#the world did in fact get a little bigger a little meaner

[kickthepebble]

um first and last episodes of juno steel season 3 / change

juno steel and the man in glass

juno steel and what lies beyond part 2

sasha’s decisions were easier when she could rely on the comforting notion that her childhood friend was someone she had to grow out of instead of someone she could grow with

[bogleech]

here are vaguely scientifically feasible animals I would retroactively add to the world:

Nasty awful slimy fish that take huge ghastly bites out of people, like a cookie cutter shark, but they like the shore so they’d end up keeping beaches more pristine and untouched by tourists. Let’s also put them in some freshwater places.

Huge salamanders that will eat you if you set foot in the swamp, like they’re way way more actively aggressive than crocodilians, but they make way more eggs than they even need and the eggs are so delicious we just throw up our hands and leave most of the wetlands alone for them.

Did you know sloths not only have those moths but just way more ticks and parasites than most other mammals? There should be a big giant smelly wretched ground sloth that defends itself by having just so many fleas and lice you can’t go anywhere near it without getting eaten alive. I want this one specifically in North American forests and it loves eating trash so urban sprawl only makes more of them.

A tiny barely visible gnat with an exceedingly painful bite that’s resistant to basically all poison and what it likes to lay eggs in is cut grass.

A big snail like the african land snails but it’s on every continent and its shell is much thicker with very long very sharp spikes. Mainly the idea here is it would fuck up cars all the time, if we even bothered to invent cars the same way with all these snails everywhere.

I showed you guys those giant sea worms the other day that look like intestines and swallow whole huge fish, the giant nemertean worms, well some smaller nemertean worms have a sting that can fuck you up, and some even smaller ones have no sting but live on land. Let’s put one of the giant kinds on land and give it the sting, a real Mongolian Death Worm. No reason, just making life spicier.

A whale that really does like to wreck boats and eat everybody on board like the old stories, but maybe it makes enormous amounts of ambergris, just barfs all day and it’s so useful to us as fuel or something that we begrudgingly have to let it be and global colonialism just has to be slower and more tedious because of all the vicious pukewhales.

House roaches but they light up in the dark. I’ve said this one before in a similar post but I just think it’d be great if someone’s house could be totally infested with glowing things. We would probably like them or make use of them but could you imagine trying to sleep with them running up and down the walls all night? Ha ha

A bird as abundant as the passenger pigeons used to be except that if it dies before old age it releases LARGE amounts of something similar to Thioacetone. That’s a chemical so rancid that one little vial can make several blocks of people sick! No predators would mess with this bird and there’d just be nothing we could do about it, except forever make sure the environment is as healthy for it as possible cause if like ten of them died from pesticide we’d have to evacuate a small state.

Freshwater giant starfish that float around on the water’s surface and don’t do much but they’re covered in deadly stingers, like a flower urchin. I choose starfish because we wouldn’t be able to easily kill them without making more. They would just make it a lot harder for people to mess around carelessly in nice rivers and lakes, I think. Make these also resistant to poison. In fact make them filter feeders that would easily clean up pollutants.

Even bigger even meaner hornets than the Japanese ones but they’re herbivores that live in careful balance with the trees they nest in, which are most of the trees. Most of the trees in the whole world just have a nest of gigantic hornets that will not hurt anything else, but if you were to, say, cut down or burn a tree, they would be pretty mad.

Bigger and even smarter ravens, like harpy eagle size, really remember your face if you're mean to them and they always tell all the other ones. Can mess you up themselves but maybe they go get one of those starfish and drop it on you.

EDITED TO ADD: you all thought the twelve legged sea spider was scary, well I’m gonna put one on land that gets 24 legs and it is as fast as lightning and also it sucks people’s blood if it catches them asleep. Because it’s so thin it could probably be pretty massive like some of those big giant stick insects. It’s not deadly or anything it’d just look cool and keep people on their toes. I would keep one so you could all say things like “ewwww just get a dog!!” No.

[junosteelyourgirl]

tpp (junoverse) quotes that make me absolutely lose my shit - part one

"it feels like you can fix the whole damn galaxy with someone looking at you that way." - juno steel

"but when you get hurt by the big, mean world, you lick your wounds and you start over. the world gets a little bigger, a little meaner. maybe you do, too. and in the meantime, sleep. sleep and the smell of peter nureyev in the air. it would take weeks for that smell to fade. i've missed it ever since." - juno steel

"as bad as you feel, as much as you want to get punished for some stupid game you played when you were thirteen years old, guess what? this is the real punishment. living with it. it's not theatrical. it's not glamorous. it's not even satisfying. but it's what you're stuck with, so deal with it. alright?" - sasha wire

"well, i know the first step to changing is to admit you have a problem. only trouble is, nobody ever told me step two." - juno steel

"yeah, sure, the world is busted; but what we did to annie, that's not what busted it. it was broken before we got here. and it'd be a whole lot more broken without you around." - mick mercury

"if you won't do it for you, do it for me. suck it up, ask for help, and live, you jerk." - mick mercury

"you make me feel like...like maybe it's all worth it. like maybe there's something out there worth seeing." - juno steel

"and sometimes, when the whole thing feels like too much, it's tempting to lie down and let all of the other runners trample you. but i can't. so instead, i take my lumps. the world gets a little bigger, a little meaner. maybe i did, too. my name's juno steel. i'm a private eye, and this is my city. i'm not proud of it, but that doesn't mean it's not worth saving." - juno steel

"i took a seat on the bench. i didn't feel good, but that didn't matter. feeling good isn't the point. doing good...that's what i'm about. that's all that matters." - juno steel

"no, you are definitely not 'some selfless.' your delight at throwing yourself into harm's way implies more self-loathing than self-sacrifice. great heroes risk great things. you risk only yourself, and as far as you're concerned, that's very little on the line." - ramses o'flaherty

"because you can romanticize the past all you want; put it in a nice case with a tasteful little plaque next to it, but the fact is, that the book of time is written in blood. elections, colonization, policework... you don't get the fancy statues and the pretty maps without dropping a few bodies along the way. which isn't to say those people deserved to die, or that their killers deserved to live. just, that history is only written by those who live long enough to write it." - juno steel

"but damn it, life isn't just some story, okay? death and suffering are not impressive. dying's easy: you've only got to do it once. you can never stop surviving. you've got to get up and do it all day, every day. that's what's hard." - alessanda strong

"you never get to stop. no matter how tired you are, how confused. you've just got to keep living...and you've got to have faith that, eventually, you'll be glad you did." - juno steel

[babbushka]

Hello my beautiful friend! I’m super emo about the “I’ve loved you all my life” from the friends to lovers list. Just picturing Clyde saying that to me? I’m dead. Love you so much! ✨❤️

11, The thought of Clyde coming in home sweaty during the summer after a hard day, his hair tied up, exhausted and needy?? PLEASEE 🧎‍♀️

(2.1k, fluff & NSFW (handjobs, fingering, come-shot, messy sloppy sweaty outdoor semi-nudity/indecent exposure lol)

When Clyde’s heavy footfalls creak onto the front porch, you have to throw a concerned glance at the clock hangin’ up on the wall. He’s ain’t even been here for an hour, you had just put down the big tray of ice cold lemonade and fresh made sandwiches, surely he can’t be leavin’ already?

You turn to look at him when he pats one of the support beams of your porch, and your heart races, because no no no, you’d just started to settle in and watch him cut your lawn, watch him get all sweaty and glistening in the sun, you don’t want him to go yet.

“All finished darlin’.” His deep voice is shy as he pulls the trucker cap off his head, runs his fingers through his hair. He’s smilin’, and you don’t know why, when him bein’ finished means he’s leavin’.

“Wait really? Already?” You protest just about right away, and that smile only grows wider, more confident. It’s a good look on him, on Clyde, a real good look.

“It’s real hot out there today, I figured I’d finish up quick as I can so…” Clyde shrugs, looks away and scratches the back of his neck.

“So?” You encourage, unprepared for the heat behind his eyes when he replies,

“So I could come over here and be with you.”

Clyde has been mowin’ your lawn ever since y’all were teenagers. You two were childhood best friends and you’re pretty sure that Clyde’s the only boy you’ve ever held onto after all these years. All the other ones turned into asshole preteens and even meaner adults, so slowly one by one you cut them out of your life, blamin’ growin’ apart. You and Clyde never grew apart, and in fact, the years have been good to y’all, made you grow together instead.

It’s been about fifteen years since he started comin’ over on Sunday mornings, strikin’ up a deal with your folks to mow your lawn for some honest cash. Especially after the stint in juvie, Clyde felt it was the most important thing in the world to prove to them he was a decent man, one worthy of spendin’ your time with.

Even when you moved out of your parents’ house and got a little home of your own – a home closer to Clyde’s own trailer no less – he kept comin’ to cut your lawn. He stopped acceptin’ your money, and instead traded that for payment of lunch.

But recently…he ain’t even been eatin’ your lunch. Just a glass of lemonade and then back home he would go, these past few weeks. It had started to break your heart, why he was actin’ so strange, so distant. Clyde ain’t distant now, not with how he’s standing on your porch.

“You look thirsty.” You swallow around a suddenly dry throat of your own, blinkin’ real fast when he clears his throat and nods.

“I’m parched, baby.” Clyde replies, and something, something about that does something to you. It gets your hopes up, gets your heart racin’, because he’d called you a lot of thing over the years, but never that.

“Call me baby again.” You say, standin’ up from the porch swing, taking a step closer to him.

Clyde follows you, takes the invitation and strides across the porch until he’s merely inches from your face.

“Baby,” Clyde presses his good hand up to your cheek, rubs his thumb along the ridge of your cheekbone, “Baby girl. You’re so beautiful.”

“Am I dreamin’?” You blurt out, but Clyde only chuckles, the most handsome sound in the world.

He kisses you, instead of answering.

You had thought a million times, about what it would be like to kiss Clyde, and none of them ever could’ve amounted up to this; to the sweet salty tang of sweat on his tongue, his goatee soaked through and scratching against your smile, his eyelashes brushing against your cheek where his eyes are closed, his arms wrapped around you tight.

He makes the softest sweetest sounds when he kisses you, grunts and groans low in his throat as he backs you up up up against the wall of your house. Your arms have wound themselves around his neck, and you could cry – maybe you are crying – because if this is a dream, well it’s one you don’t ever want to wake up from.

“Touch me.” You demand, because you’ve wanted to say it for so long, and he’s quick, so quick to oblige.

Clyde hikes up your breezy skirt enough so that he can shove his hand underneath your panties, and he groans when he finds your pussy already slick, already wet and wantin’ him. Of course it wanted him, all of you did, have been for the past however many years you’ve been pinin’ for him.

One of your legs immediately lifts to hook around his waist, and he swallows your moans when those fingers of his wriggle between your folds and push up into your cunt, your head thudding back against the wall. He sucks on the expanse of your throat, bites and bruises it.  

“Ah – ah, Clyde, oh that feels good.” You breathe, careful not to be too loud. You’re outside, right there on the front porch, and even though you got some pretty trees to shade the house and give some cover, ain’t nothin’ was there to stop the noises y’all made.

“Damn darlin’, I wish…wish I had both hands to touch ya with.” Clyde kisses you with a frown, his hips rutting against your thigh.

“That’s okay, shh, it’s okay let me, can I…?” You don’t even think about it before you’re poppin’ open the buttons on his jeans, wantin’ to get your hands on him the same way you’ve imagined every night.

Clyde nods, so eager, lickin’ his lips and suckin’ the sweat off your cheek when it rolls down to your jaw. You pull out his cock and damn it’s big, even bigger than you imagined, you feel dizzy, feel overheated, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

Spitting into your palm, you slick up his cock and stroke him up and down up and down, firm grip twisting right at the head and makin’ his knees buckle. He braces himself against you, moves his fingers in time with yours, rubs lazy circles at your clit and crooks three of his huge fingers inside you, searchin’ for that spot he knows will make you come.

“That’s real good baby, y-you can go faster if you’d like.” Clyde kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, and you gasp and moan and sigh around his tongue, mindful of the noise, but consumed with pleasure. He’s smelly, covered in bits of grass and sweat, and you wouldn’t trade it for anythin’ in the whole world.

“I’m burnin’ up in this thing Clyde I-I’m gonna take it off.” You pant, your blouse stiflin’ from the lack of breeze.

