#also in case youre wondering. the other bird rides on its back between its wings

[girlboyburger]

! important update :

bird hat.

DUAL WIELDER YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[from-seas-to-skies]

Farm Grown / Hawks x Reader ♕︎

uwu, I had the lovely @weirddpand4 draw this picture of cowboy Hawks for this work!!!

warnings: NSFW, spanking, cream pie

words: 4,802

-

“Oh, wow! Look at that! I’ve never seen grass so green before!” your friend, Urakaka Ochaco, exclaims.

Glancing up from your phone, you follow her line of vision; gracious hills of rich green grass stretch out far into the horizon, meeting with the brilliant shade of blue. It’s so unlike the skyscrapers and closely-knit houses you’re used to seeing. No, this is what pure beauty looks like, Mother Nature in one of her most wonderful forms. Although the fields are dotted with wildflowers and corn fields, you don’t miss the dirt road further up ahead, a large wooden sign planted next to it.

When Ochaco originally came to you with the idea of being a farmhand, you thought she was crazy. You’ve finally graduated from high school, got the title of professional hero, and this is the first thing she wanted to do? However, as she further explained, it was a family friend who needed help during the summer months, and what were heroes for? Granted, you wanted to run around the cement jungle and provide help that way, but this “almost vacation” didn’t sound too bad – plus, with the puppy eyes Ochaco flashed at you, it was impossible to say no.

And so, here you are, sitting in the passenger side of a coupe with Ochaco behind the wheel. You have to admit; the surrounding atmosphere is beautiful, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to run barefoot through the grass. Clouds of dust rise as the car eventually comes to a stop outside of a weathered farmhouse. Ochako flashes you a smile, her large eyes twinkling.

“Look at how huge this place is! I know Uncle Iroh said he had a couple people helping out, but this is incredible! We’ll each have our own room!”

You can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. Ochaco’s always been easy to rile up, and the fact that she’s genuinely excited to spend quality “bonding time” with you is heartwarming. As the two of you step out of the car, the front door to the farmhouse opens, revealing an elderly man with a long beard and a kind expression. His face cracks into a smile when he and Ochaco make eye contact; the two hurry towards each other, warm greetings and bone-crushing hugs being shared between the two. It’s no wonder Ochaco was so excited to spend the summer here; with a relationship like that, you’d be happy to see the man too.

“Oh, come, come!” Iroh says, hurrying around the car and popping the trunk open. “You must be Ochaco’s friend, yes?” he asks, looking towards you. A wave of pleasant warmth washes over your being as he sends you that charming smile. “I appreciate the help! I only have my nephew and another man working here already, but the extra hands will come in handy.” He pauses then to chuckle at his own joke. “But I think it’s about you two get settled, yeah?”

“Right!” you respond, pulling out your own suitcase.

As you walk up towards the wraparound porch, you glance to the other trucks sitting out in front of the farmhouse. Iroh said two others were already here, so you figured the trucks must be theirs…

“Zuko!” Iroh booms. “Our guests are here!”

After a moment or so, a boy around your age staggers from the kitchen, a tray in his hands. From the looks of it, a teapot and some cups line its surface.

“Tea is our specialty, here,” Iroh says, nudging you with your shoulder. “Get something to drink and then we’ll show you your rooms.”

-

Later on that evening, you’re gazing out your window, watching the sun fall. Hues of orange, peach, and lilac paint the sky, bidding the world goodbye for the night. It’s definitely different to experience it here than back home, back where silhouettes were outlined by the golden glow. A steady breeze carries on, carrying the scent of wildflowers and musk; your curtains flap from the sheer force of it, but you pay it no mind. It’s like Ochaco brought you to a slice of paradise, even if it’s with the intention of putting in labor.

In the distance, you hear calls and the distinguished moos of cows. Shifting your gaze, you catch a herd of cows being moved towards a barn; a man riding a brown horse wrangles them in, a border collie by his side. The way he pulls it off is smooth, and it’s clear that he’s used to pulling such a feat. However, what really catches your attention is the pair of magnificent scarlet wings protruding from his back. Now, you’re used to seeing some rather flashy quirks, but this guy’s is just… Wow.

“Hey, Uncle Iroh wanted me to come get you,” Ochaco’s voice says suddenly. Turning around, you see her standing in the doorway, a pleasant expression playing on her face. “We’re having oyakodon for dinner! Doesn’t a hot meal sound delicious?” And, as if to amp up your spirits, Ochaco licks her lips and pats her tummy. “I’m so hungry from a long drive!”

You huff in amusement. “Yeah, I am too.” Turning around, you catch a glimpse of the cows disappearing into the barn, that mysterious cowboy stationed by the doors. “Hey, Ochaco,” you start before realizing it, “but who’s that other guy that lives here? The one with the wings?”

Walking over to where you stand, Ochaco peers out the window, following your line of sight. “Oh, him? That’s Keigo. Uncle Iroh says he’s only been here for the past year or so, but he’s really good at what he does! I heard all the animals like him a lot – maybe it’s because of the wings?”

“Don’t you think it’s… odd that’s only a farmhand? With a quirk like that, you’d think he’d be doing something else.”

Ochaco shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe you should ask him sometime? Oh, but I’m really hungry! Can we go eat, now?”

“Yeah, sorry, I just got distracted…”

And so, you soon find yourself sitting at a sturdy wooden table, a bowl of oyakodon sitting before you. It smells utterly delicious - and paired with the tea Iroh brewed, you know you’re in for a treat. Just then, you hear a door opening and closing; there’s a chatter of some sorts, but then there he is, right there in the flesh.

Strong build, wide shoulders, blond hair that looks permanently tousled, and oh yes, those magnificent wings. Perhaps you shouldn’t be staring so much, but the sharp line of his jaw and intense eyes make it nearly impossible to look away. You’ve heard of such things, read about them in stories, but maybe, just maybe, you might’ve fallen for the guy at first sight. That, or he’s just too damn attractive for his own good.

“Howdy! Oh, shit, who are these two cuties?”

Or maybe not.

“Oi! Keigo! Can’t you be respectful for once in your life?” Iroh barks, popping around the other. He scowls as he slaps a wing out of his way. “Make a good impression for yourself. These two are going to be here for the rest of the summer, so don’t be an ass.”

“C’mon, gramps,” Keigo drawls, “you know I’m better than that. Plus, if they don’t like my attitude, then it’s not really my fault, huh?”

“Nothing ever changes,” Zuko says lowly, his words followed by a deep sigh.

You and Ochaco share a look. It seems like your Prince Charming is nothing more than a sarcastic asshat. How befitting.

“Liven up, birdies,” Keigo says, sliding into the chair directly across from you. “I don’t bite.” He winks at you. “Yet.”

Your entire body jolts at his proclamation. This guy really is shameless, isn’t he? Still, you can’t help but feel undeniably attracted to him. Curse his charisma, dammit.

“Aw, sweet! Is this oyakodon? Hell yeah.”

To the side, Zuko facepalms. Iroh merely chuckles and shakes his head, much like he’s way too used to this kind of behavior and has accepted it as it is. Hell, even Ochako cracks a smile. You, on the other hand, stare at Keigo in confusion. He has a bird-based quirk, doesn’t he? Does it not bother him to not eat chicken…?

Keigo puts up a hand, an amused glint in his eyes. “Look, I already know what you’re gonna ask, kid. I can practically see the gears spinning in that pretty head of yours. I fucking love chicken.”

Oh… Well, that takes care of that, doesn’t it…

-

After that first fateful encounter, you’ve grown used to Keigo’s ways. It’s funny, though, how he and Zuko’s personalities basically sit on either end of the spectrum, yet Iroh treats the both of them like they’re his children. While Zuko is serious and straight-laced, Keigo is more of a chatty free spirit. That said, you’ve also gotten used to Keigo’s flirty side. You suspect it’s because he likes to get a rise out of everyone. Whether that’s the case or not, your eyes often wander after him, stare down the hard lines of his back. Even better, you itch to trail your lips over the scruff lining his jaw. The guy’s too damn hot and he knows it.

Over the past month, a game of cat and mouse has started between the two of you. Him, trying to act all chummy and overstepping numerous boundaries. You, trying not to give into the weird relationship that’s bloomed between you and him. Sure, you might have flirted back, but what were you supposed to do? After all, Keigo’s proved himself to be a rather cool guy.

“You can’t keep spacing out like that, kid,” Keigo says, snapping you from your thoughts. Glancing down at him, you attempt to suppress your embarrassment, but Keigo’s too smart for that. Despite his relaxed attitude, he’s surprisingly intelligent and quite observant.

Hands tightening around the saddle, you scoff. “I wasn’t spacing out…”

Keigo cocks an eyebrow. “You know, if I wasn’t holding onto the reins, Nugget would’ve bucked you off a long time ago.”

This time, you snicker. You know that he has an undying love for chicken, but every time he refers to his horse as Nugget, you can’t help but laugh. This guy really is like a child.

“Pffft. Laugh all you want, birdie. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to ride.” Narrowing his eyes, he flashes you a sultry look. “If you want, I can show you.”

All laughter dies on your tongue. A spark of heat erupts in your stomach, makes your heart thump against your ribcage. He always manages to fluster you, to plant naughty little thoughts into your head. You swallow thickly. “I think… I think I’ll stick with Nugget for now.”

At that, Keigo shrugs, his expression turning into something more nonchalant. “Suit yourself. Seriously, though; you should always keep your focus while riding a horse. Anything can happen, and you’ll only know you’re fucked until you’re being crushed. Better yet, you’re flying overhead and end up snapping your neck. Hate to break it to you, but you don’t have wings to break your fall.”

“Keigo.”

He looks back up at you. “What?”

“Your wings. It’s just that… Well… Why help out on farm?”

Keigo blinks at you, no words slipping out. “Hah? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Shit,” you say quickly, mentally cursing yourself out, “that’s not what I meant. You can fly, can’t you? It just seems like you could’ve made a name for yourself…”

���And become a hero, right?” You wince at his words. He hit the nail right on the head. “Heh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I could spew a whole bunch of shit from my mouth and call it a day, but that’s not my style. I’m a hero in my own right.”

You furrow your brows. Remaining silent, you wait for him to carry on.

Keigo sighs at your implication. “Not all heroes wear capes or whatever. What about cops? Firefighters? Nurses? People who help put food on your table and help that old man out? Just because I’m not stopping some robbery doesn’t mean I’m not important.”

His words come as a slap to the face. He has a good point; actually, scratch that. He has a fantastic fucking point.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a moment’s silence. “That was selfish of me.”

Keigo waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t beat yourself up, kid. Nugget gets nervous if you get into a bad mood.”

Absentmindedly, your hand drops onto the horse’s neck, giving it a couple of reassuring strokes. “He’s a beautiful horse.”

“Yeah – well, until I bathe him. Getting up close and personal to horse cock isn’t fun. A bit degrading, actually.”

Slapping a hand over your mouth, you try to muffle your sudden laughter. Air streams through the cracks of your fingers.

Instead of his usual smirk, Keigo flashes you a genuine smile. You’ve only seen it once or twice before, but it never fails to make your heart stop. His whole face scrunches, his pearly teeth a startling white compared to his sun-kissed skin. Okay, so maybe you’ve fallen in love with this guy. It’s no big deal; you’re only here for the summer, so there’s no point in chasing after something you can’t have.

“What, did ya find that funny? I’m here all week, folks.”

“You saying you’re a standup comedian now?” you shoot back. “I didn’t know they accepted clowns on farms.”

“Ohoho, so you do got a mouth. Where’s that been all this time, huh? Would’ve made things a lot more fun.” Reaching up, he knocks his cowboy hat further back, revealing more strands of sandy hair and bronzed skin. “Listen here, partner. This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”

“Oh my god,” you say with a snort. “You’re such a dork.”

Keigo snickers. “You know you love me.”

Heh. Yeah…

If only he knew.

-

Maybe you should’ve taken his words more into consideration.

Your instincts are more attuned to what could happen in battle, not for words. Besides, Keigo is a sneaky bastard. Most of the things that spew from his mouth are innuendos and pure sarcasm. He doesn’t really come off as a genuine type of person.

It’s whatever. You don’t like to read into things too much, and maybe that’s your fault, maybe it’s not. Who knows?

Even so, your eyes continuously drift over to where he stands. He busies himself with hanging Nugget’s saddle and harness away, his body lax. If one’s thing for sure, he definitely seems a lot more comfortable around animals rather than actual human beings. You can’t blame him, but what about you? Is he comfortable around you?

Clearing your throat, you turn back to the task at hand. Brushing Nugget down, you trail your hand over the coarse hair, the hard muscle. You meant it when you said he’s beautiful. Shiny brown coat, straw colored hair – he seems like the perfect match for Keigo.

“Cowboy Keigo,” you mutter. “Tell me, Nugget,” you begin, “does Keigo treat you right? Feeds you apples and lumps of sugar? A pretty horse like you deserves to be spoiled.” At the mention of his master’s name, Nugget whinnies. “Is that a yes? You’re avoiding the question, man.”

“Are you seriously trying to sweettalk my horse?” Keigo pipes up. Stepping over the stall, he hoists himself up onto the gate and straddles the wood. Wings sweeping behind him, he flashes you a peculiar look. “Didn’t they teach you in school that you shouldn’t seduce a horse? I don’t know about you, kid, but bestiality isn’t smiled upon around here.”

“Then what does that say about you, bird boy?” you quip. “Surely you don’t put yourself in that category?”

“Ooo, degradation. How did you know that was one of my kinks? Were you looking through my search history?”

Rolling your eyes, you set the brush to the side and join him at the gate. Climbing up, you mimic his movements and straddle the wooden beam. “Kinky cowboy, huh? Kind of has a nice ring to it.”

“Oh yeah. I’ve got the bedazzled white boots and everything. I mean, I’m already wearing the assless chaps and everything.”

“You sound more like a stripper rather than a farmhand. What do you think, Nugget?” you ask, turning towards the horse. Nugget merely snorts and shakes his head.

“Hey, hey, don’t agree,” Keigo tells him. “I’ve got to keep my secret life a secret, you damned horse. Help a guy out.”

“I guess your partner would rather throw you under the bus,” you say with a chuckle. “Good horse.”

“Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings.”

“Cry me a river, bird boy. Or do I have to kiss your booboos?”

At that, Keigo falls quiet. The look in his eyes is unreadable, but the way his body tensed tells you something else entirely. Abruptly, he swings his leg over the gate and hops back down onto the ground. Aw, shit. Did you take it too far? It was only lighthearted flirting and yanking on his leg-

“C’mere,” Keigo says, offering you his hand. His voice is a lot more… soft.

With little to no hesitation, you take hold of his hand and get off the gate. You’re about to ask him what he wants, but then he’s abruptly pulling you to the side, further away from the stable’s open doors. Birds are singing outside, their sweet melody carrying along with the sweet summer breeze. It almost seems like an entire world away. A grunt escapes your lips as you’re shoved against the wall, the smell of straw and musk filling your senses. Keigo steps in close, the heat radiating off his body sending shivers down your spine.

“Listen here, pretty little birdie,” he drawls, his lips pulling back in a smirk, “but I may just have to take you up on that offer.”

Wait, what?

“What the hell, Keigo? Where is this coming from?” you question. It’s not like you’re against him being so damn close, it’s just… unexpected.

“Oh, right, like I’m supposed to pretend that you don’t gawk at me at any chance you get. You’re not very subtle, you know.”

Embarrassment heats up your insides, crawls up your neck. So this bastard is really going to rub it in your face, huh? Seems just like him.

“Then why didn’t you say anything about it before?” you hiss. “If it’s such a problem, don’t stay silent. You’re not the type to let things like that slide.”

“Who said it was problem?”

Keigo: 1 / you: 0

Spluttering, you try to gain control of your whirling emotions. This is not how you were expecting this conversation to go. Actually, you weren’t expecting this conversation at all!

“I know for a fact that you can’t get enough of me,” Keigo continues. “And if I’m being completely honest, I like it. You look so cute when you stare after me, birdie. Then you have the audacity to pretend like nothing happened whenever I catch you.”

“Is that what this is all about?” you huff. “Okay, fine. I admit it. Maybe I watch what you’re doing more than what’s necessary. It’s not my fault you walk around all the time without a shirt on or anything…”

“Normally, I’d say because it’s because I get hot when I’m working, but knowing that you were watching made it all the better.” He winks at you. “Gotta hand out a treat here and there, you know?”

“You really are a clown!” you squeak. Keigo laughs as you weakly shove at his chest. “You’ve been leading me on this entire time? What am I, a joke?”

“Hey now, don’t get ahead of yourself, kid. It’s not my fault you couldn’t come up to me like a civilized adult.”

Okay, now you’re fuming. “Keigo, you fucking idiot-“

Swooping in, Keigo cuts you off with a kiss. Unsurprisingly, his lips are soft; he tastes like citrus and salt, and before you know it, you’re looping your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off in the process. A huff of laughter fans across your lips as Keigo pulls back, his mouth hovering over yours. “Shit, I’ve been wanting to do that ever since your pretty ass sat at the kitchen table for the first time.”

You sigh. “You really do have a bird brain…”

You kiss him, again and again. Perhaps you should be ashamed that you have your tongue shoved down somebody’s throat rather than working, but there’s no way you’re stopping now. Like him, you’ve been waiting for this moment. The two of you have been tiptoeing around each other, rolling the tension back and forth like a goddamn snowball.

But fuck if it doesn’t feel good.

His hands aren’t shy, not in the slightest. Fingertips map out the ridges and dips of your body, seek out the spots that really make you tick. You bite back a giggle as he drops his mouth down your neck, the scruff covering his jawline tickling your skin. Your own hands trail over his body, tracing over the hard lines of muscle that hide beneath his clothes. Time and time again, whenever you’d see him without a shirt, you wanted nothing more than to run your hands all over him. This is your chance, now, and you’d be damned if you didn’t take it.

“Shit, shit, shit, not the wings,” Keigo pants into your neck. The scarlet feathers feel like silk beneath your fingertips; skimming over them, you follow their shape, feel how they get fluffier the closer they are to his shoulders. “Oh, fuck. You know just what you’re doing, huh, birdie? Playing around with me like that. Two can play at that game.”

Another grunt slips from your lips as he pushes you against the wall, harder this time. His hands shamelessly drift underneath your shirt, warm palms sliding over your skin. Your shirt comes off before you know it, being unceremoniously thrown to the ground.

“Fuck, birdie, aren’t a pretty one,” Keigo purrs, his nose bumping against your throat as he sucks another mark into your flesh. “I bet you’re real pretty down here, too…” Making quick work of your jeans, he easily slips them down your legs and you eagerly step out of them. “Don’t mind if I do, kid,” he murmurs into your ear before nipping at the lobe.

A weak moan breaks from your throat as a hand slips into your underwear and cups your sex. His hand is just so warm, and the roughness of his callouses causes your head to spin. Within no time, wet, sinful noises sound from between your legs, mixing with your heavy breaths and Keigo’s encouraging words.

“Yeah, you like that, birdie? My fingers feel good, huh? Wait until you get a feel of my cock.”

Spurred on by his words, you hastily unbutton his shirt, pushing the fabric to the side and running your hands over the swell of his pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen. A faint dusting of blond hairs covers his chest and arms; and, if you look close enough, more sticks out from the waistband of his jeans. Keigo hums as you continue to feel him up, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek.

“Like what you see? I bet you’ve been wanting to do this for a long time… Fuck! Not going to go easy on me, huh? I like someone who can bite back.”

“Has anybody ever told you that you talk too much?” you breathe. Fingers wrapped around his cock, your movements catch up to his in speed. “You should consider yourself lucky that I like your voice.”

“Oohoohoo, feisty. That mouth of yours is saying a lot of mean things today, isn’t it? Guess I’ll have to put you in your place.” He pauses, swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. “But, if I’m being entirely too honest, I don’t think I have the patience for that.”

“Keigo,” you pant, “I swear to Christ if you don’t fuck me right now-“

“On it, on it. Don’t get your panties in a twist, your majesty.” In hurried movements, he strips you of your underwear and shucks his chaps and jeans down. Large hands grip onto your thighs and then you’re being hoisted up, sandwiched between his rigid body and the wall. “Why, won’t you feel that,” he purrs, “I’d say it’s high noon.”

“Don’t talk about your dick like that, you dork,” you scoff. “Oh, fuck.” Another pleasured noise slips through your lips as you grind down against him, his cock just barely teasing your hole.

“What was that, birdie? You know what they say – sweetie on the farm, a freak in the barn.”

“You’re anything but sweet. Just – Keigo, please?”

“Alright, I get it, enough teasing.” Adjusting his hold on you, he flashes you a tiny smile. “Hold on, partner.”

A choked groan breaks free from your throat as his cock slides in, your velvety walls sucking him in greedily. That damned smirk of his stays on his face the entire time he fucks you, along with that devious glint in his eyes. His façade only cracks after you start stroking his wings and squeeze around his cock; if he wants to act like a cocky son of a bitch, then so can you.

“Shit, you’re fucking tight,” he pants. The smack of skin against skin fills your ears, right alongside Keigo’s breathy moans and muttered words. “Keep squeezing like that, birdie, and you’re gonna make me cum quicker than I want to.”

“You almost sound like that’s exactly what you want me to do,” you breathe. “A cowboy like you has got to have some stamina, right? Don’t tell me all of that work goes to nothing.”

“Jesus, and you called me talkative. Fuck, I can’t wait to shove my cock down your throat and shut you the hell up – I said don’t squeeze like that, holy hell. Dirty little head you got there, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you mumble, yanking him back into a kiss. Keigo only moans loudly as you continue to play with his wings, quickly finding out that the spot where they protrude from his flesh is the most sensitive.

“Milk my cock, birdie,” he mutters between broken kisses. “You’re so fucking good to me, oh yeah. I should’ve done this weeks ago.” A startled squeak bursts from your throat as he abruptly strikes your ass. Sucking air through his teeth, he does it again, relishing in the desperate noises spilling from your mouth. “That’s right, birdie. Come on, make me cum. I’m gonna cum so fucking hard for you, fill you up until your belly’s bloated.”

“Keigo-“  You moan as his hand drops down, fingers furiously rubbing at your sex.

“That’s right, say my name. Let the whole fucking world know who’s fucking you this good.”

“Keigo-“

Smack.

“KEIGO!”

The knot building up inside you snaps; with a cry, you cling even closer to him, your velvety walls spasming around his thick cock as you cum.

Slamming a hand against the wall, Keigo fucks into you harder, faster, the wet noises sounding from between your legs almost deafening. “Oh fuck yeah, oh fuck yeah, oh fuck, fuck, fuck – ah- ah- ugghnn…” Burying his face in your neck, his hips erratically jerk as warmth fills your insides. “Still… cumming… fuccckkk…”

Your eyes flutter as he shallowly thrusts into you, the sinful squelch of his cum leaking out around his cock filling your ears. Slowly, he comes to a stop, his hot breath fanning over your neck and the side of your face. Gingerly, you let him go, completely unaware that your fingernails had dug into him in the first place.

“Well,” he starts, lifting his head and flicking away sweaty strands of hair, “that was eventful, wasn’t it?”

You scoff. “Tell me why I like you again…?”

“Oh, darling,” he drawls, leaning in and pecking the corner of your mouth. “I don’t think you like me. I think you love me. You aren’t very subtle.” He laughs as you smack him on the chest.

“Okay, fine. You’re lucky I love you, bird brain. Don’t go rubbing it in.”

“Silly birdie,” Keigo hums, his face scrunching into that wonderful smile of his. “I may just love you too.”

Wait, seriously?

“And no, I’m not joking or being an ass,” he continues, as if reading your mind. “What’s it called? Love at first sight? I dunno, seems like cheesy bullshit to me, but I… I like the appeal of it. It sounds nice when you’re involved.”

Your heart thumps against your chest.

Oh, fuck.

[retrievablememories]

serenade | mark (m)

title: serenade pairing: mark x reader genre: fluff, smut summary: you and mark spend your first night together at the dorm, and you try to think of a way to say what you really want. word count: 2.5k warnings: fingering, PIV sex, riding, handjob a/n: i still kinda see mark as like a little bro or something so it felt weird to write this. lmao. in other news, who do i have to pay to get a full cover of “get you” from him?

“We better not get caught.”

You say this as you and Mark head up to their dorm floor, his hand in yours the entire time like he’s unwilling to let you go.

