#fic: mr. fix-it

[blaithnne]

ok i forgot that goldie isnt canonically 5'1 on a good day so i have to restructure this ask

1) thoughts on short goldie

2) is heron short also

3) (contingent on answers 1 and 2) thoughts on scrooge and beakley both falling for tiny evil women

1) & 2)

I think the toxic yuri polycule height chart is something like this—!

They all wear heels so it’s not exact (also I whipped this up in like 5 minutes lol)

Huifen is tall, she’s a black heron after all, and though they’re not the tallest birds ever they’re still pretty long! But she looks short standing next to Beakley, because everyone does (also I undersized her a little bit in my first human drawing by accident, whoops). Goldie is a short queen LMAO, she’s not minuscule, only slightly shorter than the average person, but she looks tiny next to these two (she might be slightly shorter than I drew her here, idk, I struggled to scale her LOL). Scrooge, for the record, is around the same height as Goldie!

In terms of their builds btw, Beakley is, obviously, very muscular! Though she might seem like a tank, she’s actually very soft — big ol squishy teddy bear! Heron on the other hand is a gangly mf, long, skinny, and sharp. Goldie is sort of in between them, an hourglass build like Huifen, but with more muscle on her (not half as much as Beakley, though).

3)

Heron might not be tiny but Beakley treats her like she is, picks her up like a feral cat when she’s being too much 😌 Scrooge and Goldie only have a very slight height difference, but I think he’s very smug about it lol

Also, my funniest headcanon ever is that Beakley has a thing for bad girls, and she HATES IT. She’s so embarrassed about it and fully intends to take it to her grave. This also leads to her hating the aforementioned bad girls even more, bc she’s so frustrated with herself for liking the in the first place. So Beakley can spend 24 hours a day ranting about how much she hates someone, and be blushing the entire time. All this to say, Beakley might not technically have a leg to stand on when it comes to criticising Scrooge’s relationship, but that doesn’t stop her.

I think they’re both massive hypocrites about it, bc they wanna protect eachother despite the other really not needing the help. They’re also endlessly frustrated with eachother’s toxic Yuri partners. Beakley to a much bigger degree because she definitely has a thing for Goldie, which only makes her hate her even more. Scrooge is more annoyed by Beakley and Heron than anything else bc he just does not understand what the hell is going on there, but he’ll also occasionally be all,

In conclusion, Beakley and Scrooge being a disaster sibling duo is my favourite thing ever. Scrooge is practically immortal, nothing can take him down. Beakley is a walking tank, she could walk off a bullet. They looked at eachother and went “that idiot needs me to protect them from their own love life” and they were kind of right??

[orangecrush]

In my dream fix-it Creamsicle fic:

The initial setup is canon compliant: Freddy is an undercover cop, and they’re preparing for the heist, or it’s already happened.

Neither Freddy nor Larry dies. (Duh.)

Freddy gets shot – either during the heist or in some other way. His injury is serious and incapacitating, and it makes him utterly dependent on Larry. (WHUMP! The more and heavier the better!)

There’s at least reference to (but preferably a description of) a medical procedure that saves Freddy’s life – probably done by some dodgy doctor or a vet, whomever Larry or Joe or whoever fits the storyline can get. (I’m not a medical professional and don’t care about accuracy. But I pretty much go insane when characters magically recover from injuries that definitely require more professional medical attention than their caretakers are able to provide.)

Freddy tells Larry the truth about himself, and though it obviously complicates things between them, Larry doesn’t abandon him.

There’s a very gentle, nonsexual bath/shower scene in which Larry helps Freddy get clean after his injury. (This piece is crucial and nonnegotiable.)

There is sex, but it doesn’t drive the story, and it’s not rough or kinky. (The way Larry touches Freddy in the warehouse? Yeah, that’s the kind of tenderness with which he's touching him out of the warehouse, too.)

They ultimately escape by leaving the country, preferably in a way that incriminates Freddy just as much as it does Larry (e.g., by taking some or all of the diamonds).

There’s an unambiguous happy ending or, at the very least, the sense that they’ll eventually get there.

[mysteroads]

Chapter 419 Prediction/Fixit Fic!

Sooo, My Hero Academia Chapter 419 really ticked me off, though I've cooled down slightly. HOWEVER, I still have... feelings.😑 I can see one to two acceptable way out for Tomura, and I am willing to accept bittersweet. Even so, make sure I get closure, I already started a fanfic! Let's see how close I get to what happen in the manga! 🤓Here's an excerpt! (I hate tumblr formatting, forgive me.)

Tomura opened his eyes and found he was not alone. There were... things? beings? all around him. Some looked human or at least human-shaped; others looked like they'd started out human, but had been broken apart and the pieces reassembled with new parts like Frankenstein's monster on crack; and a few were nothing but smears of color and light.

Rivet Stab and Air Cannon! he realized, seeing one with wings made of jagged red and black spears, and another with little tornadoes for hands. These were quirks! All the quirks All For One has stolen. It kinda made sense he’d be here with them. Quirks were a piece of a person, after all, and right now Tomura was a fragment of himself. As he pulled more of himself together, his vision sharpened and something else came into focus: All the quirks were wrapped in chains colored the ugly red-brown of dried blood. His eyes lingered on those chains, following the links as they stretched up into an infinity of roiling dark, then back down to the mass of stolen quirks.

Stolen and broken, he thought. Just like me. A smile began to grow on what he assumed was his face. 

"Hey!” The quirks turned toward him, and his smile turned into a grin. “You guys interested in a co-op?"

Oh yeah, and AFO gets dead in the end. Don't you worry about that, my darlings. AFO wanted a weapon of hatred, he's gonna GET a weapon of hatred. 😈

[galactic-rhea]

Test Flight (ficlet)

Okay, I know I SHOULDN'T be brainstorming let alone writing AU things when I still haven't watched the movies or finished the series, I apologize.

But I just was possesed by writing this funny interaction of:

"Han Solo loses all of his confidence when he needs to make a good impression for Leia's parents. Aka Padmé and no-evil-Anakin( not evil but still sharper at the edges and very serious because of the horrors)" and I figured I might as well just post it.

Word count: ~ 1k Warnings: None. (Possibly some OOC because like I said I still haven't watched the movies, although i tried my best, sorry)

It must be made clear that Han didn’t exactly agree with any of this, he wasn’t eager nor looking forward to being welcomed into Leia’s prestigious family. If anything, he would rather go on with their lives far away from Naboo’s aristocracy and what not. And for starters, he wasn’t sure he was going to be welcomed, per se.

But Leia had been insistent. And there was nothing on that planet or the whole galaxy that could change her mind. So he had no other choice but trying to look for the best of his clothes, which he suspected would get the snobbish aristocracy laughing at him.

Well, maybe not Leia’s family. She was quite an oddball, and it seemed to run in the family, as neither of her parents, or Luke, for that matter, seemed to be normal. First there was Senator Amidala, whom Han had seen just briefly and watched some of her speeches through holograms.

For an aristocrat and a senator, there were quite the wild stories of her being in the middle of an open fire; she being the one holding a gun.  And second, she seemed…strangely just, for a politician, that was it.