Clyde does pause then, making you whine loud enough for him to smile at you and keep goin’ real slow.

“Out here?” He asks, lookin’ around. The big trees block the view from the neighbors, but that don’t mean no one could drive by, or walk their dogs, or or or --

“Uh-huh, would you like that? Wanna see my tits in the sunshine?” You bite your lip, bat your lashes at him, wantin’ him so desperately. You don’t know if a chance like this will ever come again, you don’t know when you’ll wake up from this dream, you want to take advantage of it while it’s here.

“Anyone could see, anyone could look and see you.” Clyde nods anyway, and his eyes go wide as dinner plates when you swiftly undo all the little buttons, down to where your blouse is tucked into the skirt that Clyde’s got his hand shoved up under. Your bra is front-claspin’, and you undo that too, until your breasts are exposed fully for him.

“Then you’re gonna have to cover me big bear, cover me – yes!” Your eyes fall shut and your mouth drops open, grindin’ your hips down onto his hand.

“Ohh fuck,” Clyde’s fingers up your pussy fuck you a little harder, a little faster, and you grin, wrappin’ your hand around his cock once again and matching his rhythm stroke for stroke.

You’re both so sweaty that you have to constantly readjust yourselves against the wall of your house so that you don’t go slippin’ and slidin’ down. Clyde looks like he’s almost in pain, so overwhelmed with the way you feel, how your pussy clenches and drips and drools all over his hand, his wrist.

He sucks and kisses at your breasts, licks up the sweat that runs between them, your nipples so sensitive and stiff when he tugs them between his teeth. You want him to fuck you properly, want him to shove that cock of his into your pussy and fuck you on the wooden floor of the porch right there, but he grunts and sighs and groans, pressin’ his body as close against yours as he can.

“I’m gonna come,” He whines, not wantin’ it to be over just as much as you, not wantin’ this to end.

“On me, I want it on me, all over. Please give it to me, please?” You beg, soft gentle whimpers as you hike your leg up higher higher higher, until it’s slung over his shoulder, your body stretched out all over.

He nods frantically, before he lets out a shaky moan and paints your tits with his come. It’s hot and sticky, landing on your skin in thick ropes. Your hand that isn’t around his cock leaves Clyde’s hair and rubs through it, smears it into your flesh, across your stomach, over your tits. He has a big load, comes some more, it hits your chin, and you swipe it up with your fingers, sucking the taste of it away.

“A-are you close?” Clyde blinks the sweat out of his eyes, rubs harder, faster, thrusts and presses and pinches and rolls and your lids are snappin’ open just in time to watch him stare love-sick at you, big brown eyes.

“Yes, yes I’m – oh I’m – !!” You come and it feels like your body is on fire, a hot wire snapped up, pulled real taut, before you’re meltin’ into his arms, chest heavin’, pantin’ out words that you never thought you’d get to say in a million years, “I love you, Clyde – fuck I love you!”

All at once, he goes real still.

“What?” Clyde blinks, lookin’ like he’s been struck by lightnin’.

He carefully, gently, lowers the leg that’s been thrown over his shoulder.

“I’ve loved you all my life.” You’re still blissed out, still on cloud nine, have no qualms about bein’ truthful, not with your Clyde, not when now you ain’t so sure this isn’t a dream. “Surely…well surely you knew that.”

“I…no I – ” He stammers and stutters and the cold drip of rejection begins to fill you with dread.

“Shit, I’m sorry I – ” You’re painfully aware of the way you’re both standin’ there on your front porch, your tits out and his dick out, covered in come and sweat and you feel like you’ve just royally monumentally ruined everythin’, until he looks at you.

Really looks at you.

“I love you too.” Clyde confesses, and suddenly it’s as if all the fear in the world leaves at once.

“You do?” You whisper, searchin’ his gaze and findin’ only honesty.

Clyde smiles, one of those rare smiles o’his, and tucks your blouse back into place, puts his dick away and buttons himself up.

“Why d’ya think I kept agreein’ to cut your lawn?” Clyde asks softly, so quietly, and you’re slammed with the realization that maybe…maybe he’s loved you for just as long.

“Thought I made real good lemonade, that’s all.” You reply, and the two of you laugh, because damn, how could love make y’all so blind? With the glow of orgasm fading, and the reality of this bein’ real life setting in, you reach for Clyde’s hand askin’, “What do you suppose we do now?”

“I don’t know about you darlin’, but I’m in sore need of a shower.” He says, smilin’ at you and makin’ you smile right back, before squeezin’ your hand and sighin’ real content-like, “And after that…let me love on you some more, and make up for lost time.”

You kiss him, and he kisses you back, until you’re pullin’ him into your house and up through to your bathroom, more glad than you’ve ever been that he finished cuttin’ your lawn early.

[fictionalabyss]

I’m the only Alpha here.

Pairings : Alpha!Winchesters x Rogue!Reader, Gadreel x Reader (hinted at)

Word count : 1,082

Written for : @spnabobingo​​

Square : Pet play

Warning : Pack style. being help prisoner mentioned, death mentioned, threats, animal forms, pet play (non-sexual in the fic but hinted at more behind the scenes)​

Masterlist • Patreon • Ko-fi.

SPN A/B/O Bingo Round 5 Masterlist.

He doesn’t know how it happened. How he lost. He was one of the strongest Alpha’s, his pack one of the largest, his members disciplined. How the fuck had he lost to rogues? Their leader had to be big, strong, and very smart to have managed this. He’s glaring down at the stone floor, wracking his brain, trying to figure out a way out of this, not just for him but for his whole pack. How many were dead? Had word gotten to his brother in time?

The door opens and he squints as light floods in. He can just barely make out the shape of a man in the doorway, his build taking up the whole frame before he steps in, reaches down and yanks Sam to his feet. Sam growls at him, baring his teeth ready to fight, but gets a face full of metal door for his efforts, before being yanked back and dragged along. The man pulling him is almost as big as he is, maybe an inch shorter at the most, and almost just as built. Maybe he was the man in charge. “Where are we going?” He spits out the blood in his mouth onto the floor without missing a step. No answer comes, his journey just gets a little rougher as he gets banged against frames he passed through. If this asshole isn’t in charge, Sam’s about to meet someone bigger and meaner. He’s sure of it now, because he’s being brought up towards his office.

The door opened, and Sam was roughly shoved inside. “Watch it.” he growled, once he got his footing steady again.

“Fuck you.” came the response from behind him, the first words Sam’s heard since he was shoved down into his own dungeon and left there for hours.

Based on a cursory glance, and what he could smell, the room was empty other than him and this asshole. Sam had to stop himself from baring his teeth again. He couldn’t let his anger take over, not yet. “Where’s Gabriel?” he demanded. He hadn’t smelt him down in the dungeons, which told him he hadn’t been put down there like Sam. And he’d never believe Gabriel to be working with the enemy. “Where’s-”

“Dead.” Sam’s head snapped around towards the voice. His large leather chair turned so the back was no longer facing him. “I had no use for a Beta.”  Sam growled, eyes going dark with rage as his lip curled and his fangs elongated. “Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Samuel.” you wagged a finger at him. “Unless you want me breaking more of your nice things.”

“It’s Sam.” he spat. “Alpha, to the likes of you.”

You laughed at that, head going back. “Oh honey, don’t you see?” you smiled, biting your bottom lip lightly for a moment as your head came back down to meet his glare. “I’m the only Alpha here.”

“You’re just a piece of shit rogue.” he spat.

“Funny, I don’t smell like shit. I smell pretty nice, actually. Oh, right, you can’t smell me right now.” you smiled at him. “Would you like me to change that? I hear it's a good scent, drives all the boys crazy. Doesn’t it, Gadreel?” You looked at the man behind Sam with a seductive smirk.

“Why can’t I scent you?” The fact that he hadn’t known you were in the room when he entered unnerved him.  No one had been able to surprise him yet, not until now.

“Couldn’t have you smelling me coming, could I?” Your eyes were back on him as you kicked your feet up onto his desk. “Not until I was ready for you to know.”

“Magic?” You just continued to smile almost sweetly at him. “Doesn’t fucking matter. Whatever you think you have here, it won’t last.”

“Oh, no? Why not?” You watched as he almost smirked at the confused and anxious look you gave him. “Oh! Right! Big brother.” you smiled and his smirk fell. “Gadreel. Bring me my latest pet, please.”

“Yes, Alpha.” Gadreel bowed to you before shooting the back of Sam’s head a glare, then left the room, door shutting behind him. Sam’s eyes narrowed as he kept his eyes on you, trying to figure out what you were pulling. There was a few minutes of silence, him glaring at you while you looked around his office as if you had not a care or worry in the world. Then the door opened again. “Alpha, your pet.”

“Thank you, Gadreel.” You smiled, feet coming down off the desk before standing. You waved him closer as you made your way around his large oak desk.

Sam turned his head, to see what Gadreel had brought, but before he even laid eyes on his brother’s wolf, he smelt him. “Dean?” he couldn’t stop the panic from hitting his voice.

“You see, Sammy,” you smiled at the pet name his brother had given him as a child as you reached out for the leash in Gadreel’s hand, “I paid big brother a visit before I came here. Sit.” At the command, Dean stopped and sat back on his haunches.

“Let him go.” Your eyes left Dean and came up to see Sam moving forward, his muscles tense like he was ready to shift any second. “LET HIM GO!”

“Ah” you put a finger up to stop him, but it was your grip tightening on the leash that Sam felt was the real threat. “No.” Your eyes stayed on Sam, but your next command was for Dean again. “Shift.”

He felt helpless as he heard Dean’s bones crack and snap, golden brown fur fading away to soft light brown hair and scarred skin. “How did I not hear about it?”

“The same way no one heard about the others, and no one will hear about what happened here. I don’t let anyone leave. No messages, no runners. You submit or you get broken.”

“M-my brother?”

You smiled, and cupped Dean’s chin, making him look up at you. “He was happy to submit. Weren’t you, my pet.” Dean nodded. “Speak.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

“What a good boy.” you smiled, your hand leaving his chin to run through his hair. Dean’s eyes closed as he reveled in the touch. “You see, Sam, every pack I take over, I make the Alpha my pet.” your eyes came up to meet his. “Will you submit, Samuel? Or will I be forced to break you?”

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Tagging :  Sam -  @evyiione​  @hoboal87​

Dean - @akshi8278  @adoptdontshoppets   @evyiione @karikatz12481 @idksupernatural  @deandreamernp​

SPN -  @sandlee44​  @just-another-busy-fangirl​  @mrswhozeewhatsis​   @deanandsamsbitch​  @deans-baby-momma​  @thebescht​ @67-chevy-baby​ @supraveng​   @musiclovinchic93​ @holyfuckloueh​  @ksgeekgirl​   @hobby27​ @maddiepants​  @roxyspearing​ @onethirstyunicorn​    @fandom-princess-forevermore​     @kalesrebellion​   @deanwanddamons​   @thoughts-and-funnies​

All tags - @sorenmarie87​ @artemisthebadger​ @winchesterprincessbride​ @iflostreturntosteverogers​ @akfonkin​ @rebelminxy​ @foxyjwls007​ @onethirstyunicorn​ @shaelyn102​ @supernaturalenchanted​  @kazkingdom​   @babypink224221​  @emoryhemsworth​    @ilovefanfic86​  @pie-with-hunters​   @anaelsbrunette​   @feelmyroarrrr​  @letsdisneythings​   @cdwmtjb8​   @notyourtypicalrose​ @xostephanie​ @ilovedeanspie​ @defenderrosetyler​ @amandamdiehl​

[stunojeel]

Juno Steel quotes that make me cry every time

"It feels like you can fix the whole damn galaxy with someone looking at you that way."

"It was a kiss that feels like it's gonna last the rest of your life. Until it's over then you know you got as much as you deserved."

"All civilization ever was and is, is a group of people who are smart enough not to say what they're thinking."

"In a galaxy like this, you think I should be okay?!"

"I wanted to out-run the end of the world with this man because finally, I trusted Peter Nureyev. I wanted to keep trusting him but odds are, a thousand to one, that he'd be dead this time tomorrow. They say half of comedy is timing and boy did I pick out a great time for my punchline."

"Don't give up on me... We'll make it through."

"Those eyes... even in this cave, underground, they were so bright. How the hell did he do it? Stay so bright through all of this?"