“We won’t, promise. The manager went to go visit family so we have the room all to ourselves this weekend.” He winks at this, and you give him a look in return.

You plunk yourself onto his bed once you get to the room he shares with the manager, your overnight bag slipping out of your hand. You only mean to lie there for a few seconds, but you’re taken in with the smell of Mark on the sheets and comforter, and you try to inconspicuously bury your nose in them. Of course, he notices anyway.

“Do you like the smell of me that much?” Mark comes over to you and tugs the comforter around you so you’re rolled up in it like a burrito, and you giggle uncontrollably as he does so. “Shh! Don’t wake the whole dorm up.” Mark puts a finger to his lips and looks around suspiciously as if there could be someone in the room already eavesdropping on your conversation, and you roll your eyes. 

“Hello, Mark, you’re the one who said the coast was clear.” You try to unravel yourself, but he’s gotten you pretty wrapped up in the small amount of time you were laughing, and now you can’t get free. “Uh, what the hell!”

“I know, but if the guys find out they aren’t going to let me hear the end of it…” Mark says, coming to rescue and pulling you from the mesh of blankets. You slide off the bed, trying to fix your hair, but it doesn’t matter much anyway; you’re going to be dressing for bed soon.

You go to the bathroom to do just that, changing into your sleeping clothes. You and Mark have been dating for a little while but haven’t done much yet, so you’re still unsure about changing in front of him or how he’d react—though you’re hoping to change that tonight. Maybe if you’re lucky.

When you enter the room again, you see that Mark has done the same and is lying on the bed in his pajamas. He’s looking at something on his phone, but his eyes drift back to you when you walk in and climb on the bed beside him, tucking your head into his arm.

“Are you gonna fall asleep so soon?” Mark laughs, throwing his leg over yours. “We still have the whole night ahead of us.”

“I’m just resting,” you say, though you also know you probably will fall asleep soon if you stay like this long enough. “But if you don’t want me to fall asleep, we should probably do something. Like watch a movie.”

“What do you want to watch?” Mark asks, sitting up straighter at the suggestion. He reaches for his laptop nearby.

“Doesn’t really matter,” you say absently. “Maybe we could try something we haven’t seen before.”

You and Mark go back and forth about which movies to watch until you finally settle on an action film that looks interesting to you both. It’s better than you expected it to be, so you decide to watch the sequel when the first one ends. Halfway through the second film, though, you start losing your focus. Much to your annoyance, it leaves a lot to be desired compared to the first.

Your attention starts drifting more towards the boy beside you. Your eyes follow the sharp lines of his jawline and cheekbones, and you think about bringing up the subject that’s been burning in your mind. Mark must feel your eyes piercing the side of his face, because he soon turns to you with an amused smile on his lips.

“What’s wrong? You’re not watching the movie. Are you bored with it?”

“Ha. A little…” you admit, distractedly playing with the fabric of his shirt sleeve. Mark pauses the movie and sets the laptop aside. He grasps the hand that’s tugging at his sleeve and plays with your fingers, clasping them between his own.

“What do you wanna do now, then?” Should you ask him now? How do you even say it? Let’s fuck? I’d like to have sex? You almost roll your eyes at the thought of saying either of those lines. You squeeze his fingers between yours and open your mouth to speak, but you become stuck on what to say.

You chicken out at the last second. “C-can you sing something for me?” you ask instead, nervously wetting your lips.

Mark blushes a little and laughs. “You wanna hear me sing?”

“Anything! It doesn’t matter what.”

He nods, then pulls away from you to grab his guitar and take it out of its case. He resettles himself on the bed in front of you, crossing his legs. You push the sheets away from you and sit like an excited puppy, waiting to see what he’ll play. He strums thoughtfully, warming himself up and wondering what song he should sing for you. 

Suddenly, his eyes widen a bit and he smiles slyly, like he’s just unearthed the answer to a mysterious case. “Oh, I got it.” Mark plucks at the strings on his guitar, his voice flowing out softly.

Through drought and famine, natural disasters My baby has been around for me Kingdoms have fallen, angels be callin' None of that could ever make me leave

Every time I look into your eyes, I see it You're all I need Every time I get a bit inside, I feel it

Ooh, who would've thought I'd get you? Ooh, who would've thought I'd get you?

And when we're making love, uh Your cries, they can be heard from far and wide It's only the two of us Everything I need between those thighs...

He continues singing the rest of the song as you look on, a grin on your lips and excitement buzzing in your body. He has to make an effort not to look at you as he sings, because your grin makes him want to giggle every time.

Mark smiles bashfully when he stops strumming, and he’s about to say something when you cup his cheeks and kiss him on the lips. He’s surprised for a moment before he responds, kissing you back as tenderly as you’re doing to him.

When you separate from each other, you’re still holding his face, studying him carefully. Mark swallows nervously, though his eyes shine with a mischievous light. “Did it work?” he asks, his voice low.

You look at him questioningly. “Did what work?”

“Have I seduced you with my voice?” He seems embarrassed about his own line, but he says it anyway with all the confidence he can muster.

“You’re embarrassing,” you answer, trying to hold back your laughter. “But if you really want to know, we can find out.”

Mark sets his guitar to the side, and you kiss again, his tongue nudging carefully against yours. He draws you closer, though neither one of you is really taking the lead yet—instead choosing to move at an even pace and test the waters of this whole thing.

It’s not your first time—or his—but it is your first time with Mark, and you don’t know quite what to expect. You let yourself relax against him as his hands slide across your sides, curving around to your back to bring you closer still. He soon ends up lying you back on the bed, settling himself against you and feeling your body heat reaching out to him through your clothes.

You think you could kiss him like this forever, but you can feel him getting hard against your hip, and your own body is answering in kind, wanting to explore further. “Take your shirt off,” you say quietly against his lips. He pauses—but only for a second—before pulling back and stripping his shirt off.

You run your hands across his chest and stomach after they’re revealed to you, and he asks you just as tentatively, “Can I…take this off?” while holding the hem of your shirt. You nod yes, and he does so. He’s quick to nuzzle into your breasts, which makes you laugh tenderly and pet his head. He lavishes them with warm kisses, sucking the nipples past his lips and making you moan softly. His hair is soft as you run your fingers through it.

He continues kissing his way down your chest and stomach, and you feel anxious and eager all in one. When he reaches the hemline of your pajamas, he asks if he can take these off, too, and you reply with a yes. He slides your bottoms down, and you feel a little self-conscious about it but try not to let that get to you, wanting to enjoy the moment.

“How do you want this to be?” Mark asks this simple question as his fingers trace across your thighs, soft like a bird’s wings, and it makes your insides tremble. You’re not entirely sure how to respond, because Mark could fuck you in every way possible and you would likely enjoy every moment of it.

You answer by sitting up and climbing into his lap, feeling him hard under you.

“Please touch me,” you say this against his lips as you kiss him again, feeling the silky texture of his mouth caressing your own. One of his arms snakes around your waist to hold you in his lap, and you gently grip the other one, guiding his hand to the space between your bodies.

He touches you carefully at first, feeling you over your underwear and nudging his fingers against that small bundle of nerves that has you shifting on his lap. His touches grow a little firmer when he notices how you respond to him, and he gains the motivation to pull your panties to the side for better access.

Mark slips his fingers across your lower lips, noticing how wet you already are and then nudging them against your entrance. Tentatively, he pushes one inside, and you melt into him more, wanting more of him inside you.

“More, Mark,” you murmur into his neck, his pulse beating against your lips. He adds a second finger, stretching you out around him. You whimper into his skin as Mark thrusts his fingers into you, coaxing more pleasure from you. 

When you cum on Mark’s fingers, your orgasm arrives with a shuddering moan. Your eyes drift back a little as he keeps scissoring his fingers inside you, and instead of pulling away, you find yourself grinding into his hand again so you can chase a second climax. It doesn’t take long for another wave to rush over you, with Mark mouthing at your neck and collarbone as he feels you shake in his arms.

He eventually pulls his fingers out, which are slick with cum, and slides them into his mouth. He makes a satisfied sound at this, which turns into a groan as you pull his sweatpants down far enough to release his dick. It slaps against his stomach, leaving a smear of glistening precum behind on his skin.

“You should find a condom,” you say as you take his member in your hand, drawing your thumb over the sensitive spot just below the tip. This move makes more precum leak from him, running onto your thumb and wetting your fingers. Mark’s eyes flutter, and he tries to steady his breathing.

“You have to let me go, first,” he responds. You know that, but you want to have a bit more fun with him first, thumbing the slit of his cock and fondling his balls with your other hand. You haven’t really begun touching him yet, but he’s already taken apart by these actions, groaning as quietly as he can.

You play with him a little more, making him tremble against you as you stroke his cock, before finally letting him go and allowing him to get up. After he retrieves a condom and slips it on, you practically pull him back onto the bed, causing him to land on you. He holds himself up to keep his weight off you as he claims your lips again. You think he’s going to slide into you in this position, but with his lips at your ear, he says, ”I want you to ride me.”

Your body is burning hot with the idea of it, and you comply by nodding and placing yourself back in his lap, his member sliding against your sex.

Mark makes a sound between a moan and a whimper when you sink down onto him, snugly fitting his dick inside of you. His breaths are heavy as they hit against your skin, and his hands go to your hips, needing to take hold of something to keep himself grounded.

Mark thrusts up into you as you bounce on him, and your toes curl both with the pleasure of it and from the effort of not being too loud. “Mark, God…” You hold onto his back for stability as your bodies slide together more perfectly than you could’ve dreamed. His lips go back to worrying the skin of your neck as he pushes himself up into you, holding you tight enough against him to have your breasts pressed against his chest. His hand slides lower to grip your ass, and he moans openly at the feel of it in his palm.

Your hands slide easily across each other’s skin from the sweat; some of it drips down Mark’s collarbone and you lick it away. HIs dick twitches inside you in response to your actions, and you decide that you like teasing him this way, drawing your tongue against his body and making him shiver underneath you.

“Y/N…” Mark’s voice shakes as he groans into the side of your neck, and you know he’s likely already close. You bring your hand to where you’re joined together, wanting to bring yourself closer to orgasm, but Mark replaces your hand with his. His touches on your clit make you thrust yourself harder onto him, wanting to get as much of the sensation as you possibly can.

Mark spills into the condom soon after this, his thighs jerking beneath you, though he never stops pleasuring you the whole way through. The barely-concealed sounds of his moans and his fingers on the most sensitive part of your body is enough to have you following after him, leaving small imprints of your nails on his shoulders.

After you are both spent, Mark lies back on the bed and you cling to each other, your head resting on his chest. You’re wholly satisfied, waves of contentment enveloping you in their warm embrace. Mark remains seated inside of you, and you’re delightfully full from it.

“I should sing for you more often if this is what happens afterwards,” Mark comments, tapping his fingers against your back absentmindedly.

“...Do you always have to ruin the moment?” You shake your head, though on the inside, you definitely can’t deny that you’d do it again.

[vs-redemption]

Crime is Common. Logic is Rare. (Ch 13)

Chapter Thirteen: Trust (HawksxGN!Reader)

Plot summary: You thought your hands were full as a regular quirk geneticist, but then you meet Hawks and things get even more exciting!

Warnings:  

⚠️This story contains spoilers from the manga.

⚠️Some events and plot points have been altered from the original manga

Tag List: @ gayforkeigo

Next Chapter : Chapter Guide

You tell yourself not to panic as you ride in the back of the taxi taking you to the area where Hawks was currently on patrol. You flip your phone over and over in your hands, looking for any signs that it had been tampered with. It was password protected, so there was no way the doctor could’ve done anything even if he had touched it, right? You shake your head and hold down the power button until the screen goes dark. Maybe you were being way too paranoid, but it made you feel safer for the moment.

“You sure you don’t have an exact address?” the taxi drive calls over his shoulder.

“Just look for a guy with giant red wings flying around,” you tell him impatiently.

“You seem eager to see Hawks.” He laughs, “You a fan of his or something?”

“Yeah.” It was the easy answer and you didn’t feel like trying to convince him of the truth at the moment. You were too busy trying to recall the details from the lost memories from Dr. Garaki’s lab. It was probably impossible to recall the stuff from when you’d actually used your quirk, but you should be able to remember something from the moments in between.

“There he is!” The driver announces suddenly while pulling over to the side of the road. “Looks like you were right about him patrolling this district right now. You’re not stalking the poor guy are you?”

“Nope, just a lucky guess,” You hand him some bills from your wallet. “Keep the change.” You hop out of the car, and head straight for the winged hero. You had told him to keep an eye out for you, so it wasn’t long before he spotted you and drifted down to meet you.

“Hey.” You greet him neutrally, but he was already picking up on your discomfort. His facial features turn serious and he tilts his head.

“Hey,” he lifts his visor off his face so he can see you more clearly. “How did the meeting with the doctor go?” You weren’t sure what to say. You look down at your phone which was still clutched in your hands.

“Well, it was interesting,” you shrug. “He’s going to help me improve my quirk I think. We did a few impromptu tests today, but then I had a bit of a dizzy spell so we had to stop.” Hawks raises his feathery eyebrows in concern.

“What do you mean a ‘dizzy spell’? Are you okay?” He asks. You look down at your phone again.

“I don’t know. I just passed out, I guess.” You were starting to feel ridiculous. There was no way the doctor had bugged your phone. You look back at Hawks with a new found resolve to tell him everything. “The doctor is making…” Hawks suddenly holds up his hand to stop you from finishing your sentence.

“Tell me about it after we get you something to eat, okay?” he gives you a strange, tight-lipped smile. “The place I’m renting isn’t too far from here. You cool to fly?”

“Uh… maybe.” Hawks lets out a small laugh at your hesitation.

“I promise not to drop you,” he says before scooping you up bridal style and taking off into the air at a more reasonable speed than he normally would. “I would be totally fine with taking a taxi if it weren’t for my wings,” he explains. “I don’t do well in cramped spaces.” You nod in understanding, wishing you didn’t have the doctor situation hovering over you so you could enjoy the flight a little more. You arrived at a small apartment complex in just a couple minutes. Hawks unlocks the door and leads you into the studio apartment.

“I thought you didn’t like small spaces,” you can’t help but remind him as you look around. It was basically empty except for the few pieces of furniture that came with the apartment.

“Ugh yeah,” he frowns while snatching a small magnetic note pad and pen off the refrigerator. “This place is just temporary. I really miss my apartment back in Kyushu.” He scribbles something down on the paper and then hands it to you. Before you can read the note Hawks extends one of his wings and points to the feathers. “I can never quite clean my wings properly in the tiny shower in this place.” Your eyes travel to the bright red wing and you notice something out of place. There was a small metal device tucked in between two of the feathers. If he hadn’t pointed it out specifically, you probably would never have noticed. You look back at Hawks in confusion but he just puts a finger over his lips before pointing to the paper in your hands. What was going on now? Was someone monitoring Hawks? You look down at the note and read: 

What’s the doctor making?

“Uh,” You look back up at Hawks, feeling uncertain as questions about the situation pile up in your mind. Was Hawks involved with the doctor somehow? Was this part of the top-secret mission he’d told you about? Could you even trust him? You’d always felt like there was a part of him he’d been hiding, but now you were wondering if it was better to keep that door closed.

“Hey,” Hawks pulls the paper back and writes something below his first question. “I’m kind of worried about the whole ‘dizzy spell’ thing. Has that ever happened before when you’ve used your quirk?” He hands the paper back to you.

Did he do something to you?

You read the question and then shrug to say you didn’t know. “I’ve never lost consciousness while using my quirk before,” You tell him while picking up the pen and answering his first question. You weren’t sure exactly what was going on, but you decided to trust Hawks completely for now. He definitely had some of his own secrets, but nothing he’d done had ever given you cause to think he was a bad guy.

I saw him synthesize Nomu DNA the first time I met him.

“I’ve gotten headaches from trying to push my limits but that’s about it,” you continue talking while passing him the paper. Hawks looks genuinely shocked when he reads your message, clearly surprised that you’d been holding onto that crazy information. The two of you continue having the double conversation. It was a little difficult, but eventually you’re able to fill him in on everything you wanted him to know about what had been happening with Dr. Garaki. Hawks was really curious about what the doctor had shown you while you were using your quirk, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t remember. One thing was certain though, if the Doctor was making Nomu blood in secret, perhaps he was making actual Nomus as well.

What is that thing on you wing? Why do we have to talk in like this?

You change the subject back to him now that you’d told your story and Hawks sighs after reading your questions. You can tell by the look he gives you that he’s trying to decide if he can trust you. This whole day had been surreal. All the stuff with the doctor was crazy of course, but now you had to adjust to this whole other side of Hawks. He holds your stare for a little longer than what was comfortable before making up his mind. He lets out a breath and then writes down his reply.

I infiltrated the League of Villains to gather intel for the Hero Commission. I’m letting the Villains keep an eye on me with their recording devices so that I can gain their trust.

It was your turn to go wide eyed in shock. Hawks was pretending to join the League of Villains?! But that sounded extremely dangerous. It made sense why he wanted to keep the conversation about the doctor quiet now though. He didn’t want the Villains to know he might’ve found the source of the Nomus. You snatch up the pen and pitch an idea.

I might be able to help you by working in the doctor’s lab.

Hawks grabs the pen back.

No. You shouldn’t go back there.

You scribble back.

If I don’t, that’ll be suspicious.

The paper started filling up fast as you both argued back and forth. You were scared to go back into the lab with the doctor. If you could gain his trust though, maybe you could pick up on something that would help the heroes take down the League of Villains. Hawks was worried about the doctor hurting you, but there was no way he’d try to knock you out every time you worked with him. In the end, you both came to a compromise. You would continue to work with the doctor unless something really extreme happened again, like you passing out for no reason.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right now though?” Hawks asks once the paper and all its contents were destroyed. He pulls your face into his hands. “We don’t know what made you pass out, and I don’t want it to happen again.”

“I feel okay,” you promise, putting your hands over his. “Don’t you have to get back to your patrol?”

“Yeah,” He frowns. You could tell he was still trying to process everything you’d told him and everything he’d revealed to you. “This is a weird relationship.”

“Yes it is,” you agree with a small laugh. You wondered if your relationship with Hawks would be okay. It was still so new, and now you were taking a gamble by trusting each other with some pretty heavy secrets. It was nice that he had faith in you, but you were going to constantly worry about him now that you knew he was working with the League of Villains. If they found out he was a double agent, they’d probably kill him. You were going to have to be very careful around the doctor in case he was also working with the villains.

“Let me fly you to the train station,” Hawks breaks you out of your train of thought.

“How about we walk?” you suggest. “I don’t want to end up with whiplash.”

“Deal,” Hawks agrees as you both head for the door, “But you’re not going to have to let me fly you around sometimes. It comes with the territory of dating a bird.”

“Right,” you let out a short laugh. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” he grins pleasantly and you can’t help but admire the way he can smile even on a day as stressful and confusing as this one. Whether it was an act or not, you were grateful to have someone as good and strong as Hawks to rely on and trust.

[rexisnotyourwriter]

by @rexalexander and @postcardsanddaydreaming​

After the Atlanta child murders, the Behavioral Science Unit is as busy as ever. With a new team member by their side, they take on what feels like a growing number of active serial killers as well as continue their interviews of already incarcerated subjects. Bill tries to track down Nancy and Brian with the hopes of repairing his marriage, while Wendy tries to take on a more active role in their research with an eager budding protégé at her side.

Read on AO3

Catch up: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

*If you enjoy this, please like/reblog on tumblr and/or leave kudos/comments on AO3. Your feedback helps keep fic writers writing.*

Notes: As always, thanks to my beta fish @hardythehermitcrab​

Chapter 3: Could You Be The One

The bell rang. Her peers bolted from their desks and flooded the hallway, grabbing at their coats and bags, before running down the hall, towards the door. Towards freedom.

She waited, at least until there were only a few remaining children gathering their belongings, before getting up from her desk. The teacher gave her a smile, but it felt off somehow in a way she couldn’t quite place. She smiled back anyways.

By the time she reached the hall, her coat had been knocked to the floor. A partial footprint was left on the arm. She picked it up and brushed the dust off. The tread marks were still visible. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and went to the washroom.

The stall doors were all open. Empty. She lifted the sleeve of her coat near the sink and ran the tap slightly warm. Then, with a wet paper towel, she gently dabbed at the dirt until it was no longer visible. The sleeve was damp, but she reasoned she should be able to conceal that from her mother until it dried. She pressed a dry paper towel into it as best she could. It would have to do.

She stepped outside into the courtyard, arms crossed to hide her sleeve. Her mother was waiting in the car, ushering for her to hurry. She walked quickly to the car and got in.

“Finally,” her mother muttered. “I was able to switch my hair appointment to,” she looked at the time, “well, now. So, you’re going to have to come along.”

She said nothing, having no choice in the matter. It wasn’t exactly fun, but there were worse things. The dentist, for one. Her arms remained crossed for the remainder of the car ride. Every few minutes, she checked her sleeve. Each time, the dark patch of wet fabric was lighter and lighter.

Her mother turned into a different person as soon as they exited the car and went into the salon. Outside Mother. Outside Mother is attentive, always smiling (except when inappropriate), and does not raise her voice. Outside Mother also never smokes.

The salon was an onslaught of pastel from the pink cushioned chairs to the lime and cream colored walls. Outside Mother gave her name to the woman behind the front counter and apologized for her tardiness. She turned around.

“You can have a seat and do your homework while you wait, okay sweetheart?” Outside Mother told her in her sickly sweet voice.

The girl nodded and took a seat in one of the pink chairs. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it looked. She inspected the magazines spread out on the coffee table.

How to make two outfits out of one.

She passed on that knowledge.

There were only a few other people in the salon. Three employees including the woman behind the counter, who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. She looked like Ingrid Bergman - warm, soft. She glanced over at the girl and smiled. The girl returned the smile, but looked away quickly, embarrassed, but unsure why. There was a sadness behind the woman’s eyes, despite the smile. It was the same way she saw anger behind her mother’s. Fear behind her father’s. She wondered what people saw behind hers, if there was anything to see.

Outside Mother was settled in her chair, the large cone-like contraption hovering above her head, next to another woman. They each casually flipped through a magazine while chatting.

“So, how are Harold and the boys doing? Your eldest must be, what, twelve now?” Outside Mother asked.

“Almost. Johnny will be twelve next month and Simon turned nine in August.”

“Just a year older than our little angel.”

Outside Mother nods towards “her angel”. She could feel their gaze and didn’t look up to meet it.

“Harry got some exciting news recently,” the other woman said.

“Oh really?”

“It’s not public yet, but it’s as good as done. I’m not really supposed to talk about it though.”

Outside Mother gave her an understanding look.

“But -” the other woman continued, “if you can keep a secret.”

“Of course.”

“Well…”

Her voice went softer than could be heard from across the salon. The girl gave up on eavesdropping and took out her notebook and a pencil. She flipped past the pages of her homework to the last clean page of her book and began to draw.

The bell above the door chimed, announcing the entrance of another patron. Her fitted dark blue dress popped out among the soft pastel setting. She didn’t fit the scene, but it was the salon and everyone else in it that suddenly felt out of place in her presence. The woman at the counter acknowledged her. She appeared to be a regular. She turned around and took a seat next to the girl revealing a bold, deep red lip.

The girl continued her drawing. It was an open field with a few flowers. At the center stood a penguin. In the sky, far above the penguin, an assortment of birds were flying. She finished the final details of the wings, added a couple more flowers to the field, then swapped her pencil for her container of colored pencils. The woman in blue watched her as she pulled out a light green pencil and began shading the grass.

“Hmm,” the woman pondered out loud.

The girl paused her coloring briefly, then resumed without looking up.

“I thought penguins lived in the North Pole,” she mused.

“No,” the girl replied. “They live in Antarctica.”

“I see.”

The woman took off her white gloves, plucking the tip of each finger like petals from a daisy.

“Isn’t there snow in Antarctica?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The woman smiled. She was amused.

“This penguin is from Antarctica, but she’s not in Antarctica,” the girl explained.

“Ahh, okay. Why?”

The girl thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“I think she was taken from there when she was very little and doesn’t remember it. She just knows she’s from there and supposed to be there.”

“Couldn’t she go back?”

“No. She can’t fly. Penguins are flightless birds.”

The woman took in the drawing once more, understanding it a little better.

“Is that why she’s all alone?”