But Senator Amidala wasn’t the one he was both intrigued and concerned (even though Luke insisted it was their mother the one in charge). Leia’s father was no other than famous, or perhaps infamous, depending on who you asked, Anakin Skywalker. Legendary war hero, retired jedi and turned aristocrat of Naboo after marrying Senator Amidala. 

He was a secretive, and shady person, and Hans had never seen him, all he knew from him were among bar rumors and telltales. The only thing he was sure of, was that he was  particularly adept at training his own children in his own ways, and if rumors were true, he also led some underground operation of rebels in Naboo.

But he forced himself to not believe in these. After all, Luke and Leia spoke of their father as a fairly fun guy. 

As he stepped out of the speeder and looked up to appreciate the palace, he sighed. Yes, perhaps he should be more concerned about the senator than some failed jedi that fell into a scandalous affair.

He was escorted by guards through long hallways until Leia materialized at his side, seemingly from one of the upstairs. He felt as though it was easier to get lost in such a place than into any forest he had known. 

“Hey,” he greeted. 

“Hey,” Leia smiled and leaned closer to him to speak without being heard by the guards. “I already softened them. All you have to do it’s not make a fool of yourself for an hour or so, it should be easy even for you, right?”

“I never make a fool of myself,” he retorted with a cheeky smile.

“Huh huh.” They both turned in time when Luke appeared from other of the hallways,  waving his hand and loudly greeting them

“You better don't pick up on Luke,” Leia rolled her eyes and twisted her lips as if the thought was too sugary and cheesy for someone like her. “He’s their dumb baby boy.”

“That will make things harder,” Han chuckled as they watched Luke approach.

They shared greetings and a few meaningless words before finally moving onto the dining hall. A giant room with a table several meters long. 

“You don’t look relaxed,” Luke pointed out, and if Luke was pointing it out, it meant he was doing a poor job at being calm. He wasn’t even sure what was worrying about this whole ordeal. At worst, Leia’s family would forbid him from their private parties, right?

He had had no time to answer when the opposite doors opened and everyone directed their attention towards the pair now approaching them. Han squared his shoulders, while Leia and Luke did not so much as to minimally change their stances.

Senator Amidala was regal and with a long white dress adorned with different shades of golden. She held a kind smile, and her hair and makeup was remarkable. A stark contrast to how little makeup Leia would usually wear. 

And at her side, towering over her for several inches; Anakin Skywalker strode in perfect coordination with his wife. He had a mild, barely noticeable limping. And if Han hadn’t trained his eyes to immediately search for weakness on anyone who enters his vision, he probably wouldn’t have ever noticed. 

Skywalker’s eyes were cold and his semblance stoic. Not exactly what Hans was expecting from a retired, or more like, fired, jedi. His whole presence filled the room with certain heaviness, as if the air had become charged with static and with each step, Hans felt more and more uneasy, struggling to remain still. 

“Senator, Amidala,” Han bowed his head slightly, then he turned towards the retired jedi and vacillated. How was he supposed to call him? He took several seconds to address Anakin before he could come up with something. “Mr….Amidala?”

He supposed a senator’s surname held more importance than a retired jedi’s one, right? 

It seemed to be the wrong answer, though,  by the way Luke scoffed and Leia turned her eyes away from him. The senator seemed amused, as she turned to look at her companion, but Anakin’s expression barely changed.

“Shall we begin our dinner?” With no amability or whatsoever, he spoke in a low, raspy voice, and Hans wondered if it was the aftermath of an old battle wound.

They all got on their respective seats and started dinner rather awkwardly. Senator Amidala would be the most talkative, prompting questions towards her children and a few directed towards Han. If it weren’t because Leia’s father wouldn’t take his icy glare away from him, it would have been a rather pleasant dinner. He figured it would be best if he was the one to start the conversation with Skywalker.

“I heard you’re a skilled mechanic, sir-”

“How old are you?” General Skywalker cut in dryly as he started cutting his steak.

Han hesitated, pondering his options. He could always lie…But given Anakin Skywalker’s reputation, he wouldn't be surprised if the man could somehow read minds as well.

“Twenty five,sir,” he answered simply. 

"I see..." He answered emotionlessly and then carried his eyes towards Leia, who , if anything, seemed mildly curious, rather than intimidated. "Perhaps you should be socializing with people of your age, instead of chasing after older people, don't you think, youngling?"

Leia's brows joined together in an offended glare. However, the corner of the retired general curved upwards; bordering into a smile. Senator Amidala, however, was rather obvious, as she brought her glass of wine towards her lips in an attempt to hide a mischievous smile.

“I don’t chase,” Leia let out an airy huff and held her father’s gaze. “They all get into a line and I choose.”

“What line? Hans is the only one who could stand you,” Luke raised his voice, and it was hard to understand if his question was serious or he was merely attempting to rile up Leia. 

“I fought all the others in the line, actually,” Han smiled with a wink, hoping his intervention would avoid any argument between the siblings. 

“Cute,” Senator Amidala smiled, approving of Han’s sense of humor. She turned her attention onto her husband with a raised eyebrow. “Do you have a problem with your steak, dear?”

General Skywalker’s eyes shone with a hint of amusement for a heartbeat before his expression returned to cold stone as he looked down at his plate; he had already run out of parts to cut. “Yes. Insipid…” He returned to glare at their guest. “Dull.”

“Do you want mine, pa’?” Luke offered, probably breaking every single dining rule known to aristocracy. 

“No, Luke.”

Han shifted on his chair and tried to focus on eating; the faster they finished dinner, the faster he could run away from Anakin’s unbearable deadly look.

Leia cleared her throat, leaning towards his father, who immediately turned all of his attention onto her.

“Dad, I bet you didn’t know Han is a pilot.”

Anakin hummed, considering this and then landed his seemingly eternal glare back onto Han. 

“I did not. Is that true?” 

Leia turned her face to Han and gestured, twisting her mouth as she spoke silent words. Words that Han didn’t understand, not even a single one. He frowned as he tried to piece the words together until he realized Anakin’s impatient hum. 

“Yes…Sir. I’m.” 

“Are you good?” Anakin pressed, reaching with his robotic arm a glass of wine.

Han raised his chin with a wide and confident smile. “The best.”

The general’s expression changed, as he stopped mid-drink and lowered his glass. He curled his lips into an authentic cocky smile. Strangely enough, the smile of someone who’s used to laughing and playing around, and it made him appear almost like a different person.

“Oh, really?” He scoffed, leaning against the back of his chair. “Let’s have a race, then.”

Han blinked, unsure about what to answer. He looked for Leia’s guidance and help, but she had her head turned towards her parents.

“Ani,” Senator Amidala gave her husband a look. 

“He says he’s the best, I wanna know if he’s lying.” He shrugged. “If he didn’t lie, there’s nothing to fear.”

“We’re having dinner.”

“We just finished dinner, m’ lady,”  he gave a quick glance at Luke and Leia’s plates to point out his words. Then landed his eyes on Han. “So, what do you say…Mr. Solo?”

He supposed he would rather show off his skills at piloting (even if it meant to embarrass Leia’s father in a race) than to stay any single minute at this horrid frivolous dinner. He put down his fork and jumped onto his feet. 

