are you kidding? Sure, we catch the guys, but without you they’d just be right back on the streets,” he said.

“I’m not the only decent lawyer in Chicago you know,” you replied.

“Maybe not, but you are the best,” he grinned as you shook your head, a little flustered by the way he was looking at you as he spoke.

“How about we just say team effort?” You suggested and he nodded.

“Still calls for a celebration I think,” he added, “grab a drink? Could probably use one after how long this day has been.” You’d been out for drinks before, but the way he asked you this time, his tone, if felt different some how.

“Yeah,” you answered, “Molly’s?” That was where you always went, so you looked a little confused when Hank shook his head.

“I was thinking maybe some place different? Somewhere a little bit quieter, more relaxed?” Was it you or did he almost sound nervous now? Hank had never been one to be unsure of himself in all the time you’d known him, so you regarded his carefully as you answered.

“Where did you have in mind?” You asked, thinking about the implications of his words.

“There’s a place not too far from here, a liquor bar, best whisky in the city,” he explained, looking at you intently to gage your reaction.  Was he asking you out? You thought, wishing he’d just come out and say it if he was.

“That sounds nice,” you replied, noting how he relaxed a little, giving him the answer he was clearly hoping for. “I just have to go drop these off at my office, but I’ll meet you there in like 20.”

“Great, I’ll message you the address and grab us some drinks,” He stood up as you did, grabbing the things you needed before heading out of his office and down to the exit. You were heading in separate directions so you paused outside.

“See you soon Y/N,” he told you after a moment. 

“It’s a date,” you said with a wink, hedging your bets as you prepared to turn away, catching Hank grinning out the corner of your eye as you took off towards your office, glad you hadn’t been reading the situation all wrong.

The janitor was cleaning up as you let yourself in, quickly dumping your paperwork at your desk and applying just a little bit more make up before you went to go see Hank.

It was a nice bar, you thought as you approached, not that Molly’s wasn’t, but this was definitely higher end, and definitely where you took someone on a date. Took him long enough, you thought to yourself as you entered, spotting Hank sitting at the bar as you went in.

“Hey Y/N,” he greeted you with a small hug as you took a seat at the bar, removing your coat and looking around. It really was nice in here, not packed like Molly’s, but not empty, it was a lot quieter too, almost romantic even. He slid you your drink as you settled in.

“Well this is a nice place,” you commented, taking a small taste of your drink, “and this is definitely good whisky.” No wonder Hank liked it here, though you couldn’t imagine that he came here often.

“Found it a little while back on a case,” he explained as you took another sip, savouring the flavour as he continued, “not the most well known, but I figured it’s a change from Molly’s.” 

“So if I was to assume that you didn’t just ask me here for the whisky?” You asked suggestively, watching the way his expression turned soft.

“Figured it was time I asked you out for a real drink,” he explained, but you could tell there was more to it than that.

“Why now?” You pushed, wanting to know what had changed between the two of you, wanting to know where exactly you stood with each other.

“I’ve been thinking about it for some time, probably since you took that perp down at the court house,” you didn’t say a word, realising he still had more to say he was just trying to figure out how to say it, “but I don’t really date, I haven’t for a while.”

“How come?” You tried again, smiling gently, trying to let him know what he could talk to you, trust you with whatever it was that he was holding back, whatever was keeping him from fully being with you.

“I lost my wife to cancer a while ago, and losing my son the other year, then Erin leaving and Al... I never really felt like I deserved to try and find some kind of happiness again,” he told you at last, more open and vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. You swallowed, barely daring to breath as you considered this new information, your heart aching for his loss.

“But you do now?” All that loss, and he’d decided to open up to you. You realised just how much that meant to him, how closed off he usually was about anything personal, and you were happy he’d chosen to share it with you.

“Getting to know you, spending time with you, you’ve seen a lot of different sides of me and you haven’t looked away,” he said and you realised you’d felt the same way about him, that you’d both opened up to each other in ways that weren’t entirely familiar.

“And I won’t,” you reassured him, wanting to take his hand but not sure if he’d want you to right now. Hank had certainly never seemed like the kind of guy who’d want anyone’s pity, so you gave him some space to finish.

“I know that, I felt like asking you on a date, seeing if we could start something- it was something I didn’t deserve, but you make me feel like I could have a second chance.” He was sounding less sure of his words as he finished, looking at you a little expectantly for your reply and definitely looking like a weight had gone from his shoulders a bit, telling you something he’d probably never said to anyone else.

“You deserve one,” you insisted but he didn’t look entirely convinced as he replied.

“I don’t know about that, but I’d like to try, if you’d have me,” it was nearly a question as he stared at you, so you took him hand in yours and smiled as he squeezed it back, glad to be looking to the future.

#hank voight #chicago pd #one chicago #hank voight imagine #chicago pd imagine #hank voight imagines #chicago pd imagines #hank voight one shot #chicago pd one shot #one chicago imagine #one chicago imagines #one chicago one shot #one shot

[palbabor-writes]

Yōkai

Hawks Week 2020 - Prompt: Horror Tales

Warnings: Ghosts, spirits, blood, gore, adult language, death, mentions of violent crime

Word Count: 9403

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t. 

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye.

Notes: I went with a whodunit theme for this fic with some healthy ghosts and haunts thrown in. As this is pre-All Might’s retirement, Hawks is the #3 Hero.

Yōkai

Yōkai are a class of supernatural monsters and spirits in Japanese folklore. The word 'yōkai' is made up of the kanji for "bewitching; attractive; calamity" and "spectre; apparition; mystery; suspicious."

The small island of Miyako is renowned for its turquoise waters, pristine coral sanctuaries, amusement parks, and sprawling mansions. All in all, it’s a trust fund tourist trap. Still, like most pristine and shiny things, there’s a seedier underbelly that’s scrapes against the rough, sandy bottom. Come at low tide and you’ll catch a whiff of decay and rot. 

Miyako Island is another example of that duality that exists within everything. No matter how pretty the water, there are always dark creatures that lurk in the shallow shoals and coves.

Hawks isn’t looking forward to his new assignment on the island. He’s been called in by the HPSC and Miyako’s police force. There’s been a string of unsolved murders and, with the onset of August, tourist season is in full swing. Homicide is bad publicity during the best of times. But, combine the discovery of freshly charred corpses popping up in various buildings, piers, and alleyways, with mass hysteria and you’re going to have a big problem on your hands. 

For eight open murder cases, there’s not much for Hawks to go on, and the data he does have is spotty. 

Hawks poured over the notes as soon as he got off the phone with the HSPC, the luster of the new assignment fresh in his mind. He swiped through the briefings and crime scene photos that were attached in the long email from Miyako’s chief of police. 

It looks like the trouble started in the poorer areas of town. No matter how bright the city lights shine, there’s always the common shadow of a downtrodden, overworked, and underpaid populous straining under the weight of “keeping up appearances.”  

Who else would do the nitty gritty jobs that ensured that the tourist season stayed afloat, and, most important of all, profitable? 

Sadly, it’s the blue collar areas that first experienced the horrors. The notes on these cases are borderline elitist, skirting close to xenophobic. The usual: ‘it was just something that happened when you crammed people in that close’. ‘What else did you expect’? ‘Most of the victims aren’t even from the island’. ‘They’re strangers, they’re not locals.’ ‘They’re not one of us’. 

The word immigrant pops up in the documentation frequently and it feels like a slur each time it appears. There’s a slinking, cloying animosity curling behind the looping words. 

It pisses Hawks off.

The only reason he’s been called is because the crimes have jumped over the poverty line. Now, two prominent members of Miyako society have been murdered. So, what’s the connection you ask? 

It’s the state of the bodies. 

All of the victims, rich or poor, have been mutilated. Something sharp was drawn across their skin, cutting and splicing, marring them, marking them. Then, as if to add insult to injury, they’d been set aflame. It must have been a scorching blaze. Something that leaves them so crisped and blackened that they’re more husk than human. In each case, it’s taken dental records to identify the deceased. 

The Miyako chief of police is doing a review of the known peculiars with Hawks. 

“They mirror the, uh, earlier crime scenes. As you can see, this one, she is, er, was a woman in her late 30’s-”

“She was 37,” Hawks supplies, his golden eyes running over the chart that the chief of police is showing him. He’s trying his best to hide his agitation, but his feathers still bristle, the red plumage flaring, refusing to lay against his back. 

“Uh, yeah, a bad age they say.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, it’s supposed to be bad luck. You know?”

“I don’t. Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?” 

Hawks has to grit his teeth to keep his tone even. He’s really not liking the way these crime scenes are processed and he’s made his opinion known to the police chief and investigative team. Why now, he’d pressed, hours after flying in, sweat still clinging to his brow. Why didn’t the bodies matter when it was relegated to the lower socio-economic citizens? 

He’s also critical and skeptical of the motives of this police chief. There’s something about the whole thing that feels...off.

 But, now’s not the time to project that suspicion. He’s only just arrived, besides, he needs more information, more data. Despite his agitation, he gets why the HPSC sent him on this assignment. He’s known for doing things quickly. Plus, he’s usually calm, collected, and he’s got the clout to get things moving again. 

He’s also observant. The HPSC both loves and hates this particular skill of his, but it’s to their benefit in this instance. His sharp eyes might spot something that’s been missed, they’d said on the phone with him as they handed off his assignment. If he played his cards right, they said, he could pull these murders from unsolved to solved. Oh, and the commission is thinking these murders might involve some agents from the League of Villains. 

It’s not a confirmed connection. 

There’s nothing solid about it, besides the body mutilation and burned corpses. But both are known habits of two members of the League. They’re shadowy leads, more steeped in hearsay than fact. All the same, one is rumored to have a fascination with blood, and the other, has a proclivity for using a bright, blue flame. It’s a hot heat, perfect for cremation and these bodies have all been practically, well, cremated.

“Have you met the other heroes that will be assigned to work with you?” 

Hawks snaps out of his head and nods at the tall, balding police chief. “Amano and Matsuura? Yeah, we’re supposed to take a look at the first locations as soon as this...meeting...is concluded.” Hawks hopes the police chief can hear the air quotes he just put the word meeting in. 