The girl didn’t reply. Instead, she switched her green pencil for a yellow one. She colored the insides of the flowers.

“Why don’t some of the other birds come down?”

The girl let out a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because they can fly,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Surely they don’t fly all the time. They must need to rest.”

“They do,” she confirmed. “But they never stay.”

“That must get lonely.”

The girl carefully filled in the penguin’s beak with her yellow pencil.

“It does.” She traded the yellow for a black. “She’s used to it.”

The young woman from the counter approached the woman in blue. They were ready for her. She gave one last look to the girl, who looked up this time.

Their eyes met.

They smiled at each other - a real smile, with nothing behind it.

The girl watched the woman in blue follow the hairdresser to her station.

She took out her regular pencil again and added to her picture.

——————————————————–

Wendy spent an inordinate amount of time over the past few weeks sorting through resumes and cover letters for the new secretary position in the BSU. There was more interest in the position than she (or Gunn, for that matter) had anticipated. She was able to get Gregg to help weed out some of the applicants, but he wasn’t as discerning in his decisions as she would’ve been, and found herself having to make further cuts to his “approvals”. The list was narrowed down to eight. Half of them were coming in later that afternoon for interviews, conducted by Wendy and Bill. The rest would be completed the following morning.

Bill sat hunched over a file, cigarette in hand, when Wendy knocked on his partially open door. He looked up at her with tired eyes.

“What are your thoughts?” she asked.

He stared at her, his brow furrowed.

“The applicants,” she clarified.

He let out a deep exhale.

“You haven’t looked at them yet, have you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

Bill shook his head in response to his own forgetfulness.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do that right now.”

“It’s alright. I have questions prepared. It’s more for your benefit.”

“Still.”

He shuffled the stacks of papers and files around his desk in search of the resumes Wendy had given him last week.

“I can make another copy of them,” she offered.

“No, no. I’ve got them here. Somewhere.”

She scanned his workspace, her eyes landing on a familiar looking folder in a tray.

Wendy cleared her throat. Bill looked up.

Her eyes flicked from Bill to the tray. He opened the folder, confirming its contents.

“I’m reading these right now.”

“Okay. Our first interview is at 1pm, so we should be in the meeting room by quarter to. Someone from HR will bring them down.” Wendy saw the look on Bill’s face and… “You forgot those were today.”

“Wendy - ”

“It’s okay, Bill. Really. Like I said, I’ve already reviewed the candidates and prepared questions for the interviews. You just have to show up.”

“I appreciate it, you know. All the work you do.”

She left him with an understanding nod and a polite smile.

Bill snuffed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one.

Holden walked quickly past Wendy, who politely acknowledged his presence, on his way to Bill’s office.

“Bill.”

He exhaled the long drag he just took of his cigarette.

“Yeah?”

“Gunn wants us to help out on those freeway killer cases in California. They found another body a few days ago in the San Bernardino Mountains. He wants us out there tomorrow morning.”

Bill groaned.

“What?” Holden asked.

“Wendy’s not going to be happy.”

“Why?”

“We have those interviews today and tomorrow for the new position.”

“The secretary? Do you really need to be there for those?”

“I’m head of this team, Holden, so yes, it would be good if I was involved in the hiring of a new member.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand. I can talk to her, if you want.”

Bill gave him a look that very clearly said no.

“Those freeway killings. The victims were drugged, raped, and beaten, right?” Bill asked.

“And bound.”

“Another BTK.”

“Not exactly, though. There are distinct differences between them.”

Bill looked at the folder under Holden’s arm.

“Is that -”

“Oh. Yes.”

Holden handed the folder to Bill. It was thick.

Wendy entered the meeting room at 12:45pm sharp with two glasses of water and the tape recorder under her arm. With Bill busy preparing for the last minute trip to California, they both figured it wouldn’t hurt to record the interviews.

Her notebook and list of questions were already on the table. She placed a glass of water at each side in front of the respective chairs, with the tape recorder on her side to the right. She popped open the recorder to double check that there was a blank tape inside. There was.

Wendy had done a fairly good job at screening the applicants. They were all (so far) more or less capable of doing the job, but each with their own weak points.

The first two candidates of the day were internal - both obscene stenographers, women about ten to fifteen years Wendy’s senior. Sandra was up first. She had passable answers to Wendy’s questions, but didn’t seem to fully understand what the BSU was or why it was important. Sharon, the second, was four minutes late and very rattled by it. It could’ve been coincidental, but someone who flusters easily was not the best fit.

The third was a young man named Peter. He was barely old enough to drink, but his resume was strong and he had work and volunteer experience. When asked about his comfort level with disturbing topics, his face went visibly white and clammy as Wendy listed off, in some detail, a few of the types of victims they deal with - those who have been dismembered, raped pre or post-mortem, mutilated, etc. She stopped before he got to the point of gagging and quickly wrapped up the interview.

The final candidate of the day was a much older man, at least sixty, if not older, named Thomas. He reminded Wendy of Gregg in twenty odd years. He was intelligent and experienced, but he had the same air of naivety as Gregg. That lingering aura of having been sheltered from the “evils” of the world as a child, or as they called it, a good Christian upbringing. Thomas was sweet and polite, but showed clear signs of not being able to keep up with the pace that the position would require.

At the end of the interview, Wendy thanked Thomas for his time and walked him to the elevator on her way to Bill’s office. His face was buried in his hand, his elbow resting on the desk.

She knocked softly. He revealed his face.

“I can come back if now’s not a good time.”

“No, now’s fine. I could use a break.”

“First round of interviews are done.”

“And?”

She waffled her head side to side.

“They weren’t bad. Not ideal in varying ways, but some are more...workable than others.”

“It’s a unique gig.”

“I think tomorrow will be better. There are two in particular that should be more promising. Frank Tyler, late 20s, some military experience, so he’s probably not squeamish. He has a degree in philosophy, so he’s educated -”

“And jobless.”

Wendy smirked.

“The other one is Ruth Cairns. She’s a bit young. But she has secretary experience and recently finished her degree in sociology.”

It was Bill’s turn to smirk. “The Boston girl.”

“So you did read the files I gave you.”

“No shame in rooting for one of your own,” he replied, still smiling.

“There’s no nepotism here,” she countered. It came out more defensively than she intended.

“She wasn’t one of your students?”

“No.”

He believed her. “Okay.”

“How’s the studying,” she asked.

Bill sighed.

“It’s a mess, honestly. They’ve gathered every case where a body was found near a highway thinking they must all be connected going back almost ten years. There’s dozens.”

“Better to have more to work from than less.”

He knew she was right. It didn’t make it any less work, though.

“Half of them don’t even remotely fit the MO. They’ve got women, gunshot victims. Some were disposed of in pieces in trash bags. Some appeared to have been thrown out of a moving car.”

Wendy processed the information.

“And the MO is based off of the most recent victims?”

“Starting in ‘79. An unidentified male, 20s, found his head, torso, and left leg in a couple of trash bags behind a gas station in Long Beach. He’d been sodomized with a sock. A couple weeks later, the body of Gregory Wallace Jolley, 20, was found at Lake Arrowhead, emasculated and with his head and legs severed.”

“Pre or post?”

“Post. A few months after that, the decapitated body of 19-year-old Mark Alan Marsh, a Marine, was found near Templin Highway. He was also missing his hands.”

“So, there is a definite pattern of young male victims, late puberty to early adulthood. All white?”

“Yup. Another 19-year-old Marine was found September of last year near the El Toro Marine air base, also in trash bags. Then four months ago, Michael Cluck, 17, was found on the side of Interstate 5 near Goshen, Oregon. Sodomized, beaten, kicked. Cause of death was thirty-one blows to the head with a blunt object. The back of his head was completely destroyed.”

He let out a long breath.

“I’m not even sure this latest one is part of it all.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

“Well, he wasn’t dismembered. We’ll know more of the details from the autopsy tomorrow, but they said they found tissue stuffed deep in his nose and rectum.”

“Could we maybe be dealing with a pair? Or perhaps even more than two killers, working together to some extent.”

“Maybe. If we are, they clearly have the same ‘type’.”

“Well, best of luck.”

“Thanks.”

Wendy lingered for a moment in the doorway. Bill could tell why, but all he offered her was a small smile. She nodded, understanding, and left. There was no word from Nancy.

Holden and Bill were relieved to find California not as unbearably hot as Georgia had been, but it still didn’t take long for their previously clean and crisp shirts to become nearly drenched in sweat.

They had studied the crime scene photos on the plane. Christopher Allen Williams, 17, had been missing his socks, shoes, and underwear. There was nothing that indicated any staging in the body placement, and lack of significant animal activity made it unlikely that it had been dragged from anywhere.

An officer was waiting for them when they got to the station. He was somewhere between Holden and Bill’s age with a moustache from the 70s.

“Agent Tench, Agent Ford.” He offered his hand to Bill first, then Holden. “Officer Eddie Zott. Thank you for coming out here.”

“Happy to help,” Bill replied.

“I’ve just got the autopsy report. Here, why don’t we -”

He led them down the air conditioned hall and into one of the empty interrogation rooms. It was not air-conditioned, but there was a single fan in the corner blowing warm air around the room.

Zott put the report on the desk and gave it a read, his lips mouthing along silently. Bill and Holden gave each other a side-eyed glance while they waited for the news.

Zott’s lips stopped moving, and his brow furrowed.

“Well?” Holden asked.

Zott looked up at their expectant faces and slid the report across the table.

“Cause of death was pneumonia induced by aspiration,” Zott explained.

“The tissue paper in his nose. He choked to death on his own mucus,” Holden added.

“And he had phenobarbital and benzodiazepine in his system,” Bill said.

Holden inspected the report for himself, looking particularly at the amount of benzodiazepine detected. It wasn’t an exceptionally high amount. More than what he had been prescribed, but not enough for an overdose. It was the combination of that with the phenobarbital that would cause more of the sedative effects.

“Do we know anything else about the victim?” Bill asked.

Zott smoothed out his moustache and cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he started.

Bill and Holden waited.

“It, uh, “ Zott continued. “Well, when we were asking around about him, it came to light that he was, a...a working man, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean, he was a prostitute,” Holden confirmed.

Zott nodded.

“What about the other victims? Were any of them prostitutes?”

“Not that we know of. But we didn’t ask specifically about that. As I said, this just happened to come up.”

“See if you can find out,” Bill suggested. “It could be an important factor in finding a motive or pattern.”

Zott nodded, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of going down that rabbit hole.

“Yes, sir.”

Wendy once again prepared for the second day of interviews. The water, her questions, and the tape recorder were all set up with six minutes to spare.

Frank was up first, and he was brought down to the basement at exactly 10am. He wore a well-fitted ochre nailshead suit with a light pink tie that reminded her of something Bill would wear. His hair still had some semblance of a military cut, but grown out and groomed.

“Miss Carr,” he said.

“Dr. Carr,” she corrected.

“My apologies, Dr. Carr.”

She stood up to shake his hand and noticed a copy of Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche under his other arm.

“I always bring a book with me,” he explained. “I always give myself plenty of time to get places, which leads me with some free time, so.”

Wendy nods in acknowledgement.

“Have you read it?” he asked.

She smiled as they sat down.

“Yes, I have.”

Many times, in fact. But none for pleasure.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he beamed. “I’ve been taking German classes so I can read the original text.”

A real Nietzsche fanboy.

“Jenseits von Gut und Böse,” Wendy replied.

“Sorry?”

Clearly he needed more practice.

The rest of the interview went fairly well, the glaring issue being his devotion to philosophical concepts, and rather basic ones at that. It wasn’t exactly the worst thing, but she could already anticipate him interjecting into psychological conversations with philosophical “well, actually”s. He also made a point more than once to mention that he had no issues with the potentially graphic nature of the position, nor did he feel uncomfortable about the topic of twisted killings in general. In fact, he ended the interview by once again reasserting his comfort level.

Wendy looked at him with a small smile.

“‘He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster’,” she responded.

His eyes beamed at her like a love-struck puppy.

That’s when it hit her. He had reminded her of someone the whole time, but she couldn’t figure out who until he got that look in his eyes.

Holden. He reminded her of Holden.

She thanked him for his time and sent him on his way.

The interview had ended early - he was a fast talker - which gave her enough time to make a cup of coffee before the next candidate arrived.

Interviewing the candidates reminded her of when she was actually able to talk to the inmates for their study. She missed it. There was no way Gunn was going to let her do that again. At least not willingly. Maybe with more secretarial help at Quantico, Bill could convince him of her value in the field.

Her coffee break went by quicker than she thought, and she was soon interrupted by the arrival of the next candidate, Jenny Simms. Her application was unremarkable in the sense that nothing exceptional stood out, but she had all the basic requirements. She had secretary experience, was first aid certified, and volunteered at a homeless shelter since she was a teenager.

Jenny’s answers were all satisfactory. She had a calm demeanor, but was by no means fragile. She didn’t even bat an eye when Wendy described, in detail, some of the more graphic cases they had dealt with. Jenny took it one further and responded with an almost equally grotesque story of a man coming into the shelter with a gangrene leg that he tried to amputate himself with a pocket knife, heavily under the influence of multiple drugs. Plus she referred to her as Dr. Carr right off the bat. Wendy was pleasantly surprised, and marked her down as a front runner.

There was a larger break between interviews this time to account for lunch. She went upstairs to the cafeteria to grab her usual salad. A couple times, when she needed a break from the windowless basement, she stayed in the cafeteria to eat. On more than one occasion, she was approached in her solitude by a man, noticing the absence of a ring on her finger, asking if the seat across from her was taken. They would sit down before allowing her to answer. The daylight wasn’t worth the bother.

Back in her office, she kept a close eye on the clock as she ate her lunch. Today’s salad was half wilted spinach with almonds and blueberries and too much dressing. It was better than the bitter romaine they sometimes had that was drowned in what they called a caesar dressing, but tasted more like ranch with garlic powder. It hardly even qualified as a salad.

Wendy’s phone rang just as she was finishing her lunch. It was Bill.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d answer,” he said. “How’s round two going?”

“Better than yesterday.”

“Sounds hopeful.”

“There’s still two more to go, but I’ve already got a good idea of who I think would fit. I’ll let you listen to the interviews when you get back before I give you my thoughts.”

“Afraid you’ll influence my decision?”

“When have I ever been afraid of that? How’s California?”

“Hot. I’ll take it over Georgia, though.”

“And the case?”

“We thought we had an angle, but it didn’t pan out. The latest victim was a male prostitute, so we were thinking maybe that’s who he’s targeting. Local cops looked further into the other victims and it doesn’t appear that any of them were involved in that.”

“Hmmm. Were any of them suspected homosexuals? Even if they weren’t formally prostituting themselves, there could have been some form of covert sexual exchanges.”

“I can suggest that.”

Wendy heard the ding of the elevator from down the hall.

“I have to go,” she said. “You’re back tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Have a safe flight.”

She hung up the phone and quickly dabbed her mouth with a napkin. She poked her head out into the hall. It was empty. False alarm.

As she walked across to the interview room, a woman who she recognized from the HR department, but not the usual one who had been bringing candidates down, turned the corner at the end of the hall with another woman whom she assumed was Ruth Cairns.

“Oh, I think it must be this way,” the HR woman said. “I get so turned around down here.”

Wendy quickly snuck into the interview room. Thankfully, she had made sure to have it set up before her lunch break.

A moment later, the woman came in with Ruth. She was wearing a red plaid suit with a pleated skirt and double breasted blazer, her auburn hair pulled back in a neat, but loose, bun.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Carr,” she said, holding out her hand.

Wendy shook her hand.

“Please, have a seat.”

Ruth looked at Wendy as though she was about to say something. She sat down and closed her mouth, but her eyes still had that look.

Wendy tilted her head and looked back at her.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

Once again, Ruth opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first.

“It’s just,” she started.

Wendy signalled for her to go on. Ruth brought a finger up to her mouth.

“You’ve got a little something in your teeth,” she said.

Wendy felt her face grow warm and hoped it wasn’t showing.

Fucking spinach.

She ran her tongue across the front of her teeth.

Ruth opened her purse and pulled out an ornate silver compact.

“Here,” she offered.

“Thank you.”

Their fingers brushed as Wendy took the compact from her. The soft, innocent touch only made her blush more.

She hid her face behind the compact. It wasn’t as red as it felt, thankfully. She had successfully dislodged the spinach, and gave the rest of her mouth and face a thorough look over before handing the compact back to Ruth, holding it in a way that ensured their fingers would not touch accidentally.

“I know some people don’t like it when you say something, but if it were me, I would want to know. Rather get it dealt with right away then find out later you had a whole conversation with someone like that,” Ruth explained.

Wendy nodded in agreement, despite still being somewhat embarrassed.

She jumped right into the questions to get herself back on track. Some of her answers felt rehearsed. Not wrong, but definitely planned. Others, she seemed surprised by, but answered them acceptably.

“Why do you want this position?” Wendy asked.

“Well,” Ruth started. Wendy could already tell this was one of her prepared answers. “I am hoping to earn money so that I can continue my studies in psychology at grad school. Ideally in Boston, of course. This really seems like the perfect position for me.”

“And what makes you perfect for this position?” Wendy countered.

Ruth looked puzzled by the question.

“I should’ve thought that was obvious,” she replied.

Wendy raised her eyebrows.

“I mean,” Ruth continued. “I have the education. I have the job experience. I spent my summers on my grandfather’s farm helping him slaughter pigs and chickens, so I’ve got a strong stomach.”

Ruth went silent. Wendy looked at her. Both of them waiting for the other to speak.

“And,” Ruth continued. She took a deep breath. “I lied on my application form.”

Wendy sat upright.

“Just about my address. I said I lived here, but I don’t. I’m staying at a hostel. But I’m willing to move here because that’s how much I want this job. That’s how much I wanted a chance at an opportunity to work here. With you.”

Wendy’s eyes narrowed. Did she know this woman?

“I never formally took one of your classes. I didn’t get into any of them while you were still there. But I...I snuck in the back just so I could listen.”

She’s flattered, and a bit in shock. She wasn’t aware her lectures were that high in demand, especially based on some of the lackluster students she’d had over the years.

“‘Time and tide wait for no man’,” Ruth quoted. “Or woman, as the case may be.”

Wendy smiled.

“And wouldn’t you want someone who could not only do the job, and do it well, but also who could take the knowledge they’ve learned and apply it? Can you honestly say any of the other applicants would use this experience to further the work you’re doing even after they’ve left?”

They looked at each other - Wendy still smiling, Ruth worried that she’d blown it.

“You make a good case,” Wendy admitted.

She stood up. Ruth waited a moment before doing the same.

Wendy held out her hand.

“We’ll be in touch.”

Ruth shook her hand and gave her a sad smile, her eyes not meeting Wendy’s. Wendy gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and Ruth looked up to a reassuring smile.

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Tracked in Vein || Nell and Kaden

TIMING: After Quit Buggin and Butterfly Jailbreak LOCATION: Regan’s Apartment and Flores Flores PARTIES: @nelllraiser and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: Nell uses a tracking spell to help find Regan

Kaden picked at his fingernails as he watched Nell work her magic. Literal magic. Finding anyone in this town was hard enough without them being all of five inches tall. As desperately as he was trying, there was no way he could search the whole town by himself. Having help from Nell was a necessity if he wanted to do anything other than just sit around and wait. And he couldn’t sit around or fucking wait, not while every worst case scenario played in this mind over and over again. Kaden could barely sleep before Regan went missing. While she was gone, he was lucky to get an hour or two here and there. He could practically feel the bags under his eyes weighing his face down, who knew how disheveled his hair was by now. That was a lie, he did. Still, he tried to avoid mirrors when he could lately. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “Is it working?” he whispered. “What does it say?” He wondered if using her necklace had been a bad idea. “Do we need something better than the amulet? Does the magic cancel out magic?” He should really stop talking and let her work. But he was impatient to find her.

Nell’s own tracking spell was different to Bea’s, working more of blood magic elements into it rather than a standard one, or her sister’s preference. So she’d made the first of no doubt many scars and cuts to come over the top of her already necromancy scarred arms, to get what she needed for her spell. In the end, the blood hadn’t exactly formed the trail she’d anticipated, flapping like a bird’s wing from the window. “It’s working,” she confirmed patiently, knowing this was most likely not a fun situation for Kaden to be in. Plus, she was used to getting these sorts of reactions when she’d dealt with missing persons cases before. She could only hope that this one would have a happy ending. “I think...a bird might have taken her? But it didn’t eat her or anything,” she quickly added on. “If Regan wasn’t alive, the spell wouldn’t be working, so it’s a good sign!” It was, perhaps, a bit roughly put, but certainly Kaden had to be used to the reality of situations like this with his own Hunter going-ons. With that, Nell tossed herself out the window to follow the trail, magically slowing her fall. “I can do you next, if you want,” she offered, ready to get going.

As she cut into her arms, Kaden’s forehead creased as he finally noticed the scarring all over her arms. Was it from this kind of magic? No, couldn’t be. “The hell happened there, Nell?” he asked, nodding to her arms while she worked. Once the spell had gotten under way, Kaden sat there blinking a moment as he watched. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but a literal blood trail wasn’t it. He was mesmerized as he saw the bird wings take shape by the window. He was watching so closely he almost missed her hopping out of the window. “It what?” he was still putting pieces together, a little slower than normal due to all the fog clouding his mind recently. He couldn’t sleep but it was still taking its damn toll. Hunter healing only did so much to help him stay on his feet. Shit, she was out the window, that was right. “Coming,” he said as he shook it off and climbed over. He never thought he was afraid of heights, but between this and the roller coaster, he was starting to wonder if that wasn’t true. Climbing had never been an issue for him, but something about hanging out a window following a blood trail while running on next to no sleep really spiked his adrenaline. “Uh yeah, help please.” When she indicated she was ready, he grit his teeth, let go, and jumped down. Gravity’s pull was slowed just enough that he landed like he had jumped down from a couch. Huh. That was nice. “She’s definitely still alive?” he asked, looking for some more reassurance as they wound through the woods and towards the roads, following what they could see of the trail. “This fucker really just kept going, putain.”

It wasn’t uncommon for people to ask about the scars, these days. And though strangers questions and prodding often irked her, Nell knew Kaden had a right to ask. After all, he wasn’t some stranger off the street, he was...hm. She wasn’t actually entirely sure what Kaden was. A friend? A...co-conspirator? Waving that thought from her mind, she didn’t hesitate to answer him, though there were still some reservations on her part. “Well- remember how I was in the...hospital after Bea’s resurrection? There were some...repercussions to the spell.” As she spoke, she shoved one of her hands into her pocket self-consciously, trying to hide the metal bracelet that was also a leftover testament to her time in the Ring, hoping he hadn’t already seen it. Then she was back to focussing on the spell at hand. Soon enough, the bird wings fell, reshifting until they were stretching to form the spokes of a bike, the wheels seemingly turning of their own accord as the tracks carried on. “She was on...a bicycle?” Nell doubted that was exactly what had happened seeing as Regan was literally five inches tall, and most certainly wouldn’t reach the pedals. “Or at least- she caught a ride on one. And definitely still alive. This tracking spell sort of...has my blood call to her’s through the bond of the item. So if she was dead there wouldn’t be anything left to uh- call to.” Soon enough, they came to a row of little shops once they broke the edge of the woods, and the bike seemed to be slowing.

Kaden had known about the trip to the hospital all the Vurals had taken. He knew about Luce’s heart attack and broken ribs. He didn’t even have to ask about Bea’s injuries, he could imagine even if there were none, it was best to take someone who had previously had their head severed to the hospital. The thought sent shivers down his spine. Bea had told him about repercussions but he’d never properly asked. “Yeah Bea mentioned something. Think we can leave it at that,” he said as she made clear motion to hide her hands. Kaden wasn’t sure about a lot of things but he was pretty sure the less he knew about that ritual, the better. The more bits and pieces he learned, meager though they were, the less he wished he knew. There was a dark aura surrounding the whole thing and he didn’t want to have to face any of the questions he’d sure he’d have if he knew the details. He felt his heartbeat catch in his throat as he watched the wings shift. For a moment, he was worried they would disappear. Instead, they transformed into a bicycle. “Shit. She was lucky she didn’t hit the ground.” He ran his hand through his hair as they kept following the path laid out to them by the spell. He’d rather focus on that than all the hundreds of awful scenarios that could have happened to her or were happening to her now. “Good. That’s good. That she’s, you know. That you can tell.” Now all they had to do was hope the trail didn’t run cold. His brow furrowed as they wound along the road towards a store front. “Is that… it’s a flower shop, right?” he asked, looking up at the sign. It sure looked like that’s where the magic blood bike traces were pointing them. “That is where it’s telling us to go, right?