“It will be my pleasure.”

Following his movements, the retired jedi rose up from his seat almost as if the frivolous dinner was just as annoying to him as it was to Hans. He pulled away his cloak in a swift movement and pulled his hair away from his face. 

Senator Amidala shook her head, but there was the faintest amused smile in her lips as she rose up as well and glanced at the twins.

“We'll need good seats.”

[femboy-springbonnie]

i forgot to post this i finished it like a day after i posted the WIP

its also really funny how i changed parts of how i draw RIGHT AFTER i finished this, so thats cool

anyways im writing rn

new work coming soon ish

[romaritimeharbor]

hydrangeas (the name of my demon slayer fic!) snippet upon ye... since chapter 1 is like, insanely long, i can afford to give you guys a big snippet teehee. @soleillunne

“Onee-chan! Onii-chan, look!” the brighter of the twins, Muichiro, exclaimed as he ran up to them, stumbling cutely to a stop before thrusting his arm outwards and up towards them. In it, a little flower was clasped. “It’s for you!” Amusedly trailing behind the boy were both parents and his slightly older brother, whose hand was held only somewhat securely in his mother’s. They waved with a bright smile at their parents before turning their attention back to their brother and kneeling down. “Aw,” they cooed. “Thank you Mui. That’s really sweet.” “Yuichiro has one too, but he’s too shy to give it to you,” the boy commented as he gently, gingerly placed the flower behind their ear. “Oh?” they replied, a teasing lilt in their voice as they curiously shifted their gaze from the youngest twin to the eldest. Yuichiro puffed out his slightly flushed cheeks with childish irritation that they had to actively restrain themselves from cooing at. “Is that so?” “Don’t say that, Muichiro,” Yuichiro huffed, shaking his hand free of his mother’s grip and reluctantly shuffling over to them. “Here,” he murmured, tucking his flower behind their other ear. They stared. Yuichiro knew instantly that he was in trouble. ‘Trouble,’ of course, meaning nothing serious–only that they were going to relentlessly tease him until the event became overshadowed by other tease-worthy occurrences. “You know, that’s cute,” they teased, hands reaching out and gently patting each of their heads, “you guys are the cutest.”

[flowercrowngods]

more sappy soft men (clarkson) because i say so

🤍 also on ao3

Scott breathes for what feels like the first time today the very second he steps outside of the school building, fresh air surrounding him in a cold but welcome embrace.

He loves his job, he really does, but parent-teacher nights are always the longest days and the longest nights of the year. Screw solstice; no one has lived through the longest day until they’ve had to explain to Mrs Mueller why her child should not stay in the science rooms unsupervised, and no, they cannot get an exception, and no, Kevin is not secretly a genius child that will become the next Einstein if only they can be allowed in the science rooms without a teacher. Three times, he’s had to explain, and only when another dad told her off did the woman finally relent.

The joys of being a teacher do not lie in the parent-teacher nights. He’s exhausted, he’s tired, his ears are ringing, his shoulders aching from being so tense, and all he wants is to build a Heisenberg compensator and teleport himself right into his bed.

The parking lot is almost empty, illuminated scarcely with the yellow light of street lamps, and it takes Scott a moment before he sees the familiar truck that never really fails to make him smile. He feels a brief pang of guilt when he realises that he doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t really feel like he can anymore, not until his ears stop ringing and his shoulders lose their tension. But then he remembers the incredible, patient, one-of-a-kind man behind the wheel.

Wayne Munson enjoys his silence. He’s incredibly good at them in a way that’s like balm to Scott’s brain, a way that makes him feel so calm even when his insides are all fluttery in Wayne’s company.

Slowly, he crosses the parking lot, walking towards the familiar car. There’s a smile on his face that’s not plastered on but rather involuntary. He can’t help it. Wayne is here to pick him up after a long, dreadful day, just to spend some time together. A few minute’s drive from here to Scott’s house, neither of them in the mood for talking after a long day. But it’s wonderful. It’s enough. It’s everything.

Heart in his throat, Scott opens the door and climbs into the car, instantly welcomed with warmth and the sound of quiet music. Not too loud to further fray his nerves, not too quiet to recognise the song and lyrics. Just perfect for background noise. Just perfect.

Wayne turns slightly in his seat and looks over, his eyes roaming over Scott’s face, his clothes, his posture, clinging to his smile and his hands for a second longer than the rest. They’re just sitting there, smiling at each other while Scott soaks up the warmth — of the car and of Wayne’s entire self. The tension slowly leaves his shoulders and he realises how tired he really is, as though a flip has been switched.

“Want me to take the long way home?”

Scott nods, fighting to keep his eyes open, comfortable and warm as he is.

“I’ve gotcha,” Wayne says then, and it’s a promise sewed with a smile and a warm hand reaching out to squeeze his hand as he starts the engine.

The vibrations are gentle and familiar, and soon Scott loses the fight against his heavy eyelids. He tries to track the comings and goings of the street lights but he gives up quickly, because Space Age Love Song is on and all he sees anymore are the visions of all the times Wayne has been waiting for him in the parking lot just to drive him home.

And though it took a while

I was falling in love

For a little while each time in the front seat of Wayne’s truck, Scott is falling in love. Wayne is worried sometimes about being gruff and not talking so much, about the words he says when he does talk. But Scott has never been someone who fell in love with words. Love, to him, is all about the silences and what fills them, the company they’re spent in.

Wayne does take the long way home, which usually translates to driving around Hawkins in the soft glow of the street lights until all tension has left Scott’s shoulders and his head lands against the cool window. And even once Scott is asleep, the king day catching up to him, he keeps driving, music making for great silent conversation.

Wayne has made them a mixtape, too, with the help of Steve and Eddie. Everything about these drives makes Scott feel emotions he logically knew existed, but has never had the privilege to feel. Not until Wayne. Not until Space Age Love Song in the school parking lot in early February. Not until Tougher Than The Rest as they pass his house for the fifth time without any indications of slowing.

Not until the sudden absence of the engine’s vibrations and a gentle hand in his hair wake him.

“You’re home,” Wayne says quietly, no hints of regret in his voice, only the secret adoration that’s taken Scott a few weeks to discover.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning into the touch, barely awake yet and happy to just stay here for the rest of his life. “I am.”

[radlyradar]

Sharing a moment.

Mr. Pink/Mr. Brown or Mark Nussy/Dennis Koonstock

AO3 LINK

Chapter one: 1021 words, full chapter here and AO3 :D

Fix-it, mild annoyance to lovers

Mark is a clingy person, but does he really want Brown to know that?

Brown stares at his sandwich as he tunes out Brown’s rant. Something about lions or some shit that he had stopped paying attention to when he had started using his ‘fun fact’ voice. They had just finished scouting a path to get away from the bank, and Brown had suggested they go eat before they went home. “Don’t you think it means something?” his question snaps Mark out of it.

"What?” “Lions man, They’re scared of honey badgers when they’re like born. Like instinct or something.” He’s way too excited, but Mark decides to humor him. “How's that?” Brown’s eyes light up, as he starts talking again. Mark stares back down at his sandwich, still following his words. Something about his food looked wrong, he glances over at Mark’s half eaten sandwich. “Yeah, that sounds fake.” Mark drags his eyes up to Brown’s. “It’s not! Swear on my mother!” “Careful, you may be out of a home without her.” This successfully got Brown to chuckle. Something about making him laugh always makes Mark feel accomplished.