"And I know he'll be back because I know one more thing about Peter Nureyev; I make him feel a hell of a lot too."

"Do you know how much of life is just nothing? Just the quiet moments of killing time between big things? You can't get from ceremony to ceremony or murder to murder without things between where you fall asleep on the couch and eat soup for dinner."

"Think of me as the price tag, Nureyev. A free shot at the new world."

"You're the greatest thing that's ever happened to me... Wow, that's a load off. And it's true. You make me feel like maybe it's all worth it. Like maybe there's something out there worth seeing."

"It was... Nice. It was like nothing else, just like Peter Nureyev."

"Yknow Juno, call me a fool if you like but I think I may have fallen in love with you."

"The world gets a little bigger, a little meaner... Maybe I did too."

"I'm not proud of it but that doesn't mean its not worth saving. And hell, it's not like I had anywhere better to go."

"It didn't feel good but that didn't matter. Feeling good wasn't the point. Doing good, that's what I'm for. Thats all that matters.

"Your behaviour... Its more self-loathing than self-sacrificing."

"A little is worth a lot, a lot is worth a little and inevitably you've got too damn much of what you don't want and none of what you need."

"I have a hard time trusting people who don't know how to name themselves."

"But that means that evil is sometimes just someone trying to prove to the world that they mean something. or trying to prove it to themselves, maybe."

"Her needs or moods or whatever you want to dance around and call it, the fact is she dealt with them for years and one day she stopped trying! Sarah Steel gave up! It was her fault and its a good dang thing she's dead because her mistake made a lot of misery for a lot of people!"

"Dying is easy, you've only got to do it once. You can never stop surviving. You've got to get up and do it all day, every day. That's what hard."

"I'm proud of you for surviving, that's the hardest thing there is."

[palbabor-writes]

Yōkai

Hawks Week 2020 - Prompt: Horror Tales

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

Word Count: 9403

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

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

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

Yōkai

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It pisses Hawks off.

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

It’s the state of the bodies. 

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

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

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

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

“Uh, yeah, a bad age they say.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a confirmed connection. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looks like rain. 

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hawks takes the photo back. Did he miss something? 

“What about him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That takes time. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that?”

“Is it a gull?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh? Did he say a crow?”

“Oh, damn, that’s a sign of death.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

Oh, they have something alright. 

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

It’s fucking weird. 

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

“I got a call from her.”

“From the victim, your sister?”

“Yeah, it came in at 4:49 am.”

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

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

“She screamed at you?”

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

“Do you have your phone records?”

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

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

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

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

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

No. It’s another dead end. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****** 

The 9th victim is an outlier. 

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

There’s something there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The voice startles him. 

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

KEIGO TAKAMI. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Hawks’ wakes up. 

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

Stop, stop.

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

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

He tries to lay back down. 

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

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

******

Hawks grabs two nitro coffees the next morning. 

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

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

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

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

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

There’s nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looks like...huh? 

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about your drawing.”

“It’s a Kasha.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coming mama! I gotta go, mister.”

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

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

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

Oh, that’s why. 

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

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

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

******

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

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

“Weird? Like how?”

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

“What is that? It looks terrible.”

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

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

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

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

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

There it is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

He’s got a night shift. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******  

The next morning Hawks is on a patrol. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir? Can I help you?”

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

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

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

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

Where did he go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hawks, here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes: @hawksweek2020​

Beta edited by @albinoburrito​

[monster-bait]

Soooo 👀 you got anymore HCs up your sleeve on Rukh? He has been living rent free in my brain for a while now (like a lot of your OCs!)😅🤩😍

Here are some HCs for Rukh, our favorite gruff bartender in the GW universe. (I've already started writing a small one-shot of Rukh's job interview with Tate, because once I started writing these, I couldn't get the idea out of my head! That will be posting to Patreon shortly!)

If you're interested in learning more about any of my existing characters, all ko-fi contributions earn a headcanon! (Higher amounts will be more detailed!)

Previous Rukh headcanons, including the extremely memorable moment of IvyMemnoch finding a Celtic flute version of Despacito (my fav Tumblr moment of the year, by far! 😂) can be found here

RUKH

Had never heard of the tiny resort town where the Pixie is located before responding to the job listing, despite the fact that he lives in neighboring Starling Heights. He’d been working in one of those quick-service garages before then—an embarrassing waste of his skills, but he figured with his prison record, he was lucky to find a job at all. He’d not been planning on leaving his position, was only looking for a part-time gig, but the job post for the Pixie was too intriguing to scroll past—it was written in Orcish, practically unheard in a mixed-species society, catching his eye immediately. Unlike the other half-a-dozen bartender help wanted ads he’d looked at, the Pixie’s post said nothing about requiring an “upbeat personality” or his “smile being part of the dress code,” all descriptors that made him cringe. Punctuality, accountability, and an authoritative presence were the expectations, experience a plus but not required...it was straightforward and direct., it was clearly directed at orcs...he fit the bill, he thought. He considered himself to have a finely-tuned bullshit meter, and the Pixie’s ad didn’t set it off at all

He has since admitted to himself that he has fallen for Tate’s particular brand of bullshit repeatedly over the years

Rukh is a very tightly closed book. He’s definitely the strong silent type and is not at all comfortable talking about himself. (Despite that, he spilled his guts and told Tate his whole life story during his job interview—falling for the bullshit instance #1)

He discovered a love of reading during his incarceration, one he didn’t possess in his younger days. When he moved to Starling Heights, he was low-key delighted to find his apartment was on the same block as the library. He prefers mysteries and crime novels to anything overly literary, doesn’t have the patience for the endless world-building of high fantasy, and enjoys a wide spectrum of non-fiction. It’s become a game of sorts, engaging Ainsley in conversation and being able to not only keep up, but add his own insights and facts.

Another mental game he likes to play is trying to pinpoint Tate’s actual age. He’d never come right out and ask but sometimes Tate will chime into conversations knowing things he just...shouldn’t, or else will make references to things that Rukh can barely remember from his *own* childhood, things he remembers his parents reminiscing over. He’s added some Celtic history books to his rotation and surreptitiously jots down notes on the random head-scratchers Tate will casually drop and follows rabbit holes looking into said notes...as a result, he’s even more spooked by Tate than he was before he started snooping 😂

When Rukh first started at the Pixie, he thought they would fail. He was positive about it. Too small, in the middle of nowhere, an owner who very quickly made enemies with most of the people in town...he was shocked when the old girl's business plan actually fell into place. Shocked and thrilled, of course. He loves having a routine, loves having a reason to get up and feel energized every day, likes the clientele and takes his job of overseeing the “sightseers” during tourist season seriously. Since the bar turns a respectable profit, they're constantly receiving promotional odds and ends, which is how Rukh wound up with a Bourbon of the Month club subscription for a free year. (Tate hissed like a cat and shooed the offending pamphlet away as though it might bite.) He continued the subscription once the free year ended, and looks forward to his monthly ritual—he waits until his night off, puts on some moody jazz, cracks open the month’s bottle, and enjoys it with a cigar. Thessa referred to it as a self-care routine once, after asking him about his plans for the night, and he nearly turned inside out in mortification.

He doesn’t talk about his time in prison, nor the crime he committed to wind up there. Tate is the only one who knows, and Rukh is happy to keep it that way. It’s not that he regrets the act itself all that much—he has no remorse for his brother, but rather the way it fractured their family, upended his life, and had branded him as someone to be wary of since his release.

That being said...things he did pick up during his incarceration—the ability to keep his head down and just get by, the knowledge that sometimes you simply need to kick someone’s ass, and the value of tidiness—are assets at the Pixie.

Loves nothing more than his solitary days at the Pixie during the off-season. The night-time regulars, while they consistently fill the cash till, are still a handful. He loves the quiet of the daytime, the handful of day drinkers, the time to hear himself think without needing to watch over every aspect of the business. Speaking of which—he knows how to do everything in the Pixie. The ordering, the inventory, the budgets, the schedules, the upkeep...he's not entirely sure why, as Tate very much micro-manages every bit of the day-to-day management, but it was something the boy insisted on and Rukh wasn't about to argue. "Someone needs to be able to take care of her if I'm not here anymore," was the only answer he got, and he decided it was easier not to ask questions. Since Silva has been on the scene, Rukh has been left to his own devices more often and it is *bliss.*

He thought he'd left his days of vice behind him. He drank, he smoked, he dabbled in recreational drugs, he worked on souped-up hot rods and bet on drag racing...prison changed all that and his life afterward left little room for any of it...but Tate and Ainsley are terrible terrible influences. Gamblers and hustlers, he has someone to talk cars with again, to trade intel on illegal street racing with, the chance to get his hands just a littttle bit dirty again, and he loves it

Smokey blues, soulful R&B, moody rock

Sloooow dancing

He is *incredibly* protective of Elshona. He’s the first person who meets her once she arrives in her new home, and he recognizes the fear in her eyes. He’s the only one who understands what it means to be cast out of one’s community, he knows what it means to have to start over again. He doesn’t understand the relationship she has with Tate, doesn’t know all of the details of her expulsion and shunning from her clan, but he’s made a quiet promise to himself that she’ll never be left to flounder completely alone again.

Has a FWB relationship with a half-troll woman in his building. Single mom, splits custody with her ex, so has several nights a week free, and she’ll spend one of them in his bed. It’s casual and neither of them is interested in pursuing more, but it’s occasional companionship and scratches an itch.

He's not immune to the plethora of easy sex the commune attracts. There would be hell to pay if the staff acted on anything beyond mild flirtation at the Pixie, but he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't drifted down to the parties and pool-side bar before to check things out. He's been on the receiving end of more than one edge of the party blowjob to know how addictive that sort of access to easy sex could be; he sees the commune residents and the reckless way they behave and knows how easy it would be to slip into that lust-crazed mindset, and makes a point of only indulging in visiting that side of the resort occasionally

He much prefers to find his partners the old fashioned way: closer to home, in one of the dimly lit little pubs around his neighborhood. He loves the adrenaline rush of a flirtation turning into close talking and lingering hands, that first heat-filled kiss. He doesn't mind the evening ending back at his or her place, he's not picky, and prefers to savor the night (as opposed to the fast, anonymous sex at the commune parties.) Ladies on top or old-fashioned missionary, any position that lets him see their faces: heads dropped back, faces screwed up in ecstasy, that moment when they come...he'll take that over a blow job in the dark any day of the week

A skill that Tate possesses that Rukh greatly admires and strives to emulate: easy banter which leads to confidences shared. They were talking about cars one minute, and in the next Rukh was revealing the details of the day he killed his brother, the shunning of his clan which followed, and his incarceration. He left that initial interview feeling shaken, positive that he'd been the victim of fae magic...but he's come to realize that there is truth in the old adage of hairstylists and barkeeps being the keepers of the whole town's secrets. Tate knows everything about everyone, is able to tease out information as casually as pouring the next drink, and Rukh has begun to employ the same tactics. He was shocked to find that it actually works. As the years have gone on, he's improved his game and knows much about all of the Pixie's regulars, hears the commune gossip and news from town, and is gleeful with the power of being able to pass on information that the Pixie can use to leverage her business.

There is very little that scares him in this world. Possessions are just things and things can be replaced, he's been in fights with bigger, meaner dudes than the Pixie's roughest patrons, and he's not afraid to meet his maker. He's let go of the past and the people in it and tries to live life one day at a time, and that's not a mindset that lends itself to fear much. Tate is a wholly different story. Rukh knew his type in prison: those who viewed other people as pawns, who traded and secrets gossip to advance their own positions; had a minotaur cellmate who was that sort and he got his ass kicked on the regular for it. He knew a lizardman who was as slippery, who contorted himself in and out of trouble, ingratiating himself with the guards and the inmates of the upper echelons to hold himself out of real hot water...but he's never met anyone with the same capacity for mischief and spite as his current employer, has never met anyone so terrifyingly adept at causing trouble while staying out of it. The boy isn't overly concerned about making enemies or worrying about his own hide and wreaks havoc for havoc's sake, and Rukh might be impressed if he didn't actually care about him. Silva is, in Rukh's opinion, Tate's perfect match. A sweet little angel, an absolute beauty, wide-eyed and innocent looking and, Rukh (rightly) suspects, just as shrewd and self-preserving as Tate. He has a feeling the entire town will be set ablaze if/when their relationship consumes itself, and only hopes it happens on his day off.