“Alright, deal.” Nell nodded without reservation, somewhat relieved not to get into details of the necromancy and everything that had come after, especially what with the recent revelation to Adam and all. That was still a hard stone in her gut, turning uncomfortably as she thought about what he must be going through. But she couldn’t think of that now. She needed to focus on Regan and the spell, and making sure her friend hadn’t come to danger. Squinting in the direction of Kaden and the bike, she managed to make out the signage of the shop. “Flores Flores,” she mumbled aloud, recognizing it as a place she’d been before to buy some of her gardening items. “I mean the flower shop isn’t the worst place for a fae, right?” she tried to joke lamely. “But yeah, this is it.” Unfortunately, it seemed the shop was well past closed, with no sign of life within. Without hesitation, Nell went up to the shop, taking note that no one was around. “Just...keep an eye out, yeah?” she said before pressing a hand to the lock of the door with seemingly practiced ease. Magic flowed, and soon enough the tumblers clicked into their respective places with a click. It wouldn’t be the first time she was breaking into a place, and most certainly not the last. The bike tracks changed to footsteps as Nell led the way over to what looked to be some sort of terrarium. “Over here— with the...butterflies?”

“Yeah guess it could be worse.” It could be a place full of iron. If that existed. Like an idiot, Kaden tried the door handle. Very locked. Which made sense because the place was very closed. Not that it seemed to stop Nell. Which shouldn’t have surprised him. “Uh, sure,” he said as he stood guard for the whole few seconds it took her to get the door open. “Should I be concerned about that trick of yours there?” Maybe he should be more worried about witches than he thought. Putain, if breaking and entering was that easy for them, why bother to lock the doors at all? Didn’t matter now, he started searching up and down the place, following the red footsteps to a terrarium on the side wall. He crouched down, but couldn’t see much beyond butterflies. Pulling out his phone, he turned on the flashlight, hoping to see if there was anything he missed. “Regan?” he called out, even though there was no sign of her that he could reasonably see. There was, however, a dead butterfly on the bottom of the tank. “Unfortunate. I guess.” As soon as he spoke, the red flooded into the tank and a small pinprick of what must have been a thorn sliced down and across the body of the butterfly. He narrowed his eyes as he got closer, taking another look. “Wait. Is that butterfly…” There was no mistaking the odd precision of the cuts. “Putain. I think… I think she was here. And ran an autopsy. On a goddamn butterfly.” But that was the only clue that she’d been here. “Regan? Come on, are you there? Please. Please be there,” he practically begged, knowing full well it wasn’t going to make her anymore present. Maybe there was more to the spell? Something? Anything?

“That’s the spirit,” Nell joked drily, all too familiar with ‘it could be worse.’ Nevertheless, she was amused by his question, and offered him a little smirk in return. “I don’t know. Probably only if you get on my bad side, and I decide to glitter your entire apartment. Not that I’ve thought about that...ever,” she finished in a tone that made it sound as if she very much had thought about that. Nell wasn’t sure what to make for the dissected butterfly in the terrarium, though. Had Regan had a reason for it or had she just been...bored? The blood was still pooled around the terrarium, not yet moving on. “Why would she...do her thing on a butterfly?” Nevertheless, a pang of pity flashed through Nell as Kaden’s desperation seemed to grow, and she renewed her search effort of the terrarium along with him. “Careful,” she warned, not wanting himself to get caught on one of the thorns in the tank as they poked around. Whispering another set of magic words under her breath, and stomping her foot lightly on the floor, her next bout of magic quickly revealed to her that there was no Regan present in the terrarium. The only life forces the spell was picking up were herself, Kaden, and the remaining butterflies. “She’s not here, Kaden,” she offered as gently as she could. “But we can keep looking, obviously.” The blood she’d used for the spell had come to a rest while she searched, no longer moving as she’d let the magic rest while they went through the terrarium. “We’ll find her.”

Kaden shot her a look at the mention of glitter. “Don’t you dare.” That was the last thing he needed. He almost missed when a bugbear was the only thing he had to worry about breaking and entering. “I wish I could say I was all that surprised.” He shook his head. Regan doing an autopsy on a butterfly she was trapped with somehow made the most sense of everything going on right now. As they poked around and examined the terrarium, he could feel his hope waning. He gave a small nod and waited while she ran through another spell. His first thought at her words was that it meant Regan was dead. No. That was stupid. The first spell had worked. Which meant she was alive. Think. Don’t panic. “She’s not here,” he repeated, defeated. They’d been so close. It felt like that night with the leprechauns all over again. But somehow worse. She wouldn’t have been able to fend off against a good number of monsters then but even normal everyday things were just as dangerous now, too. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll find her.” He was starting to wonder if that was true. “If she’s not here, what now?”

Nell’s amusement washed away as the glitter talk died down, making herself focus on the task at hand. Regan was out there somewhere, no taller than five inches, and most likely still trying to find some excuse for how she’d ended up that way in the first place. Unfortunately, the world seemed like it would be a much more dangerous place when you were five inches, and worry began to set into Nell’s gut once more. “I’ll do the spell again,” Nell simply offered, ready to search all night if it was what it took. She reached for her magic once more, letting it flow and pulse around the tracking spell for another go. Except this time, an all too familiar jolt of excruciating pain emitted from the bracelet that was meant to be dead and void of its power after having left the Ring. Nell gasped in pain, instinctively clutching at the cuff on her wrist, feeling it sap away her magic once more. “Fuck,” she breathed under her breath, doing her best not to fall where she was as it took every ounce of her magic within a few, short seconds. It took a long moment for her to regain her normal breathing as she tried to keep her suddenly weak knees from collapsing underneath her, refusing to fall in front of Kaden. “Update,” she ground through clenched teeth. “Magic is a no-go.”

Kaden waited to see a new trail of blood to follow, ready to head off in whatever direction was next. He’d walk until his feet couldn’t handle it, he didn’t care, he was ready for any-- Alright, he wasn’t the fuck ready for that. “Shit, Nell, are you okay?” He had no clue what was happening but he saw her reach for her wrist and damn near collapse in pain. “What just happened?” He had his hands out ready to catch her if she tipped over. Cause she sure as hell looked like she might, proud as she was clearly trying to be. “No magic? That’s--” That wasn’t good. He couldn’t piece it together but she looked more zapped of energy than he did just then and that was saying something. “Let’s head back, then. This isn’t-- We’ll look on the way back. But if we both pass out…” As responsible as he felt to Regan, finding her, there was no way he could let Nell just crumple to the floor and keep on trucking. He had to help who was right in front of him first.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Nell insisted, still somewhat breathless in her answer. “It’s fine— something from the Ring but...we’re taking care of it.” She hated telling people that she’d managed to be trapped in a cage for an entire week, to admit that she hadn’t been fast enough or ready enough or powerful enough to stop it from happening. “Yeah, no magic, sorry. Maybe we could get someone else to do it, or something?” In the end, all she’d been able to offer Kaden was the knowledge that Regan was alive, and hopefully that would be something to help him keep going, and maybe give him a few moments of rest. As for both passing out in a flower shop…”Yeah, I can’t be found with my body next to your’s.” Already, she was trying to lighten the mood back up, not wanting to dwell on what had happened. “People might think I tolerate you or something.” And she needed food and sleep now that she was practically a regular human, momentarily stripped of her magic. “Sorry, Kaden. I really wanted to find her.”

Kaden let out a sigh the second he heard the word “Ring.” He hated the entire fucking existence of that place and he couldn’t imagine why anyone would get involved. Based on what just fucking happened, he had a good damn feeling she was regretting getting involved herself. His eyes narrowed a moment, remembering what Blanche had told him earlier. “Putain de merde. She went to rescue you, didn’t she?” It’d make sense. Nell was certainly someone Blanche would go to the ends of the earth for. He hadn’t planned to press the matter but he couldn’t very well ignore it either. “Yeah, it’s fine. Maybe I’ll ask--” He stopped himself short. Bea was bogged down with Felix and even if she wasn’t, he didn’t feel right asking her to stress out over this just yet. “Someone. I’ll ask someone. Or just hope that Blanche’s ad in the paper does the trick. Who knows, she could be sitting in some kid’s room safe and sound right now.” Was that lightning the mood? He wasn’t sure anymore. He was trying. Her joke was better. “Oh yeah, that’d be unfortunate. Can’t have people thinking you associate with the town mime fucker.” He sighed again. “I know. We’ll find her. Or someone will. Soon. It’ll be fine.” Because it had to be. The alternative-- Not an option. “Let’s get out of here.”

Nell’s lips pursed, not exactly angry but...wishing the capture hadn’t happened in the first place. “There may have been a prison break, and Blanche may have been there,” she said vaguely, knowing Kaden meant well. As for asking someone for a tracking spell, she tried to finish the thought for him. “Cece, maybe?” They worked together after all, didn’t they? “Yeah, and some mom is having a heart attack that her kids toy has suddenly become sentient.” The only way to get through this all was to not let it anchor them down, right? That was how she’d gotten through the past few months, and that was how Kaden would get through this. You just had to keep moving. The mention of a mime fucker was too amusing to pass up, though. “You know I was just talking about your not so secret fascination with Regan the other day. Before...you know...everything.” But all this could wait, they really needed to get out of here before some cops came by and decided to ask questions. Even if Kaden was technically with them, it’d still be annoying, wouldn’t it? “We’ll find her,” Nell echoed with stalwart and stubborn certainty before taking her first careful steps towards the shop door, praying her legs didn’t give out on the way there. “Or someone will.”

Kaden wasn’t going to ask anything more. Right now. The whole thing still fucking concerned him. And based on what Morgan said, he should probably get some idea of what sort of monsters he should be on the lookout for. Later. “Cece, yeah, good call.” He’d send her a message, see what they could dig up. Maybe after an hour or two of sleep. At least Nell was easy to talk to. Neither of them wanted to weigh things down, it was clear as day. “I’m so glad that’s a topic of conversation. Hopefully not one that comes up with any small children thinking they found a sentient toy.” He took a quick, careful glance out the window before he opened the door and they shuffled out. Coast was clear. The one nice thing about small, sleepy towns. If White Crest could really be called that. “I just hope that someone is the right kind of someone.” Guess they’d find out. Who knew, maybe they’d get lucky and stumble into her on the way home. As much as he doubted that. He had to keep up hope, though. They’d find her.

[ohmytheon]

Spellbound (1/9)

summary: Detective Uraraka is just trying to do her job and navigate her feelings for one very prickly werewolf, but in a world where myths are real, anything can happen. When she's targeted by the serial killer that she and her elven partner, Midoriya, are trying to stop, it's going to take a bit of magic to save the day.

notes: So this is my entry for Kacchako Bittersweet Week! I'm...honestly not sure where this is going. I've only finished three of the prompts so far and am literally winging it. Whatever the next prompt says takes the story to the next place. There is no plan for this and I'm probably in over my head trying to write a murder-mystery type story inside of a Modern Fantasy setting, but well, such is life. I borrowed the world I created for my sorta Izuocha fic, "The Mythical Kind". Yes, a bit cheap, but I really loved that world and felt like I could explore more of it. More characters, relationships, and tags will be added as I finish the prompts. Like I said, I have no fucking clue where this is gonna end up. Such is life.

DAY 0: AU

No amount of tea could keep her awake, which was near impossible considering all the herbs she had put in that last batch. That stuff should have been able to keep her bouncing off the walls for days, not just a measly forty-eight hours. Was she getting weaker? No, that was her tried and true recipe. She was simply that exhausted after working for almost three days straight. This case really was getting the best of her. Maybe she should’ve taken a break like Deku had suggested.

Uraraka was staring hopelessly at her computer, woeful over the old case files that she had yet to comb through, when a paper bird began to flutter around her desk. At first, she ignored it, used to the old things. Eventually, it would settle down and perch on her desk until she was ready to unfold it and read the note. However, this one had other things in mind. It quickly turned into an origami nightmare and began to actually peck at her hands.

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, oh impatient one!” Uraraka snatched the bird out of the air between her two hands, which proved to be a mistake when it gave her a papercut on her palm, causing her to wince. It soon calmed down and when she finally opened her hands, the bird slowly unfolded itself into a creased, harmless note.

You’re going to be useless if you keep going like this. Take a damn break!

Uraraka’s eyes almost rolled out of her head. Of course the violent note was from Bakugou. Did he have to charm them to be so vicious if ignored? He probably wanted to get his point across. Looking at the red spots on her hand and the cut on her palm, it had certainly done the trick. She set the note down and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes with a fist. When she stared back at her computer, its dull glow only stared right back at her. The files would still be here when she got back. Besides, she couldn’t do much without her partner here anyways.

Dragging herself out of her chair, Uraraka groaned and pressed her hands to the small of her back as she stretched. How long had she been in that chair? And how had Bakugou known that she was running herself ragged? He could have called her. It wouldn’t have had the same effect as coming to the station and sending her a very aggressive paper bird to attack her into taking a break.

After sweeping her long coat off the back of her chair, she threw it over her shoulders and slipped her arms into the sleeves. She snagged her hat off the side of her desk and plopped it on her head as she walked over to her Captain’s office and knocked on the door. “I’m heading out for the night.”

“Got anymore of that tea?” Aizawa looked about as exhausted as she felt as he set his glasses down and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he hadn’t been working as long as her, but he dealt with the higher-ups and the public, which was even worse. Neither had been kind to them recently with this case in the headlines.

Uraraka smiled apologetically. “All out, I’m afraid. I don’t think it was doing much good anyway at this point.”

Aizawa sighed. “I hate when things get political. It’s so exhausting.” He waved a hand at her. “Get some rest. I would rather you be well-rested than hopped up on something.”

“It’s an herbal recipe,” Uraraka reminded him. Before he could make another smart remark, his phone rang and he answered it without hesitation. He was a stronger man than her. Every time the phone at her desk rang, she shrank away from it for a few seconds. If she heard one more tip about how it was aliens, she was going to lose it.

Witches, werewolves, trolls, dragons, orcs, vampires, elves, and more? That was regular life.

Aliens though? Absolutely absurd.

That wasn’t even counting the many calls of people proclaiming it was werewolves. She’d hung up on the last person that had started on a rant.

The ride to the left and down the elevator was quick, but Uraraka still spent half of it slumped against the wall with the side of her head pressed against the cool metal. If it went on any longer, she could probably fall asleep here and wake up about ten hours later wondering where she was. She did have something of a bad habit of falling asleep in places around her apartment that weren’t her bed. Tired as she was, she didn’t even bother lifting her head when the doors opened, despite knowing full well who would be on the other side waiting for her.

“Took you long enough,” Bakugou snarled, arms folded across his chest.

“Aw, you really do care,” Uraraka teased, although she was too sleepy to push it even further.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled as he reached into the elevator to grab her by the arm and pull her out. “Deku sent me a text asking if I could check on you. He must be out of it too because I think he meant to send it to Iida.”

Uraraka paused to blink at him before stepping outside. “And you came anyways?”

“Yeah, apparently you weren’t answering your phone,” Bakugou pointed out. That was surprising since she’d had her phone on her the whole… She fished it out of her pocket and looked down at it. Dead. Well, that answered the question of why Bakugou had sent her a murderous pigeon note. “You need to keep it charged. Shit is real dangerous right now and you’re running around with a dead phone.”

“And a wand,” Uraraka added, flicking her sleeve so that her wand slid into her hand. He scoffed, but didn’t argue the point. He knew that she could take care of herself, but he could also see the exhaustion written all over her. The thing about magic was that the stronger it was the more energy it took out of a person. Uraraka considered herself to be stronger than the average witch, at least by a hair, but fighting in this condition could knock her out cold. “You don’t need to worry about me so much. It’s not a witch hunt.”

Bakugou didn’t appreciate the pun at all, judging from the unimpressed look on his face. “I’m serious, Uraraka. You need to be more vigilant. Whatever is going on, we’re in the shit right now.”

He was right, of course, and Uraraka didn’t have to say anything for him to know that. She sighed and nodded her head before choosing her exit and stepping through the sliding glass door. There wasn’t just one entry port to the police department. There were a number of entrances across the city that a person could choose from, as long as they had a passcode. She and Deku had given Bakugou theirs just in case ages ago.

When she passed through the glass door and came out the other, Uraraka was first hit with the smell of smoke. It was a familiar scent in this area, reminding her of childhood. Growing up, her home had been permeated with the smell of whatever was being cooked in the cauldron, but the smoke from below was always there as well. This was a different kind of smoke, but she would take what she could get.

Glancing over, she caught Bakugou wrinkling his nose in distaste. It wasn’t near the full moon, but his sense of smell was heightened regardless of the day of the month. He didn’t like her neighborhood. Granted, it was fairly sketchy. On a scale of one to ten – where ten was a bunker warded to the teeth with protective spells and one was a flimsy wood shack – her neighborhood was about a four. He, Deku, and Iida had been harping on her to move, but it was easier said than done. Maybe when she got her bonus…

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” Uraraka said as they walked down a dimly lit sidewalk.

“And risk you falling asleep in an alley?” Bakugou shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Now it’s my turn to be the serious one.” Uraraka stepped ahead of him and turned on her heels so that she was facing him, stopping him cold in his tracks. “It’s not safe for you out here.”

He rolled his eyes. To get his attention, she reached out and snagged the strings of his hood, pulling it tighter around his head. He instinctively lifted his hands to make sure that the hood was covering him properly. It wouldn’t do good for his ears to show. His long green coat was able to hide his fluffy tail well enough, but the ears would be a dead giveaway. She could still remember her surprise when she’d met Bakugou for the first time. Werewolves in her part had been hunted down, but in the city, they roamed freely, if not without prejudice against them.

“I can take care of myself,” Bakugou quipped, baring his teeth in a vicious smirk. His canines gleamed dangerously under the flame of the streetlamp. Not as sharp as a vampire’s without it being the full moon, they were still capable of puncturing a man’s jugular should he be so inclined. He could kill her quite easily if he was in one of his frenzies. Even without the influence of the full moon, he had superhuman strength and many people said the bloodlust was still strong in them too.

Uraraka knew that he would never hurt her though. They might’ve gotten into some pretty heated arguments, but she had never once been afraid that he would attack her simply to hurt her.

“Even so, like you said, we’re in the shit, but especially werewolves,” Uraraka said gently, smoothing his hood down. She could feel his ears twitch underneath and pulled her hand away before he could tell her off. “I’d rather not get another call from Kirishima asking if I can bail you out. Everyone at the station thinks I’m dating a ruffian.”

Bakugou’s face flushed pink. “We’re not–”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction, folding her hands behind her back and taking a few steps back. He spent so much time teasing her that it was nice to get one over him every once in a while. “I know. You’d never be interested in a cop, much less a low level witch.” He narrowed his eyes at her, but chose to say nothing as he started to follow her again. She knew that she could be stronger. Deku constantly reassured her that she was one of the strongest witches he knew, but then she’d remind him that he’d only met three witches total. “I’m still allowed to worry about you, aren’t I? Especially since you won’t let me give you that enchanted watch.”

“You know I don’t fuck with magic,” Bakugou told her.

“You fuck with me,” Uraraka shot back mockingly. He stared at her for a beat before his lips pulled up into a smirk and his red eyes glittered. This time, her face burned red and she spun back around so that he couldn’t see her face. She hadn’t meant it like that, especially after that last comment. “What I mean is: it’s me – it’s my magic – and the watch only has a protective spell on it. Okay, that’s a lie. It’s also enchanted to always have the perfect time. What’s the point of it not being functional too?”

Bakugou opened his mouth to argue with her when he suddenly stopped, his brow furrowed and his smirk turning into a frown. “Do you smell that?” Uraraka looked around and shook her head. Maybe it was a little smellier because the garbage man was late picking up the trash, but that was all she could think of. “It smells like something’s burning.”

“Something is always burning around here.” True, the scent of smoke was heavy in the air, but she didn’t think much of it. Smoke was a part of the aesthetic at this point. That was the price of living by a factory that mass-produced magical potions. They weren’t anywhere near as potent or good as home-brewed ones, but those were much harder to come by. She usually stuck to making her own since it was cheaper in the long run.

“No, it’s…” Bakugou broke into a run, leaving Uraraka in the dust.

She took off after him and shouted, “Wait!” but he was much quicker than her. Even if he didn’t have a werewolf’s unnatural speed, he would’ve beat her. She had always been a slow runner. He passed two blocks before she had even made it down one and then disappeared around the corner. “Bakugou, stop!” Her coat was flapping behind her like a cloak and slapping the back of her legs. When she rounded the corner, she ran smack into Bakugou’s back. He was so solid though that she didn’t knock him over. “What are you–?”

The rest of her question was snatched right out of her mouth as she caught sight of the scene Bakugou was staring at. A large building was on fire. Her apartment building was on fire. There were dozens of fire trucks, cop cars, and ambulances surrounding it in an attempt to put it out and help any of the victims, but it was no use. One second it was a regular fire and the next the fire burned a bright blue and grew exponentially like it was a hungry, living monster. As the flames ate every inch of the building, black smoke billowed into the sky.

When she’d said that something was always burning, she hadn’t meant her home.

“Did you leave a cauldron simmering before you left?” Bakugou asked.

“What? No!” Uraraka was almost insulted that he’d even insinuated such a thing, but he didn’t seem to be aware of what he was saying. “That’s not from some slow simmering potion gone wrong or someone leaving their crockpot or coffee maker plugged in.” She pointed an accusing finger at the burning building. “That...is magic.”

Any decent witch could’ve spotted the most subtle magic a mile away. Now that she was watching it three blocks down, she could feel it pulsing in the air, breathing life and death into her at the same time.  If she had ever been tired before, she was alert and awake now, although that might have been because she’d fallen into a state beyond exhaustion. Her eyes were locked onto the red and yellow flames, taking in how alive they looked. Fire was a beast in its own and the creatures capable of it fiercer than most. Not all of them were as mild as Todoroki.

Bakugou turned to her. “Uraraka…”

Hearing her name in that wary tone made everything come crashing down on her all at once. Her apartment was gone. It was destroyed, turned to nothing but ash and soot. “I… Everything I owned was in there…” Luckily she hid her money in a safe elsewhere, but it wasn’t nearly enough along with what she had in the bank to replace all that the fire had taken from her. She had insurance, of course, but only the bare minimum that she could afford. “What am I going to do?” She wasn’t thinking properly. The alertness she felt only seconds ago began to evaporate, replaced by a bone-tired exhaustion that made her want to cry. “Where am I going to sleep?”

“Uraraka,” Bakugou repeated. She snapped out of it and glanced at him. There was a fire in his eyes that matched the intensity of the burning building. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got bigger problems that that.” She blinked thickly, her thoughts muddled at best. “If this was done by magic, I don’t think it was an accident.” He pointed at the buildings next to hers. “Look; they aren’t catching. It’s just your building. No one on the force has the ability to create a barrier like that but you. It was targeted.”

That took Uraraka back. “Targeted?”

“You’re in danger,” Bakugou growled, his hackles practically raised. “That case you’re working on? It must be a lot worse than you thought.”

Uraraka’s eyes swept from Bakugou to her apartment. Judging by the state of the first responders and the building, it had caught on fire suddenly and spread fast. As much as it pained her, she knew that it was impossible to expect that everyone had survived. How many people had died? What for? What was worth ending so many lives just to get to her? Had they thought she was home? Or had they known she wasn’t and did it as a threat to stop her? And if they had attacked her place, who wasn’t to say that they wouldn’t go after Deku, Aizawa, or anyone else on the case?

“We have to call Deku,” Uraraka decided, eyes snapping back to him.

Bakugou’s nostrils flared. “No shit.” He tugged her witch’s hat off her head and threw his arm around her, pulling her close to him and guiding him back around the corner. In her case, the signature hat she wore would give her identity away. Without it, she looked like the average civilian. She another woman on the street. Huddled so close to him, his familiar scent washed over her and the heat of his body burned through his coat. “But first we gotta get you out of here. There’s a chance whoever did this is waiting for you to show up on the scene. Best not give them the chance.”

“Where are we going?” Uraraka asked worriedly. Back to the police station? It was difficult for people to get in there.