“How's your food?” “It’s alright.” A blatant lie, both of them know the sandwich hasn't been touched. Brown picked up a chip and ate it. Then offers one to Mark, “I have my own fucking chips.” “But I want to give you some of mine. You don’t look like you’re enjoying yours.” “It’s the same chips.” Brown only held the chip out further. “Is it really?”

Brown smiles and something about that infuriates Mark. It’s not, they both know it’s not the same.

“You’re a real asshole you know?” Mark mutters as he snatches it away.

===

It’s dark already when Brown drove him home. They stop at a gas station. “Why’d we stop?” “I wanted to get a snack.” Brown gets out of the car, almost skipping away. Mark groans and sinks in his seat watching Brown until he walks out of view. He looks in the backseat to see his sandwich. He’s been like this all his life, he’d rather share something than enjoy it alone. He was always painfully aware of how this contradicted his usual disposition. Still, he couldn’t help it some people just made him- “I couldn’t find those chips you like so I just got these.” Brown tosses him a bag. “What the fuck are these?” Mark picks up the Dorito 3Ds. “Doritos!” Mark stares at him, “These are not Doritos.” “It says Doritos.” “Why are they puffy?” “They’re not puffy, they're 3D!” Brown’s smiling, Mark just rolls his eyes and tossed the chips back. “I’m fine, not hungry anyways.” Mark turns away and stares out the window, onto the sidewalk where the fluorescent lights weaken and the darkness starts to swallow any detail in the cement. “Why are we not moving?” Mark asks as he hears Brown crunching on some chips. “I just wanted to eat first. Do you want any?” Mark just holds his hand out. When he’s given the chip he puts it in his mouth before even looking at it. They follow the same pattern that they’ve seemed to fall into during the time they’ve known each other. Brown ate, then offered him some, Mark took it and Brown ate some more. It’s a system that makes sense. Mark likes that about Brown. He makes sense.

“Alrighty time to go!” The car starts and Brown smiles over at him. Mark turns back. As the car starts moving, Mark looks down at the empty bag of Doritos and turns back to the window.

===

Brown stops at a building a few blocks away from Mark’s apartment. He didn’t want him knowing exactly where he lived. As Mark gets out Brown says something that surprises him. “Hey I know we’re not supposed to be all buddy-buddy, but today was fun.” Brown isn’t sure how to respond, he looks at his friend- his coworker’s face. So he just nods and asks “Can we do this again? Maybe get pizza.” “I don’t know...not really professional is it?” When Mark says this Brown seems to deflate. “Yeah, you’re right, have a good night Pink.” Brown starts the car and drives away. He feels his chest tighten with regret. Regret? Really? Over Brown? The guy who talks about stupid hidden meanings and weird conspiracy theories all day? Mark pushes it away, making it a problem to deal with another time, as he walks in his apartment. Turning on the lights. He’s felt a lot of emotions over his new friend, most being quite disturbing to realize. Like his fondness of him. Mark finds genuine comfort in him, for years he’s felt something like this but now he has and it's him? He loves listening to his stupid rants and getting into pointless arguments with him. What did it mean? Ring ring! Mark walks over to the phone and picks it up, he wasn’t expecting a call. “Hello?” he asks. “Hey. Pink?” Brown’s voice comes from the other end. Mark felt his heart do something funny, though the reason was something that eluded him. “Hey, Brown… What’s up?” He cringes at his own words. “I just wanted to check if you got home safe, I know we’re not supposed to use our numbers for this but-” “Yeah I’m home.” “Yeah, cool, okay. I should go.” Brown says, but he doesn’t, thank god he doesn’t because that gives Mark some time. “Brown, you know what you were talking about yesterday, with the pizza?” “Yeah?” “I changed my mind, I think it’d be fun, and um. Help us with coordinating later.” His words come out fast and he can’t help but feel embarrassed. “Really? Cool, how about Friday, I’ll pick you up at umm.” Mark can hear Brown shuffling through some papers. “six?” “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll make sure to bring a movie.” “Yeah.” Something in Brown’s voice makes Mark’s chest feel light. “I’ll see you then.” Mark hangs up and sits on his bed. Why did he feel like this, excited and nervous? He covered his face as his mind ran rampant with confusion and took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

[morvantmortuary]

the miraculous mr. sunday -

(the magician)

(rarae aves’s slasher oc)

“You know, when I got my name, everyone in town was glad when Sunday rolled in. Nowadays I’m wondering if I need to rebrand. You, though - you can call me Seth. All my friends do.”

age: finally stopped aging somewhere in his mid-40s (5/22/1901)(taurus-gemini cusp) birthplace: A town that doesn’t exist anymore in Western Kansas, USA. height: 6’0” current location: ominously close to the parish line near Greymoon, Louisiana. favorite book: says it’s the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald (it’s really the wonderful wizard of oz by l. frank baum) hobbies: travel (anywhere the wind blows, really), oddities and miracles, old-fashioned circus/sideshows, magic, and their history (especially in the US tradition), parties (mostly attending, never hosts much himself for such a gregarious fellow), and any and all forms of theater and performance. being with as many people as possible, far from the empty fields and endless wind. occupation: former stage magician, now fixer for They Who Provide. Aspiring Necromancer.

(what he’d pick as his own walk-on music: I put a spell on you - screamin’ jay hawkins what it actually would be: when the circus came to town — aurelio voltaire fc: david dastmalchian, underrated horror darling of my heart.)

“You wouldn’t believe the kind of opportunities people just… throw away.” Seth Sunday flicks a vintage lighter open and closed as he speaks, almost without realizing it. He hasn’t needed it for decades now - no point in smoking when you don’t always need to breathe. it’s mostly there for him to fidget with, truthfully. “It’s not every day Destiny prostrates itself at your door, you know. You’d have to be awful conceited to act like it’s just going to hang around while you get your shoes on.” He laughs, and it’s a cold, hard little sound like something stunted from a lack of sun despite the warmth of his smile. “Me, I came up the old fashioned way.” The lighter flicks closed. “I saw my moment, and I didn’t wait for ‘my turn.’ I found my own way in. I gave everything I ever knew for just one chance. And now look at me.” He pulls another hand from the pocket of his long, oddly patterned black coat, but there’s something… unfamiliar about it. The fingertips are dark, as though they’ve lost blood and then been dipped in ash. The nails look like they’ll snag on any ephemeral trace of you they can reach. “You know the secret to getting everything you ever wanted?” he says, gazing almost admiringly at his warped digits. 

The longer you look, the more you’d swear the air over his fingertips starts to ripple. As if something is stroking the very fabric of the space around you, toying with the individual threads. 

When his eyes find yours, you feel like you’ve been shoved down a flight of stairs in the face of all that bottomless blackness. His smile isn’t so warm now. “I do.”

a history, of sorts:

Seth says he doesn’t remember his birth name. The one written in a mildewed family Bible in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, Kansas, on an overcast spring day in 1901. He doesn’t need to remember it. That child - later, that man - is dead. Has been for more than a century now.