I hope you enjoyed this little peek into a character who doesn't get as much page time as some of his peers! If you'd like a headcanon of your own, visit my ko-fi! Thanks so much, IvyMemnoch!

[sebastianshaw]

Shaw & Skadi for the kid meme!

Name: Sigvid Skadisson Shaw. I know it should be Shawson BUT FUCK THE RULES. “Sig” is a pretty standard prefix for a lot of Norse names from the word “sigr” meaning “victory” and “vid” from the Old Germanic “widu” for forest. Gender: Masc and male-presenting but beyond that I’m not sure? Trans man? AMAB non-binary? Look, he uses he/him (maybe they too) and people THINK ‘man’ when they look at him, that’s all I know General Appearance: Tall and beefy, he couldn’t NOT be. Medium pale skin that gets even paler in winter but tans easily in summer. Black hair, or so dark brown it might as well be black, and very dark eyes. His hair, unlike both parents and most of his Asgardian brethren, is actually kept short, and while he has a beard, it’s not the big one. The reason for this is functional; short hair is better if you’re spending a lot of time in the wild. Stuff gets stuck in long hair, it can get tangled in branches at the worst times, it’s hot in the summer, and it can literally freeze in the winter if it gets wet. His attire is very much out of a Viking fantasy, but less on the “heavy armor” end of things and more on the “wearing lots of furs and skins” side. He doesn’t look like someone you want to fuck with, but he also doesn’t look like he’s going to war. He carefully avoids any kind of dangling amulets, charms, or other jewelry that could get caught on anything, but he’s got a sort of leather toolbelt containing various survival tools made from wood, bone, etc. Personality: Sigvid, as you might guess from his attire and the reasons for it, is an outdoorsman. Not as a hobby, not as a lifestyle, but an EXISTENCE. He thrives in the natural world as Sebastian does in the business world, finding ways to survive in even the most adverse of situation. Whatever Mother Nature is doing around him, he can not only make it through it, he can work it to his advantage. His closeness to the natural world, his close observation of it, means that he sees both the facts and errors in his father’s mentality. He sees that the strongest predators will pick off the weakest prey, that the winter will take those who do not prepare, that mother animals will neglect and even devour their young if they’re sick or runty. He also sees that prey are more aggressive than predators, how some creatures will adopt and nourish infants that are not their own or even their own species, how some will share their kill with no benefit to themselves, and how even the smallest and most humble animals can make it through things that the larger, so-called stronger ones did not. Sigvid is very pragmatic, like his father, very practical, very self-preservationist. He has to be. But he’s also very spiritual, not in a way that connects to some distant god, but the world around him, to earth and nature. Not some idealized hippie-dippie conception of nature as a loving mother that is always in balance, but an acceptance that it is a greater power that he cannot control, he can only hope to survive at best. It keeps him humble. It also gives him a much wider, more relative perspective on things that is not human-centric, or Asgardian-centric for that matter. My Shaw often says that he admires human accomplishments above all else, that no other animal has built cities, computers, cars, and so on. And he is correct in this. But Sigvid always points out, how many termite mounds has man built? How many times do humans migrate thousands of miles using an innate sense of the Earth’s magnetic fields? How many fish have we hunted by literally sensing the electricity in their bodies? Yes, humans are “the best” if we judge them by standards HUMANS MADE. Judge us by the base standard of any other species, and we flop. Same for judging any species by the standards of any other. Nothing is “more” or “less” evolved than anything else, more complex does not mean better, and nor does being bigger, stronger, meaner, or even smarter mean a species is “better” or “more evolved” either. Survival of the fittest is not about that, nor about individuals; it’s about how well a species fits its environment and niche. A slime mold is just as evolved as a person. Sigvid is very passionate about this, though he’s not the type to speak up most of the time; he’s stoic and saturnine, used to keeping his mouth closed and his thoughts to himself, because most of the time there’s no one to talk to. And that also means he’s learned to exist without the validation and approval of others---ironically, something that is much like his father, learned in a completely different environment.

A lot of this, obviously, comes from Skadi. He was at side her since infancy learning to hunt and track, learning the difference between wood sorrel and white clover, how to tell when a moose is about to charge, and what it means when the woods go quiet. This connects deeply to Skadi’s Jotunn side in particular, which in Norse lore are thought to have symbolized the inherently chaotic and uncontrollable nature of, well, nature! Though Sigvid would not, nature it’s chaotic, it’s actually very ordered, people just don’t bother to understand what’s inconvenient to them. But where he differs from Skadi is that he’s not a Disney princess. Animals don’t hang out with him. He doesn’t nurse injured creatures back to health. He doesn’t keep pets. He does not see them as friends. They are not less than him, but they are not allies, they are beings he co-exists with, avoids, or eats. At least, until a thylacine started hanging out with him. Yeah, a thylacine. The extinct Tasmanian tiger. Who knows where it came from or why he’s attached itself to him, but he’s very adamant she’s not a pet and he hasn’t named her, but she is THERE. Sometimes. She isn't at his side like a dog, it's more she's following him from a distance and she pokes her head out from the trees somewhere. She's not a pet. She's more a parasite. But unlike Shaw, Sigvid doesn't use that term in a bad way, and he's fine with her presence. He's just curious where the hell an extinct Australian animal came from? Obviously, Sigvid is not interacting with people a lot, but when he does, he’s far less awkward or boisterous than people expect. He doesn’t have the overt weirdness people expect from a hermit, nor the bombastic warrior cliché of an Asgardian, or the vicious stereotype of a Jotunn. He has a quiet but overwhelming elegance, not like an aristocrat but like a great stag emerging from the forest. He chooses his words carefully, and can say much with just a few. He walks the middle ground between judging by individuals and judging by species; he does a little of both. He has preconceptions and generalities that he believes in about each group, but also believes in room for exception. After all, he’s not what a lot of people expect, is he? Despite this, he’s frequently misread as disliking people, but he doesn’t. He is utterly neutral on them, he just prefers his own way of life. Likewise, he tends to be very neutral towards individuals, and this also is often misread as dislike. One thing he does dislike though, is when people try to endear themselves to him by talking about how they agree animals are better than people, or say stuff like you know only man kills for pleasure. . . .this actually just annoys him. Firstly, a lot of animals do kill for pleasure. Secondly, when people say animals/nature is better than people. . . .they’re forgetting that people---humans, Asgardians, Jotunn---are animals too. This is just another way people, of any sort, try to insist they’re something special and different, whether in a negative or positive way. It doesn’t impress him. What impresses him tends to be how well people work within their niche, whatever niche that is. Like Shaw, he doesn’t really judge in terms of conventional morality, but a person’s success----Sigvid’s definition of success is just much wider. Like, maybe you dive for a living---are you a good diver? A great cafeteria worker? The best toilet cleaner in the tri-state area? He admires that and he commends you. When he is angered, he stays quiet, and his response is swift and physical; he either leaves or strikes physically and then leaves. When he feels sufficiently bonded with someone. . . he is still quiet. He appreciates a person who doesn't need to be filling the silences between them to feel comfortable and kinship. And kinship for him is rare, but he's not lonely----just also not adverse to it, as many assume he is. People assume a lot about Sigvid, and most of it is wrong, but he's also very chill with it. Sigvid is a very chill guy.

Special Talents: Besides the obviously mentioned talents for hunting, tracking, foraging, survivalism, and nature knowledge? Many people think he’s some kind of seer because he’s good at predicting storms and such, but actually he’s just very good at reading the signs most people aren’t attuned to. He also presumably has the attributes of Asgardians and Jotuns (super strength, etc) but if he has a mutant power, it has yet to manifest. Also cannot assume a Frost Giant form. Who they like better: Skadi, though eventually he does respect his father for performing so well at what he does

Who they take after more: I think both equally in different ways Personal Head canon: -He really likes amethyst geodes. -He finds a lot of manufactured foods, like chips or snack cakes, to be WAAAAY too strongly salty or sweet for him to stomach, is allergic to Red Dye #40, and he finds the taste of domesticated animals to be weird. - Not much of a dairy person, but ghee is good -Dislikes when people stereotype hillbillies as stupid; as in like, people who are genuinely living in the hills and mountains of the American Southeast, they're an interesting people with their own unique culture like any other group that lives off the land in isolation---which he respects---and not interchangeable with typical rednecks. -He doesn't typically carry anything with him that's not a necessity, if he knows he's going to be seeing people soon, he will pick up knick-knacks he finds in abandoned places and distribute them like a weird Santa Claus. Who, he's met, by the way, and according to him, Father Christmas is something of a badass. - He will always buy your homemade soaps, and I have no idea what he's doing with them. Yes, maybe he's using them in the normal intended way but IM NOT SURE?? - Pops up in art museums. People never expect him to be here, in these cathedrals dedicated to human creation, but he is. I think he views art a bit differently than the average person, but he's there all the same. - He's an Aquarius but there is a LOT of Saturn in his chart - The first Midgard movie he saw was Forrest Gump. He was expecting it to be about something else because of the title, but he enjoyed it and LEARNED THIS DANCE Face Claim: n/a

[ajokeformur-ray]

So... how about a empathetic reader who works in the same hospital that Arthur is at the end of the movie? Like, she is the lastest one who takes care of him, or something like that. Pretty please? And, can it have like kisses and fluff stuff? I'M WEAR FOR ARTHUR FLECK.

Swearing, complete inaccuracies with the legal system (creative license is my excuse and I’m sticking to it but if the lack of policies in this Arkham piece will bother you (like undoing his handcuffs because they’re hurting him, bringing food in for him, kissing him etc, I’d advise skipping it sksksks), Arthur smokes, SPOILERS and I think that’s it. I’m not sure if this is relevant but just in case - the reader has a flexible morality and some parts of the narrative are questionable. This is intentional. Also - the staff and hospital is described as being a total shit show because it’s what works for this piece sksksks I took a lot of liberties with this one lmao.

Also, as always, I teared up at this GIF. He’s so beautiful and so hurt and most of the film could have been avoided if someone had just hugged him ohhh :(((

Word count: 2, 638.

“Oh, here, Arthur,” You leaned across the cold metal table with your lighter, cupping a hand in the air underneath the tobacco end of the cigarette, which was already dangling from Arthur’s thin lips, “Let me get that for you.” You lit it easily, your hands steadier than you had thought that they would be. Immediately did Arthur’s lips purse as he took a long deep drag of the cigarette; his hypnotic green eyes closing in relief at that first hit of nicotine. 

It was close to three in the afternoon and you were the only staff member in the whole of Arkham State Hospital who was nice to Arthur. Everyone else treated him the way that he was used to - like he was a freak, a disease, someone to be watched and not extended a single modicum of kindness. But you… you had been warned away from ‘that one’. All you had seen upon first meeting Arthur was a man broken down by the world, a man who had said fuck the world and given into his impulses, his truest self, when he could no longer stand how the world had treated him and if you were being honest with yourself, you couldn’t deny that his motives behind the murder of public figure Murray Franklin made sense to you. He had been publicly humiliated and scorned and in a fit of rage had he finally expressed all that had been against him from the very start. You had read his case file extensively after being told to avoid him by almost everyone - staff members and patients alike (the more coherent ones, at least) - and you had come to one decision after a few weeks of fighting against yourself:

You were going to be kind to Arthur Fleck.

You hadn’t told anyone about your decision. It wasn’t because you were afraid of what people would think of you, but it was because you didn’t care about their opinions. None of them had bothered to try to understand him, whereas you were going to be kind to Arthur because he intrigued you; you were a naturally empathetic person and you had a soft spot for the slightly damaged and the broken. You couldn’t watch a film if animals were harmed in it; even obviously animated animals getting hurt made you cry in horror and disgust. You couldn’t handle the sight of pain in others and to see so much of it in one case file and to then be presented with the man himself walking hunched into his own body; his shoulders curved inwards, his head down, his feet shuffling instead of his taking proper steps was just too much for you to take. You had cried over a good eighty percent of his case file, your heart breaking for this one man. Never had you felt such a strong undeniable urge to protect someone before. You lamented the fact that you hadn’t met him before this day; surely if you had, this whole thing could have been avoided. It was like Arthur was apologising for his own existence in the way that he tried to occupy as little physical space as possible. To see the evidence of Arthur’s life in one manilla file and to then meet the man himself had been all the information you had needed to decide that people were wrong about him. He had done bad things, this was true, and you took great care to remind yourself of the fact that this man had brutally murdered people, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to ostracise him for it. What he had done wasn’t excusable and you couldn’t condone his actions even to yourself, but his descent was explainable.