Bakugou didn’t answer her though as he pulled out his phone and clicked on Deku’s contact. Uraraka glanced back one last time, taking in the sight of the smoke reaching into the heavens. What the hell was going on? Magic was supposed to be used for good, not this, not the crimes that she’d been investigating since transferring here into the city. It was unnatural. It was wrong. Even the dark arts wasn’t always bad, but this? Oh, this felt like a sickness and it was growing as surely as the flames.

[mycarlos2019]

The Doris McCarthy Trail

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One of Toronto’s features that the city’s boosters like to promote is ravines. Toronto has many ravines and people often say that, in order to feel like you have left the city behind, all you need do is go down into one. It’s kind of true, but, with a few notable exceptions, you never really feel that you are completely out of the city. You feel that you are in a small, natural setting outside of which is an urban Gargantua. One notable exception, and it’s one that I only recently discovered, is the Doris McCarthy Trail.

Doris McCarthy was a Canadian artist who lived nearby, in a large house on top of the Scarborough bluffs called Fool’s Paradise. There is also a piece of artwork called Passages at the end of the trail which was commissioned by The Friends of Doris McCarthy. Apparently, she also donated two hectares of the ravine to the Toronto and Region Conservation Authority, so it seems appropriate that they named the trail after her. To get to the trail head, take the 102 Bus from Warden Station and get off at Kingston Road and Bellamy, in front of the Pioneer gas station. They sell soft drinks and snacks inside so if you haven’t brought any refreshments, you can stock up there. A large bottle of water is the minimum I’d suggest having with you. If it’s a warm day you’re going to be guzzling it like crazy on the way back up the trail. There really isn’t any obvious place to park, so, in this case, public transit really is the better way. Simply walk from the gas station down Ravine Drive for about two hundred feet and you will see the entrance to the trail.

I guess I should mention that riding a mountain bike down the trail seems to be acceptable to the powers that be because there are signs advising cyclists to walk down the steeper sections.

The problem with that is getting back up. Even in your lowest granny gear, it’s going to be a tough slog and you’re pretty much eliminating your chances of seeing any foxes or other wildlife. Once past the barricade, you will find that the path immediately plunges downward and you are, seemingly, enveloped in nature.

Bellamy Ravine Creek or brook burbles to your right over what is obviously a series of man-made cascades, installed, presumably, to keep the newly upgraded trail from being washed away by spring run-off. I believe the trail had to be closed recently due to just such an event. So okay, it’s not 100% natural, but it’s close enough. You’re completely enveloped in a deciduous forest and there is nothing to remind you that the houses on Bellehaven Crescent are only a few hundred feet away, even though they are.

You might find it interesting to reflect upon the fact that you are following a path used by natives as long ago as 8,000 B.C. This is known, apparently, because some arrowheads dating to that period were found in the ravine. Corroboratory evidence of there being large numbers of natives in the area, prior to the arrival of European settlers, is the Tabor Hill Ossuary just 4.5 kilometeres to the north. Dating to the 1400s it is estimated to contain the remains of 472 Wendat natives. Two kilometres to the west, on the north shore of Highland Creek, was the village, four hectares large, that these people lived in. Both the ossuary and the village were excavated in 1956 by archaeology students from U of T.

If smuggling and skullduggery are more your cup of tea, then you might choose to imagine all manner of illegal imports from the United States being brought up this path as recently as the 1830s, tea and tobacco being two of the most popular products. It might seem harmlessly romantic, but getting caught could result in hanging, so smugglers would sometimes dump their entire cargo overboard if they thought there was a chance of that happening.

And then there’s the gold. It is said that, during the war of 1812, American soldiers buried some looted gold here in the ravine, and it was never recovered. Highly unlikely, but the story does add to the trail’s allure. Primarily, however, the Doris McCarthy Trail is a nature trail that takes you down through a cleft in the Scarborough Bluffs to the shore of Lake Ontario.

Enjoy the lush forest, the birdsong, the burbling brook and the blue sky overhead if have been so fortunate. About two thirds of the way down you may begin to notice a slightly strange phenomenon. The horizon of Lake Ontario appears to too high in the sky. This is, I think, an optical illusion of sorts caused by the fact that you are still fairly high above the shoreline but still looking straight out at the horizon. Or maybe it’s just me. Have a look and see what you think.

When you reach the bottom of the path, you are presented with a piece of artwork called Passages. Depending on your point of view it either looks like the rib cage of a large fish or the hull of a boat.

Maybe you see something else. In any case, it’s meant to commemorate the life of Doris McCarthy and place that life within the much larger context of the bluffs, which, as the explanatory plaque will tell you, were formed 23,000 years ago.

In fact, if you just look at the layers of clay and silt in the bluffs you can see the history of how they were formed. The top layer is glacial till, a hodge podge mixture of everything the ice sheet has ground up on its way south, but basically clay and small boulders.

It’s easy to tell the difference between this and the layer of sediment below it because the lines in the till are vertical and the lines in the sediment are horizontal. To get a sense of how old the layers of till and sediment at the bottom of the bluffs are, start with the top layer of till. It was deposited here somewhere between 25,000 and 40,000 years ago.

Then realise, as you scan down the cliff face, that each succeeding layer was deposited much earlier. What you can see at the bottom was left there as long ago as 2.5 million years maybe. In between the time the bottom and top layers were deposited, woolly mammoths inhabited the region. The bluffs, in short, are really old and were formed over a long period of time. Their erosion, however, has taken place over a much shorter period, 1.62 feet each year. Scant wonder then that a summer house built on the edge of one of the properties above has almost fallen right off that edge. Ironically enough, it used to belong to a comedian called Billy Van who starred in a TV series called The Hilarious House of Frankenstein. So, if you think the city has destroyed the natural look of the area at the base of the bluffs with its new breakwaters, I would encourage you to spare a thought for the poor homeowners on top of them. How did they know that by building a string of monster homes right next to an eroding cliff they were being perhaps overly optimistic. Seriously though, the breakwaters were obviously needed to slow down the rate of erosion and allow future generations of Torontonians the opportunity to marvel at this geological wonder.

Once you have satisfied your curiosity about Passages, there are two directions you can head, obviously. To the west lies a long service road which will eventually (a little less than a kilometer) bring you to Bluffers Park Beach, where you can lie in the sand and maybe even go for a wade in the water.

To the east, the path stretches out a good long ways along the shore, but just remember, for every kilometre you hike in that direction, you’re going to have to come back to Passages and then hike back up the hill to the bus stop. One particularly interesting thing to see in this direction is only a couple of hundred metres away, however. It’s the remains of the steamship Alexandria, which ran aground here in 1915. All the passengers on board escaped and climbed up Gates Gully to Kingston Road. If you walk to the first rock protrusion of the breakwater, you should be able to see the top of the ship’s smoke stack because the waves break over it.

So that’s pretty much all there is to this outing. A nice walk in nature. Some historical and artistic curiosities. And couple of million years of geology. The day of my visit, there was one more thing to take note of. Turkey vultures, aka buzzards. These birds have an awesome wing span, five-and-a-half to six feet in length, which allows them to ride the updraft at the top of the bluffs. Only occasionally do they need to flap their wings to stay aloft. And what are they looking for while they circle? Dead squirrels. The occasional seagull carcass. Washed up fish and the like. Just anything that’s already dead but not yet in a state of putrefaction. Even a buzzard has to have some standards. The thing about these buzzards, however, is that they could also serve as a nice exclamation mark at the end of some kind of sentence about the brief, transitory nature of all living things, while they circle over a 2.5 million year old cliff face looking for their next meal.

To get back to Kingston Road and the bus back to Warden Station, simply trudge your way back up Gates Gully. Take your time, and rest as often as you need to. If it helps, you can imagine yourself being a smuggler in the early Victorian era with a big payout waiting for you at the top.

[artoirel]

#16: Bond

The day was, luckily, bright and sunny, although clouds still chased each other across Coerthas’ sky. Of course Artoirel wasn’t letting the chance of a bit of sun bathing slip through his fingers.He sat upon the cold stones of Falcon’s Nest with his back against the wall. Fortunately it had been long enough for his body heat to transfer and warm whatever contacted him.

With his head tilted back to also rest against the wall behind him, he smiled up through the calm and cool air.

“It has been ages since I first received you--ages since the last time you took a good grab at my arm with your silly beak. Really, you’re so much calmer now, but that mischievous side of you has never let up.”

He paused to smile she who was napping against his leg and took that moment to warm his thumb over her brow.

“...Not that I would have you any other way.”

Aye, he still remembered it as if it had happened but yesterday.

It was the day, although he was young, when he was honored to witness the birthing of a feathered companion.

At the time our little Lord must have been no more than sixteen summers... or winters, if you prefer. House Fortemps had their own specially bred and trained Chocobos. Of course they weren’t trained and raised at the manor. Instead they were located at Falcon’s Nest.

Back then, the camp was more humble with the few small, stone built buildings and wall that contrasted well against the greenery of the grassy hills and pines. It was a very suitable place for the darker feathered friends to be raised. The flock was small since it currently housed only a few from two houses; one being House Fortemps. 

The Lordling remembered well his excitement when he got news of their prized, at the time, female bird was beginning to go into labor. Even more ecstatic after learning that he got the day off from training to watch. Thankfully the labor was a success and a rather pitiful size of an egg was laid. The disappointment among the adults was clear, but Artoirel wasn’t informed enough to know anything about the hardships of a runt must endure health wise.

Indeed the underweight thing managed to hatch and all the problems that were worried for did come to pass--except for the most feared. That being death. Even after the struggle of care given by the stable hands and the mother herself, the wee thing still managed to fight through. She eventually grew to a stable and healthy weight, and reached the age of training and independence from her parent.

Unfortunately the over pampering caused it to become quite a brat. She became unruly and difficult to train. 

The young knight had already been instructed how to train and rear chocobos, and has had plenty of experience in doing so, but this one in particular was on an entirely different level. Regardless of the help of the older and more experienced stable hands, progress was slow.

After countless days of wrestling with her, it became clear to the others that she wasn’t fit to be Artoirel’s war bird. On the other hand, Artoirel’s stubbornness and resolve made him refuse to quit. Part of it was that he cared for her--lack of a fixed name and all--but what he wanted most was to see her grow into something the others were convinced she shouldn’t be. He was too determined to let this go otherwise.

Although it probably didn’t help that she didn’t care to be around him for whatever reason.

It wouldn’t be until a hand full of years later before honest progress was made at the form of an accident.

That day’s training would be the usual, and her unreasonableness was just as usual. The difference came when Artoirel attempted to ride her in a batch of far off pines she wasn’t familiar with. It ended up causing her to be even more rebellious due to the increased nervousness she gained from it.

“Woah-woah! By Halone, this environment isn’t so different from the scenes you are use to!”

The young chocobo thrashed about even more rebelliously, refusing to take anymore of the young knight’s orders. With risk of harming her during the process of trying to calm her, and the risk of being bucked off, Artoirel hopped off with a deep frown. It wouldn’t be until he offered some of her favourite gysahl greens before she finally calmed to munch the treat.

“My goodness... What are we to do with you?”

He leaned in to whisper,

“I overheard what happens to chocobos who don’t make fine war birds. They get turned into feather dusters and boot soles.”

The bird squeaked a confused wark. Anyone would know that she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Although if anyone did happen to overhear him they might have given out a little bit of a chuckle, for it was no more than a mix of a lie and a joke. Artoirel was too young to understand that sort of humor, though.

Thanks to the situation, the Lordling’s guard was left down. Out of no where a boar-like creature leaped out of the bushes behind him, gauging very well into his leg. It was a mistake that would leave a deep scar on his thigh that was still visible today.

After it tore away and put a distance between it and them, it spun to face them again with a hoof digging threateningly against the ground.

By now the young knight was gripping his leg in pain, glaring towards the boar.

“Ah, I have heard whispers of you. I am an incredible idiot for coming out here unharmed.”

The chocobo’s reins were given a good tug. It was time to go, but she would have none of that. She started to thrash again and refused to let him on. That boar wasn’t exactly small either. If they weren’t careful they could meet with a rather embarrassing end. Help wasn’t something they could obtain quickly nor easily either due to their semi-remote location.

Again the creature went in for another lunge to live up to its’ reputation as a local nuisance. This time, however, Artoirel’s attempt of a companion had finally taken notice of the situation. She whipped her wings open, stood up straight, and began screaming in a rather unholy sort of way. With her ebon feathers flaring on end and the abnormal sort of cry that a chocobo wouldn’t normally make, the boar’s attention was successfully grabbed.

Not just the boar stood there in shock. Artoirel did the same, but at least he was safe from the second attack. 

Finally snapping out of it, the bloodthirsty thing dove at the battle-ready bird, kicking up grass and dust behind it in the process. The training that had gone into the feather friend suddenly came to light, although the lack of experience was painfully obvious. Still, the battle itself looked rather ugly with repeated lashings connecting to both the steed’s ankles and the boar’s body. Artoirel did his best to intervene but she kept blocking his attempts to join the battle.

In the end the boar ran off screeching. Battered, yes. Critically wounded? Who knows, and Artoirel wasn’t about to bother to go looking for it. Right now his attention was fixated on his feathered savior, even if she still didn’t like him. He could only hope that her now collapsed state would make her more reasonable and easier to tend to her wounds.

To his surprize, that seemed to be the case. What struck him odd was the severity of the heavy wounds on her legs. Or, rather, the lack there of. There were scrapes and light harms, but those tusks should have done much more damage to her. He would ponder about this more later.

For now, his first priority was to dress both her and himself and get the both of them to some spit of civilization to be properly treated for.

It wouldn’t be until the next day when the outcome of the battle between animals became apparent.

When the Elezen came to check on her, she was oddly agreeable. Her reactions and personality still heavily bled mischievous, but she was actually listening to him and letting him handle her. It was no doubt that Artoirel was both shocked and pleased, but he could only wonder why.

“Hmm... I suppose I should chalk it up to the help of danger binding our trust. How old are you now, anyway? Yet still you lack a name.”

Artoirel spoke gently as he brushed her, of which were replied with happy coo-s by the other. His head lowered in thought,

“With your steel resolve and the unbreakable body of a dragon, it shall be settled. Ironbone it is.”

Since then, the pair became quite the force on the battlefield. A bird that was once a sorry excuse of a runt had grown into something that would strike fear and jealousy in the hearts of onlookers. An unbreakable bond.

The Count couldn’t be more proud of her.

[sunriseoverastorea]

Standing Stones

♬ WoW - Dun Morogh

30th Zephyr, 1331

Science is naught but conjecture. We have little to give if we do not wonder, and science is the art of wondering, the urge to explore, the longing for discovery. This was to be my life's work, investigating the boundaries of reality itself, the edge of the Eternal Alchemy, the unknown components on the borders of The All. A wiser being once said to let it be, withdraw from your delusions before it is too late. To imagine that one simple asura, with bravery and cunning, could learn the secrets of the world itself, aboard a ship of simpler scholars and soldiers. Well, we have paid the price for vanity, and I the greatest of all, that I should remain alive, if barely, in this warped husk of a ship. I wish I could describe what I saw, what I felt—there was a great lightning storm, which struck our vessel and disabled us, but it was not what did the great damage within. We fell into a void, is the only way to put it. The world beyond the portholes was black, and thick, impenetrable nothingness, and it seemed that time had stopped. I could not move, not even to breathe, and it felt as if my body was being ripped in a million different directions, my very molecules torn asunder. Indeed, I watched as much happen to some of my crew. They disintegrated, or were mangled into hideous shapes. The ship was cruelly jumbled and reformed, absorbing all those who fell in its path. And at the end of the void was a flash of light, and into it my research assistant vanished.

After the incident, I tossed the bodies overboard, as well as I could. My exoskeleton, along with everything else bound by technology, seemed to have had the life sucked out of it, making physical tasks difficult, even more so due to the unknown wasting illness I seemed to have contracted. Even now, my hand shakes with weakness so that I can barely write. But write I will, as a warning. The Unending Sea plays host to the repercussions of murdering dragons. On the mainland there are merely tremors, but on the ocean, there is chaos. It is as if the Mists are ripping themselves apart, the greatest of anomalies this asura has ever seen. And I will not die happy to know it.

Marea digs into a strip of jerky, tearing at it with her teeth, spraying little crusty bits onto the paper. Gippa must certainly have gone mad—the dead asura, that is. Her name was Gippa the Philosopher, according to her maddeningly dense pages of recollections, fresh out of college, and she really enjoyed drawing foods with happy faces on the corners of her notes. Marea can relate to this. To the rest of Gippa's findings, she cannot, as she is not quite that insane, but nonetheless, something strange happened to the Pact 91st Exploratory Squad while they were scouring the boundaries of the known world.

Perhaps they all caught an unknown illness—Gippa did mention being sick, after all. It caused visions and delusions, probably, made the crew turn on each other, set the ship afire, and only the asura with her superior will and intellect lived to relate the tale, in the best way she knew how. An odd tale, but only a tale, with an inkling of truth buried somewhere within.

Marea gets to her feet and saunters to the helm, where the afternoon sun shines radiantly off the steering wheel. She squints past it, at the cliffs in the near distance. They stretch high out of the water, white-chalked precipices swung gracefully upward into towering crowns. As if a giant hand had long ago splashed into the sea, and where the resulting tidal waves billowed impossibly tall, they turned to stone, and long green grass grew upon them, and fat little black and white birds with orange beaks settled in that grass and in the crevices along the cliff face.

She slips past the wheel and rests her forehead against the windshield, sighing softly as she looks down at the peaceful island. She could spend a long day down there, frolicking with the critters, searching for caves and signs of intelligent life. She could. And she could also contract a deadly disease that causes her to go nuts and burn down her own ship.

An island of madness, or an island of fun? That is always the question. Even before reading Gippa's research, islands had begun to carry a sort of wary gloom about them. All the more so because she couldn't remember what happened on an earlier one, her first stop.

“Is it worth it?” she asks aloud, her voice harsh and gritty compared to the constant, soft hum of the ship. “Do you think it's worth it, Horizon? I wanna meet the birds. They're goddamn cute. Nothing is cute up here. I can draw all the pretty little kitties I want, but it's not the same as having Inigo in my lap. Why hasn't the artificial intelligence of golems been installed in airships yet? I could be having a legitimate conversation with you right now.”

She pauses, cocking a brow as she stares at the empty cabin.

“Holy shit, I need to get out of here. Just one fucking hour. I'm not gonna go insane in an hour. Or I'm already insane and it makes no difference. Take the wheel Marea. Take it and shut up.”

The ship whirs and beeps as it makes a sudden turn towards the island, and the birds turn their black and white faces up to look at it, curious with their beady eyes.

Clouds drift across the sky overhead, gaps here and there in the rain-heavy cumulus letting in patches of blue warmth. Marea creeps cautiously through the grass, long green tendrils feathering around the spiked knees of her boots, and across from her, approaching from the cliff's edge, are the brave little birds, come to investigate the new arrival. They waddle from side to side, like very ovular quaggans, though the squawks they emit are far less adorable, and more akin to the much-loathed seagull's cries. Marea kneels down, holding out her empty hands as if they were a peace offering, and to her immense delight, the birds immediately swarm around her, nudging at her with their rounded heads and nipping at her leather coat with dull hooked beaks. She laughs, sitting back on her butt, and one immediately hops onto her lap, looking her dead in the eye and unleashing a hideous squawk. She gently scratches the top of its head, unafraid for her metal fingers with the strange avian, and after a minute the bird closes its eyes, content.

She roams the island without fear. The birds follow her wherever she goes, a writhing mass of feathered screeches many ranks deep, plus the lap-bird on her shoulder, like the leader of the gang. Her legs ache sweetly, finally able to stretch and move freely in any direction she pleases. The cool breeze carries the crisp tang of the sea, but as she journeys a mile inland, the crash of the waves fades from earshot, and only the wind rustling through the grass breaks the desolate silence. Even with her critters around her, it seems that the dip in the center of the island, a valley between the craggy cliff peaks, is the loneliest place in the world.

Eventually, they come to a rocky foundation. It rises only a foot out of the ground, no other traces of what once stood there remain. In the center of the foundation is a standing stone. No grass grows for a meter around it, forming a perfect circle of dirt. The stone itself has no particular shape, just a vague point upward, perhaps six feet tall. Marea stops in front of it, her bird friend ruffling his feathers anxiously, while the rest of the entourage lines up at the edge of the dirt, unwilling to go further.

She glances over her shoulder at the bobbing heads peeking up fearfully from the grass. “It's a rock. There's a lot of these where I come from.” The birds merely coo at her, as if pleading. Come back, strange featherless bird. This place is not for you.

“All places are for me,” she counters, nodding decisively as she steps past the stone, striding confidently into the field beyond. “Marea goes wherever Marea goes, and the world can take me or strike me down. Me and—Onogi,” she adds, giving her shoulder bird a reassuring bop on the beak. “I have a cat at home. His name is Inigo. That's how I came up with your name. I'm Marea, by the way. In case you didn't make that connection. Marea Sleekfur. And it's not because of my stunning frizzy hair.”

Onogi stares at her, chittering softly. She nods in agreement.

The valley is dotted with stones. She walks onward, and every so often, she encounters more. First two in a line, then three, four, and so fourth—some of them are taller, some are shorter than she, and some have the faintest remains of symbols carved into them. She traces her fingers along faded spirals and pictograph alphabets. She copies the symbols onto paper, records the positions of the stones, and chews on the end of her pen as she becomes hungry. Onogi jumps from her shoulder and flies low circles in the sky, going on ahead of her before looping back, riding the winds with stout black wings.

At the end of the valley, the land pitches sharply upwards as it approaches the far edge of the island, and the jagged cliffs cut from sea and salt. The sun sets as she crests the hill, casting a molten glow upon the green grasses and her pale skin, and upon the last flat expanse of plains before her. She lets out a low whistle at the sight, shielding her eyes with her hand—a great circle of standing stones spreads out in every direction, towering high as castles, glimmering with a strange golden shimmer in the sunlight. An eccentric network of lines has been laid out in dirt, past the first of which not even Onogi will pass.

“But Marea will pass. Marea has no fear,” she says, striding over the ancient ground. “This was a pretty cool adventure, I won't lie. An afternoon well spent. And once I get back to my ship, west it is. West forever. I have to find the mountains, and the horses, and, and...”

She grows quiet as she reaches the center stone, turned black against the heat of the fading sun. She places her feet just so in the dirt around it, and it seems they fit perfectly, in steps shared by a thousand others before her, and she pivots, turning slowly as the distant silhouettes suddenly take shape in her mind. She digs a hand into her coat, tearing out a wrinkled paper from Gippa's notes. She holds it up to the sky. THE ALL, proclaims the scholarly scrawl across the top margin, a network of grids and circles painstakingly laid out with perfect symmetry. A chill runs up her spine, prickling across her shoulders, as she realizes she stands in the middle of the odd motif. She expects the magic to hit her like a brick to the face, a tidal wave that smashes her to the ocean depths and devours her from the inside out—but the stone circle is still and silent, as empty and forlorn as the valley floor. Slowly, she turns to face the center stone once again, and, ever so gingerly, touches her forehead against the cool, damp rock.

The contact lasts only a moment, a short breath, but splitting pain shatters through her head and fills her vision with twinkling white lights. Beyond the lights is only blackness, tangible nothingness, and it fills her with an inexplicable, animalistic fear. She shoves herself backwards and falls into the dirt, scrambling away on all fours until she leaps to her feet and sprints. She flies past Onogi, who crouches down fearfully as she passes, watching her closely until she is long out of sight.

She remembers running from an island before, she remembers the confusion, and the unsettling, heavy feeling in her chest—hunger. She was hungry, and has always been hungry, longing for more from the world that feeds her. Longing for something that will fill the pit in her stomach, the hollowness in her bones. A desire so old and so simple, so deeply buried, she would never have thought of it herself.

She climbs onto her ship, and the flock of waddling birds watches from the distance, huddled in a wary clump. She sits on the floor and she stares at Gippa's drawing, unblinking even as her eyes begin to burn and blur. She saw the void the asura described. She glimpsed into the world beyond Tyria, and there was nothing. True, it was only one vision, one split second of a moment, but still, the sight fills her with fear. With hopelessness.