He’d seen to that himself.

Seth’s parents were immigrants, would-be homesteaders in a countryside drenched in blood they were willing to overlook for the cheap promises of a government looking for labor. Then they were farmers. Farmers with shit luck in multiple regards: first in their curse of an eldest child, a sickly daydreamer with no stomach for the grisly aspects of tending livestock and no fortitude for planting crops, who spent good money on books and useless picture show tickets when it could have gone to food. Then in the fact that his mother got pregnant, again, far too late to save his parents’ marriage or for their struggling household to support more mouths.

But for a few years, the scrappy little family seemed to catch a break. For one blissful bubble after Isaac and Ezekiel were born healthy and hale, and there was a wheat boom in the wake of the first World War (the ‘Great War’, the war to end all wars, it had been called. So much for that.), it seemed like everything might just turn around. Father was strong, Mother was healthy, and Seth was set to inherit a thriving farm when it was his time. Seth hated every minute of it.

He wanted more. He was meant for more. He wanted to be one of the people from his childhood in the center of the three rings on his one and only visit to a circus, or someone in the glow of stage lights, on his brief ventures into the city for errands, or one of the ghostly faces on the giant shimmering screen in the lone little theater three towns over. The farm was the handcuffs he couldn’t manage to unlock, as easy as the traveling magicians made it look. He didn’t want younger brothers, or aging parents that clearly preferred them and not him, or the responsibilities of the supposedly cherished oldest son. He didn’t want to be born and die on the same plot of land, buried somewhere the cows could graze over for the rest of eternity, his name only ever meaning wasted potential. He’d tried to enlist for the Great War, tried to get sent abroad like other boys he knew. He was a little young, but he was tall for his age even then, and he almost - almost - got away to see the world.

But his father, a cheap bastard if he’d ever known one, had somehow scraped together enough money and their best cow to bribe the recruiters who came to town looking to look the other way. He wouldn’t dignify pretending it was done out of love, either. His father was a pragmatic man. He’d known that it was only ever about keeping enough labor for the farm, especially with his mother newly pregnant at the time.

His life as he knew it was only ever in service to those around him. Their choices defined his. It was enough to make any man see red, after so many years.

Then came what would be known to later generations as the Dust Bowl, and Seth’s world turned black.

The crops withered up, and so did the cows. Dirt swept through the skies in curtains so thick it blocked out the sun. There was no surface in the little ramshackle house that wasn’t covered in it by nightfall, no matter how much one swept or wiped or screamed. For years, it felt like his every breath was studded with grit. He had nightmares of being buried alive in the miserable barren plot that used to be the pasture.

Just when he thought he’d choke to death on it, his father beat him to the grave, leaving him and his fragile mother alone with his two boisterous brothers. He was the man of the house, now, and it made him want to claw off his own skin.

So much so, he thought it was worth trading someone else’s to escape. It’s no surprise that certain folklore has a habit of dispersing itself, even through a country as vast as this one was already. Tales whispered in half fear, half hope by the desperate circulate like much-needed storms, especially when those storms refuse to materialize.

It was Seth’s idea to go to the crossroads, but he let his mother think it was hers — a half-remembered story from the old country, rather than something strange he’d found in a book long forgotten under his bed. The little family trekked there together, walking the miles in shoes close to worn through, and only just reaching the nearest junction when his father’s cracked pocket watch read midnight.

Seth had been chosen to ask for the family’s salvation, for the ability to carry them all on for another year — he had the best English of the family, and what else would a demon speak in a land like this? But when something emerged from the darkness like it was a curtain, asking in a voice like smoke what he wanted…

Seth spoke up for himself, for the first time in his life.

He only felt a little bad when he saw what the demon did to his mother. But he couldn’t deny his own glee when he saw what happened to her precious twins. Before a quarter of an hour had passed, Seth could make fire appear at the tips of his fingers, could make coins appear from thin air. The things he could do would have caused his idol, Harry Houdini, to break into a nervous sweat. Everything he’d ever dreamed of as a lonely boy in the fields, he could do at his own merest whim.

Seth ditched his human name, and at the demon’s suggestion, adopted the surname of Sunday. “The Miraculous” had been his own touch. It was finally his turn to be the miracle he never was to his folks. And for decades, he was. He was beloved in the small towns he stopped in, his own traveling show, with a rotation of beautiful assistants at his beck and call over the years. Nothing was ever too good for him, he could dazzle his way into anywhere he wanted.

As long as he kept things square with They Who Provide, he was living the good life.

…But times have a habit of changing. As the world grew, magic - both real and sleight of hand - shank in its influence. For all his caustic nature, Seth Sunday was ill-equipped for a world that finally matched his inward cynicism. And what did They Who Provide need with some little nobody from the middle of nowhere, when they had entire established families, generations of magic, at their beck and call?

After decades of earning his keep by tying up his benefactors’ loose ends, Seth finally heard something very interesting: A whisper of a family down south that was refusing to hold up their end of their contract.

A family with power over Death itself.

…Well. If there was an open spot to fill, and no one there to fill it, Seth saw no reason he couldn’t throw his own metaphorical hat in the ring. After all, he has plenty of experience keeping demons satisfied. What’s three more names to add to his list of sacrifices?

There was always something to be said for reinventing oneself when your act was getting stale. He could see himself growing into “The Miraculous Master Lazarus” just fine.

[panic-flavored]

In a dangerous, dystopian world ruled by the tyrannical Federation, Stone is an ex-soldier rescued from death row only to be sold into slavery. Dr. Robotnik is the lead scientist for G.U.N.’s robotics division, forced to create weapons for a dictatorship that he hates. When the two of them are pulled together, they discover they may have a chance to bring down the Federation once and for all - though, falling in love was certainly never part of the plan.

[bookwyrminspiration]

every day I wake up and think about how alvar said Fitz is a cuddler <333

[tigereyes45]

For trektober 2023 Day 19, I decided to write a fix-it of one of my favorite star trek moments from Star Trek V, because Kirk deserves to get defensive over his boyfriends.

Summary:

This is a rewrite of the Sybok visions scene from Star Trek V, because Jim should have pulled Sybok off McCoy so he and Spock could comfort him.

Preview of story:

James turns away from him. He couldn’t care less what happened to that bastard. Quickly he closes the distance between himself and Bones. Jim makes sure to leave some space between their chest. He allows the good doctor room to breathe, to move, to flea if the need arises. Jim would allow him to do anything he needs. All those things if McCoy must. It was his right.

Carefully, with as much gentleness in his voice as he can muster without sounding fearful Jim whispers, “Bones?” He braces a palm against Leonard’s tear-stained, wet cheek. “Are you alright?”

Spock steps closer, blocking Sybok from McCoy’s view. “Leonard?” The vulcan sets a steady hand on Bones’ right left shoulder. Kirk continues to hold his right cheek. 

Jim leans in close. He bends down so his head looks up into McCoy's downcasted blue eyes. With worried eyes, he looks over his oldest friend’s face. The usual air of gaiety that surrounds Bones was gone. 

There was nothing but a frail sadness in his words. “Now you know.”