“Good, good. I saw your additions on the later cases. I really feel that we should look a little harder into those. One was a member of the city council. He was beloved by the city and-”

“If I’m looking for a pattern, there’s a higher probability that the killer was sloppier in the earlier cases. New habits and all. I’ll get to the councilman when I get to the councilman. Again, this string of murders started in the lowlands. While I realize that doesn’t get you the most publicity, and I hear a re-election is coming up for your position as chief of police this fall, I’m not going to pick at certain elements of this and leave others by the wayside. 

You gotta’ problem with that, take it up the HPSC. But, listen, they’re a lot meaner than me and they’re not going to like that you’re obstructing my investigation. You asked the commission to send someone down, and, lucky you, you’ve gotten yourself stuck with me.” 

Hawks flashes the police chief a bright grin, his teeth gleaming as his eyes crinkle to crescents. The man stammers for a moment, his face flushing under Hawks’ false joviality, then he tosses a bulky manilla folder on the desk. 

“Why you...I heard you were an arrogant son of a...no, no.” The chief sputters, his teeth clenched, anger bared behind the grinding of his jaw. “You’re right, we’re so very grateful to the number three hero taking time out of his busy modeling schedule to lend us a hand with these murders.”

“Ooh, you saw that spread in the sports magazine? Nice use of color right? Loved that new set of watches I’m sponsoring.” 

Fucking prick. Hawks is used to this kind of irate reaction, hell, it’s pretty expected now. He’d heard it so many times he has it memorized. Yeah, yeah, he’s twenty one, a kid who’s too big for his boots. He has no idea, no real world experience. Did you hear how he talked to me? The audacity.  

Let this guy try to report his snarky attitude, it’s not going to get his low level wannabe bureaucratic ass anywhere.

“I’ll get my agency to send you a signed copy. I had no idea you were such a fan! Lemme grab these files, got some work to do. Catch you around, sir!” Hawks pantomimes a salute, a serious expression making his eyes narrow. Fuck this dude. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

Closing the door on the police chief’s mottled expression, he meanders down the stairs of the police precinct, his wings still arching and rustling his temper. You’d think this case didn’t matter to these buffoons. The sheer implication of Hawks’ presence should clue them in. The HPSC doesn’t do anything lightly. Nah, these killings could be related to the League. Plus, his background checks on the victims had revealed some startling discoveries. 

All of them, down to the nineteen year old restaurant hostess, were involved in minor villain activities. Some had smuggled drugs, some laundered money on the side, one was a known broker. They kept climbing the ladder of severity. It was worrisome. 

While the chances of the LOV’s involvement was low, the commission was still searching for their hideout. He’d caught wind of some of the activity revolving around that ongoing mission. He wasn’t assigned to it, but he liked to keep an ear to the ground. 

Association with the LOV or not, these homicides kept bothering him. There’s something he’s not seeing. He dislikes the sensation. It makes him tense, ill at ease. Once he steps outside the police headquarters he launches himself into the sleet grey skies. 

It looks like rain. 

If he’s wanting to glean as much as he can from those early crime scenes, he better hurry. Hawks doesn’t like rain. It makes his feathers feel bogged down and dampened. Unfortunately, it has the same effect on evidence. Rain can whisk the little details away, slicking and drifting as it washes down to the vast sea. It can easily snag vital clues on its meandering path, erasing as it goes. 

******

The first murder took place on the fourth floor of a shabby apartment. The victim lived in the 19th unit and was a 43 year old male. He was a well known loner. So, it was a shock to discover that he ran a pilfering ring. The ring wasn’t a small scale enterprise either. No, this went deep. It connected to three other islands and the Japanese mainland. There’s no way this guy was a simple recluse. If anything, he was nothing short of a criminal mastermind. 

His body had been left in an odd position. It was likely staged, purposeful.  

He was discovered by his landlord. Rent was due and it was unusual for him to be late with the payment. So, the landlord let himself into the 19th unit. It’s a small wonder no one reported the smell earlier. Apparently, it was putrid, acidic, gut churning. A mix of tarnished copper and old, rotten meat. 

In all likelihood, he was murdered elsewhere and dragged back to the unit. Nothing in the room, besides his corpse, was scorched. The victim was splayed on his small bed, but the placement was strange. His feet were resting on his ashen pillow, shoes still on his feet. Meanwhile, his head was at the foot of his bed, pointing northward. 

Hawks and one of the assigned heroes, a friendly guy named Amano, are going over the case file with two members of the forensic team. Apparently, one of the team members hadn’t been part of the original investigation clean up and bagging. As Hawks and Amano are sharing the crime scene photos, asking the forensic team questions, the taller of the two, gasps, clapping a hand over his lips. 

Hawks tilts his head at the man’s reaction, his feathers automatically feeling for his pulse. It’s elevated and the guy appears to be truly bothered. It’s an upsetting picture, to be sure, but this is his job. He cleans up blood and guts for a living. Surely, he’s seen worse.

“You ok?” Hawks’ asks, his amber eyes shifting over the man’s face. 

“F-fine. It’s just, well, look at him.” 

Hawks takes the photo back. Did he miss something? 

“What about him?”

“Look at the direction his head’s facing.” 

“Uh,” Hawks examines the position of the hazy sun that peeks through the rain clouds outside the window. “North?”

Now the other forensic team member gasps. What the hell? What does facing north have to do with anything? It’s a cardinal direction. What would they say if he was facing the West? Again, are these people deliberately trying to bog his investigation down?

“I don’t see what, uh, relevance that has.” Hawks tells the two, looking over to Amano. The hero doesn’t seem to be bothered by their outburst. He just shrugs at Hawks’ frank stare.

“It’s supposed to be bad luck, but yeah, there’s not-” Amano begins, finally placing some clarity on the forensic team's outburst of paranoia, but he’s interrupted by the taller, jumpier man. 

“Not just that. You collect iron in your blood if you sleep facing north. It brings death.”

The guy said death like it might summon the fearsome spector down on them at any moment. Amano coughs, his hand covering a badly concealed smile. “Yeah, sure. Facing north is bad luck, and, I guess it can bring death, too. Learn something new everyday...”

“Worked pretty well in this guys case,” Hawks muses, arching an eyebrow at the jittery forensic team. “You guys see anything else? Something a little more, I don’t know, pertinent?” 

They don’t get much further with that crime scene.

Amano tags along for Hawks’ review of the other two cases. His agency runs out of this area and he was one of the first responders. He’s not got a lot of extra information, but he knows the people and they know him. It takes the edge off, lets the locals open up a little more. 

The next case is in a home. Well, home feels generous, it’s more like a shack. Apparently, the victim liked to collect cat figurines. Like, really, really liked to collect cat figurines. There’s over sixty of them, they’re scattered around the place, tucked into nooks and crannies. It feels like a thousand little eyes are watching the two heroes as they canvas the space. It’s creepy.  Hawks dislikes the sensation. His feathers keep lifting, feeling, spreading out.

The woman had been found at her kitchen table. She was propped into a chair, sitting, like nothing in the world, save her crisp remains, was amiss. The only way you could achieve a staging of that caliber was to wait for the body to enter rigor mortis. 

That takes time. 

Full rigor sets in around 5 to 12 hours after death has occured. Whomever did this must have had time to spare. And they weren’t worried about being caught during that time. No, they were too busy planning out the dramatic effect of their crimes.  

Once again, he feels like he’s missing something. 

One body was left pushing a garden cart. Literally, the man was found, early in the morning with his hands tied to a wheelbarrow. He was posed mid task, his arm lifted, reaching for someone, or something. Trouble was, the guy didn’t work as a gardener. No, he was a low level broker. Someone darting under the criminal radar. He’d eluded the police and heroes for months. Looks like his luck ran out.

The eighth body, the congressman, was discovered at a popular wharf. This crime scene is still in the process of being cleaned up, so there’s a flurry of people bustling around. Amano, and the other hero, Matsuura, who’s also been assigned to Hawks’ investigation, are talking with witnesses, gathering information and scheduling interviews. This kind of hero work is never ending. Hawks is grateful they’re willing to take on the grunt work. 

As Hawks is kneeling, peering over the ledge of the pier, looking down on the blackened wood and debris, a loud cawing breaks out. It echoes on the wind, coiling and lifting. It’s a funny sound. Like it’s far away and dulled. It makes Hawks’ wings fan out, overstimulated and brittle. The heroes and crime scene investigators debate on the origin of the noise. It doesn’t help that there’s no bird that’s wheeling above them. No, the skies are dark and empty, with a light misting of rain starting to drip onto the lashing sea. 

“What is that?”

“Is it a gull?”

“It’s creepy. There’s nothing even flying around. But, it sounds so close.”

“I think it’s a seabird. It’s gotta be, sometimes they fly out here looking for fish.”

“I’ve never heard a seagull sound like that.”

“There are other birds besides seagulls, idiot. It could be a pelican-”

“It’s a crow,” Hawks’ supplies, standing and turning back to the clutch of people who are quickly gathering up their supplies, doing their best to get the important pieces of evidence protected from the rain. 

“Huh? Did he say a crow?”

“Oh, damn, that’s a sign of death.”

“No...I think it’s illness, not death.”

Hawks’ walks to Amano and Matsuura, he tells them he’ll meet them back at the police headquarters. He needs to start his interviews if he wants to even have a prayer of snagging a bite to eat. He’s been subsisting off coffee since he flew in and his stomach is rumbling, loudly. 

The investigators are still debating the meaning of the crow caws when he takes off. His wings beat powerfully beside his head and he lifts above the grey storm clouds, coasting high, past the skyline. 

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t. 

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye. 

Things feel off in every crime scene. Were their belongings really left that way? Or, have the details been staged? Plus, the murders keep escalating. The particulars are spreading out and deepening as they interweave. The major connecting thread is still the state of the bodies, but even that is starting to feel vague. Hawks shudders a bit of excess moisture from the tips of his wings. Fingers crossed, some of these witnesses and relatives of the victims will have a little more substance for him to chew on.

******

Oh, they have something alright. 

It’s more hushed rumors and strange folk tales. God, the sheer frightened gullibility of these islanders is wild. The whole place feels so backwoodsey, lost in a bygone era. There’s always a prayer or blessing that needs to be uttered. Or, some supernatural logic that he needs to look into. Did you consider the devil, Hawks? He hides in the details, you know? 