Finally, after what seems hours, she closes her eyes. She quietly gets to her feet, and tapes THE ALL to the corner of the windshield, where it blots out an insignificant square of the starry sky. What she saw cannot be it—there is more, beyond the white lights and the empty blackness. She refuses to believe that Tyria exists all alone in the Mists. There is something out there, and to find it, she must find the storm, find the void, and fall into the great unknown.

The ship turns away from the island, and glides westward. Fear turns to desperation, desperation to determination, and soon, determination to laughter, as Marea reads and rereads Gippa's account of the storm, cackling in the face of terror.

[sussex-nature-lover]

Sunday 15th August 2021

Butterflies and Other Chatter

Most people seem to be reporting the garden feeders going quiet as birds finish their breeding season and the adults go into moult. Our feeders are still extremely busy with Blue and Great Tits, but also Great Spotted Woodpeckers, Blackbirds, House Sparrows and Starlings are here in big numbers. We’re missing our Chaffinch and haven’t seen many Dunnock of late, but Nuthatch, Goldfinch, Jackdaw and Robin are around, just spotted less frequenty. I’m sure I’m missing out loads more.

Did I say though that when we went up through the Hop Garden last week that it was strangely quiet of birdsong? not at all like it usually is. I mean I know the Swallows prefer the other side of the lane, near the water supplies and some migrants may be already making their way back, but the fields and hedges are usually full of noisy natives too. I have a few pics of that walk for my next entry here. It was a lovely day though and we saw lots of butterflies, which I’ll concentrate on today.

Red Admiral  (Vanessa atalanta)

Do you know, I’m not sure I’ve ever captured a male Red Admiral, their upper stripe is true red, whereas the female has orange, which seems to be the case in all my photos.

UK Butterflies site says

This butterfly is primarily a migrant to our shores, although sightings of individuals and immature stages in the first few months of the year, especially in the south of England, mean that this butterfly is now considered resident. This resident population is considered to only be a small fraction of the population seen in the British Isles, which gets topped up every year with migrants arriving in May and June that originate in central Europe

Whenever we go that way we seem to see mostly Small/Large Whites or Red Admiral butterflies, which figures as they’re one of the most common types. The Red Admirals seem to follow us and I’m never quite sure if I’m photographing the same one! Most of them look rather dusty or rain battered too, but they’re a smashing splash of colour.

The Meadow Browns are smaller and much more discretely coloured - very delicate. We’ve seen quite a number of them, although they’re usually stationary with wings folded in, no matter how long I wait, which is frustrating sometimes. I just read that’s how they always rest (wings folded in) That reminds me of being told Elephants rest by standing still and raising one leg, I wonder if that’s an origin of the saying to take the weight off (your feet)? Seems likely.

Meadow Brown ( Maniola jurtina)

The Meadow Brown is one of our commonest and most widespread butterflies, and a familiar sight throughout the summer months. This species can be found in all parts of the British Isles, with the exception of the most mountainous regions and Shetland. This is a highly variable species with four named subspecies found in the British Isles, although the differences between them are often subtle.

Another orange and brown butterfly is the Comma, which has the very distinctive raggedy pattern to its wing edges.

Comma  (Polygonia c-album)

The Comma is a fascinating butterfly. The scalloped edges and cryptic colouring of the wings conceal hibernating adults amongst dead leaves, while the larvae, flecked with brown and white markings, bear close resemblance to bird droppings.

The species has a flexible life cycle, which allows it to capitalize on favourable weather conditions. However, the most remarkable feature of the Comma has been its severe decline in the twentieth century and subsequent comeback. It is now widespread in southern Britain and its range is expanding northwards.

Small White  (Pieris rapae)

It has brilliant white wings, with small black tips to the forewings and one or two wing spots. The undersides are a creamy white.

The Large White is similar but larger, and has a larger spot in the tip of the forewing that extends down the wing's edge.

I’ve got a few more Butterfly pics in my folder.

Holly Blue  (Celastrina argiolus)

Wings are bright blue. Females have black wing edges. Undersides pale blue with small black spots which distinguish them from Common Blue.

The Holly Blue is easily identified in early spring, as it emerges well before other blue butterflies. It tends to fly high around bushes and trees, whereas other grassland blues usually stay near ground level. It is much the commonest blue found in parks and gardens where it congregates around Holly (in spring) and Ivy (in late summer).

The Holly Blue is widespread but undergoes large fluctuations in numbers from year to year. It has expanded northwards in recent years and has colonised parts of midland and northern England.

I think that photo was in our own garden.

Small Copper (Ycaena phlaeas) photographed at Standen

This little butterfly is commonly found in small numbers in a wide variety of sunny open habitats such as woodland rides, hills, commons and grassy coastal cliff tops.

Small numbers may also be attracted into gardens to nectar on a variety of flowering plants.

The males are restless, highly territorial and easily disturbed.

Both males and females are often seen basking on bare ground and nectaring on a wide variety of flowers such as knotgrass, fleabane, dandelion, buddleias and heathers.

During good summers in the British Isles there may be as many as three generations between April and October, with the last generation overwintering as a caterpillar.

Something I once found at home, which is apparently quite common, but I’ve only ever seen two, is this...

Aren’t they lovely.

White Ermine Moth (Spilosoma lubricipedia)

you can read about it at the wildlife insight page if you click the bold text above.

Now, above and below is a real quandary, for me at least. I’m far away from being any kind of bird or nature expert, I just live in the countryside and enjoy looking and learning. This butterfly on my camera roll has completely confounded me. It’s from an old camera back in 2019 and I’m struggling to identify it. I can’t remember taking it or where it may have been, on a local walk by the look of it, but I’ve honestly begun to wonder if I snapped it on the TV or my laptop screen, not that I can think why I’d have done that, but I can’t work it out at all, even searching for orange butterflies and moths worldwide.

I’ve narrowed down for comparison below, but not found any type of Butterfly with those regular dots on the upper wing like this one. Might it be some kind of Frittillary? No idea, all I know is it has the pearl edging of the Tortoishell and the dark with white patches and some of the round, dark markings of the Painted Lady, I just can’t find a definitive match - not so far anyway.

Internet sourced pics:  Painted Lady above and Small Tortoiseshell below

If anyone can solve my mystery, let me know.

pdf identification of British Butterflies on This Link

OTHER GARDEN NEWS:

The third nest of House Sparrows has fledged, so the side nest box has gone very quiet, however, the open fronted nest box in the porch has subtle changes in appearance most days

We heard an awful lot of baby chirping this afternoon, my phone app said House Sparrows, but it was just generic chirping of nestlings I think. We watched for ages but saw no-one. It was hard to tell if the noises came from the box or the shrubbery just around the corner below. Watch this space - TBC.

WHAT MADE ME LAUGH TODAY? an excerpt in the weekly newletter from an author in France

When we first came to France, there were no gates to our garden, anyone could walk in – and they frequently did! One day Mark, my other half, was cutting the grass peacefully on our ride-on mower when a man driving past our house on a ride-on mower took a detour into our garden and started racing my totaly bemused husband. Up and down they went uttering not a word to each other. Le Mans it wasn’t, but they were both in it to win it. They raced with the speed of a pair of determined but geriatric snails, then the mysterious mower pulled away, raised a hand and disappeared back out of the gate.

Here are more of my photos on my other Tumblr page

[jejublr]

Vocal Unit Hybrid AU

A/N: Ok so this one’s some short bursts of headcannons on how Seventeen’s vocal unit would be if they’re hybrid imo. Shoutout to the Anon who asked for the hybrid au! I’ve been thinking about this AU for a while, too. If you want a fic/buletpoint fic for this, please let me know! Also I didn’t do it for a specific member like the usual fic bc you didn’t give me any specification so ^^ I just want to hear what you guys think before writing a fic for this. Man, I love me some hybrid AUs. I hope you all enjoy!

Jeonghan

You know that bougie ass cat with the long white coat and whose food is probably more expensive than your week’s worth of groceries?

Yeah that’s Jeonghan

Is so picky with which shampoo he uses oml

Knows he’s pretty

Reeeeaaaaaallllyyyyy loves it when you brush his hair with that special cat brush (cat people, y’all know which brush I’m talking about)

99% just naps around tbh, especially on that spot near the window with the most sunlight

Likes to push your stuff off the table out of spite

“Don’t you dare, Jeonghan. Don’t you dare.”

You can see the ‘f*** you’ in his eyes before he pushed your things off the table

Will distract you from what you’re initially doing just to get a good rub

He’s that hybrid that looked really nice and angelic at first but you know that s*** is just an act lmao

But he loves your attention alright

Like, if you seem very too infested or intimate with other hybrids, he’d get pretty jealous

Proceeds to give you a haughty look and a silent treatment that could last for days

And it’s the cutest thing tbh, it’s so easy to rile him up

But ofc you do it in moderation bc man, can he hold a grudge

But despite all that, he’s pretty receptive and would immediately know when you’re feeling upset

The type who wouldn’t say anything but hold you close as you cry into his shirt

Is a really loving hybrid despite his attitude

Joshua

Joshua is a cat hybrid, just like Jeonghan

But unlike Jeonghan, he’s an actual angel

Joshua is a domestic cat hybrid, of a tortoisehell cat

Likes to watch you as he sits on the counter as you fret around the house

He also likes to steal you food (playfully, anyway) whenever you’re not looking

Loves waking you up by carding his fingers through your hair and saying good morning in this really soft tone

Omg imagine waking up to Joshua

You like to think the sweet way he always wakes you up is because he’s so restless during the night

The times you share air bed with him, he either steals all the cover or pushes you off the bed

Loves to take up space on the bed, too

But it’s all well bc he always apologize by making you breakfast the next morning

Loves to sidle up next to you as you read or do your work and just watch you do your thing

Loves to take you by surprise when he plant tiny pecks on your face when you least expect it

Refuses to let you wash the dishes after you cook for the both of you

Really loves quiet Sunday mornings when you don’t need to go to work and just lay in bed all day

The day you introduce him to anime was the day his life began oml

Couldn't stop watching One Piece lmao

A habit he inherited from his cat DNA was he loves to lay on the living room carpet and take a nap as the shine shone through it

Also goes bats*** crazy when you tried aa catnip room fragrance lmao

He couldn’t stop purring through out the day

Woozi

smol but spicy

WOOZI IS AN OTTER HYBRID

Has tiny brown ears that would sometimes be hidden underneath his hair

While his eyes are clear and beautiful, it always seem to judge and calculate your every move lmao

His nose twitches if he finds a smell particularly strong

He sneezed once and you swear it was the death of you

His tail is pretty long and super strong

Would wag upwards and downwards annoyedly if you tease him lol

Loves to sleep and play music with the guitar you bought him for his birthday

But his favorite activity with you is going out for a swim swim

Otter!Jihoon loves to swim

Especially if it’s a lake

You try to take him out to the nearest lake, which is hundreds of miles away, as often as you could

It has become a monthly routine for you now

Looks really grateful as he swims about near the water’s edges while he chases minnows around

You don’t mind the long drives back and forth between the city and the lake town because Woozi seems the happiest in his element

The calmest you’ve seen him is when he’s asleep or when he’s eating lmao

Speaking of food, however small he is compared to most hybrids, Woozi seemed to have an endless appetite

You went and bought him a burger set one day and now he’s totally hooked

But you couldn't help but submit to his wishes because overtime you buy him one, he would have the cutest smile on his face and his dimples would appear ugh

He totally knows you think he’s cute and he’s totally using it to his advantage

DK

Ok don’t be weirded out but I can’t help imagining Seokmin as a horse hybrid

I JUST GOT REMINDED OF THAT HORSE BOYFRIEND OTOME GAME OMG HAHAHAH

Ok but horse hybrids don’t have a tail so their only distinctive feature is their horse ears

And they neighs sometimes

Which in DK’s case is whenever he laughs hard

Which is often because he loves to laugh

So you can say he neighs often?? Is that weird???

I love confusing myself

Another distinct horse thing he got was that he loves going on a run

He runs every morning seven days a week

Used to beg and drags you to run with him but gave up after seeing that you wouldn’t even budge lmao

Can and will finish an entire week’s worth of food after his runs if you don’t control him

Definitely more independent than some types of hybrids but he still loves his hugs

Loves giving you piggyback (or can you call it horseback?) rides around the apartment

Your apartment is always full of laughter with DK around

It doesn’t matter if you’re on the more quite and introverted side of the spectrum, he will make you sing during the weekly karaoke nights in your apartment

Loves singing off-key, which leads to more laughter

Which means more neighs

Seungkwan

Seungkwan is a parrot hybrid

Oh gosh, sometimes you wonder how Seungkwan caught your eyes in the first place

But then he’d smile and it would in turn make you smile, too and then you remember

Parrot!Seungkwan sometimes doesn’t seem to shut up but it’s impossible for you to get mad at him bc you know he just wanna see you happy

Loves to dance funnily to the music you play on the speaker lol

One day you figured to bring him to a karaoke place to actually use his endless energy for a purpose

And oh my god??? You were blown away

You always ask him to sing everyday now

Which he doesn’t mind complying to

And now he can’t stop singing lmao

Bird hybrids are particularly unique bc they have wings

Seungkwan’s wings are really beautiful

They’re pristin(e) ayee white with yellow coloring its tips

It makes him look even more like the angel he is

Also, Seungkwan’s hair tips seems to be yellow like his wings, too

Loves to sing off-key to wake you up and although you always wake up annoyed, you wouldn’t have it other way

Loves validation and literally loves it when you shower him with praise

Despite being really rumbuctious and full of humor most of the times, he’s pretty sensitive to your mood changes

Likes to cover you with his wing as you lean on his side when you’re feeling upset and it would feel like a little save haven shared only between you and him

[cosmicmadwoman]

Adam and Eve Chapter 11: Visitation Rights

The next installemtn is here! To read from the beginning: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11360046/chapters/26973768

Summary: Polly, Betty and Jughead meet Scott and our sleuths do some more digging.

Rated: M

Word Count: 4301

Betty gave Jughead the cold shoulder the rest of the night until they were in their pajamas and laying on the deflated air mattress. The blonde teen was on her back and arms crossed with her slitted into a leer.

“Are you ready to turn the light off?” Jughead asked, clearly not knowing what to say or do. He assured her that he believed her and would not make her see RJ again, but his girlfriend was still reeling and denying kisses and touches. That was the worst part.

“I don’t care,” Betty shrugged, her arms still crossed tightly.

Jughead paused. Maybe this was more than RJ and more than his momentary insensitivity (which he hates himself for doing, like that night in Archie’s garage) and about a big day they were having tomorrow; meeting their brother. They hadn’t talked about it at all really, and that was rare for them as they share everything with each other. Betty hadn’t spoken to Polly much either since she left her home, so all her thoughts and fears weren’t explored yet, they were just sitting and festering inside her brain.

“Do you wanna talk about tomorrow?” Jughead asked gently.

Betty noticeably relaxed her shoulders, but her arms were still crossed. Jughead turned on his side, propping his head up on his hand and observed her quivering lip.

“Was is there to talk about?” Betty declared half-heartedly.

The raven haired boy smoothed the hair on her forehead lovingly and Betty didn’t flinch like he thought she would, further proving his theory that she wasn’t upset with him specifically, but in general and was taking out on him. She knew in her heart that she was safe doing that with him.

“We are meeting our brother, tomorrow, Betty. It’s a lot to process,” Jughead said.

She shook her head slightly and a stray tear slid down the side of her face and into her hair and the pillow. She rolled over away from Jughead, but he wouldn’t give up. He usually was the one to push people away when he needed them most, and Betty seemed to have taken a page from his novel. He put an around around her waist and pressed his front to her back lightly, kissing the back of her neck that was bare because of her high ponytail.

“I love you,” Jughead murmured into her hair, “Talk to me. Don’t shut down.”

Betty took a deep breath and turned face to face with her boyfriend. His blue eyes were so forgiving and her heart hurt with love for him. What other teenage boy could support her like he does? Archie never could have been the rock that Jughead was consistently. A curl fell into his eyes and Betty moved it back gently.

“We share a brother. What other couples have that? How can it not change things between us?” Betty questioned urgently.

This felt like it was coming out of nowhere to Jughead. “I thought you didn’t care.”

“Do you?”

Jughead shrugged and kissed her forehead quickly, “Honestly, no. Sure it’s complicated, but you and me, together, that’s not complicated. We love each other.”

“You have to admit it’s weird,” Betty giggled.

“Fucking weird,” Jughead laughed too, and before they knew it, they were laughing in each other’s arms at the absurdity of life.

Polly called around 8:30 the next morning. Betty and Jughead were already awake, dressed and in the kitchen making eggs and hot chocolate.

“Hey, Pol,” Betty greeted.

“I miss you,” Polly said sadly.

Betty didn't want her to do this. Play the victim like she did so well; of course she’d been through so much, but Betty had to take care of herself too, and self-care was being away from that house.

“Miss you too!” Betty said shortly.

There was a brief silence before Polly continued, “Can you give me Jughead’s address so I can meet you guys? The cafe where we are meeting him is about an hour away, I looked it up.”

Betty recited the address, which reminded her that Polly had never actually been to the Southside, and compared it to how much that part of town began to mean to her. Unlike her mother, who felt trapped in the chain link fence, Betty found freedom from the weighted expectations of the Northside.

The sisters hung up after goodbyes and Betty sighed inwardly. She was so nervous, her heart was heavy and felt like it was barely able to stay in her chest without falling to her stomach, crumbling under its own weight.

“When exactly is Polly coming?” Jughead asked suddenly.

“Um, 9:30. Why?”

“I think I’m going to see my dad quickly. Just let him know where I am going,” Jughead explained, “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“If that’s what you want to do, Juggie, then it’s a good idea,” Betty smiled and brought him in close for a strong hug.

He nodded wearily and grabbed his jacket, putting his shoes on and grabbing the keys. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jughead wasn’t sure what had come over him to see his dad. He hadn’t visited since they were in deep with the case, since FP told him to leave things alone for his own safety. Which of course is the opposite of what he had done. He contemplated telling his dad about the Serpents on the ride over, but decided against it quickly, knowing how furious he would be. This visit isn’t about me, he thought, it’s about my brother. God, the words my brother felt foreign in his head.

Once he arrived, the attendant there ushered him in after signing paperwork, seemed surprised to see him. FP must not get many visitors.

When the older man rose his head to see whose footsteps were clunking down the hallway, he rushed to bars and smiled brightly, contrasting the heaviness and hardness of the bars surrounding him.

“My boy!” He cried happily.

Jughead just nodded in response and stood in front of him. FP was always an emotional man, and so Jughead wasn’t alarmed when he saw soft tears stain his father’s cheeks.

“I know I told you never to come back, but I really did miss you. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to tell you I’m meeting Scott today. Scott as in--”

FP interrupted, “I know who he is.”

“Crazy, huh?” Jughead awkwardly laughed after a loaded pause.

“If I had known, I would’ve stepped up, I want you to be aware of that. I was a shit father, I’ve had plenty of time here to think about that, but I would've tried to make it work. I wonder if you two would get along. Or if he’s like me… or her. If he looks like me, even,” FP rambled, then let out a breath when he was finally finished.

“He looks like you,” Jughead answered.

FP smiled briefly and went to his desk to grab something. He handed a piece of paper to Jughead through the bars, looking around to make sure the loittering guards had their backs turned.

“This is a letter I wrote to him. I haven’t had the guts to send it yet, but since you’re seeing him, well, maybe you could give it to him,” FP said, his voice small and hopeful like a child’s asking to stay up past their bedtime.

“Of course, Dad,” Jughead said. The man could be so pitiful sometimes. That’s probably why Gladys stayed as long as she did. Every time he fucked up he would pout and look like a broken winged bird, and she just had to piece him back together because, look, he was so helpless. And that’s also why Jughead still loved his father, despite leaving him homeless and taking up with a gang that he himself had gotten tangled into.

“Uh, thanks.”

“I should get going,” Jughead finally said, not knowing what else to do. He did what he came here to do.

“Of course, of course,” FP said, but Jughead could tell he was disappointed.

Jughead started to wave goodbye, but FP grabbed him through the bars and brought their forehead together as close as he could, the edges of their heads crushing into the cool metal.

“I love you, kid,” the older man whispered.

The son nodded and squished his face to keep back tears. FP released him when a guard rounded the corner and rubbed his nose on his hand. The men parted and Jughead went back to the truck, sitting in the seat, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, and didn’t start the engine. He pulled the crisp letter from his pocket and unfolded it. He shouldn’t be doing this, the letter was private between his dad and Scott, but he was a detective after all, and snooping into private things was like second nature.

Dear Scott,

I’m going to start off by saying I didn’t know I had a third kid but I already love you. And also start by warning you I’m not a good Dad, I try, but things are always a little fucked up when it comes to me. I don’t act like a good father to the kids I do have, so I don’t know what gives me the right to say this, but I would love to meet you. I can’t really comes see you, cuz I’m in jail, which is further evidence that I’m a total fuck up, but everything I do comes from a place of trying to take care of the broken semblance of family I do have. The people who will still have me, I like to think. Couple of guys from work and Jughead. I have done nothing good for him and he still forgives. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done and I’d like you to meet him sometime too. Maybe Jellybean, your sister, would meet you too. She’s a spitfire. Haven’t heard from her in a while though. Don’t blame her, really. I’ve always been better at being a ghost.

Maybe we can connect. On your terms, I don’t want to push anything. I would be honored to get to know you. My son.

FP.

Jughead wanted to smash the steering wheel and he had no idea why. Nothing was ever easy for any member of the Jones family, they were all sad and useless and broken. He hated being like this, hated that all he had to offer was a sad grimace and poetry about falling apart. He was done falling apart, done playing poor Jones boy. He felt like a fucking coward. Betty was a lion, she could take anyone down but… he still had a darkness that wouldn’t take over. He needed it to fuel a power. Power over his life that he never had before.

A text from Betty interrupted his thoughts and asked him he was almost done, not to rush him, but the clock was ticking. He started the car and bombed out of the parking lot.

When he got back to the trailer, Polly was waiting, leaning up against her car. She was 15 minutes early, obviously hyped up and nervous. There really wasn’t a way to prepare for meeting your secret long lost brother. Betty came outside shortly and hugged him fiercely.

“How did it go?” Betty asked sincerely.

“He gave me a letter for Scott,” Jughead said.

“That’s sweet,” Betty replied, reaching on her tiptoes and kissing his forehead.

“Okay enough PDA!” Polly shouted from her car, which she insisted on taking because Jughead’s looked to her like a death mobile, “let’s get on the road, lovers!”

Polly was talkative the whole hour ride. Betty drove, Polly was in the passenger seat, and Jughead lounged in the back seat. He didn’t get much sleep last night, they really needed to buy a new air mattress or something.

The cafe was almost identical to the one in Riverdale, but with more hipster inspired decor. Greendale was a mixture of NYC and Riverdale, if there ever could be one. It had actually mainstream stores, not just mom and pop shops, had a music and comedy scene, great food, but still managed to hold onto a small town appeal through unique shops and clean neighborhoods.

The three entered and the door hangings jingled loudly. It caused Betty to jump a little; she was already on edge. She scanned the seats at the coffee bar and the ones scattered around the shop, but a Cooper-Jones hybrid was nowhere to be found. They were about twenty minutes early, but it was because they were anxious, and they hoped he was too. The three found two couches in the corner with low lighting and sat there silently, all watching the door intently. When they finally let their eyes wander, the jingles sounded again and a tall handsome young adult with slicked back black hair entered, a more cleaned up version of FP Jones, really. He scanned the shop just as they did, and Polly waved jovially when his eyes landed on them. He quirked his eyebrows slightly, but smiled in returned and walked to them. He was wearing an expensive looking gray peacoat and he unbuttoned it when he sat down.

“Well, hi!” He greeted, laughing a little at the situation.

“Oh, give me a hug,” Polly smiled and got up slowly, embracing him when he stood as well. Her belly got in the way and she felt she had to address it. “I’m due in mid January. Twins. Yeah, it’s kind of a dark spot for the Cooper family.”

Scott shook his head and admired her stomach. “A child is always a miracle. That’s what my mom always told me. Well, children in your case.”

Betty got up to hug him too and Jughead shook his hand. He wasn’t much of a hugger, unless it came from Betty.

“This is my boyfriend, Jughead,” Betty introduced. “And… also your brother.”

The older boy’s head shivered like he was taking a double take. “Um?”

Betty laughed awkwardly, “Oh not, that came out wrong, he’s not my brother. Our mom had an affair with his dad in high school, and well… you came along.”