“Bones-”

“Yes,” Spock starts cutting off Jim’s superfluous appeasements. “now we do doctor.”

Bones falls forward. He holds out both arms, wrapping them right around Jim’s shoulders. He throws his full body weight into Jim’s embrace. Then buries his face as deep as he can within Jim’s neck.

Kirk brings his arms up from under McCoy’s own. He wraps them around the doctor’s back. In an attempt to offer up as much of his body heat as possible, Jim stretches his arms out to cover up all he can of McCoy’s back. He lays his head against Bones’. Cold tears run down his neck, tickling him slightly. Kirk tunes out the sensation and squeezes Bones’ body against him. Spock steps behind McCoy entirely. He places both of his hands on McCoy’s shaking shoulders. “We’re still here,” Jim whispers. He could feel Spock lean in, on top of his arms and McCoy’s back.

They weren’t going anywhere.

Still holding McCoy in his arms, Kirk looks back at Sybok from over his own shoulder. “What did you do?” If looks could kill he has no doubt that Sybok would’ve dropped dead. It was a rare thing, for his voice to sound murderous.

“I allowed him to heal.” Oh, the audacity. It did little more than flame the rage in Kirk’s heart. If it were not for Leonard in his arms James has no doubt that he would have strode right over a clocked that man right in the side of his head.

Instead, he grounds himself with his family. Spock, and McCoy. They needed him. So he satisfies himself with venomous words. “By making him relive that?”

[mysteroads]

World Building Post-War MHA, aka:

How Mr. Compress survives, thrives, steals all of AFO's money, and gives a big ol' "Fuck You!" to the heroes by doing a better job at saving people... All while staying classy. 😉

tltr: Mr. Compress steals AFO's money, creates a non-profit, names it all after the League to remind everyone why it's important and also to thumb his nose at the heroes.

So, mostly for my own edification, I started wondering what a Post-War MHA world would look like, and since MHA is a dystopia, how people would go about fixing the problems.

So, MHA dystopia can be described as: "Questioning the root of systemic issues brought about by a society grown both compliant *and* reliant on the protection of superheroes-- who have been elevated to celebrity/godlike status while ignoring 'Heroes' inherent humanity and all the flaws that come with being human-- while ignoring their own responsibilities as humans to help each other."

There's a reoccurring theme of Bystander Syndrome. Regular people growing compliant and being unwilling to step up to help their fellow man. Well, Post-War, I'm betting that's going to change, and that's where our boy Atsuhiro Sako can come in.

We all know Mr. Compress is going to survive. I really hope more members of the League do as well, but we know Atsuhiro Sako's going to make it. More than that, he's going jump headlong into making damn sure the past doesn't repeat itself, even if that means playing nice with the heroes (for awhile). There's going to be some sort of Villain Rehab program, or even a pardon/parole for the surviving LoV member(s). Sako's going to to be the perfect little ex-villain right up until his exit paperwork is processed.

And, since he was 1} in Tomura's inner circle, 2} he's clever enough to get Garaki to talk to him, and 3} he's an excellent thief... I'm going to assume he's smart enough to get the info he needs to access enough of AFO's accounts. 💸💸💸 And even if he's not, he's savvy enough to find the money somewhere.

I see Atsuhiro at the head of a Non-Profit Organization with several subsidiaries dedicated to different problems. Furthermore, as a unashamed former villain, I can see him naming the whole thing after the League... just to spite the heroes and remind everyone why he's doing what he's doing.😈 It's what his friends would've wanted.

The League for the Lost, and it's subsidiaries (colored for funsies):

Dabi’s Fire, for the campaign against domestic abuse and protection for the abused. 

Himiko’s Hope, assistance for so-called villainous and other maligned quirks, with a special emphasis on blood quirks and others with unique dietary requirements. 

Spinner’s Stories, support for mutation quirks and heteromorphs. 

Jin’s Friends, for free access to mental health resources. 

Big Sis’s House, safe spaces for queer youth and adults.

Tomura’s Soldiers, for the war against the trafficking of children with powerful quirks.

Honestly, this is probably the best way for the problems to be solved, and the best way to put AFO's ill gotten gains to good use. I mean, the money is there! It's going to be found eventually. Might as well use it to do whatever they can do to prevent a problem before it happens! And what better way to keep the memory of the League of Villains alive, get civilians involved in helping each other, and provide a warning for future generations-- than to put their names on Japan's biggest non-profit?

And, if he manages to piss off the old-school heroes and cops, while attracting the new generations, then that's just a bonus. 😎

If you made it this far, you are a most excellent person, a ✨gem✨ among readers!💖 And I want to hear from you! All... probably two, maybe three?... of you! What would you like to see from Post-War MHA? How would you fix the problems? Who from the LoV do you think's going to survive, and what are they going to do with themselves in the new world?

[profoundbondfanfic]

Mr. Fix It

Mr. Fix It by MittenWraith (@mittensmorgul) Rating: Mature Word count: 54k

When Dean opened up shop as Mr. Fix It, he never expected his biggest, slowest, and possibly most important project would be the quietly beguiling owner of the bar at the other end of the strip mall. Getting Steve to open up to him would prove tougher than hacking into the NSA. Five years after fleeing his corrupt family and starting life over as an unassuming bartender named Steve, Cas still regretfully maintained his policy of keeping everyone at arm's length-- most regretfully of all, Dean. It seems like a sound strategy for survival until his old life comes crashing through his front door. Are there any problems too big for Mr. Fix It to solve?

As part of the DeanCas Pinefest this year, this story certainly lives up to that genre with all of the glorious pining that tugs at our hearts but is also fluffy. It would be so easy for these two to just fall in love and be together as they are quickly smitten with each other. But unfortunately, Cas’ need for secrecy keeps Dean at arm’s length, and we’re drawn into the intrigue of Cas’ backstory that becomes a major plotline for this story. One of the aspects that I adored most was how Cas’ mall tenants, including Dean, became his found family. Charlie is truly a standout as Dean’s best friend, and you’ll appreciate Sam’s big brain for helping out Cas! Even though Dean and Cas on the surface seemed to be friends superficially, they actually form a deeper relationship that is eye opening, which Dean later realizes and warmed my heart. I was also invested in how Dean’s “Mr. Fix It” moniker would translate to more than fixing mechanical problems because Cas has the biggest problem of all.

The author writes so many memorable lines, such as, “He’s like that on the outside, but on the inside he’s a human marshmallow with a slightly crunchy core of abandonment issues.” I couldn’t help but laugh at this accurate description of Dean. For more lines like this and a truly intriguing but lovely story about Dean and Cas developing a friendship that leads to so much more, please give this a read and you won’t be disappointed!

[pleathewrites]

bellow the fire into my deadened lungs

chapter 3 excerpt — hawks' fantasy destroyed + the league's stories read full story here

When Keigo wakes, he is cold and alone, with only the lingering scent of smoke on an unused pillow.

On that pillow lies a note.

Keigo has to squint through Touya's cursive and parse through each word slowly. 

‘I’m sorry. You were right, I don’t want anyone to end up a martyr but I can’t wait any longer. There are too many people like us. I have no right to ask, but please — Don’t let them cover me up.’