It’s fucking weird. 

Hawks is treading in unfamiliar waters with this tripe. He didn’t grow up with any of this. The HPSC certainly hadn't offered him a course on Japanese islander folk traditions during his childhood. Still, these people, for the most part, seem well off, educated, cultured even. Some aren’t even from this island. But, they seem to be infected with the same disease: ghosts, oni spirits, and bad omens. It’s a whirling circle of nonsense and Hawks’ wants off this ride.   

“I got a call from her.”

“From the victim, your sister?”

“Yeah, it came in at 4:49 am.”

“Ma’m, that’s not possible. The coroner noted that rigor mortis had set in by 2 am”

“She sounded faint. It was like she was underwater, but it was her. She screamed at me.”

“She screamed at you?”

“Yeah, it was this low scream. Kinda, like a gasp? Like she couldn’t breathe. It kept getting louder and louder and louder. It hurt my ears. They felt like they were ringing, pounding. Then, the line just went dead. I can still hear it, that scream. Every time I close my eyes, or whenever I least...I-I can still hear her.”

“Do you have your phone records?”

Hawks is trying to make sense of it all, but it’s like they’re talking to each other before they come into the interview room, telling each new interviewee to up the ante. 

See if you can spook the number three hero. Go on, it’ll be fun. 

There’s a slew of strange occurrences. Disembodied voices, knocking on windows, doors opening on their own, quiet voids of cold that they step into. Ghosts keep popping up.

Then, there’s the oni spirits. They have red faces and they lean in close, their fangs reaching, gnashing, grinding. One woman, who was married to one of the victims, burst into tears, her terrified sobbing turning into a frantic wail. 

She had seen an ogre in her back garden. It was pushing a cart and the cart was on fire. Hawks’ checked his notes as he patted the woman’s back, trying to help her move through a few breathing exercises. One of the victims was found propped, pushing a wheelbarrow, could it be…

No. It’s another dead end. 

This woman didn’t know that dead man, the one who was pushing the cart. She didn’t even live on the same side of town. Ugh, this is endless. It might be easier if he did apply these delusions to his investigation. At least that way he’ll feel sane. 

Some of the victims had been acting suspicious, paranoid, on edge before their deaths. One of them had gotten a phone call in the middle of the night and ran off. The next day she was found dead in her home, burnt and drifting into ash. 

“So, she got the call and just ran out the door?”

“Yes. But, she let it ring four times.”

“You said that already. I’m not sure-”

“She picked it up after the fourth ring.” The aunt of the victim is looking at Hawks expectantly, her blue eyes wide, starting. 

“I don’t-”

“You know what that means...don’t you?”

“The hidden significance of picking up a phone on the fourth ring? No, no I don’t.”

They never fully expand on their weird theories. They’re normal comments to them. He debates looking up the meaning of the number four on his phone, but he tamps down the urge. It doesn’t pertain to the case. It’s useless drivel, a waste of time. 

An adult man shows him this ugly, ugly drawing of a cat. It’s pulling a flaming cart. Hawks doesn’t even want to touch the paper. The man keeps pointing back at it as he goes over his neighbor’s timeline. 

This particular witness is connected to the city councilman. The one that was oh, so important to the police chief. It’s a high profile case and it’s being taken seriously. Yet, here’s this supposedly credible witness, flashing a childish scrawl up to his nose, asking him to look for the phenomena, like it’s a normal request to ask the number three hero to look for nonexistent demons. 

‘There’s gotta be more to this’, he tells Hawks, his voice broken, fervid. ‘Something, something has to be there, after all, the councilman was murdered for a reason’. 

The man with the drawing is right about that, at least. 

These are not random crimes. The MO is too similar. Every single victim was involved in some sort of villainous activity. Yeah, the guys correct on that one sane theory of his: ‘There’s gotta be something there’. But, whatever it is, it’s not this cat thing. 

Hawks calls a halt to their interview and glumly munches on his cold chicken sandwich as he waits for the next witness to be called in. His head is pounding and he’s praying for some new development to fall into his lap, at least that way he can conclude things and get the hell off this island. 

****** 

The 9th victim is an outlier. 

He’s high up in social circles and he was a popular man. He’s also been accused of money laundering, tax evasion and fraud. He was acquitted on all charges, but his past never did stop nipping at his heels. However, that’s not what makes him an outlier. 

No, that’s reserved for the state of his body. 

Most of the victims have been burned to a crisp, leaving nothing behind, save bone and gristle. You can still see this guy's face and defining features. He’s a little charred, but it’s almost like the flames stopped right before they got past his chin. 

They transport his body to the morgue and Hawks finishes the combing of the crime scene, setting up a new batch of interview times and creating witness reports. He leaves just as the sun is dipping under the horizon. 

******

It’s late now, and the cool sea breeze blows in through his open hotel windows, soothing across his crimson plumage. It’s his first evening off in over a week. He’s still working though, typing his reports into his laptop. 

He’s forgone his usual coffee this evening. He wants to try and see if he can catch a full eight hours tonight. God, what a fucking delicious treat that would be. Eight hours? That’s the real ghost here. 

He shuts off his laptop and flops himself across his bed, his wings tucking into his side, burrowing his shoulders into their reassuring warmth. 

He slips into the lull between realities, his mind whirring, the case resting heavily against the forefront of his thoughts. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he can’t distinguish between dream and actuality as he drifts off. 

There’s something there.

It keeps to the edge of his vision, a dark shadow that leeches the color from whatever it touches. He can feel it watching him. It shifts quickly when he cocks his head to get a better look, sliding across the blank expanse like quicksilver, fluid and slick. 

He looks away from the edges of his dreamscape and turns. He blinks in surprise. He’s at one of the crime scenes. It’s the one with the man in the wheelbarrow. There’s a crowd pressing around him and that dark figure is blotted toward the back, lurking, watching. The people around him murmur and whisper, too soft to hear. They don’t seem to notice him. They also don’t appear to have faces. They’re just blank voids, with soft notches where eyes, noses, and mouths should be. Unthinking, Hawks reaches for one of them and his hand slips through the air, weightless and heavy in the same motion. 

When he blinks again he’s in that lady’s shack, the one with all the cat figurines. That wraith is sitting at her kitchen table. It’s not moving and he doesn’t feel particularly threatened by its proximity. Still, he dislikes this whole thing. If he can touch it, maybe he’ll wake up.

He’s stepping forward when he hears a soft mewl. There’s a black cat on a shelf. It’s tiny and lithe. It jumps in front of him, a low purr rumbling from its chest. It looks up at him, orange eyes fastening on his amber ones. Odd, he thinks, that woman only had figures. No living cats were evident in the house. 

The cat chirps four times. It’s a light, high pitched sound that makes his ears ache. It almost sounds like a phone. The cat lifts its tail and turns, padding soundlessly into the next room. Intrigued, Hawks follows.

Now, he’s walking down a street. The cat is still in front of him, weaving in and out. That purr of it is loud and sharp as it vibrates around his ears. He keeps trying to get the feline’s attention. He pspsp’s at the dark cat, clicking his tongue, but it doesn’t respond. Hawks is distracted, not paying any mind to his surroundings, wholly focused on the feline. 

The voice startles him. 

It’s rasping and deep and it’s calling his name. Not his hero name, no, it’s saying his real name, over and over. 

KEIGO TAKAMI. 

Keigo Takami, he thinks, stumbling over words that make him, him. It sounds strange now, foreign. He hasn’t heard that name in such a long time.  How did…

The voice is coming from behind him now. He whirls around and is face to face with that man. The 9th victim, the one whose face you could still see. He’s charred and battered, and blood is dripping in long rivulets from his gaping skin, pooling onto the ashen sidewalk. 

His eyes are wide, searching but not seeing. The pupil and iris are both milky white, rolling around in the cavities of his sockets. Then, his mouth pops open. It’s horrifically wide, like it’s caught in a scream. His teeth are crumbling before Hawks’ eyes, black pearls that slide from the man’s lips and clatter around his feet. 

Hawks is stunned, unsure, but, fuck, he can’t move. He tries to flap his wings, knowing that they’ll tug him away from this horror that’s in front of him. Except, there’s no whoosh of air, no lift. There’s nothing. What? How... 

His hands bat at the emptiness along his back. Where are they? What is this? His fingertips press along his shoulders, searching, desperate. His quirk, it’s...it’s just gone. He’s frantic now and that makes him clumsy. His feet tangle under him and he falls. Grounded, his legs instinctively begin to push away from the shell of a man in front of him.

The figure moves with him. Hawks keeps scrabbling away, but the man is even closer now and his bare feet are disintegrating with each shuffling pad forward. Still, he keeps on. Hawks tries to move again, tries to shift, but he’s been cast in stone. He can’t look away...he can’t…

The man is almost upon him now. His fingers are crumbling, the ash they create is making him choke. He can’t breath, he’s wheezing, unable to pull oxygen through his trembling lips. Hawks’ lungs are burning...

Then, Hawks’ wakes up. 

He’s sweating. His skin feels hot and his wings are flared. The feathers are quivering, searching. They bring him back bits and pieces. There’s someone sobbing two rooms over, someone is sleeping below him, their breath warm, he can almost feel it, pushing in and out, in and out. There’s a phone ringing. How many rings? What if it’s four...

Stop, stop.

Hawks tucks his wings back, ignoring the sounds, the sensations. The plumage wraps around him and he ducks his head into the darkness that they blanket him in. He’s comforted by the reassuring, solid presence of his quirk. He thought he’d lost it. His shoulders still hurt from his flailing motions. What is going on? He’s never had a dream like that. It felt so...so real. 

No. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He doesn't believe in this stuff. It’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

He tries to lay back down. 

He’s cooled off some, but his wings keep flapping, he’s stopped trying to fight them. His quirk is going into overdrive. This hasn’t happened to him in years, not since he was a kid. He tosses his pillow over his head, trying to stifle out the noise his quirk keeps drowning him in. He’s tired and overstimulated. Each breath stings and he tries to count, to walk through the steps that have been with him since childhood. Just be still, Hawks. It doesn’t matter. 

The sun is peeking over the horizon when he finally dozes off, his head heavy, fogged with exhaustion. 