So sure of your decision had you chucked yourself down the rabbit hole head first without even considering the implications on your continued employment at Arkham State Hospital if anyone came to learn of your affections for Arthur. You took on sole responsibility of his case, you bought him quality cigarettes with your own money, you bought him in food that you had made yourself… You told no one of these things, of the little ways in which you tried your best to take care of him despite all he had done to wind up here. Once that white door had closed upon you and Arthur for his daily therapy sessions were you granted privacy with each other. You recorded your conversations but the two of you had learned to read each other relatively quickly and as such, those moments where the verbal conversation lulled to a temporary halt were moments in which you had a discussion with your eyes, your hand reaching across the table to touch the back of his. You were careful to unlock Arthur’s handcuffs much of the time so that the chains didn’t clink against the cold metal table; though the metal bracelets were still secured around his wrists, you separated him from the chain so he had some freedom of movement in these sessions. Having spent much of his childhood being chained to radiators and the like, you were sure that his trauma would be triggered by being restrained to a table. You helped Arthur in any way you could and before you knew it, months had gone by and you were well and truly caught in the spider’s web.

Arthur pulled the cigarette away from his mouth and tilted his head up towards the ceiling to exhale; the wispy tendrils of smoke curling gently before they dissipated in the cool air of the impersonal, stark room. “Thank you.” The words were quietly spoken and your trained ears picked up on a soft note of gratitude as he allowed some emotions to creep into his voice. You smiled by way of saying ‘you’re welcome’ and distracted yourself while you willed yourself not to blush by opening the daily used case file which was thicker now with therapy sessions shoved in the back. The notes were all loose leaf and you despaired at the lack of care being shown towards Arthur. What was the point of keeping him here if no one was going to take their government appointed responsibility seriously? The head of Arkham may as well have let Arthur out for all the good the establishment was doing for him. 

“Have you eaten lunch?”

“No,” A sigh. His lack of elaboration in answer to your raised eyebrow had told you everything that you needed to know - he had either not been hungry at the time or he had been denied a meal. You cared little for what the reason was so long as he could eat now. Arthur took another drag on his cigarette, a quicker one this time, and he turned his head upwards once more to exhale; he was considerate of your distaste for his smoking and showed his gratitude in your supplying him with cigarettes despite your personal views on the habit by showing you great courtesy when he did smoke in front of you. You couldn’t have denied him this one vice if you had tried - goodness knew how mad you would go if you couldn’t have your own fix every day. 

You reached under the table with one hand, keeping your eyes on Arthur’s as you fumbled in your bag and pulled out a Tupperware box. The box was see through and you saw a light come into Arthur’s eyes which had nothing to do with the harsh overheads which could have used a gentler light bulb; for all the patients here which struggled with over stimulation and light sensitivity, staff showed little concern. Gotham was a total shit show and you hated everything about the suffocating place. It seemed that, even though Arkham State Hospital was on the outskirts of Gotham, it was still susceptible to the same toxins which circulated throughout the city. You set the box down, pushing it towards Arthur, and moved to separate his handcuffs from the chain. Your gaze, which was still holding his, very clearly said, you know the rules and he nodded once slowly, a smirk on his face, to show his understanding. 

You were the only staff member Arthur would ‘behave’ for and often were you called in at odd hours off the clock to ‘sort the fucking clown out’. You didn’t mind, not really. You had gained some strange reputation in Arkham and even the meaner patients, the ones who were especially volatile and unpredictable, left you alone. It hadn’t taken you long to figure out that Arthur had given you some kind of honourary protection in your taking on his case, though you suspected that it was more the way you treated him which had granted you this unofficial protection, and less to do with the fact that you had his case file.

Arthur peered into the box and looked sharply back up at you. “How did you know that this was my favourite food?”

You smiled and shrugged. “I pay attention. Eat. You must be starving.” You pushed plastic cutlery his way - you couldn’t get proper utensils past security no matter what you said to them - and leaned back in your chair, glancing over the therapy notes from yesterday with curiosity. You used the notes to hide the way your eyes were fixed on Arthur’s face. You were far too invested in him for your own good and though you knew it couldn’t end well, you were determined to see it through to the very end, come what may.

At the first hesitant bite did Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as he chewed and you smiled. “Good?”

“So good,” He took a second, bigger bite and your smile widened as affection bloomed in your chest.

Silence fell once more as Arthur ate, punctuating his bites with drags on his cigarette, which was almost down to the filter now. He coughed lightly at one point and though he hadn’t said anything, you hadn’t needed him to as you reached into your bag, unscrewed the cap top and put the plastic bottle of water in front of Arthur. 

Half of his food was left in the tub as he looked at the water. There was something in his eyes which you were having trouble reading.

“What is it, lo - Arthur?” You had almost slipped up, called him love and the way Arthur smirked up at you briefly before he looked back to the water told you that he had noticed your near mistake. There was no denying it if he ever decided to call you out on what you had just almost said. You knew even without really thinking about it that you wouldn’t deny anything he accused you of in this vein; all of it was true. All of it.

“You’re always so kind to me,” He frowned down at the table, nimble fingers plucking at the chain you had released him from so that he could eat without having to sit uncomfortably. 

“Well, yeah, it’s my job. I took an oath to care for - “

Staring off into space, his cigarette burnt out now, the end smouldering but still lightly held between his nicotine stained fingers, did Arthur shake his head. “No,” He interrupted you, “This is more than an oath of care.” He turned his head to meet your eyes full on and with a cocky smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth did he say, “You better be careful.”

Anger rose quickly and you almost said something but then you caught another hint of some emotion flash through his eyes, like a trick of the light did he school his facial expressions so fast. You saw a desperate pleading, you saw… you saw need. Arthur wasn’t warning or threatening you, he was asking you to be careful. If you both got caught, if you got found out on supplying a patient with food made outside the premises or buying and lighting him cigarettes - which were allowed within the hospital but only a specific brand not available to the public domain - if you got caught letting him out of the chains just so he could move a little freer, if you got caught having personal conversations with him, it’d all be over. You’d be taken off the case, more than likely dismissed or fired or transferred elsewhere, and you would never see Arthur again. He would lose the only good in his life - a secret though it was, it was his good. 

In short, Arthur watched as you saw through his mask, through his cryptic statements, You saw him and he felt an unfamiliar heat blooming in his chest. So closely was he staring at you that he saw the precise moment of understanding dawn on your face and he smirked with pride. He could always count on you to understand.

In the end, you didn’t answer him verbally. You held a cigarette out to him, the filter facing him, and you held his green oceans as he parted his lips and allowed you to place the filter between them. You lit the cigarette with a slight shake to your hand and Arthur moved somewhat awkwardly to rest his hand over yours, the lighter firm in your grip.

“Thank you.” He wasn’t just thanking you for the cigarettes and you both knew it.

“You’re welcome.” You smiled and Arthur felt an urge to kiss you. He followed it and used his grip on you to pull you down to his eye level. You gasped, shocked by the sudden movement; your heart began to pound but you weren’t afraid. “Arthur, what - “

“Shshsh, I’m not going to hurt you.” He smirked, the expression at complete odds with how softly he had reassured you in that same moment, and took the cigarette from his mouth, tilting his head and upper body backwards using the back of the metal chair to exhale, keeping the toxins as far from you as he could given how closely you were now. You were leaning over the table, your belt buckle pressed against your stomach, your face close to Arthur’s. “I’m going to kiss you. Is that okay?”

The look in his eyes told you that he was serious about kissing you but if you didn’t want to, he wouldn’t make you. He would just never ask you for anything like this again. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity for him; never again would anybody see him and care for him the way that you did.

“Okay.” A breathy exhale and Arthur smiled. It was a real, genuine smile and you felt your own lips quirking upwards in reply. You met in the middle, neither of you consciously moving, and your lips barely grazed each other’s. He kissed you so slowly, so slowly, that it made your heart bleed for him. He had a big heart, this you had come to know, and as you pulled away from him with the desperate need for oxygen did you meet his eyes again. His eyes roamed about your face as if he was desperately trying to memorise your face in this moment and that look in your eyes. “How about we get you out of here, hm?”

A look of confusion, a startled laugh, and Arthur nodded his head in agreement. Yes. It was high time that the Crown Prince of Gotham got back to work. The city needed him, after all, and he needed you. It would take weeks of careful planning, an elaborate distraction and a getaway car with a willing driver to get him out of Arkham, but he was a Joker and you were the ace up his sleeve.

The Arthur Fleck/Joker Defense Squad @writings-of-a-gen-z      @x-avantgarde-x       @insomniabird      @mavalenovaninagavi     @itwasrealenough     @morrisonmercurymalek     @rand0ms-fand0ms     @rafaelina-casillas     @aclownthing      @rebs-doom      @vivft       @help-i-am-obssessed      @autumnaffection       @taintednihilist   @vladtoly   @mg-woolf99      @misstgrey92  @that-s-life   @dopey-girl-blogs  @seeking-dreamland      @sweetheart-syndrome      @heartxfdesire  @xmusichealsthesoulx       @0callmejude0      @the-one-that-likes-riddles        @hannibalsslut       @folliaght  @freeeshavacadoo         @bingewatchingmylifegoby       @unlovedbyeveryoneandeverything  @okamiredfoxx       @sp0okysp0oky  @the-pandorabox      @mardema  @jibanyyan  @honeyflvredcoughdrop  @emissarydecksetter  @jokerfleckk  @epidendroideae  @chuuntas  @stillmabel  @pumpkinpeyes  @onehystericalqueenposts  @the-jokers-wolf  @nalsswa  @justahyena  @arianatheangelworld  @soullessblondbitch  @gothamslittlejester  @twentyonestarrynights  @sirianfromsixties  @kissmeclownman  @joker-is-my-hero  @lazyloosah  @lovesickkloxx  @ladylovelyluna  @live-love-loki  @clownerybbxx   @tragicarthur    @anmach123     @rommie-chan      @arthurflock     @lucyboytom      @anti-peach     @ immortal-bi-bitch    @hearthurfleck      @crazieroutthere      @curlystark     @hailmary-yramliah    @sagyunaro     @playinthedarktillitsgoldenagain     @jokeringcutio      @xenthefox   @mijachula @stcrrynightsinneverlcnd      @cheyennejonas22    @mrjfleck      @pauli1100     @smitten-susie    @actualkey     @callmejokerfleck   @jaylovesbats    @itsforyoubitch      @ridiculousnerd     @killerprotector3579       @soulsdontbreaktheybeeend     @fantasticwinnerclodexpert       @arthurs-sweater      @pinkie44pie    @tsukiakarinobara      @prettyxlittlexpsychoxprincess     @darkvampiplier     @yours-mia    @rustyt33th     @parkdonghoons      @lady-carnivals-stuff

[popculturebuffet]

Ducktales 87 Reviews: Working for Scales (CACC Finale): Islands in the Sky, Stereotypes on the Ground

The grand finale to Catch as Cash Can as commissioned by @weirdkev27​! It’s a race to the finish as Scrooge, The Boys, Gyro and Launchpad hurry to get a now floating Atlantis to Macaroon before the deadline while Glomgold sets the Beagle Boys against them to stop them! Sterotyping, mother trucking balloons, Scrooge being a jerkhole again and one hell of a climax are floating on by under the cut along with the full review!

I made it! A full week almost of reviews, 4 episodes, and one big commission and with this it’s finally done. And it’s been a heck of a ride and i’ve thoroughly enjoyed doing it and hope to get more commissions in the future. For now though the Goal Line is in sight, let’s get going. 

Previously on Ducktales:

And as for this series, if you haven’t been following along at this point, Scrooge is in a contest with Glomgold to get his fortune to Macaroon to be weighed in order to get marketing rights to the Lightbulb replacing world changing Firefly Fruit. He’s had to deal with Beagle Boys, Sea Monsters eating his ice cream that turn out to be robotic whales driven by smart morons, and a bunch of asshole frogs with on sense of anything in a really boring adventure best forgotten. Point is Scrooge found atlantis, that’s where his gold is and the contest is almost up. Everybody ready? 

We open with Disney Plus giving me a very nice message. 