Keigo's entire heart drops, ‘Asshole didn’t even sign this shitty note.’

He calls Shouto immediately, “Is Touya with you?”

“Hawks-san? No, he’s not. What happened?”

Keigo starts to sweat, “Did he say anything when you last saw him? Or seem off?”

“Off? Well… I took him to see our mom. He was emotional but — ”

Keigo’s mind strains to make any kind of connection — ‘I can’t wait any longer.’

“ — Shouto, did anyone say anything that might have made him upset? Angry?”

“Angry?” Shouto hums, seeming to think for a minute before, “Oh. Mom mentioned something. It was about the other patients she lives with... She said her circumstance wasn’t unique, that there are other women like her who were wrongfully put in the mental facility by their husbands.”

A lightbulb goes off in his head — ‘There are too many people like us.’

“Fuck.”

“Hawks-san, what is going on, why are you asking me these questions?”

Keigo sighs, “I think Dabi might have done something stupid — again. He’s gone, left his phone and everything.”

“Gone?” The worry is clear in Shouto’s voice, “... shit, just when I got him back...” Keigo thinks he wasn’t supposed to hear that part, the kid’s lowered tone suggesting that he’d been muttering to himself. Keigo's heart aches for the boy. Shouto speaks up again, this time very clearly to Keigo, “I’ll call Natsou, see if he might know something. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” 

“I’m still trying to figure it out. He left a note, saying he didn’t want anyone to be a martyr? So, I don’t think he’s coming after your dad. I’ll send you a picture, keep me updated. and tell me what Natsou says, alright?”

“Of course.”

Keigo hangs up, with his head heavy and his heart aching. 

Today wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to wake up warm, with white hair in his mouth and smoke on his chest. He was supposed to smooth his hand down a relaxed spine — coo and kiss and nuzzle until the breath on his chest hitched — wait until blue, blue, eyes blinked up at him, and he would finally, finally, be able to say, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Last night gave him hope. So much fucking hope. Keigo had finally felt at peace, felt right, felt like the universe was going to see how happy he was and give him a fucking break, throw down some miracles, and provide the missing pieces to this disastrous puzzle of a society. 

He feels like such a fool. 

There’s an ice under his skin not even the scalding water of his shower can thaw, leaving his body to shiver uncontrollably as steam visibly encloses him. 

When he catches sight of himself in the mirror, witnesses the purple-red marks that litter his body, proof of Touya’s existence, lingering evidence of his now-lost heart that’s disappeared to wherever Touya has, he wishes — for the first time in his life — that he was able to cry. 

‘It’s not fucking fair.’ — but life never is. 

He reads Touya’s note, over and over and over again.

He gasps when he catches it. 

Where his shower did little in easing his pain, it certainly cleared his mind. 

‘Don’t let them cover me up.’

There are only so many ways for this society to conceal heinous injustices to maintain its cherished public image.

He calls Shouto back, “I think I know where he is — ”

“ — I saw Aizawa-sensei leave in a suspicious hurry.”

They spoke at the same time, but Keigo heard every word Shouto had said. 

‘These damn Todorokis,’ He smirked.

“Meet me at the address I texted you.”

Which is how the duo ends up in the Pro-Hero-Authorized-Only interrogation room of the biggest federal police station in the city, standing in front of a very shocked Todoroki Touya and a very annoyed Aizawa Shouta.

Seeing the blackened baggage underneath Aizawa’s eyes makes Keigo put on his most genial smile, “Eraserhead-san… My apologies for intruding like this,” His hands come up in a friendly gesture before he claps them flat together, “I really need to talk to Dabi.”

“Hm. And what does my student have to do with this?”

“Don’t you already know, Sensei?” Shouto cuts in. 

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose, “You’re supposed to be in class.”

“I’m a hero, first and foremost. This is heroic business,” Shouto’s tone is flat and respectful, even though he damn well knows his words are not. 

Touya snorts, “Nice, Shou.” 

Shouto smiles, and Aizawa’s eyes widen slightly. 

And to everyone’s utter surprise, the underground hero actually gets up and walks to the door where Keigo and Shouto stand, “We need to have a talk, kid.” 

Aizawa puts a hand on Shouto’s shoulder and urges the boy to turn around and leave with him. Shouto does, easily so, but not without giving Keigo a meaningful stare — ‘fix this,’ it seems to say. 

Keigo swallows roughly. He doesn’t know if he can.

When he hears the metallic thud of the door closing, he sits down across from Touya and points an accusing finger at him, “You’re going to give me a complex. For the second time, you’ve done something outrageously self-sacrificial without telling a single soul about it!”

Keigo is well aware that Aizawa is listening in from the other side of the interrogation glass, but he figures nothing they say now will do more damage than Touya seems to be determined to do right now, in this fucking police station.

Touya gives him an empty stare, “It’s my life, Hawks.”

He fucking hates how Touya is calling him by his hero name, as if they aren’t completely beyond that — as if last night, the past three weeks, the past seven months never happened.  

It makes Keigo’s fist clench in frustration, “You’ve done this twice now,” He holds two fingers up and waves them around frantically, “Twice!”

The expression on Touya’s face is so neutral. Keigo has always hated how good the scarred man's poker face was. Sure — it was sexy and mysterious at first, made Keigo want things he’s never wanted before in his life, but now, it just feels like a giant glass wall, keeping Keigo out and away while being painfully reminded that Touya is so obviously here, real and tangible, but indefinitely unreachable. 

His deadpanned words cut at Keigo’s heart, “I told you. I don’t want to be kept.”

“Fuck you,” Keigo spits, “That is not what’s happening here.”

Touya remains silent, but his head hangs a bit with a hint of shame. 

Keigo sighs, reminded of who the man he’s fallen for is — a man who burdens himself with the weight of the world, trying to save everyone but himself. 

“I understand it’s your life. I know you have goals. But do I matter so little to you that you couldn’t even be bothered to give me a heads up?” 

No one else would be able to tell, but Keigo sees the guilt shine in Touya’s eyes when he looks up at Keigo. 

“... I’ve never been good at saying goodbye.” 

Keigo’s fist thumps on the table, “This is not goodbye,” The desperation in his voice cracks in his throat. 

Touya smiles sadly, “Isn’t it?”

Keigo leans back. He wants so desperately to pull the other man in his arms, beg him to come back home, to let Keigo make tea for him and swaddle him up in a dozen blankets because this room is so fucking cold and, ‘Gods, did Touya even eat anything before coming here?’

The axiomatic impossibility of his desires hits him hard, and he can’t help but laugh bitterly, “Gods, right when I thought we could finally…” 

Touya’s voice is small, “That was a fantasy, Hawks.” 

It hurts.

A smile of sorrow pulls wobbly at Keigo’s lips, “Did you have to shatter it so soon?” 

Touya bows his head and closes his eyes. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and the tension in the air weighs so heavily on Keigo’s shoulders, feels like its density is going to push him until he’s nothing but flaps of skin and ground bone smeared across the floor.

“How’d you figure out I was here?”

“Your note,” Keigo mentally begs Touya to look back up at him, to stop staring holes in the table and face him, “What’s your plan here, man?”