“This is a lot to process,” Scott said seriously, “Can we get coffee first?”

Scott moved to get up, not waiting for an answer and Jughead stood up with him. He handed him the letter from his back pocket, and the green eyed man took it slowly.

“It’s from my dad. Or ours. Or whatever,” Jughead shrugged and sat back down with a thud. The couch rocked underneath him. Scott just nodded and headed to make a drink order.

“Do you think we are too much for him?” Polly murmured to her sister and Jughead.

“We definitely come with a lot of baggage,” Jughead replied snidely.

Betty knocked him with her knee. They were still family, even though they had just met, they were still bonded by blood. He wouldn’t toss them aside because they’re like tarnished silver. She observed him read the letter by the bar where he waited for his coffee. Betty hadn’t asked Jughead what was in it, that was personal, but by the look on Scott’s face, he was very surprised but also unimpressed. The barista handed him his coffee and returned to the couch and sat down on the edge of his cushion.

“So, this FP guy is in jail?” Scott asked Jughead directly.

“Yeah. I don’t know if you heard about Jason Blossom, but he was a teen that went to Riverdale High and his father killed him over some argument about the family drug ring. My dad didn’t kill him but, he helped cover it up. He’s not a really bad guy, he just got mixed up,” Jughead explained.

“I think I heard about that in New York, actually. Pretty small towns with big secrets is always a popular story,” Scott said flatly.

“Riverdale is more than that,” Jughead began to protest, but Scott didn’t seem like he was in the mood for philosophical discussions. After reading the letter his demeanor had quickly shifted from welcoming to skeptical.

“Jason Blossom is actually the father of my children,” Polly divulged rubbing her stomach affectionately, “I didn’t know he was my cousin at the time.”

Scott sat up abruptly and clenched his fists like a cartoon character who was angry. His fist were flushed from clenching so hard, just like Betty would, but she didn’t see any blood trailing his palms.

“You’re kidding, right? This feels like a practical joke! Are you even my siblings? Like the things you’re saying are… they’re crazy!” Scott cried. People throughout the cafe started to attempt craning their neck discreetly.

“I don’t like that word,” Betty murmured, and Jughead held onto her hand.

Polly stood up along with him and put her hands on her hips like she was about to reprimand her future children. “I’m sorry we aren’t perfect and cheery but this is our life and I am offended that you would suggest that we are lying! Who could make this stuff up!”

“I expected we would sit have coffee, have light surface conversation, get to know each other a little but this… this is too much. This is crazy!” Scott continued, flailing his arms.

Betty shot up and got in between Polly and Scott, “Stop saying that word. We aren’t crazy.”

“This,” making a pointing gesture at all three of the Riverdale kids, “isn’t normal, I hope you know. This is crazy!”

Before anyone in the entire cafe had time to blink, Betty wound up and slapped him clear across the face. He held it and stared at her, her own intense green eyes now mirroring back at her with horror. He left the cafe immediately after that, not saying a word to anyone. They were promptly escorted out of the building and got back in the car, Betty in the driver’s seat again. Her mind was completely numb, she couldn’t believe she had slapped her own brother, but she warned him not to call her crazy. Crazy and perfect were like swears to her, she cringed at them the same way an old lady would cringe at fuck and shit. Both words were things she faked she was and wasn’t.

“I don’t think that went well,” Jughead murmured.

“No shit,” Polly said and rested her head on her hand as she gazed out the window.

“I’m sorry I fucked it up for you guys,” Betty said.

“You didn’t, Betty. He was an ass. I would’ve slapped him too, eventually,” Polly smiled affectionately when she turned to her sister and Betty smiled back. They held hands the rest of the way home. The Cooper girls always had each other.

They got back to the trailer around 12:45pm. Polly said her goodbyes, kissed her sister on the cheek, and went back to Betty’s childhood home. Betty turned to go back inside bit Jughead stopped her.

“Betty, I’m genuinely sorry it turned out like that. Maybe he’ll come around when he gets off his high horse,” Jughead offered.

“You know, I thought we abandoned him as a family, that we robbed him of a good life. Looks like he got a better one than we did,” Betty said.

Jughead chuckled at the irony and kissed her lips slowly. He hadn’t expected much from Scott really, he learned to not expect much from anybody, but Betty did. He imagined she concocted this fairytale ever after family with Scott, always seeing the best of everything.

“You know what would make you feel better?” Jughead said when he pulled away.

“What?”

“Some good old fashioned sleuthing,” Jughead said in sing song voice.

“It’ll take my mind off things,” Betty conceded, “So what’s the plan?”

“We hit up where Hiram Lodge was in jail and see if we can get someone to tell us who visited him,” Jughead explained excitedly.

“Seems far fetched, but we might as well try,” Betty said sadly.

Jughead hated seeing her like this. He opened the truck door for her and they went off.

Hiram Lodge stayed in a low security prison, so Jughead hoped they would be lenient with their records. The drive was only a half an hour and in the middle of nowhere. The judge wanted Hiram away from the city and away from his contacts, but that didn’t seem to make a difference, he still operated things from his steel box.

Betty reached for Jughead’s hand and kissed his fingertips lightly, just wanting to show him how much she loved him in the face of rejection. Her own brother thought they were nuts. She thought briefly about the labeling theory from her sociology class; if enough people tell you you’re something, even when you’re not, you’re bound to become that way. She thought she fit into that.

There was a parking space near the front, but Jughead opted for a further parking spot, the brightly colored old school truck was conspicuous.

“Are you going to tell your mom about Scott?” Jughead asked after he turned off the car.

“No. She’ll just say I’ll told you so or something like that. I doubt Polly will spill either,” Betty sighed.

Jughead rubbed her knee, “Hey, Betts. You already have all the family you need. And it seems like he does too. If he can’t see what honest, resilient and totally awesome we all are, that’s his deal.”

“I know, I know, but to have your blood think you’re not worth it--”

“You are Betty. Sure, blood is thicker than water or whatever old people say, but he doesn’t know you. How loving, passionate, driven and smart you are. And he doesn’t deserve to either.”

Betty smiled through emerging tears and hugged him over the center console.

“I love you,” she murmured. “I wish I could have sex with you right now.”

Jughead laughed and kissed her hair, “Me too.”

Betty leaned back and smirked, “We have some detective work to do, Mister.”

The raven haired boy returned the smirk and they walked inside. The reception area looked suspiciously cozy for a prison, with cream colored walls and a green striped rug in the center. Chairs were set up in different corners, one set surrounded a TV, likely used for visitors waiting to be called in. It was on and playing Judge Judy, which made Jughead giggle. Betty knocked him with her elbow and made him focus on the task ahead. The attendant at the desk was a robustly shaped blond woman and she opened her window when she saw them approach.

“What can I do for ya?” she asked the two in a thick, old timey brooklyn accent.

“We would like to see Hiram Lodge’s visitation log please,” Jughead asked with faux confidence.

The woman scoffed and looked between the two, “You jokin’, right?”

Betty stepped in, “Uh, no ma'am. My name is Betty Blossom, I am Penelope Blossom’s niece. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

Jughead cut her a look that screamed what are you doing!

“Oh, Mrs. Blossom, yes I’ve met her,” the attendant answered incredulously.

“The Lodges and the Blossoms know each other quite well,” Betty continued, “and my aunt sent me to keep tabs on him, to make sure he’s… on the right track, so to speak. She would’ve come herself, but you know how she is.”

This idea came to Betty while Jughead was talking to the guard and she couldn’t believe it hadn’t connected before, P. Penelope Blossom. P could have been Polly, but that was completely out of the realm of possibility. It could have been a random person she didn’t know, but the Blossom pen in his desk suggested otherwise. They were silly for coming here, the truth was in their faces, but she needed conformation.

“I do, Ms. Betty Blossom, she’s quite the woman. She was very nice one time, giving me a big tip once when I helped her spruce up after a visit. Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear that about your aunt. Here, just a quick peek,” The woman said and she shuffled away to a cabinet in the back of the little room.

“So that answers our question,” Jughead whispered to her. “You didn’t tell me you had a hunch it was Penelope.”

“It just came to me. We should still check out the log though. Having an affair doesn’t necessarily connect to murder,” Betty replied quietly.

The large woman returned and held out a file with a few pages in it. “Just a little lookin’. I’m not really supposed to do this, Ms. Blossom.”

Betty cringed inwardly at being called Ms. Blossom. The pair scanned the pages and saw Penelope’s name, that was confirmed, along with a lot of other fancy sounding names like William Montgomery and Harold Van der Pol. Betty refrained from taking pictures in front of the woman, so they had to try to commit the names to memory. Nothing else screamed out at them, like a name like Hacksaw, so they thanked the woman and went back outside.

“Them having an affair doesn’t make them guilty,” Betty reiterated in the car.

“I know. It even makes less sense, because now what would be Hiram’s motive? He doesn’t love Hermione, so he wouldn't kill Fred for being her lover, right? Then it would have to be because Fred wouldn’t sell Andrews’ construction like Archie said, but killing Fred wouldn’t give Hiram the business, Archie inherits it,” Jughead thought aloud.

“Hiram would have to put the pressure Archie,” Betty continued. “Which I don’t think he has.”

“Things just don’t add up,” Jughead said.

“There are still things to discover, but we are close. I can feel it.”

[pika-ace]

ITH Skyward Sword AU Sneak Peek

Just wanted to give you guys a taste of one of the MANY AUs I’m working on (and ITH Zelda AU is still the best AU, sorry it’s fact X3) 

A few notes to point out that for this AU, Usnavi and Vanessa actually grew up together and are childhood friends, since they live on a small island in the sky with not many people around. They’re not as close as, say, Usnavi and Benny would be, but they’re good friends, and their age gap has been reduced from five years to about two or three years apart. This change was made for chemistry purposes and I wanted to give it a try, but it doesn’t make Usnavi any less flustered around her XD. (Also, for those who don’t know Zelda lore, Loftwings are giant birds you can ride) ((Also also, there’s a bit of Dadnavi and Momnessa in here for Sonny X3))

Summary: After learning that some bullies hid Sonny’s Loftwing away, the reckless boy goes off to look for it in the Waterfall Cave, the only forbidden place in Skyloft. Worried for his safety, Vanessa decides to take up a sword and go after him before he can get into more trouble.

Vanessa hurried off towards her destination, the sword she got from Carla in the Sparring Hall on her back in its sheath. She spied Usnavi flying around on his blue Loftwing, Dulces, but it looked like he didn't have any luck. 

Guess that meant only one thing. Vanessa sighed and leapt across the river; Usnavi was definitely gonna kill him. Vanessa approached the proper path and the familiar sign that stood a few feet before the cave. 

‘Waterfall Cave ahead. Beware of blood-sucking monsters! No kids allowed.’

Vanessa ran up the hill and spotted something shining in the grass, right in front of the wooden spikes preventing her entry. She picked it up and found that it was Sonny’s metal pin bearing the Deity crest. Kid must’ve squeezed through the gate and it fell off. He was a tiny little thing for his age.

Guess the sign didn't turn him around; stupid, brave, kid. 

Vanessa hacked and slashed at the wooden gate until she could step through; they would replace the gate later. And most kids knew better than to come in here. 

The cave was quite dark, but thanks to the reflection of water from deep within, Vanessa could still see. 

Vanessa jogged down the path when a few piles of goo appeared at her feet. They slithered towards her, deformed monsters faces on the front of them. “Ugh…” She groaned, drawing her sword. These things were fucking disgusting. 

She swiftly stabbed them, even going as far as stomping on them to finish them off, leaving thin puddles of goo behind before they vanished in a small puff of purple smoke. 

Vanessa went on her way and eventually reached the window the cave where the waterfall could be seen. Vanessa climbed down a few landings and kept following the path, keeping an ear out for any more monsters. She even found a few Rupees on her way; definitely good to keep around just in case. But there was still no sign of Sonny. Maybe Sonny actually got lucky and made it through without running into anythin- 

A loud scream suddenly cut through the air. Vanessa silently cursed and ran down the path, leaping down from another landing. She could hear the tiny flapping of wings and through the dim light of the cave, she spied the culprits.

A bunch of bats were swarming an area near the ground, and as she drew closer she could see arms flailing desperately to shoo them away. 

“Get away from me!” Sonny was completely surrounded by the little monsters as they pulled at his clothes and scratched at his skin. 

Vanessa ran forward, sword at the ready and easily slashed down the bat closest to her. The rest of the bats scattered away from Sonny, who was now curled into a ball and covering his head with his arms, and darted towards Vanessa.

The bats were child’s play, as Vanessa easily swatted them down with a few good quick strikes, making them fly into the wall and explode in a puff of purple smoke. ‘Why do they do that?’ Vanessa absently wondered, before turning her attention to the boy in front of her. 

Vanessa lowered her sword and Sonny peeked up at her as she glared at him. “What part of ‘blood-sucking monsters’ did you not understand?”

“I wasn’t just gonna abandon my Loftwing!” Sonny shot back, his frame shivering from the assault. 

Vanessa leaned towards him, a flat look on her face, “Blood-sucking monsters.” She repeated with more emphasis. 

“You would’ve done the same thing!” Sonny protested.

“Yeah, but I have a sword,” Vanessa said, giving the weapon a little wave. “You don’t even have a stick.” 

Sonny crossed his arms and pouted, his shivering still apparent, “Whatever…” 

Vanessa sighed and offered him a hand. Sonny took it and Vanessa gave him a quick once over. His clothes were slightly torn in places and there were many cuts on his arms and hands that broke the skin. She also noticed some scrapes on his palms; that was probably when he fell during the attack. 

“You okay?” She asked.

“Yeah…” Sonny nodded. 

Vanessa raised her sword and turned back towards the path, “Stay close, okay?” 

Sonny silently nodded and followed Vanessa down the path. A couple more bats came their way, but they were easy pickings. Eventually, the end of the tunnel came into view and the pair found themselves behind the waterfall. 

“Do you sense your Loftwing?” Vanessa asked. 

Sonny glanced around before nodding, “Yeah, he’s real close, I know it.” 

“Vanessa! Sonny!” The two looked up to see Usnavi flying towards them on Dulces. 

Sonny looked at Vanessa, utter betrayal in his eyes, “You told on me?!”

“He wasn’t the only one worried about you, you little idiot,” Vanessa sniped, giving his shoulder a smack.

Usnavi leapt off Dulces once the ground was near, letting the Loftwing fly away and he bolted over to Sonny. 

“Oh, thank the Deity!” Usnavi exclaimed as he pulled Sonny into a spine crushing hug. “You scared me to death, tu chico estupido! What part of ‘blood-sucking monsters’ did you not understand?!” 

“That’s what I said.” Vanessa couldn’t help but remark, shooting Sonny a look. 

Sonny started to turn red from both embarrassment and annoyance, and Usnavi pulled away to grasp his face and look him over, “Are you hurt anywhere? No bites or cuts? Nothing broken?” 

“Geez, Navi, they were just bats,” Sonny said bitterly. 

“Bats that almost ate you.” Vanessa said, grabbing Sonny’s arm to reveal the slightly torn clothing and the tiny red scratches from the monsters’ claws. 

Usnavi’s eyes grew wide and he easily found the other scrapes on Sonny’s body from where he fell. “Oh gods…” 

“It’s just cuts, Usnavi,” Sonny said as his older cousin rummaged through his pockets. “Seriously, they don’t even hurt.” 

“Yeah, well you can never be too careful,” Usnavi responded, pulling out a small glass vial of red potion. “Drink this.” 

Sonny sighed irritably, but did as he was told, making his cuts slowly vanish. Ever since Sonny fell and scraped his knee when he was two, Usnavi always made a point to carry red potion on his person. 

Usnavi sighed, “You’re going to give me a heart attack one day.” 

“Don’t worry,” Vanessa gave Sonny a nudge, “Once he turns eighteen, he can take up swordplay with me.”

“Absolutely not,” Usnavi answered instantly (ignoring Sonny’s groan, “Aw c’mon, cuz!”). “He’s reckless enough on his Loftwing, I’m not gonna-” 

Usnavi stopped suddenly and blinked. “What?” Usnavi turned away and stared off the edge of the land they were on, “...Who is that?” 

“Usnavi?” Vanessa asked, a frown on her face. “You okay?” 

Usnavi was silent for a moment, then shook his head, “Uh, it’s nothing,” He said. “Anyway, Sonny, is your Loftwing nearby?” 

“Yeah.” Sonny nodded, pointing to the path ahead, “I’m pretty sure I can feel him; he’s this way.” The three hiked up the grassy hill until they spied a cave up ahead that was boarded up. And flapping madly about inside, was a yellow Loftwing. 

“Chip!” Sonny exclaimed. He ran up to the wooden boards, nearly slamming against them. The yellow Loftwing screeched loudly, jumping around and flapping his wings, pleading for freedom. 

Sonny pulled against the boards trapping his Loftwing, but they stuck tight. The boards were sturdy and held tightly against the mouth of the cave with thick ropes tied between pairs of iron bolts. 

“Hang on, Chip, we’ll get you out of there!” Sonny reassured. 

Vanessa drew her sword, “I got this; stand back, Sonny.” With a few good, clean swipes, the ropes were sliced and the boards fell away from the cave. 

Chip walked out of the cave and stretched his wings with a happy squawk before turning to his young rider. Chip lowered his head and Sonny threw his arms around the bird’s neck, allowing the creature to nuzzle him. 

“I missed you too, buddy.” Sonny said softly. 

Usnavi gave the bird a once over, “He doesn’t look hurt; he was probably really spooked though.” 

Chip let out a soft cry and Vanessa gave him a pat. “You poor thing,” Vanessa cooed. “You must’ve freaked out when Sonny called you and you couldn’t come.” 

Chip gave Sonny one more nudge before flapping its wings. Usnavi, Vanessa and Sonny all stepped back as the Loftwing took off into the sky where it quickly met up with Vanessa’s red Loftwing, Pepe, and Dulces. 

“Well, that’s a load off my shoulders,” Vanessa remarked with a small stretch. “Now I can ace that Wing Ceremony without worrying about Sonny falling to his death.” 

Sonny shot her a look, but eventually looked at the ground sheepishly, wringing his hands, “Thanks, Van…” He said softly. “You know, for before-” he gestured to the cave, “and for, catching me earlier.” 

Vanessa smiled and ruffled Sonny’s hair affectionately. 

“Well, we better tell Abuela that the Wing Ceremony can go on now,” Usnavi said, heading towards the platform that was nearby, “We can fly there.” 

The three headed to the edge of the platform, when Usnavi paused in the same manner as before. After a beat of silence, he spoke, “Vanessa?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I...I heard a voice just now; did you hear it?” 

Vanessa shook her head, “I didn’t hear anything.” 

Sonny went to his cousin’s side and touched his arm, “Was it the same voice from before?” He asked softly. 

Usnavi nodded, sharing a look with him, and Vanessa frowned, “What are you talking about?” She never appreciated it when they had their ‘secret cousin communication’ in front of her and not clue her in.

 “Well, lately I’ve been hearing this voice calling out to me,” Usnavi explained, a touch of uneasiness in his voice. “I don’t know who it is, but...I have the weirdest feeling that it’s coming from below the clouds.” 

Vanessa started, “But...there’s nothing below the clouds.”

“That’s what they say but, some of Abuela’s old stories say that there’s a whole world down there, even bigger than Skyloft.” 

Vanessa stared at the endless sea of clouds below them; a world beyond Skyloft. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold? For so long, Vanessa always felt like she wanted to be somewhere out of Skyloft, or just out of the sky in general. If there was a whole world down there, Vanessa now ached to see it. 

Usnavi eventually blinked like he was snapping out of a daze, “We should get going,” He said. He gave Sonny a pat on the back, “It looks like Chip is waiting for you.” 

Sonny and Vanessa nodded, and they got ready. The three leapt off the platform and whistled one at a time in tandem. 

At the same time, the three Loftwings caught their respective Masters, and took off into the sky. 

Sonny gripped Chip’s feathers and the Loftwing swayed and zoomed through the air, ecstatic to be free. 

They spent a little time in the sky, simply flying over Skyloft and enjoying the feeling of flight that they all had grown to love so dearly, when they finally decided to split up. 

Usnavi and Sonny flew back to the academy to tell Abuela the good news and Vanessa headed to the plaza, but not before telling Sonny to give Abuela the names of the brats who stole his Loftwing.

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘SAWDUST AND TINSEL’ “We’re both stuck, Anne–stuck like hell”

© 2019 by James Clark

     Back in 2011, when (at Wonders in the Dark) I foolishly assumed that Ingmar Bergman was one of a small horde of filmmakers (including, Billy Wilder) after something very new, I was years away from comprehending what he had in store. Over the past year or so, I’ve wakened up a bit, to appreciate the momentousness of the range of his concerns, a range, despite good-will, leaving no impact where it really matters.

A constellation of conundrums of intent began to dawn upon me; and putting in place their dynamic has been quite a ride. But the elusiveness of the innovation has proven to be only slightly recognizable. Therefore, it’s time again to return to Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), which provides remarkable immediacy to those staying the course.

   Whereas oracular figures—in Smiles of a Summer Night (1955), Winter Light(1963) and The Magician (1958)—would afford the thrill of seeing fit to trip up facile enforcement, the balance of power in the narratives remains so weighted against extreme change that understanding would almost absolutely trickle away. Similarly, the mea culpa, in Fanny and Alexander (1982), being brought to bear in terms of “the little world” (and its nagging spoiler, “the big world”), tends to be submerged by the Niagara of sturdy foibles. Then there is the perhaps too vague volcano of acrobatics and juggling, stemming from, The Seventh Seal (1957), and flashing over many subsequent entanglements the dark potency of which being lost on most viewers. The recherche dialogue between Eva and her muse, in Autumn Sonata (1978)—though a crucial clearing—becomes a victim of that protagonist’s hysterical self-importance. The action of silence (most salient in Persona [1966] but also on the move in, The Silence[1963] and Cries and Whispers [1972]), tends to be upstaged by the strong suit of survival. A mystical consummation, like that seen in, Wild Strawberries (1957), tends to maintain the status quo even more rigorously. Therefore, our second attention to this visceral production must be intent upon illuminating, as never before, the sensual structures and energies of players who live or die upon a cosmic scale.

One major expository  response to that singular involvement is to spotlight two minor figures to lead the charge—the two stars of the show being brought to light as auxiliary weight for the previous marvels of poetic intensity. There is, of course, a saga, in this case pertaining to a slipping itinerant circus impresario and his slipping love life; but that’s not where the magic and the lift-off inheres. Careers and romantic complications are a dime a dozen; and they don’t tend to generate game-breakers.

Near the outset, a long-term carnie regales the rather recent owner, Albert, about an event of some rarity which happened 7 years before, involving a husband and wife team of clowns, still in the company. The troupe was set to entertain at a place along the seaboard, where an artillery regiment was engaged in training maneuvers. The flashback covering this crucial action has been given a medium of saturated sunlight in which to carry us on an even longer way from the mundane than killing fields and wandering sensationalism. “Tell the story if you want,” the boss allows (sitting on the driver’s bench of one of his caravans plodding along, early in the morning, drinking beer with the storyteller, and soon falling asleep, missing [as always] a remarkable revelation). “It was a hot summer day… The officers lay on the grass, hot and sweating, drinking out of boredom… Then along came Alma, an imposing woman… Carried herself like a queen, if a bit past her prime.” We see her, alone, on a ridge near the sea, bearing down upon the mere military, and carrying a basket for what might come along. Her dress of straight lines implies a mood not for curving away from her sterling desires. In fact, she is a vision of the goddess or medium, Aphrodite, she of coherent passion. As she approaches the fighting force, their cannonade becomes an imaginary orgy. Then, by way of an officer with cat whiskers in close-up yelling something where there is not a sound, except the cannon blasts, the recent workaday becomes even stranger. Cut to the brain-trust playing cards on the flat rocks. Advantage in the air. Cut to more of those silent mouthings, which disappear with a wave of sharp white space, soon displaying a division by way of the black uniforms. Alma merrily walks right over the improv poker table, spins around and produces an ironic smile and bow to her subjects. (The troopers on the ragged ground are not alert to their being overrun by a sworn enemy, as well as a congenial visitation to a lesser world. A soldier ridicules her, and she ridicules back.) Alma then begins to pull up her dress and challenge the power clique to live up to her powers. (In a cut, her advantageous mis-en-scene has been momentarily rescinded, to convey the human, often failing, interplay with the works of primary creativity.) The innuendo of coitus is taken up by the troopers and their shooting. Back on the topspin, Alma takes off her dress and tosses away her sun hat for the sake of a sunniness very seldom reached. (Such steps of hers like that will be repeated, somewhat, by that sleeping slug, unprepared for a crisis of cosmic proportions.)