I’d heard about this but it was my first time seeing it.. and I prefer this to the previous content warnings as instead it just flat out apologizes for it and tries to use this racist bollocks as a learning tool instead of just covering their ears and pretending they weren’t racist. Granted it took them a few months and is clearly to cover their own ass, but even an ass covering disclaimer can still have some good intentions behind it and given how big and unwieldly disney is it’s not suprising it took 6 months to put this on there. They still haven’t put House of Mouse, Wonder Over Yonder, Penn Zero: Part-Time Hero or American Dragon: Jake Long on here after a year, Disney can be slow sometimes. Dosen’t mean there isn’t some good that can come from this or that I don’t appricate them going as far as to put this one one of their tv shows. And given how they’ve basically had to be fought to get full gay content into one of their shows and they shot in a region of china where there’s concentration camps, I think there are bigger issues with disney than “oh no they took a bit to decide on how to readress their racist content oh no”. It was a nice gesture, I can give them that while still booing them for the other things. 

Now that’s out of the way the episdoe itself opens in Macaroon where Glomgold is already there and at the scale and naturally is trying to get the Kishke to just end it already. The Kishke being a fair man though refuses as Scrooge still has an hour to get there and refuses to budge.  And that’s ALL I can say good about this character. I already thought he was bad and racist in part one and let them know it but since Disney has acknowledged via this blanket statement that “It was wrong then and it’s wrong now” and he’s even worse now, I feel it’s my duty to lay the hell into this awful, obnoxious, annoying stereotype of a character who, as I must remind you, was played by a white dude. And unlike last time i’m not giving Hamilton Camp credit because I did my homework: This guy had plenty of rolls at this point, was an accomplished singer and song writer and could’ve walked away from the roll if he genuinely wanted to or put his foot down but clearly had no issue playing a “waccccckyyyy” foreign stereotype for a little extra dough.  It’s just obnoxious to watch this outdated even by 1987 standards stereotype of an indian leader with a bit of a sultan thrown in because why not piss off the middle east too? Just make everybody good and justifably pissed off at this bullshit. The Kishki repeats words, is dumb enough to think glomgold’s coat is talking to him, and is just unplesant to watch. As Disney themselves said “It was wrong then and it was wrong now”, their own words. This character is terrible, obnoxious, offensive even for the 80s and think about that for a second and it’ll get worse for you and drags the episode down considerably any time he’s on screen. Scre the Kishke, screw hamilton camp for agreeing to this, screw the writers for thinking this was REMOTELY okay, and screw anyone who thinks i’m taking out unecessary time to bitch about this. It was bad then, it’s bad now. Nuff said.

SO yeah as you can tell i’ll be glossing over the bits of him and glomgold.. basically over the episode the beagle boys, we’ll get to them in amoment, will raido glomgold, the kishke will think his coat is talking.. it’s a whole thing and I’m not giving this uttelry stupid and offensive bit any more time than I have to and I just did. 

Back to the main story, Glomgold , while publicly sure Scrooge lost, continues to be a good villain here: while I still prefer Keith Fergueson as his delivery’s are a lot more lively and he’s a lot more 3 dimensional, i’ve REALLY grown to like the original 2: He’s a clever mastermind who always has some trick up his sleeve and spends most of the four parter ahead of scrooge: None of his schemes link back to him in a meaningful way, and he basically has a straight shot to the Kishke and getting his gold there since Scrooge is too busy protecting his gold from Glommy’s Goons to retaliate and too honest to do so if he could anyway. He’s a fun villain to watch and is easily the best of this four parter and my opinion on him has gone up since the last few parts. He’s still not AS interesting as Magica or the boys, but he’s far more compelling than I gave him credit for . 

Naturally he brought the beagles to Macaroon via air mail, a nice gag, though Burger quickly gets old fast as every sentence is some sort of “He likes food joke’ Get it...

It’s annoying it’s outdated and i’ts obnoxious. And frankly Fresh Price of Bell Air also took part in a lot of fat jokes.. but they still work on some level since they mostly come from Will, a snarky teenager who doesn’t know better and Geoffry, a snarky butler who probably has to put up with a LOT even with a healthy paycheck and thus has every reason to get his tiny digs in where he can. Here it’s just.. the joke is he’s a fat guy. This must be where a young Kevin James learned his schitck from. 

But yeah the Beagles are there to watch for Scrooge since Glomgold can’t without giving away the fact he’s you know, tried to actively sabotage scrooge through most of this 4 parter. I almost typed 3 because I still wish Aqua Ducks  never happened, though he somehow set up a radar station in the country without the Kishke knowing. Maybe it’s because the episode portrays him as “stupid because foreign”.. actually it’s exactly that *sigh* But Scrooge is Scrooge so he already has a clever plan.. since the gold was left on a now risen Atlantis he’s turned Atlantis into a makeshift airship, likely makeshift because he’s short on time and gyro had to rig something up fast. But it’s damn impressive and nicely wacky: Using a bunch of balloons tied to strings, a bike powered propeller and a small steering column, scrooge is floating his way to macaroon and can dump his fortune directly on the scale if he can find it. Launchpad is steering which makes perfect sense: He’s an ace pilot and in this series can steer anything especially planes, and has the best trained eyes to spot any last minute attacks by Glomgold or any sudden turbulence and adjust accordingly. Gyro is manning the bike and is near dead but the boys are supposed to swap out.. though Scrooge says their too busy working the cloud generator.. only for it to turn out their not there. Oh no! Scrooge panics and tries to get it going but it’s too late: The boys spot them on radar and after conferring with Glomgold, head out in some jets he also sneaked in to stop them.. with his logo on them. Looks like Heron isn’t the only one with issues about when and when not to use branding.  But since their taking on scrooge their heading right into the 

As for where the boys are they’ve been investigating the lost treasure of Atlantis after their bizarre absence last episode and soon realize OH CRAP WE LEFT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ON THIS AIRSHIP MADE OUT OF THE RUINS OF ATLANTIS OFF! They rush off to apologize while Launchpad bemoans that he can’t counter attack. Gyro however naturally came prepared and has a miniture biplane hidden inside a briefcase, iron man style It’s neat even if it sadly is too slow for Launchpad to do anything.  We then get .. this scene. The boys go to scrooge to apologize and explain themselves but Scrooge rather than hear it or understand their you know, ten year old or younger boys who just made a mistake, as big as it was and were still trying to help, berates them, refuses to hear it and tells them he thought they’d take up after him one day but probably not anymore. It’s just an unnecessarily cruel and harsh bit from him and I’ve started to notice that pattern of this scrooge being colder and meaner to people, and it’s not an isolated thing. I’d forgotten just how many episodes hinged on him firing or threatening to fire launchpad. This Scrooge isn’t bad, but the best scrooge stories hinge on a nice balance between his more jackass qualities and his underlying goodness. He is supposed to be gruff, mean and stingy, but not you know.. needlessly cruel with no regret shown at all till the very end after they already helped him. It would’ve worked better if the episode had just one bit of him regretting it before the boys proved to be useful. Both episodes now he’s been cruel to people, even if they’ve screwed up he’s gone beyond it and only turned around when they proved useful> This is the badly written scrooge of the comics, even under masters like rosa and barks, I get annoyed with: the one whose just cruel, mean and selfish and isn’t charismatic or interesting enough to override that.  However the obvious solution, the boys popping the Ballons, fails, as Gyro steelbelted them.. somehow. I’ve learned not to ask at this point. But it’s clever and he also likely altitude protected them given how high up there are but that’s just as likely toon physics. Either way it’s neat. Glomgold has the boys do a plan b: anchor the island with some hooks and pull it in the wrong direction. While Gyro struggles to stop them, the boys decide to redeem themselves with an idea by Louie.. but since there’s no c4 or knives aboard he’ll have to go with his second plan which is improvise a slingshot and knock a rock into the hook freeing it and sending the beagles spinning. Naturally though this can’t go easy for them and the sudden jolt from the island being freed causes gyro’s bike to break off the hinges and knock him and scrooge off the island to what the boys assume is their deaths because their apparently both clever this episode and really really dumb. Launchpad catches them but accidently disengages the plane into a breif case, but luckily gyro, after a funny gag where he pulls out random stuff as they fall, always a classic, finds some napkins that turn into parachutes and the three float to the ground safety.  Back on Atlantis, I do not get to say that enough, the boys decide to carry on and make sure Scrooge wins since it’s what he’d want and start steering the island into Macaroon. The Beagles land as a last ditch effort, Glomgold is pisseeeed and Scrooge is relieved and comes up with a clever way to mark where to drop the loot: he politely asks for some firefly fruit and makes a landing strip. It’d be a nice contrast moment with Glomgold if Scrooge wasn’t such a dick to everyone and thing except when it benefits him. But the episode frames it like some big character difference and not scrooge just being polite for one second to get what he wants. But the boys start dumping the cash by releasing some balloons, with the beagles doing the same with some others to dump it in glomgold’s pile, but the boys are able to do the trick one more time and thus the fortune’s are tied. Scrooge however cleverly wins for the moment by using his number one dime to tip the scales.  Naturally though Glomgold is one step ahead, and has a dump truck full of money ready. Guess we know who made Kamp Krusty. 

And now has more with only a minute left though the Kishke being good for this at least refuses to call it and the boys naturally decide to hunt for the lost treasure of atlantis. The beagles naturally follow, leading to the human chain moment above, but the boys find the fish, trick the beagles into coming down so they can get to the other fish, and dump all the money right onto scrooge’s side. And after four LONNNNNG episodes of adventure and stupidity, Scrooge wins. It’s also revealed the dumptruck was mostly lead bricks to the suprise of no one. Scrooge has won, he reconciles with the boys thanking them having leanred nothing, and the Kishke picks up the unfunny coat gag one last time while everyone laughs, at last, mercefully the end. 

Final Thoughts on this one episode:  This was a decent finale. Scrooge was a bit cruel to the boys but understandably enough that while it bothered me , didn’t make the episode actively worse like last time, they just laid it on a bit too thick is all. But the action is great and the pacing, minus the utterly grating Kishke bits, is top notch, with a tense flight to get to the kishke, tons of fun twists to it and the final push itslef being really thrilling as the boys dangle and then use the chekovs gun to win. It feels earned and it was a nice subversion with the dime bit which itself would’ve been a fine ending. It’s a thrilling and fun episode.. it’s just dragged down from excellent to decent by the utterly loathsome racist characture that is the Kishke who has I covered up top, is far more present here and far more stereotype and far less tolerable. It drags down the pacing and what’s otherwise a fun well paced episode and a good climax to a not so great 4 parter. Speaking of which.  Final Thoughts on Catch as Cash Can: 

This four parter was pretty lackluster all things considered. While it started off hot with “A Drain on the Economy” easily one of the best 87 Ducktales episodes i’ve seen, it quickly wore out it’s good will with the enjoyably bad “A Whale of A Bad Time”, Sea Monster Ate My Ice Cream Scene notwithstanding, the utterly dreadful “Aqua Ducks”, and the thrilling but also annoyingly racist “Working for Scales”. It started fine but it’s clear they didn’t have enough material for four full episodes here as the latter three ALL suffer from padding and it’s very noticable, with Whale of a Bad Time at least covering it up better with it’s convoluted plot. This plot REALLY didn’t need to be this long and would’ve been better, if still annoyingly racist, with just two, just having another expiation for the air ship which was awesome. Instead it’s just an overpadded mess with one excellent episode and one utterly masterful scene, and some good action in the last half and I can easily see why they only did serials for big events from then on out. It was a good idea to have more serials they just executed it really badly and it’s better this was the ONLY mid-season one from then on out if this was the best they can do. Truly disapointing. 

Well that closes the book on Catch as Cash Can. I’d like to thank @weirdkev27​ for commissioning these. While it wasn’t a fun sit sadly, I did get some good material out of them and it was a pleasure to dive into the original series and I plan to again some day. If you liked this review follow me for more as I review a new ducktales episode every monday and plan to still do at least one a week once the hiatus kicks in again, as well as loud house whenever new episodes come out and I can watch them and new amphibia when it comes back next year, as well as scattered reviews throughout the week. If you’d like to comission your own review, simply send me an ask or personal message or send an ask for my discord and we can get started. IT’s 5 dollars for one episode, 15 for movies and 5 dollars off when you order 3 or more. Until we meet again check your house for gary buseys and stay safe!

[fallen029]

Dirt Poor

They were poor.