******

Hawks grabs two nitro coffees the next morning. 

He practically inhales the dark liquid, hoping it will let him evade the haze of tiredness that thrums through his veins. It’s a slow day, thank God. There’s nothing of note that occurred the night before. Everything is pacing along its planned trajectory. There are no new bodies and the last interviews go by without any mention of spirits or the paranormal. 

Matsuura offers to take him for some lunch. Hawks, always eager to expand his palette, eagerly agrees and the two men head into the city. It’s a weekend, so the streets are crowded. People recognize Hawks and he chats with them, grateful for the welling of normalcy that the interactions bring. He’s signing an autograph when he catches sight of movement in a darkened alleyway. 

It’s not a particularly noticeable shift, but something about it feels strange. Hawks hands the freshly signed soccer ball back to the gang of kids around him and tilts his head toward the motion. He blinks. What the fuck? That’s not possible. 

It’s the man from his dream. He’s walking, steps heavy, sluggish and he’s moving into the alley. The 9th victim? But, but how? What? 

His wings react to his agitation and he hones in on the spot, reaching, snatching at anything he can sense. His fierce wings never let him down. They’re versatile, practiced and perfected. Feathers detach and shimmer into the midday sun, ducking around corners and onto rooftops, feeling. 

There’s nothing. 

No heartbeat, no footsteps, no voices. Hawks’ eyes had slipped closed as he felt for the man and he snaps them open again, his avian pupils dilating, constricting to a fine point. He turns to Matsuura and tells the hero he’s going to check something out. His wings lift before Matsuura can answer and he flaps into the air, the sea breeze assisting his ascension.

The rooftops are empty and Hawks scans the streets below, his wings rustling as he pulls himself along. Maybe it was a trick of his mind? Did he really see that guy? That’s a stupid question, how could he have? That man is dead. It’s gotta be his tired psyche. He didn’t sleep well, plus this case has been on his brain so much that he’s even dreaming about it. 

He lands on a nearby roof, his boots hitting the tiles roughly. Hawks closes his eyes again, sending a few more feathers out. The man, if he is real, will take this path if he is using the alleyway as an escape. There are no other routes available to him. 

He’s still attuned to his scattered feathers when he hears the cat hiss at him. His eyes open and he sees the animal. It’s a black cat. 

It’s across the street, lingering in an open window, its back arched and its fur standing on end. Hawks narrows his eyes at the aggressive display. There are way too many cats on this island. 

As he and the cat continue to engage in their silent staring contest, he hears a scritching sound coming from the street below. Hawks follows the noise, leaning over the edge of the rooftop. A child is playing below. She is sketching something into the concrete with bits of multicolored chalk. 

It looks like...huh? 

It looks like some kind of cart, but, why...why is it on fire? She is busy tracing the licking flames, a yellow piece of chalk clutched in her small fist. She’s humming a mindless song. It sounds like some kind of dirge. It’s soft and melancholic, following a minor tune. A shiver creeps up Hawks’ spine, but he ignores the pebbling of his skin, shaking his head.

Curious, Hawks wheels down, tapping along the street. He keeps a little ways away from the girl, he’s not wanting to startle her. His long fingers reach behind him, into his utility pocket that sits on his belt. He tugs out a small sticker sheet. He always keeps little trinkets in his pockets. It takes real effort to put people at ease and Hawks prides himself on his ability to steadfastly maintain that part of his image. He kneels on his haunches, dropping himself to a friendlier level before calling out to the little girl.

“Hey! That’s a pretty picture.” His voice is all light and honey and he has a bright smile on his face.

“Oh!” the little girl chirps, beaming her own grin back at him. “Thank you!”

“Tell me about your drawing.”

“It’s a Kasha.”

“Hmm, I don’t know what a Kasha is. Can you tell me about the Kasha?”

“They come to take away bad people.” The little girl replies, going back to her sketch, perfecting her lines and colors. 

“Oh! There’s a kitty in your drawing. Is the kitty a Kasha too?” Hawks asks, noticing the calico cat that’s attached to the handles on the front of the cart. It looks angry, vengeful. Strange for a kiddo to draw something so eerie.

“That’s the spirit of the nekomata, silly. Don’t you know anything?”

“Haha,” Hawks laughs, a genuine sound that makes him throw his head back, his hand bashfully scratching the back of his head. “Guess I don’t, huh? Do you like to draw...ghosts?”

“Not really. If I draw them they won’t-”

A distant voice is calling out a name. It’s female and coming from a house a few feet away, no doubt the girl’s mother or sister. The little girl calls back. 

“Coming mama! I gotta go, mister.”

“Here,” Hawks begins, detaching a smaller feather and drifting the little set of stickers over to the girl’s chubby hands. “Thank you for answering my questions,” he smiles. She coos and snatches the sparkly sheet, the sunlight catches the glitter that adorns the stickers. He tickles her cheek with his detached feather and she laughs. 

Her mother calls again and she starts to run off, her yellow shoes pounding on the street. Belatedly, she pauses before rounding the corner and bows low, a quick thank you slipping from her mouth. He waves back and smiles as she walks into her home, the door clicking behind her. Once he’s alone in the alleyway his grin drops and he stands, looking down at her drawing. 

It’s so freaking odd. Sure, sure, these cases are in the news. But the drawing looks...familiar somehow. 

Oh, that’s why. 

That man he interviewed, the one connected to the congressmen, had drawn something similar. Even then, back in that dark interrogation room, the strange figures looked like something he’d seen before, but where?

That nagging feeling is back. It pulls at the back of his mind. What is going on?

Hawks pulls out a small notepad and replicates the girl’s drawing, noting the colors and positions of the nekomata. As he sketches, his wings arc above his head, lifting and lowering meditatively. 

******

He comes back to the police precinct, his hands tucked deeply into his pockets. As he walks toward the chief’s office he runs into Amano. He’s the elder of his two assigned heroes and a font of knowledge about the island and its inhabitants. Maybe he’ll know something more about this doodle that keeps cropping up.

“Hey, Amano, you seen any weird drawings around town? Or, at the crime scenes maybe?”

“Weird? Like how?”

Hawks pulls out his notepad, flipping to the page with his sketch of the cat pushing the burning cart. Amano chortles, one gloved hand coming to cover his mirth. 

“What is that? It looks terrible.”

“I’m not much of an artist, I'll give you that one. In my defense, it’s based on a kid's drawing, so cut me some slack here, man. She said it was supposed to be a kasha and a nekomata?”

“Oh! Yeah, I can kinda see that now. I know what those are. According to legend, kasha appear during rainstorms. They steal corpses out of their coffins. Some of the older folks say they collect the souls of the damned. You can’t get the souls back if the kasha get them, they’re taken to hell, or eaten, depending on what version of the story you’re listening to. 

I mean, they’re all just old wives tales. We used to tell them on camping trips. They’re bedtime stories, something to scare kids into being good. Ooo, misbehave and you’ll get taken to hell. 

Eh, that feels kinda strong when I say it outloud, hopefully people don’t tell their kids stuff like that. Anyway, it’s not real.” Amano pauses, his head tilting at Hawks’ serious expression. “Isn’t it a little early to be getting into ghost stories? It’s summertime. Besides...” 

Hawks tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket, flicking through the crime scene photos as Amano elaborates on how ridiculous this ghoulish conversation is. Normally, Hawks would agree, but there’s got to be...oh...OH. 

There it is. 

His finger stills over the glass of his phone. It’s tiny, basically a scrawl, but it’s there. He flicks through some of the other photos, swiping through the different locations, searching. Ah-ha! Again, there’s that scrawl. This time, it’s almost cropped out of the photo. Still, there are two crime scenes with the scrawling of chalk. 

It’s a tiny drawing, so tiny he looked right over it originally, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there, plain as day. It’s a drawing of a tiny cart with a cat pulling the handles, lugging the wheels forward. 

Amano is still talking when Hawks looks back up. Hawks butts into his elaborations, not caring that he’s interrupting the man. 

“Ok, so they take evil doers away? Spooky. Question for you. You got any theories on why it’s cropping up all over town?” Hawks lifts the phone to Amano’s face. Amano takes the device and examines the strange markings, his brow creases, but he hands Hawks his phone back with a small smirk on his lips.

“It’s just talk, man. People do all sorts of superstitious things around here. Don’t look too hard into it. You believe what you want to, I don’t know. If that makes sense. Like those old sayings: ‘Don’t clip your nails before bed’. ‘No whistling at night’. It’s just something to say.

Superstitions are weird like that. Kinda like why you don’t have a fourth floor in a hospital. The number four looks like the word for death when you write it out. It’s bad form. It’s asking for trouble. So, don’t put a fourth floor, and boom, no problems with death.”

Hawks hums at Amano’s explanation. Ok, that superstition about the fourth floor, yeah, that one he had heard about. Amano claps a hand on Hawks shoulder and tells him he’s going to call a few more witnesses in. Hawks nods distantly, his mind whirring, processing. Despite Amano’s assurances, something still feels off.

******

He’s got a night shift. 

It’s only for one evening, so it shouldn't fuck up his sleep schedule too much. Hawks has already decided that he’s going to circle back to all of the crime scenes. He’s not used to being out of the loop, or being the one that people are looking at quizzically. 

He’d shown the drawings to the head investigator and the man had given him a blank look before asking Hawks if he needed some time off from the case. If he’d been asked that question a few days later, Hawks might have taken him up on the offer. 

It’s been five days since he had that dream, but he’s still seeing that man. He’s determined to haunt him, to flit on the side of Hawks’ vision, drifting around like a dead leaf in a breeze. 

He saw him at a bus stop the other evening. His dark hair was plastered to his face, burnt skin sloughing off his shoulders. He looked like a walking horror and Hawks had brought himself to an abrupt stop, staring at the figure below. The bus pulled up to the stop seconds after, the sleek metal shielding the man from view. By the time Hawks lifted himself higher, the man was gone. 

He saw him in windows, peering sightlessly out of the glass. He spied the man walking home from the train, trailing long streams of ash and smoke behind him. He never makes any sound. He’s not alive, so why would he? He had spoken to him in his dream, called his name, but after that? There was nothing. 

The vacancy of his presence is what startles Hawks the most. 