Another stretch of fiery sky graces the beach; but disgrace looms, even during her ascendance to the ways of Aphrodite. Breaking the stalemate of mob ridicule and her wielding a secret weapon, an officer orders a cadet to go to her husband whereby more mundane resources would tip the scale and force a retreat. The apparition’s beloved clown and alcoholic, with infrequent rallies, lacks her ambition; and therewith we are to keep an eye on her miseries nearly buried by the ordinary two protagonists. And that Frost (where to start with that?—with Death, in the wings) rallies handsomely, though unevenly, that day. Never without his deathly white, cosmetic coloration (in glaring light he nearly disappears), his first appearance doesn’t seem much of anything. Brought out of the tent to meet the cadet, he mutters, “I once had the opportunity to perform for his Majesty…” [Frost being an exponent of trivial nostalgia in lieu of demanding traction]. (This is a gambit soon to re-emerge, in The Magician. As we work along here, we are impressed by how prepared this sojourn traces back to this film.) Only half-comprehending the dilemma, Frost misses the mark (as Albert will repeatedly miss the mark in the second part of that war-couplet which moves apace with great distinction): “The captain pays homage to me…” The cadet, who had conveyed that, “The captain sends his greetings,” sharpens up the message, to, “Your Alma is swimming naked with the regiment!” This causes his more realistic colleagues to laugh maliciously. A woman angrily confronts that drifter with, “Show you’re a real man! We’ll help you give her hell!” Someone else adds, “We’ll help you tar that saucy hide of hers!” With this, Frost pushes the sort of well-wishers away and rushes to the shore in a frenzy. Adding to his presence, are the pantaloons he always wears, trussed up in such a way that his physical proportions resemble an ostrich or a prehistoric bird. Frost being, in his eccentric and erratic way, also a primordial force, of questionable efficacy. With this crisis in the making, at a strategic point, we have our opportunity to regard this drama being very unlike others in its priorities. These presumed, by convention, also rans, are actually nearly the whole story. Their coming a cropper of the military devolves from the widespread war intrinsically bearing down upon creatures like our two clowns—too strange to readily stomach its stand in canniness; and too frail to mount a viable stand of uncanniness, going somewhere very few of humankind want to touch. Though cast as a problematic item of the preponderant in choices—a “circus and romantic saga”—in fact the action is devoted to a striking disclosure, beyond theatre and almost musical in its dynamic. The putative protagonists, Albert, and Anne, “lovers,” are the true also ran. They are trammeled with being not nearly crazy enough to be creatively balanced. And, therewith, the motif of  the “little world” and the “big world” (explicit in Fanny and Alexander) hits the bricks to make of this entire Bergman filmic campaign, not a setting in relief of domestic exigencies but how the hell one might carve out a rhythm of sanity on a grotesque planet. As such, the entire (independent) corpus of Bergman’s endeavor must be seen as wall-to-wall war movies.

   Frost, with the whole carnie nation delighting in his plight and racing close to his heels, encounters the mob of jeering heroes as he beholds Alma splashing offshore with an amphibian group. His shock, in close-up, is accompanied by a moment of all-out silence and stillness—as if the precinct of primal destruction clamps down for a moment. The white-out of the sun once again endows the chaos with pristine dignity. (Each of such stations emanating singular resources as to the massively ignored and dangerously beloved ways of life.) Then Frost calls out to her (no sound, no subtitles; but the cheesy, calliope circus theme). What was a regal bid to really live now begins to collapse. Jeering (now with the added non-strangers) recommences. Taking off his outer gear and struggling over jagged rocks provides another spew of black laughter. He does reach her, and those groping her drift away. In the capacity of a small but memorable rally, to consign to filmic archives, there is a close-up of him holding her and, as they behold the sea and the sky, they constitute an army of two. As that was transpiring, the cadet gathers up their clothes and hides them in a cravass.  A girl from the circus laughs about that. Frost brings Alma to shore by having her on his back. The visual atmosphere is a slate sea and dark grey sky; and Frost, losing the energy to savor this austere beauty, begins to succumb to unsteadiness in negotiating the rocks while carrying her. Another silence obtrudes, as the couple resemble dying beasts. (The protagonists will prove to be all too human—predictable and presumptuous, leaving us more alerted to the fringes than the center.) The underestimated “clowns” are seen at a distance. The crowd closes in. Alma becomes stiff in his arms, her body like a cardboard sign. A deep drum roll sounds. The captain orders the heroes back to training. Frosts feet, shown in  close-up, become very unsteady. That blazing outburst stages another fanfare to kindred spirits. A close-up finds them strangely glamorous at a watershed. Frost falls, and nearly faints. Another blinding brightness, another drum roll. They’re seen at a distance, on a ridge. (After such effort, this being a premonition of surrender, four years hence, in The Seventh Seal.) A feathery cloud formation becomes a confirmation that much had been well done. Then he falls, seen from afar. One more effort to proceed, and he’s flat on his face. He tries to crawl. (We’ll see Albert in a somewhat formally similar sequence, but with very little concern on the part of the cosmos.) Alma, no longer Aphrodite, fears for Frost’s life. Carnies and the cadet carry him home to the circus tent. Alma angrily (and silenced) reproves the wayward. She begins to cry out (silently covered).

Back to the seat at the caravan emanating this strange event, with Albert, as always, missing in action. He and the driver jounce, due to the bad roads; they look like rather identical puppets. The driver concludes, “Alma began to shriek that we’d done her old man in. We got angry and told her it was her own fault. But we picked him up and carried him back anyway…”

  The last sight of the two who rocked Sweden for a few hours, was Frost being carried by several men of the art of the body, as if he were a white caribou. His head is thrown back and the pan shot moves backwards, as if he’s the subject of a hunt already dead. Seven years beyond this oddity/ odyssey, the driver has rounded out his harangue with, “That’s a woman and love for you!” It is, of course, nothing of the sort, the eyewitness not having a clue of what had really taken place. Here’s the moment to introduce the virtually sterile protagonists, now running the show, very badly—by way of their phony business names: “Alberti” (as in, “Alberti Cirkus”); and, “a fiery Spanish rider astride an Andalusian thoroughbred,” being hopefully antidotes to mask their lack of lyricism, their lack of poetry, their lack of courage. The day we first see them together, they’re entering the town where Albert dragged his wife and two children (from a modest retail business) into showbiz as being, at last, his supposed reality. This venue, in contrast with the puppets and cold and fatigue on the first occasion, musters cinematography of beauty, in the form of a close-up of a wagon wheel moving over a bridge showing its reflection in the water, and an imposing windmill. A rooster crows. A dog barks a welcome. Forward motion in the air. But who’s up for what it takes?

   The mid-20th century “fairground,” a scene of desolation itself, becomes the scene of the staff, many having seen far better days from far better management, announcing to the boss their displeasure in not having been paid for quite a while, with an outbreak of fleas in all the caravans, and lacking viable costumes. (During the hubbub Alma is aghast in hearing that one of her colleagues wants to have her pet bear [and vignette for her work] killed and eaten.)  In response, we receive some idea of the details of Albert’s being unfit for bringing off viable imaginative work. He muses that in America there is a healthy market for circus activity. “In America, circus folk ride through town, while bands play and the elephants trumpet. Everyone puts on their biggest smile and people line the streets cheering. A booming voice announces the show for that evening…” The goofiness of that razzmatazz premise transplanting to rural Sweden, is part and parcel of the goofy business plan in Jacque Tati’s film, Jour de Fete (1949), where a French farm town mailman attempts to wow the citizenry with big-market, American systematics.

On the spot to at least seem to be a businessman, he proposes one of those effervescent, Jimmy Durante circus parades for the permafrost customers, only to be busted, the horses impounded on the grounds of failing to secure a permit. Albert’s other excellent idea—on stronger grounds, in view of the Swedish government lavishing tons of cash for the arts (the theatre building in this tank-town having been designed upon the model of the royal palace)—was to borrow some of the costumes of the rich store, in order to put on a memorable spectacle. But there is a significant more, bearing down upon this disarray, whereby Albert was to pay a visit to his former spouse and (formerly unhappy) former circus partner (now the successful lone tobacconist of the present scene). Sleepy Alberti’s career of running the show into near collapse has inadvertently alerted Anne, the non-Spaniard, at this window of opportunity, that he’ll be returning to retail and she’ll be needing to make very different plans than she had bargained for.

   Albert and Anne constitute, however, not mere perverse dullards and fools, but rather facile, effete revolutionaries lacking the nerve to prepare for what their excitement involves. Each releases a mission statement in face of discouraging mainstream forces. Albert’s ex declares, “I’m happy now. It was always a time of frenzy and fear.” He counters with, “It’s always the same, summer and winter. For me, it’s emptiness.” Encountering rather feminine and arrogant Frans (an actor she meets during negotiations for the costumes; and perhaps her best bet if Albert bolts), she maintains that an earthy matier like the circus is the place to be. “I’ll bet you apply cosmetics. You have beautiful hands… You’re a weakling… You can’t [as he did] treat me like that or speak of my husband that way…” Frans pushes back, “If we were alone, I’d crush you. I’d crush your resistance like a piece of dirty paper.” She quickly attacks, “What play does that come from? Save it for your pale, flat-chested actresses…” Stirring declarations; but hollow. Anne does go in for “dirty paper.” And Albert proposes returning to the good old days. His wife had prefaced the little  reunion with, “All I can offer is pancakes.”

The theatre personnel arrive late. And Frans, having been roundly insulted by Anne en route to a pancake tryst, feels entitled to trip up an inelegant entertainment. Although this very intense incident could be imagined to be (as with the battle on the shore could seem) a simple display of dispatching, by the powers that be, foolish, obsolete eccentricity—road kill—the membrane on tap copiously speaks otherwise, to the horror of so many who don’t care enough, and where that leaves those who do show audacity of sensibility reaching an astounding threshold. That the figures being tracked do not handle their audacity well, is beside the point of this reflection per se. Sawdust and Tinsel offers to us a conveyance inviting the viewer to behold emotion so raw that normal dimensions become shattered and thereby become an intimate challenge. By the time the caravan comes to the little town playing it safe, we notice Alma and Frost having abandoned the realm of Aphrodite in favor of variations of Aphrodite-Lite, the specialty of Albert and Anne. Frost and Albert clearly spend a lot of time getting drunk. Alma has her low-key bear; Anne has her Tarot cards. By the end of the saga, Albert is heard to lament, “We’re both stuck, Anne—stuck like hell…”

Whereas the insulting regiment, at the (double) beginning, never gets to be heard, Frans, showing off to a pretty actress in the troupe (where affluent, educated elites would have honed a range of useful skills), and with Anne astride her horse circling the sawdust stage, he calls out, “Feel alright after our adventure, Sweetheart?” This elicits from Albert, the ringmaster’s, whipping off of the show-offs straw hat. In one of those grand, dramatic ironies Bergman excels in, Albert’s shock and fury at that moment had landed him in depths of pain whereby he had put in his place the smooth cynic. Frans, not expecting lightning from such a source, experiences, almost uniquely, disarray. As he puts his hat on, the girl he brung laughs in his face. The supercilious small-town sensation had, remarkably, retreated. Were Albert truly conversant with squelching vain nobodies, his evening might have included modest rewards from which to invent circus theatre to surpass the sclerosis of the local artistes. But Albert, on a high and afraid of heights, repeats the fun—flashing his whip as if the smattering of Americana Conestoga covered wagons in the convoy endows automatic magic—and Frans, feeding on hate, smashes the pretender to a pulp.

Much about this bloody gore reminds us of Alma’s sunny day at the beach. Frans’ fighting skills (the Artistic Director of the big/ little theatre mired in lostness organizes the bad feelings in terms of a duel, which is to say, a stupid way to die and a stupid way to live) are a reprise of the artillery  display which punctuated the ridicule of Alma. Albert’s baby-peal crying in pain, from a dirty trick directed at his balls, is a reprise of the fake crying of a clown in the first scene of the show, where Frost is now merely ordinary, wielding a ladder (going nowhere—not even funny) and squabbling with the crybaby. The townsfolks (including the ex), recalling the civilian population witnessing Alma’s abortive ascent, present a variation of the universal amusement—most enjoying the massacre, while a few being sickened by it. On the other hand—as with the conscripts to the nation—the theatre employees show 100% satisfaction, in their prissy way. Distributed about this maelstrom, we have Anne thrown from her horse, due to a guy in the last row throwing a missile hitting the thoroughbred; Alma’s gig with her bear totally washed out by the late-comers from civilization wandering across the ring (and, to worsen her latter days lot, yelling to hapless Albert, “That’s it, Albert!”); and the ringmaster both humiliated and on a roll of visceral courage, hopelessly misplaced.

   At the end of the fight, Frost becomes a voice of the status quo: “Ladies and gentlemen, the show is over. Thank you for coming this evening…” Albert’s nightmare finds him in the role of an abused bear, in a bearpit. On gaining what he’d call consciousness, he grabs his pistol and shoots Alma’s bear. You could say, that was the last bit of integrity this company would see. But, for what it’s worth, the tug of creativity is hard to entirely kill.

The circus caravan is on the move later that night. Frost and Albert are walking along in crepuscular light and crepuscular mood. Albert maintains a depressive glare, never looking, nor, once again, listening to the outer limits of life itself. Frost, an artist to Albert’s merchandising, speaks up, with, “Yesterday afternoon I had a dream while I slept off the booze. I dreamt that Alma came to me and said, ‘Poor Frost, you look tired and sad. Wouldn’t you like to rest a while?’ Yes, I said. ‘I’ll make you small [smallness virulently in effect already] as a little unborn child. You can climb into my womb and sleep in peace.’ So I did as she said, and crept into her womb, and I slept there so soundly and peacefully, rocked to sleep as if in a cradle. Then I got smaller, until, at last, I was just a tiny seed, and then I was gone.” Frost had not gone much further than hysteria in that initial struggle. But his dream carried him to the frontiers of creativity, which is to say, a fresh start upon getting real, the precinct Alma inhabited when an instance of Aphrodite (which failed to find traction). Alma, from the cozy confines of their caravan bed, interrupts, “Stop trudging along out there! Come inside and sleep!” Frost, the alcoholic Everyman, explains to the bemusing navigator, “You see? She can’t sleep without me beside her!”

Here we come to an unexpected minefield. Do the fidelities, at this stage of the careers of the once-briefly brave, still reach the point of magic? Or do those gentle moves conceal a crime? The dream of starting again seems to tell us, “Yes.” Bergman, being one very, very tough dude, is not one to settle for sort of. Does his investigation (and that of a host of other investigators) leave room for leveraging the daily juggle where the daily acrobatics have startled? Sort of. But the film wants us to consider hostile armies that aren’t going away.

After Frost, the unfocused family man, goes to bed, Albert comes to a halt, and Anne (not needing to go to bed) has her moment of truth, which is something else from a moment of vision. (Along a trajectory of job-shopping with Frans in his dressing room and beyond, in the light of Albert bidding for a less American Dream, she doubles back, in memory, to catch Frans rehearsing a drama that could only avail as a purgative. “I am but a poor jester in this farce of dark shadows. Her deceitful heart, her frailty, even her taunting indifference, turn my world upside down every day and every hour…Art that Count Badrincourt of Chamballe, or the most miserable of wretches? Farewell, O world…May my tears water my poor grave…” The intruder that is Anne is positioned behind a damaged backdrop, and we see only part of her face breaking through the musty garbage in knowing to be something better. [Far from Aphrodite; but a physical key still in play].) There they are (Anne and Albert), in the dull light, now apprehensive. (While Albert was carried out of his sawdust bailiwick—a position repeating Frost’s unconsciousness after breaking down in aid of Alma—Anne was busy gauging Frans’ cheek. A few years later, in Hour of the Wolf  [1968], a woman at a party gauges the cheek of an effete rebel, whose confused bid to manage there being no heaven costs his life.) Each manages a wan smile. And they walk along that pregnant roadway and its links coming close to the dance of death, about to be fully unveiled in The Seventh Seal. Our guide’s dramatic genius presents a disaster without recourse, while, on a wider front, things could improve.

[breath-of-the-gay]

the other thing i wrote yesterday: Link meeting my snowy owl Rito OC

cliched dialogue ahead but w/e

Link trotted along the boardwalk between stairs, stifling a cough in the sleeve of his new snowquil shirt as he looked up at the various pavilions of Rito Village before him, spiraling up and around a huge wind-carved stone bluff. The village’s avian population went about their days around him, though despite the village’s warm homeliness there was still a sense of tensity about all of them. He bit his lip, casting a look up at the gigantic bird that was the likely source of their problems, as Vah Ruta had been of the Zora’s.

He determinedly plugged his way up the stairs, stopping every so often to cough and regain his breath. This damn cold, brought on by the dampness of Zora’s Domain in addition to his long ride across Hyrule afterward, was helping nothing; but he could not afford to stop to let it pass.

Link’s eyes fell on an odd pavilion, its open doorway curtained by beads rather than empty as were most of the village’s. It had its own smaller take off platform behind, really only big enough for a single Rito at a time; and it was wholly painted a bit darker than most of the rest of the village, with highlights of silver, gold, and white.

He didn’t get long to puzzle at the out of place pavilion; as he stood there a voice barked from within.

“Hey, you! Yes, you, the Hylian gawking at my house. Get your silly feathers in here, I could hear you coughing clear from the stable.”

Link froze for a minute from surprise, then hesitantly slipped through the bead curtain.

Inside, a Rito stood with her back to him, looking fairly unlike most of her kind that he had seen. Her feathers were white, speckled with black in the shapes of half-moons, her garb sensible in shades of heather gray. When she turned her head - literally just her head - around to look at him, he saw that her face was flat and round, with a small beak and piercing amber eyes that seemed to see right into him.

“So you are the Hylian Champion.” She said in a melodic voice, turning herself fully around. Link was at a loss for words. He flailed his hands a little; she raised a wing to silence him.

“Yes, yes, I know. Most here would not recognize you. I will explain, but first: that cough.”

She scooped a small clay pot off of a shelf and grabbed a cup, pouring some of what looked like honey into it before adding milk. “Honey, milk, some chamomile, hm - bit of this for some added kick, it sounds nasty. Drink this.”

She shoved the cup into Link’s hand and puttered around her house a bit more. “You have any wounds that need tending to? Hylia knows the road between here and Zora’s Domain is hairy nowadays.”

Link looked up from sipping the spicy drink in confusion. The strange owl Rito looked at him.

“Oh, you think I didn’t hear the elephant’s trumpet? I’m not deaf. You’ve been around.”

She gestured for Link to sit on the edge of a cot and pulled up a chair, her hands full of bandages and another clay pot. “In any case, I should introduce myself. My name is Sapph. I am the resident healer of this village. Some might also call me the resident witch, which is true, but that is neither here nor there.”

    Link gulped. “I’m Link. I, uh, just woke up.”

    Sapph churred. “Woke up and decided to fight a Sheikah-made elephant possessed by a spirit of evil. I like your spunk. Take your jacket off.”

    Link slipped his jacket off, shivering a bit in the chilly air. Sapph draped it back around his shoulders to stave off the cold as she examined his arm, finding a long, half-healed gash.

    “Mm. Just as I supposed. Lizalfo blade? Yes. You’re lucky those lizard-brains haven’t discovered poison.” Sapph snatched a clean cloth from a nearby shelf and a bowl of water and sponged Link’s wound. It stung, but Link bit his lip to stop himself from whimpering. He looked around her house to distract himself from her cleaning and noticed a bow lying unstrung next to a feathered edge and a cooking pot. The bow seemed to be like a falcon bow, but thinner; and painted white with  pale gray accents. Darker gray feathers graced its length, waving gently in the breeze that blew through Sapph’s house.

    Sapph noticed his gaze. “My Moonbow.” Her voice was soft with affection. “My wife made it for me. Those’re her feathers. Isn’t it lovely?” She churred again. “I told the silly featherbrain I could hardly hit a good sized chu chu, but she insisted I needed some kind of ranged weapon for self defense. And she was right; it’s saved my tail feathers a good few times now.”

    She finished dressing Link’s wound and started winding a long cloth bandage around his arm. “There we are. Anything else? You finish that cup now, I’ll give you the recipe for the road in case you need more, or you can just come back here.

    “Now, Link, I have a favor to ask you.” She stood and moved her bow aside in favor of a knapsack underneath it. “May I read your cards?”

    Link blinked. “Cards?”

    Sapph showed him a deck of cards the size of his hand, painted with strange symbols and illustrations. “The winds are changing, and I know it’s  because of you. These can tell us a bit more.”

    Link nodded with a little bit of trepidation. Sapph pulled up a table between them and began shuffling the deck deftly.

    “You might be wondering how I know of your identity. You see, I trained under Impa.” Sapph looked up at him, nodding at his look of realization. “Yes, I knew you must have spoken to her, even if you had lost your memory as she theorized may happen. The trumpet said as much.

    “She taught me much of what I know about healing when I was but a chick, and some of this side of it as well, but most of that I built myself, over many years.” Sapph held the cards out to Link. “Hold it for a bit, so it knows your energy. There we are. Got it, you lot? Now, be nice. He’s already been through a good deal.”

    She spread cards out on the table in front of her face down, examining them carefully with her piercing eyes. “Impa told me of the hero that slept in the Shrine of Resurrection - of his sacrifice, of the princess, of the Champions that once protected us with the Divine Beasts. All long before my time, but not forgotten. At least by some.”

    She flipped over some cards. “So you have freed Vah Ruta, and the spirit of Mipha.” She looked at him, her eyes soft. “Well done. But you still have far to go.”

    She looked at the cards before her. “Yes, yes. You are afraid.”

    Link frowned. Sapph didn’t flinch.

    “You’d be a Hylia - damned fool not to be. Courage is not the absence of fear; but the determination that something or someone else is far more important. This is strong with you. You’ll noticed, you haven’t given up yet, have you?” Sapph noted.

    “You are confused. Everyone seems to know more about you than you do, even the dead. This land is familiar but yet not; and everything seems to either want something from you or want you dead. Damn.” Sapph clicked her beak. “I told you all to be nice.”

    The cards didn’t respond, as Link half expected them to. He looked at them, jaw clenched. He wasn’t sure how he felt.

    “But the winds are changing; the storm is coming in from the sea, the fire won’t burn forever. Even now, your enemy knows this; but with every Divine Beast you free, every Champion whose spirit you release, with every Guardian and monster you slay, he grows weaker and you stronger. And still your princess waits for you. She holds out a hope which burns brighter by the day.

    “And so, you head to Vah Medoh. About time, too, it’s kicking up a right storm. I was about to go to tend to one of its victims when you happened by.” Sapph tipped her head at Link’s look. “He’s fine, just a glancing blow to his wing. He’ll recover.”

    She scooped up her deck. “All in all, the cards speak of hope. This fight won’t be easy, but you aren’t alone, Link. All of Hyrule that still dreams is behind you.”

    She blinked kindly at him. “Now, I’ve kept you long enough. You had better speak to the elder and Harth; they will direct you to your next step. And Link, if anything happens and you need healing, I’m always here. I am willing to help you in anything you need to bring this Calamity down.

“Oh, and Link?” Sapph raised a finger at a sudden remembrance. “If you encounter a Rito named Kass in your trouble, tell him he’d better pay this village a visit at some point, his wife is worried sick and his kids miss him.”

    Link stood up, lying a hand on hers. “I will. Thank you, Sapph.”

    She nodded, straightening and awkwardly patting the top of his head with her wing. “You are very welcome. Good winds to you, my friend.”

    Sapph watched as Link left her pavilion, taking up her bow and carefully stringing it before slinging it over her back. She stepped out on her platform, craning her head up to look at Vah Medoh, circling far overhead.

    “It’s not long now, Revali, and you’ll be called back to fight.” She took to the wing, circling Rito Village and landing on the top of the bluff it was built on. “For all our sakes, I hope you give the kid a break.”

    She churred. “The stories are coming alive now, after a hundred years. Maybe they always were, but in an undercurrent. Now, now, they storm.”