Dirt poor, is what Lisanna had heard someone whisper once about her family, one of the rare times that Papa took them all into town as a treat. He went frequently, to sell product, and the only other person that usually got to go with him was Mirajane, because she was the oldest and that meant she got to do things they didn't. Or at least that's what Mira always said.

But one day, Papa had taken them into town with him and told them that they could each pick out a pick out a piece of candy from the general store. It was while they were in there, her and her two siblings agonizing over their decision, when she heard someone from behind them say it.

"Look at 'em," a man muttered to the woman he was with. "Muddy and ragged. Must be from the village."

"Poor things," the woman whispered. "Dirt poor."

And that didn't make sense to Lisanna. At all. Which is why, with some confidence, she turned around to inform them, quite loudly, that they were not 'dirt poor'. Rather, they in fact had a bunch of dirt, back home.

Her mother was not pleased with her exclamation to the store at large that, no, see her, family was hardly dirt poor; if anything, they were stinking rich in it. She scolded her, on the long walk home as Lisanna sobbed and Mirajane, when their mother wasn't looking, patted her gently on the head while Elfman kicked a pebble and awkward twiddled his thumbs.

Papa though, always Papa, was the one who took her to the side, later that evening at home, and spoke to her in not nearly as harsh tones. Mama was always stressed and high-strung, carrying the weight of the world on her back, but Papa battled their challenges with a smile on his face and and insistence that it could always be worse.

But what could be worse, Lisanna wondered that evening as they laid out in the grass together while Mama and her siblings prepared a meal in their little shack, than being dirt poor?"

"A lot of things," he'd assured her. "And you were right anyways. Not that Mama's was wrong. You shouldn't be rude to others. And you have to respect adults. But we have something they don't have, in that town. That they'll never have. We have our land. We'll always have our land."

"Our dirt?"

"Our dirt," he agreed. "No one can ever take your dirt from you, Lisanna. And don't forget it."

Papa was easy to talk to and make see your point of view. That's why he was always the one that Lisanna (as well as her brother and sister) went to when they had something unreasonable to ask for. If Mira wasn't happy with the dress Mama sewed her, she knew to mention to Papa that it didn't fit right and have him butter Mama up. If Elfman had tore a hole in his shoes, as he was prone to do, he knew to tell Papa first, who could either patch it up or find someone in the village who would, without working Mama into a tizzy over it.

And Lisanna, little Lisanna, her wants and desires weren't quite so as her older siblings. Mira seemed to be much like Mama, worried and scared often about their meager earnings, while Elfman, from an early age, was aware of how he just didn't quite fit in with the other boys, spending far more time with his little sisters than the other kids in the village.

But Lisanna was different. She was the baby and was treated as such. It was s hock to her, as much as the definition of the term was, to discover that they were, in fact, very poor. She'd never known it. Everything that she ever wanted, ever knew to want, she had. She got any clothes Mirajane (and sometimes Elfman) outgrew and had all of their accumulated toys to play with. Papa never would let any of his three children stare and though they might be a bit scrawny, no one could say that the three Strauss siblings were underfed. Elf had to help Papa in the field and Mira did too, but when she wasn't, was very busy with Mama in the house.

Their younger sister though, she had...other things to keep her occupied.

From the time she was a babe, Lisanna loved animals. Dogs, cats, frogs, heck, she'd even been known to protect creepy-crawlies from facing the underside of a boot or two. Lisanna saw all living creatures as deserving the same love and shelter she'd always received. And while no one in her family felt otherwise, they all seemed to understand that, in their one room slapped together home, with limited water and food, they just couldn't accommodate this.

But Papa wouldn't let anyone tell her otherwise.

"We'll make it work," he'd insist to her mother when, after a day spent exploring alone in the forest, Lisanna would inevitably wander home with a stray animal or two. "We always do."

And they always did.

She had all sorts of pets and late nights, now distanced from those times, she liked to test her memory by trying to name them, in order of acquisition if she could. Kittens and puppies and even a pet snake or two.

She'd have them all.

She'd loved them all.

And then…

And then…

It was harder for her to recall now, how it all happened.

Mama died first. And Papa caught the illness from caring for her. It nearly wiped out their entire village. They were lucky, people always said, the three of them, to have not caught it, but Lisanna just couldn't see how.

Mirajane turned more and more like Mama. In a lot of ways. Mainly though, she got a...well… Lisanna didn't wanna say meaner, because Mama wasn't mean! But…

And Elfman fell in on himself, getting quieter and more unsure of his actions. He felt like a failure, maybe, because he wasn't the one taking charge, taking the lead, even though he was the brother, and he should be looking out for his two sisters, should he?

Isn't that what Papa would do?

As Mira worked hard at keeping them afloat, Lisanna was in for the harsh realities her other two siblings had long faced and now, without her father there to explain it all to her, she found herself in even more need of her animals. And the comfort they brought. The wonder.

The innocence.

But her father was the one that was right then. Just about as much as he was wrong.

It could always get worse.

And no, they wouldn't always have their land.

It all blurred now, nonsensically. When Mirajane…absorbed the demon.

She'd saved the village. The town. But in doing so, she sealed their fate and they had to leave the only home they'd known, with only what they could carry on their backs, and it was all for the better, of course, but in the immediate period following it…

"Lisanna," her sister snapped more than once, finally completely crushed by that weight that had always dangled just out of reach. "Enough about your animals. They were alone when they found you; now they'll just have to find someone else."

But it hurt. Leaving them. Leaving home. Leaving the place where their parents were buried and where they'd been born.

Leaving their land.

Their dirt.

Now, truly, they were dirt poor.

But they wouldn't be forever. Of course not. Because life had far bigger plans for them. It had to.

Didn't it?

Fairy Tail was...different than home. They had to work there too, very hard, to learn magic, earn respect, complete jobs.

But it was there that she found that fun again. In the struggle. That brought the grin of her father back to her face. She could play and have adventures again, now equally scaled into jobs, and found companionship with the other children, abandoned or orphaned, that Makarov found himself tending to.

It almost made the bad times fade completely. Almost. But they were still etched, frequently, in her older sister's face, and while Lisanna adjusted with ease to their new surroundings, she knew it would take her siblings a bit to shake the trauma of what they left behind.

She held it together better than the two of them. Perhaps because she was younger or maybe hadn't had the most responsibility with all that had gone on, but maybe...maybe she was just different. Than the two of them.

Maybe she was more like Papa.

There were sometimes though, late at night, when her stomach would hurt and she'd find herself getting upset over the past. Over things she hadn't been able to control. So much of her life, her childhood, up to that point had been out of her control..

But one night in particular, as she sat in a tiny hut built by her best friend Natsu Dragneel, while they attempted to keep the egg he'd found warm, she found herself really feeling low about something so stupid.

Not her parents.

Not her home village.

Not even the fact that her older sister was growing colder and her brother was, once more, struggling to adjust to his peers.

No.

As she and Natsu yawned through trying to warm the egg, she found herself feeling crummy about something else entirely.

"I had a lotta pets," she admitted to him softly. "Back home. Cats and dogs and snakes and… I just think about how much they missed me. I wasn't a very good mama to them, leaving them behind."

Natsu, at the moment, was trying to stile a yawn, but did glance over at her with a bit of a frown.

"You didn't wanna leave," the little boy reminded her. "Just like Igneel didn't want to leave me. Sometimes people get separated. It's no one's fault."

She nodded some before sighing, "Still..."

For a moment, the boy stared at her in a way he usually wasn't able to. There was a bit of concern in his gaze, if not empathy. He didn't know these thoughts well, having been raised by a rough and tough dragon, but the more time he spent hanging around the guildhall, with these new kids and these new ideologies, he was discovering just how much he...cared. About things.

"You're the mommy, right? That's what you said? About this egg?" Reaching out to pat at it, he gave her a toothy grin as he insisted, "You're gonna take good care of him, aren't you? Whatever's in here? And every single animal that you left back at your home will understand that. They'd get it. You had to leave to come here, to help me take care of this egg. And I bet you're going to do a really good job at it."

For a moment, she only stared at the young slayer before they both giggled, Lisanna with a grin and Natsu with a hand tossed behind his pink locks and as they fell to the ground, eventually, exhausted for their tiring day of caring for the egg, Lisanna reached out to gently pat at the ground beneath them. Feel the warmth. The dirt.

And as she drifted off, she tried to remember all of the different animals that had become before the one in the egg currently, the ones that she'd loved so much, but had to leave behind, just to be here. In that moment.

It was with a smile on her lips, at the very last one, all named in order and full, that Lisanna was able to fall asleep.

[arcadianambivalence]

World on Fire, Episode 4, or How We React to “Normal” in a Crisis

Spring 1940

Months have passed since the last episode, and characters have had time to steady their nerves.  Kasia’s previous reservations about killing Germans is largely gone, Lois has decided to have the baby and not involve Harry in her life, Webster and Albert have resolved to stay together, and Nancy has repeatedly tried to sneak her discoveries into her broadcasts (or to smuggle her research out of Germany) despite blackmail.  

Other characters have started to lose their determination.  Claudia and Uwe’s marriage is falling apart over their differing ideas about how to protect Hilde, Harry is struggling with his responsibilities in combat, and Grzegorz is grappling with his empathy and endurance.

(More under the cut)

The Winter of 1939 – 1940 has ended, and with it, the illusion of peace for Western Europe.  Stationed in Belgium, Harry’s group retreats closer and closer to the French border as the German army arrives with far more resources.  

Meanwhile, the American hospital in Paris receives wounded soldiers from the front.  Refugees fleeing the war need attention too, like a Jewish emigree couple attacked by Anti-Semites, much like Albert was attacked by fascists in the first episode.  Henriette, a nurse and Webster’s friend, confides in him that she is Jewish and had hidden that fact when she applied for work at the hospital.  

Albert and Webster count their days left together.  Webster is happy just to be with him, but Alfred is afraid of being seen.  They’ve been together for half a year, and the closest Alfred can get to public displays of affection is a brief kiss after a furtive look around.  The reasons for this become all too clear when they return to his apartment to find a swastika on the door and a severed pig’s head on the doorstep.  

“I’ll never be safe anywhere in this world,” he tells Webster.  “People have got plenty choice of what they might hate me for.”

(I would like to take a moment and appreciate this show for pointing out the fascist movements and rising acts of intolerance all over Europe in the late 1930s and 1940.  This is especially visible in the Paris subplot, drawing attention to the wide swath of cultures in the city without entirely romanticizing it as a place of absolute refuge from prejudice.  It makes me think the show is laying the foundation for exploring Occupied France and Vichy France next season...)

The German gains in the invasion bring new worry to the Rosslers.  “The better the war goes, the worse for Hilde,” Claudia says.  Uwe is not happy that Nancy and Claudia continue to meet.  Claudia discovers Uwe has registered as a Nazi to cover the family after his conversation with the workers last episode.  She is horrified, and the two have a big argument with Nancy uncomfortably caught in the middle.  “The Nazis are going to win,” Uwe says.  They must appear to be on their side.

Claudia refuses to take the same course of action.  She brings Hilde to Nancy to say goodbye, perhaps permanently.  Mother and daughter will be staying in a little cabin far away from the city and its watchful denouncers.  

Uwe will not be joining them.

Nancy gifts Claudia a bottle of spirits and Hilde American candy, then asks them to listen to her radio show and toast to a better future.

The way Nancy makes sure to place her hand firmly over Claudia’s hurts.

Douglas has concern for his own children’s safety.  Tom returns home on leave and confesses that he is thinking about deserting and becoming an official conscientious objector.  His father has reservations.  Tom could be executed for desertion, and then there are the political ramifications of a pacifist letting his own son into the movement.  Hurt and betrayed, Tom leaves home as if he does not plan on returning.

Things fare little better between Douglas and Lois.  Although Lois adamantly states that she does not want Harry or his mother involved in her life anymore, Douglas tells Robina that Lois is pregnant in the hopes that Robina’s sense of social (and financial) duty to her grandson will override any qualms about class. 

(The cautious back-and-forth between Douglas and Robina is great, as always, and if Harry and Lois don’t get back together, can their parents have something?)

In the middle of these life-changing historical events, characters continue to talk about relationships and their social lives.  Lois can’t bring herself to sing one night because she’s heartsick over the realization that her feelings for Harry was a love for a person that never truly existed.  Robina and Douglas still have small talk while the latter spoons cubes of sugar into his tea.  Stan teases Harry for his two girls back home.  Thomasz and Kasia’s interactions are sweet when they get to act like two young adults who aren’t in an occupied country with their lives at risk every minute...then they casually discuss killing a soldier like it’s a fact of life.  