There’s nothing to feel, nothing to sense. It’s just this vast, blank, emptiness. For someone with a quirk like his, it’s deeply unsettling. Hawks’ life revolves around his ability to sense, to feel. The plight of the dead man makes his chest hurt with its loneliness and abject barrenness. Is that what it’s like to die? You drift into this void, alone? He doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go. Is this his routine? Is he trapped in an endless loop, playing out his final movements? How long does he have to participate in this charade? Is this some kind of purgatory for him?    

Distracted by his thoughts, Hawks spots a different man down a dark street as he flies overhead. It looks like he’s pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. Wait. A wheelbarrow? He looks again, wheeling back through the night sky, but there’s no one there now. No, the street is desolate, not even the gleam of the moon can brighten the winding sidewalks. 

Is this really a ghost? Do these visions even exist? Hawks has never given the topic of the paranormal much thought. It’s always been an outlier, untrue, and untested. A pseudoscience. Well, ghosts or not, whatever is going on, Hawks needs some rest. 

The rest of the night passes uneventfully and Hawks collapses onto his bed, drifting to sleep as soon as his golden head hits the pillows. 

******

After a goodnight’s sleep, it does get a little easier. 

He feels like his mind has cleared, the cobwebs brushed to one side, for now. Despite the clarity, he’s still seeing something. The man hasn’t gone away. No, even the daylight sun isn’t able to banish him. He saw him in his hotel lobby this morning, waiting for an elevator. By the time Hawks zoomed over, he was gone, the only evidence of his presence is the rising numbers on the illuminated floor panel, clicking up, toward the 4th floor.

That night, while getting a late night coffee, Hawks, long since given up his avoidance of caffeine in the evenings, spies something a little more sinister. As he’s paying the friendly barista, he notices someone lugging something across the road. It looks like it’s heavy, dragging against the street. They’re struggling to hoist it and it’s looking more and more like a body to Hawks’ frazzled nerves. He can’t be sure if it’s the specter that’s been lurking after him, but he’s not taking any chances. Again, Hawks is fast, but it’s not his speed that’s letting him down here. 

Each and every time, there’s just nothing there.

Is he freaking haunted now? Is that a thing? That crazy dream hasn’t returned, so that’s one, fleeting, plus. Wait. Does thinking about the paranormal bring it into existence? Is that how ghosts work? Ugh, if he’s going to be plagued, he might as well read up on this shit. What the fuck is going on? Is it the town? Is it the pressure of this case? Is it him?

As he takes himself, and his coffee, up to his hotel room, he ponders the strange predicament he’s landed himself in. He can’t fit all the pieces together. It’s too strange, too abnormal. He wants to lay down, try to get a little sleep. But, a hero's work is never done. He’s got another report to type up and another set of interviews to schedule. 

As he sits at the small desk that faces the window, he hears a strange cawing. It sounds close, almost like it’s right outside the glass. It’s not the call of a seagull, no, it’s that crow again. But, crows aren’t indigenous to the island. He’d looked them up after that discussion on the wharf. No crows have been spotted on the island in over 50 years. The last known specimen was an old bird, living in the Miyako zoo. It died over 3 years ago. 

Hawks pulls himself to his feet, scraping the chair legs against the floor. He opens the window and pokes his head outside. He can smell the salty aroma of the sea. It tickles his nose and makes him take a big inhale of air, filling his lungs with the crisp aroma. The crow can still be heard, shrieking into the night. There’s a soft, familiar, beating of wings, too. He cranes his head, scanning the blackness, his wings are lifted as well, but there’s no bird. Per usual, there’s no movement, and no creature is flapping its way into the night sky. 

He closes the window and the cawing echoes to the other side of the room before fading away. Annoyed, he takes a sip of his coffee. Hopefully that’s the last he’ll hear of it. He’s got enough ghosts fucking with him, thank you very much, he’s not wanting to add a disembodied crow to the role call. 

******  

The next morning Hawks is on a patrol. 

The murder cases have stagnated again. While this, on the whole, is good news, simply because there are no new bodies, he still can’t get that damned drawing off his mind. It feels like things are slipping away from him, pulling out with the tide and into the vast realm of the dreaded: unsolved cold case. 

He’s frustrated, no, he’s not frustrated, he’s pissed. 

He feels like he’s letting the whole town down. He’d been called out here to do a job, but what good has he really been? Sure, the townsfolk are weird, the police chief is an ass and the lead detective pretty much has Hawks written off as a conspiracy theorist nut, but he was sent here to do a job. He’s good at sniffing things out. He’s good at being a hero. He’s not good at waiting, and that’s all this case has turned into, one long stint of stagnation and thumb twiddling. 

Hawks glides across the bright sky, the sun reflecting warmly on his ruby red feathers. His eyes and wings are alert, feeling for any disturbances. He’s rounding onto the main street when he sees him.

It’s a living, breathing man. Hawks can feel his heartbeat, it’s pounding against the man’s breastbone. Only problem is, he shouldn’t be in the realm of the living.

The 9th victim ducks into a large bank, his familiar dark hair gleaming in the sun. 

Hawks maneuvers to land immediately, his wings tucking against his back and dropping him to the earth at an alarming speed. He startles the small huddle of pedestrians on the sidewalk, but he’s too intent on catching his quarry to smooth any ruffled feathers. He races up the steps of the bank, one broad, gloved hand yanking the glass door open.

There he is. He’s talking with someone. Hawks can almost hear what he’s saying, he just needs to get closer…

“Sir? Can I help you?”

It’s a bank employee. He’s wearing a crisp blue suit and his eyes are wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Hawks pauses at his question, then slides past him, but it looks like it was just enough time for the 9th victim to evade him. He’s walking now, disappearing from view, stepping down a back hallway. It looks like he’s following someone…

Hawks turns back to the bank employee, his wings vibrating with annoyance and impatience. “I need to talk with that man, he’s wanted in a murder investigation. My name is Hawks, my hero number is-”

“Oh, I know who you are. O-of course, please, do what you need to d-”

The bank employee’s voice fades as Hawks lifts himself, pulling over the heads of the people waiting in the lobby. A few feathers dash out, feeling, searching. 

Where did he go?

Hawks reaches the hallway in record time, his wings folding as he paces over the marble flooring. There’s not much back here, but it does lead to a large, closed vault. Damn it all. 

“Sir, sir, SIR! Can we help you? I am the bank manager. You’re not permitted to be back-”

“Sure, you can help me. I need access to this vault. There’s a man, you can check your security cameras, he just walked-”

“I do not have access to the vault. You will need to make a formal-”

“Whaddya’ mean, “you don’t have access”? Then find someone who does. Two men just...Damn it…”

Hawks phone is ringing, he tries to ignore it, but it persists, vibrating and chiming against his leg. The bank manager is bristling, his mustache quivering as he babbles on about warrants, and how heroes can’t act like cops. It doesn’t matter if Hawks is the number three, he can’t ignore protocol. He needs to come back with a warrant, or get out…

His phone’s ringtone continues to slice through the tense air and Hawks, after the 9th, exasperating, ring, lifts it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID: it’s the HPSC. Fuck. He accepts the call on a final, shrill note.

“Hawks, here.”

“You need to come back...there’s been...All Might...Kamino...attack…”

An intermittent static keeps breaking over the phone line. It’s a crackling sound, snapping and rustling, it makes his skin crawl. It almost sounds like someone is whispering something, just below the faint hissing. “What? The line is breaking up-” Hawks lifts the phone, ah, there’s no bars in here.

The bank manager is still carrying on, heedless of Hawks’ inattention. “And so, I am within my rights to ask you to-”

“I’m going to need you to wait here and don’t move. Yeah, yeah, sure thing buddy, I don’t have a warrant, but I can make things pretty rough for you if you don’t do as I say. You don’t want to be involved in this case, believe me. Now, do what I asked and stay here.”  

Lifting his wings, he flies across the lobby again, swiping a quick text to the police chief, if they hurry they might be able to catch this un-dead, dead guy. He jets himself onto the sidewalk, scattering a gaggle of beach goers. 

As he re-dials the HPSC’s number he hears it again. It’s the call of that crow. It startles him and he almost doesn’t lift the dialing phone to his ear. God, this has gotta stop. He scans the sky for any physical sign of the screeching bird. It’s close, cawing and shrieking into the wind. It’s different from the other calls it’s made. It sounds angry, desperate, trying to reach him...trying to tell him something... 

The line picks up and a voice repeats the familiar greeting of the HPSC. 

“HAWKS, here,” he says, vexed, eyes scanning, looking for the disembodied crow. 

The person on the other end asks for him to hold, and a few seconds later the head of the HPSC is answering, her soft voice both grating and reassuring to Hawks. 

“Hawks. You need to return to Tokyo, immediately. All Might has been attacked by All for One. There are developments that we cannot discuss over the phone. Leave whatever intel you’ve gathered for the Miyako police chief and get back here. This is a national emergency. We need all hands. I don’t need to tell you, but the implications of this are dire. Hero society as we know it will be forever changed. I repeat, drop whatever you’re doing and get back to headquarters.”

The line clicks and that static sound rises again. There’s a garbling, muttering sound that’s rising from the hiss. It’s saying his name. KeigoTakamiKeigoTakamiKeigoTakami. 

Then, all is silent. The voice is gone, the cawing is gone. A deep feeling of dread washes over him. It makes his feathers flair, plumage spreading and flexing. All around him, voices are chatting, laughing, living. They have no idea, blissful in their ignorance. Everything is, no, nothing is ever going to be the same again. God, All Might. If he can’t recover, if he dies... 

Hawks lowers the phone, his eyes wide. Suddenly, all these ghosts of his don’t feel so important now.