“Honestly?” Touya finally looks up, a sad smirk on his face, “I’m just wingin’ it.”

Touya doesn’t expand, and the illusion of privacy crumbles when Aizawa walks back in. Keigo uses his hand to wipe the sadness off his face while Touya clears his throat.

“So, you two are clearly close,” The underground hero sits down, “Care to explain how?” 

Aizawa’s stare bores into Keigo with heavy accusation. 

“I was assigned by the Commission to infiltrate the League,” Keigo explains, “Dabi was my contact. And then he was more.”

“Hawks,” Touya grounds out in warning. 

His tone is angry, but Keigo sees fear in those blue eyes and he thinks he’s starting to understand why Touya had tried to do this on his own. 

“I told you, Dabs,” He smiles at him, “I’m on your side.”

Touya’s mouth slightly gapes. 

“Hawks-san?”

Keigo raises his chin at the underground hero, making sure to look tall and undoubtable, “Dabi is a criminal, but he’s a good man. I think it’s worth hearing him out. I don’t know if I can fully condone his actions, but I believe our society has deeply wronged him and pushed him to this point. His actions have been criminal, but his end goal isn’t so different from ours — a better world.”

Aizawa tilts his head, “So, is that his excuse?”

“Nah, I ain’t using anything as an ‘excuse’,” Touya cuts in, clearly irritated both at Aizawa’s choice of words and being spoken about in the third person, “Excuses are for cowards who don’t wanna get caught in their own shit. I own up to all of it. I confess.” 

“Dabi, stop it — ” Keigo panics, ‘we still have to be careful what we say,’ he tries to telepathically communicate to the prideful idiot. 

“ — No, no!” Touya, obviously, doesn’t listen, “I’m not anything like him. Yeah, I’ve done horrible things, because, in this world, the ends justify the means. Right, Hawks?” 

Touya turns to Keigo, heated and on a roll, “Your hero society is the same way, your Commission — fuckin’ killed a man just to get me to like ya! What’s the difference between you ‘n us? I’ll tell you right now — it ain’t morals.”

Touya points at Aizawa, “The difference is that you guys cover it up,” and waves his finger at the interrogation window where, no doubt, other police officers observe this conversation, “The difference is that you were supposed to protect us from people like him. And instead, well, you made him the fucking Symbol of Peace — ha! And then you point your fingers at us, throw us away, just so you don’t have to admit that you failed us. We were all fuckin’ kids at some point!”

Blue eyes land back on Keigo, “We told you our stories, Hawks. You told us yours. To me, they both sound like the same fuckin’ story.” 

And at that moment, Keigo recalls their stories.

[ My great-great-grandfather stole from the rich to give to the poor — he flipped the script, I guess. The heroes called him a villain and the village people called him a hero. ‘Hero’ and ‘villain’ — I often think to myself, either those two words mean so much more than the definition originally assigned to them, or they don’t mean anything at all.

I look like an animal, and I guess because of that, people thought it was okay to treat me like one. Guess that also says a lot about how humans view animals — lower than, controllable, as if every species on this planet hasn’t been here longer than humankind. It didn’t matter if I was starving or scared or just wanted to go for a fuckin’ walk in my own neighborhood — people took one look at me and decided it was alright to spit and piss and kick me around. I hate that I’m part human — I think they’re the most vicious creatures on this Earth, humans. Do you understand me, on some level, even with your human face — d’you get what I mean?

My parents died when I wasn’t ready to lose them — we don’t need ‘em! It was actually a villain attack — ain’t that ironic? That I’d be part of the most notorious villain organization in the country. But, for me, I don’t think it’s ever been about villainy — I love being a villain! Man, this is the only place I’ve ever been accepted, broken brain ‘n all. These guys are the only people who’ve ever treated me with kindness, as their equal — I hate these brats! They’re so annoying, always eating our food. I figure… If I was able to find such a family within a quote-unquote ‘villainous’ crowd, there have to be others who will, too. Maybe, in the end, we can give them a home — fuck everyone else, this family is mine. They can’t have ‘em!

I just want to live. I want to go to school and have cute crushes and make lots of cute friends and chase all the cute birds I want — sorry, mice, heh. I didn’t ask for this quirk. I’m sorry that other people can’t taste how good the blood of a loved one is, that they don’t understand the devotion of wearing their skin. They don’t have to get it, but… I’ll never forget the look on my parents' faces. Y’know, Hawsky, I went back home — that night, even with the police chasing me. Every single photo of me was smashed. My mother wouldn’t stop crying. She kept asking the Gods, ‘Why? Why did you curse me with such a monster?’ — How could she say something like that! I didn’t even kill him. Geeze, it was just a taste — he wanted to see my quirk in the first place! 

I walked around the city for days, with blood on my hands and old bruises on my body. No one stopped to ask if I was okay. Not a single hero saved me. Broken kids on the street are just that common, so much that so one even bats an eye. Have you ever passed by a homeless child, Number Two? ]

“Ah, so reform is your goal. Why the chaos then?” Aizawa demands.

“Reform?” Touya scoffs, tired and resigned, “How many times do you think the system has been reformed? How many more people will have to suffer until you get it right?”

There is no answer to that.

Touya rolls his eyes, “But whatever, sure, if my confession is what you all need to get the ball movin’, I’ll confess. But I came here with the intention of reporting a crime. And like I said, I wanna make a deal.”

Keigo narrows his eyes, stunned at the reveal of Touya’s apparent plan.  

Aizawa raises a brow, “Go on.”

“Give me the deal I want and I’ll give you everything. If you refuse, well, I have people in position to expose every single dirty secret your Commission has covered up, including the creation of the infamous-me,” Touya dramatically waves a hand to his scarred face, and Keigo mentally scoffs — ‘always the peacock’. “No negotiations. Spare the original League members — ”

“ — and skin grafts!” Keigo hurriedly cuts in, “The good kind, expensive, with the stem cells and shit. Oh, and artificial tear ducts, the type the Commission wanted to put in me.”

Keigo sees the upper corner of Touya’s lips slightly quirked up.

Touya might not be able to visualize a life for himself after this, but that's okay because Keigo will do it for him.

“Change is happening, whether you like it or not. I’m offering you an opportunity to get ahead of it.”

Aizawa gets up from his seat and walks to the door, “I need to think.”

Keigo’s smallest feather wiggles itself discreetly under Aizawa’s wraps and picks up the vibrations of the underground hero making a phone call.

“Yagi-san, I need your help. Come down to the main station. Now. Be discreet.”  

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*insert That One guitar riff whenever these two show up*

[More under the cut]

I am absolutely normal about them and it's a darn SHAME there isn't as much fanart of them as there could've been. I mean, they're two steps away from being adopted into somewhat of golden retrievers!

Anyways! All of these drawings feature Grave for a simple reason: they're a part of a fix-it idea, where he begins to attend Richmond High for education reasons. And due to his connections with Elmore Junoir High, he has a secretive goal of bringing the school down from the inside - whatever that means. In the process, he manages to befriend Carlton and Troy. Shenanigans ensue (like trying to knock a book out of the tree branches with a shoe).

Also I have transed Carlton's gender. She's a she/her now. Because I can