Notes: @hawksweek2020​

Beta edited by @albinoburrito​

#hawks week 2020 #hawks #bnha hawks #keigo takami #takami keigo #hawks-centric #ghosts #ghouls #fan fiction #fanfic #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: mentions of violence #tw: ghosts #prompt: horror tales #murder mystery #bnha #boku no hero academia #i think i got them all #again #hawks is so put upon

[silenthillmutual]

Patho prompt: Daniil with a baby. Please.

hiiiiiii<3 this is what came out of my head:

-----------------------------------------------------

His first instinct is to hunch his shoulders up to his ears, arms trembling under the weight of what it is he’s holding. He gives people the impression of being so very thin a strong gust could knock him over, but it is not the physical weight that makes Daniil Dankovsky shake. No, he’s had bags that weighed more than the infant in his arms, and he’s not about to give out with something so tiny and so fragile depends on his strength. It’s the emotional weight that takes its toll on him, the way the baby gurgles and coughs as he tries to rock it. He hasn’t done this before, never felt the urge or the longing the people surrounding him did. He heard women referring to their ‘biological clocks’ and rolled his eyes until men told him they’d heard the same. “When it’s that time,” his mentor had told him, fondly showing off a small portrait in his office, “It’s time.”

Those words meant absolutely nothing to Daniil. And the truth was that he’d been a little disappointed that someone he so admired wanted to push the same rhetoric on him. Daniil did not have time or interest in romantic relationships, let alone sexual ones. He hardly had the time to sleep, when on Earth was he meant to start a family? And why should he, when science was his constant companion? He’d stayed polite, of course, though he knew his disinterest was obvious from the condescending smile his mentor wore, patting his shoulder and telling him he’d “understand one day.”

“Maybe I will,” Daniil responded, nodding his head, sipping his tea. Silently, he doubted it. He was not like other men.

And Daniil still is not like other men. He’s accepted there’s something wrong about him, something a bit off and a bit broken in places he can’t reach that leave his fingers scarred when he tries to put it together. He spent most of his time in the Capital avoiding anything that made him reflect too closely, and it was an operation that had been going rather smoothly until he wound up in this Town. Now here he is in the Town Hall, checking in on the infants the Haruspex has brought in during what little free time he’s had, expression pulled into a frown. The baby in his arms squeezes its tiny fist and turns in its sleep, pressing a forehead against Daniil’s chest.

Something clinks together, tinkles like glass shards being swept onto a dustpan together. They drop, deposited in the wastepaper basket, and rearrange to form something – a shape he doesn’t recognize. Out loud he says the words, “Oh dear,” and is thankful that Dora is too exhausted at the end of her shift to turn her head and look at him or ask. This pitiful interaction that has him so weakened tugs at… he thinks they call these ‘heartstrings’, or perhaps Burakh would call them Lines. The word he’d search for some other time is smitten, awed by the little bundle he holds.

It's time, he thinks.

-

Daniil stays patient as the sickness hits its tidal wave, engulfing all the Town in black and sickly foam. He worries, edging near sleep deprivation, that the walls and windows of the Town Hall will not be enough to keep the little ones safe, that they’ll burst under pressure and the spores will come in as a flood, smothering them in their cribs. Even if such an act were possible, Dora claims they are immune to the Pest. He doubts it. He knows he’s not the only one; Burakh comes in with one stashed in his front pocket, body hunched over and brows furrowed.

“Heard this one not too far away,” he says, and it’s Dankovsky that takes the child from him and gives him his payment. Burakh does not accept it immediately, but lingers with his eyes on Daniil. He knows how strange this must look, but he can’t bring himself to care much for anyone else’s opinion.

“She’s so small,” Daniil says, and his voice does not sound a thing like a coo. His fingers push back the blanket, tutting. “She’s underweight. The store must have –“

“It’s gone,” Artemy cuts him off. Daniil is perplexed, but Artemy is turning. He’s gesturing out the window. “The one right across the street. Big Vlad…” and then he trails off, shaking his head. “Better not to ask,” he says. He seems tired. Has he always been this tired, or is this what children do to you? Daniil has never slept well. “People are out of work with the pandemic anyway, emshen. And if they had the money, the stores have raised the prices. There’s very little left in stock.”

The noise he makes should be indignant, but his hum is only contemplative. It’s hard for him to feel too upset with a baby in his arms, (something about nature and nurture,) moving slow to place her down in a crib. His colleague’s eyes stay on him as he goes, and Daniil can feel the thought behind them. Burakh is recalculating something, assessing new information. When Daniil turns, he finds Burakh has shifted closer to him. The look he wears is not one of condescension, but of hope. “You can stay, you know,” he says. For a moment, Daniil is confused. He has no intention of going outside just yet. He has work to accomplish here. But the implication works itself out to him, and he flushes. “After it’s all over. You should stay.”

In her sleep, the little girl makes a small noise, not quite a cry. Daniil turns to look at her, heart beating too loud and too hard in his chest. He could swear his ears are ringing. “I’ll think about it,” he says, and he knows he’s saying so much more than just the words.

Burakh’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, but the solid weight is welcome. There’s something in the way he smiles at Dankovsky that the other man takes, leaving him with a feeling of comfort.

Finally. He understands the trading system.

-

In the Capital, there would be far more restrictions. The look Alexander Saburov gives him is one of wariness. Daniil wonders what he’s done to have the man distrust him. Perhaps its in the echo of his young once-ward, the new Mistress to root herself to the town. He can still hear her words as though they drift in with the draft through the windows. You? A father?

He’s still a governor. Daniil wonders for how much longer. There is pain behind the dark corners of his eyes, and he realizes the distrust goes far beyond where Daniil stands. He sucks in what little is to their stomach, feeling hollow. He has not eaten properly the past two weeks, though the trains are coming with supplies now. And were this to ever happen again, God forbid it, he would learn to eat the air around him if it meant a tangible food for a smaller mouth. Saburov flips through the papers, and Daniil tugs at his well-worn lip.

For a moment, it looks like the question will be asked. Why do you want to be a father? He hears that in Clara’s voice, too, scathing and suspicious. He supposes she thinks he’ll use the child for experimentation. There are scientists, he knows, and psychologists, for whom their children are an at-hand subject. And before he came here, he had read their papers without much thought to the inhumanity of their actions. But being here has changed him, and that is not who he is. He doubts that it ever was, but what matters it not what is in the past. What matters is what the future holds. And Daniil’s future holds fatherhood, whether he can articulate the whys or not.

Saburov doesn’t ask. Daniil watches as he changes his mind on the words to leave his mouth, eyes drifting from his application to his face, tired hand picking at his scalp. “I must say this surprises me,” he says instead, settling the papers back down. He attempts to straighten them, not looking in Daniil’s direction at all. “However, your references are stellar, and we have more children to be cared for than people willing to care for them.” He gives Daniil a stern look, lips pursed. “Do not make me take this child away from you, Dankovsky.”

“Why would I?” The question isn’t asked with sarcasm, but the answering look it receives is unamused. Saburov’s lips thin out, and Daniil finds himself squirming under that gaze. The unasked hangs in the air, and Daniil feels it in his eyes. Was this the reason Clara asked? Was she putting him through rehearsal? “I’d never known that sort of aching,” he says, “Or what it means. But I felt things click. A desire to protect, a desire to nourish. And maybe the Dirt changed me the way it did so many others.” His mouth falters, and he stumbles. The governor’s eyes do not waver. “I asked you what you intended to do with the rest of your life. This is what I intend to do with mine.”

He can’t explain the feeling, his thought process, the way his hair stands on end. But something in his words but get his point across all the same. Saburov nods, and gestures. “You did get a chance to look the children over as they came in. I’m assuming you familiarized yourself with them.” The look he gives Daniil now… He can’t place it. Perhaps it’s understanding. “Go on, Bachelor. Fatherhood awaits you.”

#daniil dankovsky #ok to rb #icarus.docx #fanfic #kunoiichi

[brideofcthulhu10]

The Lost Boys Find Out Their Fem!S/O is Pregnant [3/4]

Guh, this one has taken the longest so far. Dwayne is such a strong silent type, and unfortunately got the least lines in the film so I had to really push myself to get into the right mindset. I think it came out fantastic, I hope you guys love it too. Now it's time for:

DWAYNE

Rays of light were beginning to crack through the little nooks of the ceiling, a slow sunrise ushering the vampiric quartet into the depths of the hotel ruins for a long anticipated rest after another wild night. The last to go was your night bird, Dwayne. Calloused hands dragged on your cheek, stealing away any kisses he could. You savored the smokey scent his hair carried and nearly giggled at how his stubble tickled your neck.

"Dwaaayne, I'll still be here tonight," you insisted, gently nudging him off. "Go inside before you burst into flames."

He chuckled with a wide grin, taking one last kiss. "Alright, I'll be back. 6 o'clock on the dot, as soon as the sun goes down."

"It's a date."

You watched him scurry into the cove, pushing past collapsed beams and cobwebs. How they could sleep in that you would never know. Still, that meant you had an entire day to kill before they would be up again. A long, boring day.

You had stopped verbally complaining long ago, every time you did David would insist if you just let Dwayne bite you, this wouldn't be a problem. But you just weren't ready. At least, not yet. The night was so alluring, and every day you felt yourself wanting to be beside them more. However, you still had some final days to cling to. Maybe it was just the fear of making such a massive change. Cowardice.

Just waiting around the cave quickly grew boring, laying atop the bed that once housed Star and Laddie now eerily vacant. You tried to pass the early morning hours by flipping through magazines, listening to your portable cassette player- yeah, you knew it was going out of fashion, but CDs were so expensive, and you were not about to let the boys steal a $200+ player just to listen to Mötley Crüe on a slightly different player. You'd brought your own entertainment after so many visits, but you soon groaned when you realized it was only 10 am. There were still 7 and a half hours of waiting to go, and you were nowhere near tired enough for a nap!

Maybe a quick walk would kill your boredom, a quick snack on the boardwalk, pick up the guys something to munch on before they go out hunting. Yeah, that should be good.

With a soft grunt you scooted off the bed, wedging your feet into your boots with your backpack slung over your shoulder. "I'll be back soon," you whisper out loud, looking over at the dusty hole they'd disappeared into. Dwayne definitely couldn't hear you, but it still felt nice to give a little goodbye every time you went out. This time you'd use the cave entrance that led up those old wooden stairs. The walkway was a gorgeous deck barely over the water. On high tide it could wash over and hit your feet. Part of you was amazed it was still standing after so many decades of wear and tear.

However, the moment you looked outside it made your eyes squint, weighing heavy on your brow. Was it always this bright during the day? 

It got significantly worse once you were fully outside shuffling around the debris littered across the rocks. It wasn't just your average tired eye sting. That was pretty common after spending all night out, and half the day in a dimly lit cave. But you'd never experienced it like this. It was a splitting, throbbing headache that almost made you lose your footing. You had to close your eyes just to feel any kind of relief. Noise was amplified- Oh god, those stupid seagulls made your ears ache! 

Walking just made it hurt more. It was taxing on your body, like wading in molasses in August. Now, you weren't a stranger to the heat. After all you grew up on California sunshine. Almost thrived in it. Now you barely made it up the stairs atop the cliffside, until you just had to sit down. Wedged tightly against the banister you reveled in the tiny slivers of shadow that cascaded from the wooden railing. When your jacket became to much you peeled it off to use for cover, and eventually you forced yourself to continue walking. What was happening?? Those few steps were enough to make your stomach wretch and twist with starvation. Truthfully you hadn't been eating well lately, everything just made you nauseous. Stomach flu, maybe. Why was the ground spinning..?

And that was it. The next time your eyes opened the last bits of sun were long gone. Something- no, someone, was shaking you, trying to snap you out of that fog. They yelled out, nearly swinging you around like a ragdoll in a panic. It was muffled, you could hear another voice, then another.

"Y/N! Y/N!"

"Dude, you keep shaking her like that, she's gonna break something."

"What is she doing out here in the first place anyway, man?" 

A huge breath of life reanimated your body, almost screaming as you sat up crashing into the chilled chest of Dwayne who still had you in his arms. "Hey, easy, easy. You're okay, it's just us."

Quickly your eyes darted around. Dwayne's arm was hooked under your back elevating you off the ground, Marko was knelt on your other side with Paul leaning on the smaller vampire's back. David was just behind Dwayne with arms crossed, looking down at you. 

"You know, Y/N, if your bed was uncomfortable we woulda gotten you another," Paul teased. 

"Dude," Marko questioned, lightly elbowing him in the ribs. 

"Ow. Aw, c'mon I'm just kiddin'."

Dwayne still wouldn't set you down, pushing sweaty locks of H/C from your face. "What happened," you managed to ask in a raspy voice, carefully shifting your weight onto your butt. 

"We found you out here, I was hoping you could tell us," David answered with a cigarette clenched between his teeth, a small flame roasting the end into ashy cinders. 

"I honestly couldn't tell you. I only wanted to head over to the boardwalk for an hour or two. I thought I could pick you guys something up on the way back but..," you held the side of your head, the remains of your headache still lingering from earlier. "My stomach hurt all over and.. I just fell."

Something just wasn't adding up, enough that David paused, looking at you. Your heart beat was calm but… every other beat an entirely new rhythm would chime in. Rapid, quiet, stirring. "You sure you hadn't been with anyone else, Y/N?"

"What," You questioned, immediately offended by the implications of that question. Unsurprisingly, Dwayne was equally outraged as he helped you onto your feet. 

"Y/N isn't like that, you know this David," he snapped. Dwayne always had that sulking gaze but it wasn't often he was legitimately upset. With his arms still around your waist you could feel his muscles tighten into cement. The atmosphere was so thick you could cuz it with a knife, and after a few minutes of intense glares… Dwayne's eyes widened. 

He heard it too. Faster than your own heart beat, buried deep below it was almost too soft to hear. A pulse submerged in water.

He had been so busy worrying about your fainting, he never realized why. It made sense the more he thought about it. Grabbing you, he spun you around to face him. He hadn't intended to be so rough that even Marko was telling him to ease up. "You swear.. you swear you haven't..." The suggestion was cruel. He didn't want to even say it out loud, and your face twisted into one of disgust, slapping his hands off your shoulders.

"Alright that's enough," you snapped, stepping away from all of them. "What is with all of you?! Is this just how you guys check up on people who faint, accuse them of adultery? What the fuck?!"

You could feel tears forming in your eyes and you immediately had to look away. You were not about to show weakness while angry. Dwayne gently took your wrist before you could storm off, looking deep into your eyes. Why did he look so afraid, even in the inky night you could see something haunted those chocolate orbs. "Dwayne...What's going on…," you asked again, this time softening your tone. David, easily sensing the building tension, cleared his throat. 

"Marko, Paul, let's wait inside."

"Aw what," Paul chimed in, arms up in the air. "No way man, I wanna know what's going on! What's with all the crazy??"

Marko looked at David, then back and for between you and Dwayne. Oh. He got it. While Paul still protested, Marko slung his arm over his shoulder and yanked him down to whisper in his ear. At first he looked utterly confused, but then his face went wide. The realization of the century. "Ohhhhhhh," he finally said, looking over at you. "Gotcha. Good luck babes, we'll give you guys a little alone time." Both blondes had these odd smirks on their face, no doubt clued in on the inside joke you were definitely a part of yet left completely clueless. David followed them down the steps with a smug grin, giving a small wave. 

Alright, now you were confused. Dwayne didn't speak though. He just clasped your hand tightly in his. All he said was "c'mon" while lightly pulling you along. The moon was so huge tonight in lit up the ocean, a sea of stars dipped in black. There you both sat, legs just barely hanging off the edge in utter silence. Whatever it was must have been weighing heavy on his mind because he never turned to look at you. Instead he kept your hand firmly clutched in his own, staring straight off into the unknown. His sigh broke the silence, fingers tightening around your hand again. "There's more than one heart beat… coming from inside you."

It took a moment for what he said to sink in. Another..? What did that-...

Oh. That's why they were being so weird. It was hard to breath, like someone was sitting on top of your chest. And now what haunted Dwayne's thoughts now crept into your own. Their suspicions were reasonable. No one figured that.. well considering the boys were undead it wasn't exactly expected for you to..

"Dwayne I…," you started, looking at him. "I've never been with anyone else. You know that, right?"

This time he couldn't speak, just nod in agreement. Of course he knew you were loyal. Honestly he never doubted it, but the shock of what that meant was a bit much for him to handle. He'd taken care of Laddie alongside Star for years, even before he turned, he was great with kids. But the thought of fatherhood never really crossed his mind. Were he human it'd be common sense, he'd be at the proper age. Maybe even already have a family.

But he was 19. He just… happened to be 19 for a very long time. Quietly he pulled you by your waist so you were beside him, then nudged your head onto his shoulder. You weren't scared, just in awe. For a moment you brushed your hand over your abdomen. It was warm, already firm to the touch. In the months to come you knew it would grow, your baby would grow. But in that moment, as Dwayne's calloused hand placed over yours feeling that little life stir inside you, you felt at peace. That was that. You two sat there for what felt like hours, watching the waves, watching the moon rise high above. It really was a beautiful night. A perfect night. The first night of many more to come.

#lost boys imagine #lost boys 1987 #lost boys #lost boys dwayne #billy wirth #the lost boys #lost boys fanfiction #fanfiction writing #fanfiction #pregnancy #pregnant #vampire pregnancy #pregnancy imagine #lost boys vampires

[authorbarbie]

Movement

Summary: Poe interrupts your Jedi training session to teach a little lesson of his own.

Your lightsaber swung through the air in a series of practised motions, the familiar hum permeating the silence along with your controlled breaths. A light sheen of sweat coated the back of your neck, matting the loose strands of hair that had managed to escape your braid to your skin. With a grunt of exertion, you turned your body into the next swing, stopping the bright blade short just before it could cut through your intended target— an old, beaten up punching bag.

As you breathed heavily and quickly considered your next move, your thoughts were cut short by the sound of loud applause. You deactivated your saber at the noise, straightening up and turning towards the source.

"Thought I'd find you here." Poe stood at the entrance of the Resistance's training area — clearly ready to workout himself for he was dressed in plain sweats and a raggedy, sleeveless shirt —, a bottle of water tucked safely under his arm to free up his hands.

"How?"

"It's raining outside. You hate training in the rain." A charming grin lit up his face, his eyes swimming with mirth. "Please, don't stop on my account."

"I wouldn't have if you hadn't interrupted," you said, wiping a bead of sweat from your brow and taking the interference as a chance to take a sip from your own water.

"Oof," Poe stumbled back as if wounded, a hand pressed to his chest. "I forgot how brazen you get when you’re in the zone."

You rolled your eyes in response, fighting hard to keep the smile from your face. Poe clearly took note as his own grin only widened. He walked over to the benches that lined the wall of the room, setting his things down next to your own and pulling a roll of boxing wrap from his pocket.

“You wanna go a few rounds?" he asked, nodding towards his hands which he was currently securing with a complicated pattern of wrap.

"I think I'll stick with this for now," you shrugged, lifting your lightsaber's hilt for reference. Poe hummed noncommittally and you squinted your eyes in suspicion. "What was that?"

"What was what?" he asked, innocently.

"That little 'hm'," you told him, lowering your voice to mimic the noise he'd made.

Poe let out a short, surprised laugh as he finished wrapping his hands up. "It was nothing, sweetheart... I just think you could stand to do a little hand-to-hand every now and then. You might be getting rusty."

"Why would I need that when I have my saber?"

"Because you might not have it all the time," he stated simply. "What if... I don't know, something happens and it breaks? Or you're just not able to use it for whatever reason?"

"I'm trained in other weapons, too," you argued. "And the Force is—"

"Always with you, I know," Poe's eyes rolled teasingly. "Just humour me."

"Well... What do you want me to do?"

"Look, you know I love when you get all"— Poe mimed holding a lightsaber and began to swing back and forth as he had seen you do so many times, making whooshing noises for extra impact— "hot Jedi and everything. But I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I knew you kept your other skills sharp."

You blinked. "Did you just call me hot?"

Poe sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "You're missing the point."

"I like this new point better," you joked and Poe fixed you with an unimpressed look in return. “Well, have you brought these same concerns to Rey?”

"Rey is... Rey," he said, haltingly.

"An astute observation," was your flat response.

"You know what I mean," he huffed, raising a hand to trail it through his hair in frustration and causing a curl to fall over his eyes. Your hand twitched as you fought the urge to reach out and brush it back. "Rey is my friend and I care for her, but you're, y'know... you."

Your heart sped up at the implication of his words, almost making it difficult for you to focus. Clearing your throat, you glanced around the room so that you could gather your thoughts. "Fine." Your eyes met his again. "You want to spar? Let's go."

"How long has it been since you last trained without your... Force-ness?"

Snorting back a proper laugh, you gave a slight shrug of the shoulder. "I don't know... Guess it's been a while."

There was a short pause as Poe considered his options. "Maybe we should practice technique first."

●  ●  ●

And that was how you ended up back in front of the punching bag, reluctantly sans your saber, with your hands tightly but messily wrapped in boxing tape; Poe had offered to help but you had gently slapped his hand away and insisted you could do it yourself. It was only after realising that you had forgotten entirely how to apply the wrap properly that you resorted to sneaking subtle glances at Poe's hands in an attempt to replicate his.

"Okay," Poe said, standing to the side with his arms crossed. "Show me how you punch."

You held back the retort of 'On the bag or on you?' and instead followed his instructions, curling your hand into a fist and giving it your best shot. The bag swung back from the impact and Poe reached out to steady it.

"Not bad," he said in a tone that implied the complete opposite. He must have noticed the slight furrowing of your brows for he was quick to placate you. "Hey, I mean it. You've certainly got the strength down. There's just a few things you need to fix."

"Like what?"

"Well, the bag shouldn't really swing after you hit it," he said, moving closer to the bag. You took the hint, stepping out of the way to give him enough space. "You gotta hit the bag, don't push it. When you do a push punch, you're basically just trying to shove your hand through the target. Watch."

Poe's hand shot forward to hit the bag. Sure enough, it swung back wildly as it had with you and he reached out to bring it back into position again.

"Now, a snap punch means letting your fist snap back to you after you strike, to minimise how long you stay in your target's space. The whole reason it snaps back is because you let the impact rebound your hand back to you, not because you pull it away yourself. It shouldn't move the bag as much, and it helps you punch harder and faster, while using way less energy."

In a flourish, he struck the bag again, causing it to jump in place but not swing. His hand was back in position before you could blink.

You nodded slowly. "I... think I get it?"

"Go ahead."

Taking a breath, you retook your spot in front of the bag once more. You shook your hands out for a moment before they curled back into fists and your dominant hand snapped forward to hit the bag.

"That's it!" Poe smiled proudly as he watched the bag stay in place.

"Thanks," you smiled bashfully and tucked a loose strand of hair out of your face.

"Another pointer is that you should stand far enough away that you can't reach the bag without rotating your hips, but you also have to stand close enough to the bag so, if you do rotate your hips, you're still able to hit it."

"Uh," you began, hesitantly. "Say that again?"

Poe chuckled and held up his hands. "Sorry, I'm probably going too fast."

"No," you told him with a shake of your head, "it's not that. It's just... How am I able to study so many complicated Jedi texts but I can't even keep up with how to punch something properly?"

"Hey, you're doing great. It's a lot to remember," he said earnestly. "So let's try it a different way."

Your shoulders tensed slightly when he moved to stand behind you, so close that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. Tentatively, you forced yourself to relax and readjusted your position into what you thought Poe wanted.

"Almost," Poe said, gently knocking your feet further apart with his own. "Stand with your legs shoulder-width apart and bend your knees a little; it'll help your balance... Yeah, that's good."

You nodded. "Okay. Now what?"

"Now move your arms in just a little." He reached out, placing a hand on each of your arms and pushing them in gently. "Alright, you ready to go back to what I was saying before?"

"I think so."

"Okay. The full punch motion comes from turning your hips, right? When you start the punch, try pivoting your back foot on its ball and push your body forward," Poe's hand came to rest on the shoulder of your dominant arm and the other moved to your opposite hip. You swallowed hard at the contact but tried to stay focused. "You don’t want to exaggerate and throw yourself off balance, but you should feel your lower body pushing your arm forward. When you push off your foot, turn your hips and extend your arm towards the target." He gently pushed back on your hip while simultaneously pushing your shoulder forward to give you an idea of what he meant.

Although you were trying your very best to stay on goal, it was getting harder and harder which each second he spent so close to you. The familiar smell of engine oil and aftershave mixed with the warmth of his skin on yours was overwhelming your senses. You just barely managed to catch the end of his explanation before he could realise you had become distracted.

"Also, don’t overextend into the punch," he'd been saying. "You want to feel in control and balanced at all times. If you fall forward, you’ll put yourself in a vulnerable position."

His hands released you as he stepped out of your way, allowing you to put his instructions into practise. You took all of his words into account, attempting the aforementioned snap punch again, but while shifting your weight onto your dominant foot and turning your hips into the swing. The grin that took over his lips when you were successful made your stomach flutter.

Poe had you practise the same motion over and over (with some minor variations and adjustments) for around an extra half hour before he decided you had done enough. "Okay, I think it's safe to say you've got that down. You ready for that sparring session now?"

"Uh," you heaved out a deep breath, fresh sweat coating your skin. "Totally."

"Take a minute to catch your breath first," Poe chuckled, taking one of your hands in his hold and fixing the boxing wrap that you had barely noticed had begun to loosen. As he worked swiftly and gently, you suddenly decided that sparring sounded like a great idea if it meant his hands wouldn't be touching you in such tender ways that made your thoughts jumble and your chest tighten oddly.

All too soon, you found yourself facing him on a floor of safety mats, one of you looking significantly more relaxed than the other.

"Don't look so nervous," Poe told you, giving your arm a playful shove. "I won't hurt you, little miss Jedi."

You decided in that split second to use his arrogance against him and your hand was soon springing forward, aiming for somewhere on his stomach. Somehow, he had anticipated your move and his arm quickly shot up to block you, his brow quirking challengingly. An unspoken agreement passed between you then and before you knew it, the two of you were trading blows; weak enough so as to not actually hurt one another but strong enough to still be able to determine a winner.

On more than one occasion, Poe had come less than a hair's breadth away from knocking you off balance which only served to spur him on further, and you were well aware that you were close to losing. So you chose to do something you knew Poe couldn't.

The next time his hand came close to making contact, you let the Force flow through your body, allowing it to help you leap off your feet and land steadily behind him. Poe stumbled forward, confusion etching his face when he noticed you were no longer there. Quickly, he spun on the spot and pointed an accusatory finger at you.

"You can't use the Force!" he whined. "That's totally cheating!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise using my natural advantages was off limits," you smiled smugly.

Poe's face changed instantly; the pout he was sporting soon shifted into the beginnings of a smirk and while you weren't sure what he was thinking, you had a strong feeling that you were in trouble. This feeling only strengthened when Poe took an extra step towards you and you realised that if you shifted your head up just a fraction, your noses would be touching. 

"What are you doing?" you asked, voice quiet.

"If you get to use your natural advantages, so do I, sweetheart," he replied.

Kriff.

Had his voice always been so deep? You suddenly couldn't quite remember. And how was it fair that the both of you were covered in sweat, chests rising and falling rapidly to control your breathing, but he still managed to pull it off somehow while you were left looking like you'd just run a 3 hour long marathon? His curls were stuck to his forehead, his muscles prominent in the tattered shirt he'd decided to wear, — Why did he have to choose that shirt? — and when his hands moved to rest on your waist, you swore the look in his eyes was dangerous.

"I-I don't..." 

"What's wrong? Loth-cat got your tongue?" His grip on you tightened a little. "You had so much to say earlier." 

Each time you took a breath in, your chest brushed lightly against his. The touch stoked a fire within you (one that had been burning since you'd met the pilot) and spread its warmth straight from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. You wondered if he felt the same burning inside. Flirting wasn't something that was uncommon between the two of you; Poe was a natural charmer and you could dish it out just as well as you could take it, but this felt... different.

Was he playing on your attraction towards him just to win? No... You refused to believe that. While Poe could be overly cocky, he wasn't cruel. He was never cruel.

Yet, as the two of you stood there, Poe hesitantly moving to close the small gap, your body reacted before your brain did...

And knocked him on his ass.

He fell to the ground with a grunt, his back hitting the mat and cushioning the impact. Your eyes widened and you brought your hand to cover your mouth in shock.

"I am so sor— whoa!"

Poe's foot hooked around your ankle and gave a tug, your body being thrown off balance and ending up half sprawled over his. You supposed this was karma.

With the wind knocked out of you, you gave yourself a moment to recover, and that's when you noticed Poe's body was shaking with laughter. Lifting your head, you narrowed your eyes at him. 

"What the hell, Dameron?" 

"If you wanted me underneath you so bad, you could've just asked," he grinned through his chuckling.

"Oh my— You are the worst!" 

Throwing your leg over his waist, you lifted yourself up to straddle him, giving yourself a better position to let your hand slap his chest as you chastised his childishness. Poe's laughter only grew, gripping your wrist to stop your teasing attacks. 

"Y’know what? Maybe next time, I should be the teacher," you suggested, your own grin forming as you looked down at him. "You ever wanted to learn how to use a Lightsaber?"

The excitement in his eyes gave you your answer before his voice did. "Are you serious?"

"Maybe," you shrugged casually. "If you decide to be nice to me for once."

"Alright, alright," Poe's agreed. His thumb brushed against the skin of your wrist as he spoke and his eyes softened. "How about we get washed up and grab something to eat later? My treat."

You pretended to think about the offer for a minute, a dramatic sigh following after. “I guess that's a start..."

"Good," Poe smiled. "I—"

A sequence of familiar beeps and whirls abruptly interrupted your little conversation, both your heads snapping towards the door where BB-8 stood with a smug Finn and an amused Rey, clearly just back from their date. (They had pointedly called it a ’trip’ but you knew better.) 

"Oh," Poe said, awkwardly. "Hey, guys."

Finn's eyebrows rose. "Really? That's what you're settling on; 'hey guys'?"

"Admittedly, you could've chosen something better," you told him.

"Whose side are you on here?" Poe asked you grumpily as Rey chimed in.

"I feel like a lot has happened since we left,” she said while giving you a knowing look. “Did we miss something?"

"Not at all!" You forced yourself to your feet and cleared your throat, quickly gathering up your things. "Actually, I should probably go clean up."

"Why?" Finn asked teasingly with a playful wink. "Got a hot date?"

You shot Poe a brief look over your shoulder as you headed towards the exit, noting how he still lay on the ground with a cheesy grin on his lips.

"Actually... Yeah."

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron fanfic #star wars imagine #mine