Moments like this feel like a kick in the teeth.  

On one hand, you could argue that the characters are too blasé about the killings and the risks involved.  At one point, Thomasz arrives late to a rendezvous and gives “There was a round-up” as his explanation, almost as if it’s a regular occurrence.  On the other hand, wouldn’t it have been?  Poland had been occupied for half a year by this point, and maybe Robina was right last episode (to a degree), you do get used to it...or at least, you continue to live alongside it.

All characters undergo a great change in this series, but it’s still startling to see how they react to their circumstances, especially when their reactions are so different from who they were before or how we expected them to be.  

Kasia, Harry, and Grzegorz are all placed in perilous situations that ultimately lead to the decision of whether or not to take someone’s life.  

Kasia lures an SS officer to a secluded part of town with the expectation that Thomasz will kill him, but when Thomasz has not arrived and the officer starts to go too far, Kasia draws a gun from her purse and kills him.  In retaliation for the death of an officer, a new raid is carried out, leading Kasia to come face-to-face with the family of an innocent woman executed for what she did.  

The moral quandary in her storyline returns: if killing the enemy results in the death of innocents, do you kill the enemy?

When Harry kills the German sniper, he does it to save his own life, but he also does it to save the lives of the men in his troop.  It is one of the few sequences in this show that has the kind of heroics expected of war depictions.  But what could in other hands be cathartic violence against non-character antagonists in battle is undercut by Harry’s emotional reaction after the skirmish and the way he freezes at the beginning of the conflict.  

He’s not calm-under-fire war hero of fiction, but he’s not exactly a romantic hero, either.  Yes, he is the romantic lead of the show, but unlike last episode, he spends his few moments of quiet dealing with his deep-seated familial issues brought out by his powerlessness.

On the run from a death squad, Grzegorz holds a German soldier at gunpoint. The soldier, barely an adult and crying in fear, lowers his jammed weapon.  But instead of killing the soldier like Kasia and Harry do, Grzegorz offers his hand.  Despite all of the atrocities he has witnessed in the past year: his father’s death, people burned alive in Danzig, narrowly escaping execution, the massacre on the farm, the starvation and sleeping in the woods...and there is still a kind little boy thrown into something much bigger and meaner than he is underneath the exhaustion and self-preservation.  

It’s Konrad who kills the soldier, to Grzegorz’s horror.

“I killed one German, just like a German killed your dad.” “Not that German.”

The landscape of the woods around them changes.  Snow dusted ground gives way to moss and mud.  A spring fog cloaks their journey.  And just as the natural landscape subtly changes, so does their luck.

The two stumble across a troop of British soldiers (wait, where are they?) and quickly join the men.  Their relief is short-lived, though, and they are soon back in combat.  Konrad is shot through the head.  

In order to air with a certain rating, World on Fire has to clean up some of the images of violence.  You don’t see blood spurt out of people when they’re shot.  The scenes of death are not drawn out. 

But the image of Konrad, dead before he hits the ground, blood covering face, with a stunned Grzegorz kneeling over him shocked me.

When Grzegorz grieves, the loss of his family comes out, too, for his father Stefan and father figure Konrad.

In Grzegorz’s final scene, he stumbles through a forest, the British soldiers long gone.  Spring is here and beautiful, the snow has melted away, the birds are chirping, and green has returned to the Earth.  Grzegorz seems unaware of the world around him, only the journey ahead in the middle of anywhere and nowhere.

Spoiler

The next episode’s promo places him on a beach.  Is he transported out of Poland by a ship on the Baltic sea?  Or are we supposed to believe Grzegorz and Konrad have spent all winter and spring walking through Poland, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, and finally into France?

Notes

Konrad calls Grzegorz son...

After a disastrous cup of tea with Douglas, Robina makes sure to pay for the both of their orders before leaving

Tom brings the canary home, a visual connector between Jan and his bird in the pilot and Tom now

When Kasia breaks the news to the Polish family of the executed woman, Thomasz notices a German officer kissing a Polish woman next door, which indicates that not all Poles consider Germans the same way they do (and raises the threat of someone recognizing them later)

Robina casually mentions the newly-appointed Churchill to see Douglas’s reaction

[msbluebell]

Hello, I'm the same anon talking about the Captured AU. Sorry about that, I'm not accusing you of making Edelgard a Yandere when I sent the ask, I may come off as oversimplifying Edelgard's character with that but the Captured AU where Edelgard amplified her controlling tendencies just... gave off that impression to me, so, again, I apologize. And part of me can't see Edelgard doing that, as much as I'm aware that it's an AU, since even if her methods are questionable, she still gave (1/2)

the rest of the Eagles a choice to whether or not they will fight with her or not. And even in non-Black eagles routes, she gave Petra a choice to whether or not she will help her if you recruit Petra. So even with all her controlling tendencies, I was on the belief that Edelgard still gave people a choice, no matter how little they might be. Edelgard's methods are NOT okay, but I just can't see her having her controlling tendencies amplified like the AU did. (2/2)Listen, I’m not mad at you. You’re allowed to not like something, and you’e allowed to criticize something, and you’re allowed to even think actively bad things about something.

You and I? We don’t agree on Edelgard’s character and that’s the bare bones of it.

I’m really, really, tired of trying to defend my view on Edelgard, or this stupid AU I made that got me so much hate from different anons (not you, I assume). I don’t even like her character, so it’s exhausting to keep repeating my views of her over and over. So, right here, right now, I’m using your argument less to argue about my AU, and more to put my final foot down on my feelings on Edelgard, what I think she’d do, and how I feel about her. So sorry about that.

I completely, totally, undeniably believe Edelgard absolutely would lock up Byleth in a tower for five years if given the option. That’s not even something I questioned when writing this AU. I think she’s ruthless enough to do it, I think she’s got the sense of compassion to want to do it, and I think she has the moral self-superiority to think she’s right for doing so.

This is the girl that was staged a bandit attack in order to assassinate her two fellow House Leaders, both of whom are underage like her. This is the girl that blackmailed Lorenz into siding with the Empire, this is the girl that is invading all of Fodlan in order to tear down the system and rebuild it the way she thinks is right, this is the girl that used Bernadetta as bait in a trap on Gronder Field in every route not Black Eagles. This is the girl that is possibly blackmailing Ferdinand. Her willingness to commit atrocities in the name of her ambition is what gets the other three factions of the game to paint her as evil. And, eespite loathing the methods of TWSITD, she is shown to actively aid them with their experiments by collecting Crest Stones for them to use to turn innocents into Demonic Beasts with her assault on the Holy Tomb. She also explicitly gave them the Death Knight, who then helps them kidnap Flayn for more experiments. She obsessed with control to the point that it’s listed in her bio, and the only time she lets up on any of these qualities is when Byleth is actively playing her morality pet in the Crimson Flower Route.

And that’s not even going into the fact that she justifies all these actions by the “I Did What I Had To Do” logic.

So, yes, with all the criticism you may think I hate her.

No.

I dislike her, but I understand and appreciate that she’s also a kind, compassionate, woman that is actively trying to make her homeland a better play the only way she knows how. She’s working on only half the actual facts, much like Dimitri, and like him she’s attacking the wrong people because she came to a wrong conclusion based on only half given facts. She legitimately does believe that playing the tyrant now is going to save a lot of people in the future, and it’s a genuine character flaw of hers that she overlooks the now in the name of the future. She is completely right about the corruption of the crest system and the need to reform, as well as the issues with the Church. 

But I’m getting off topic.

I believe, based on both her ruthlessness and her compassion, that she would lock someone up in order to save them from the war.But BBell, you say, locking someone up like that isn’t compassionate at all, it’s torture.

Yes, person who just said that, I agree with you. By basic human decency standards. But you clearly have no idea how we treat prisoners of war. Even in modern day. And, yes, Byleth is a war prisoner first, as I have tried and failed to remind everyone over the course of this AU.

And, my lovelies, being a POW sucks hard, but I bet it sucked harder in an age before crossbows.

Edelgard, in this AU in particular, thinks she is saving Byleth’s life by keeping her a POW. And, on top of that, she’s keeping Byleth fed, in a nice room, with comfortable beds, nice clothes, entertainment. Compared to a wet, cramp, dirty cell with rats that eat you, no toilet, no bed, and no light I bet this prison seems like one of those fancy rich people prisons that are nicer than my apartment. Not only that, Byleth is getting company every day. (I do admit I decided that the room needs a window, just one that’s kinda like a skylight where it’s way too high up to reach). In Edelgard’s mind, she’s saving Byleth’s life and keeping them comfortable until the war is over. That’s downright compassionate right there. Horrifying to us though.

The thing about this AU that everyone seems to forget is that Byleth loving Edelgard was not the end goal for the woman. Yes, she does want Byleth on her side and thinks she can convince them one day, but actively controlling them and making them love her isn’t the point. The point is to keep this person she’s canonically obsessed with from dying in the war. 

I didn’t say this clearly the first time around because I wanted people to come up with their own reasons and endings for this AU, but in my head once this war is over and Edelgard rules everything, Byleth is free to go so long as she isn’t planning a riot or rebellion or assassination. Granted, I personally wouldn’t want someone that could incite a rebellion running around free, so house arrest in a manor or something is more likely, but the tower won’t be necessary after the war.

That’s how I saw it, anyway.

I don’t care if other people want it to be different. I don’t care if they make Edelgard a Yandere. I don’t care if they make Byleth a twenty foot dragon. I don’t care if they don’t keep it as canonically aligned as possible like I tried to do at first before more and more ask bombed my doorstep and this whole thing swelled way beyond my original prompt and got lost somewhere. I don’t care if this is a good horror story for people, or a story they hate, or a good yandere bait story. I don’t care if people have Edelgard obsessed to the point where she never lets Byleth out, because, you know what? I’m sure they have their own logical reasoning for why she would do that. I can’t personally see it. I know Anon personally can’t see it because that’s where this whole mess of me trying to defend my thoughts on a stupid AU I wrote that got me a lot of grief from much meaner Anons came from.

It’s just a dumb AU, guys, do want you want with it. Block it, hate it, love it, write it. Write a billion spin-offs. Make Rhea the one locking people in towers. Make Claude do it. I don’t care if you somehow make Jeralt a zombie and have him capture Edelgard in a tower at this point.You wanna know something? I’d write how I most logically think that very Zombie Jeralt prompt would happen if someone sent it. And I think that’s the problem. Maybe I’m trying to hard to logic out all this stuff I don’t think will happen. Because I don’t back down from the asks, even when I think there’s no way it could happen I tackle it. Maybe that’s why everything is swelling so much beyond my control, and I got three Anons (not counting you, Anon from this ask) that have harassed me about this.I’m going to turn off Anon Asks if I get one more hate comment btw. Check mate to that particular Anon if they’re reading this. Call me a cunt to my face so I can block you, coward. 

Anyway, I got off point again. You disagree with me, Respectful Anon that disagrees with my AU, and I disagree with you. I’m not mad about the yandere comment, I was just defensive. Here’s my feelings on everything. You probably disagree with them. That’s great! I don’t wanna live in a world where people blindly agree with me! I’m sure you even have a great counter argument that I’ll read, and then can’t do anything about because this AU is bigger than me and also I might still disagree.And that’s it, that’s my whole defense of myself in this AU. Have a nice day. 

[severusminerva]

One Monstrous Miracle (Part One)

Hi! Here is the story that was promised! I have no idea where this is going to take me, but I hope that all of you will enjoy the journey as much as I will. Thanks for stopping by!

Pairing: Aziraphale/Human!Reader

Summary: Through miraculous events of unknown origin, Y/N stumbles upon an antique bookshop one afternoon, and from then on, the universe is never the same. 

Warnings: Just bad usage of commas! 

Word Count: 1232

Next

(Let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!)

                Today had been rather a long day for you, something that was quickly becoming the norm. Work was difficult, as it always had been, but everything just seemed to be getting more…tense all of a sudden. The news got bleaker, people got meaner, and your days got longer and more exhausting. Currently, you were walking home from said work, inwardly cursing yourself for forgetting your umbrella. “You live in bloody London, for Christ’s sake!” You thought to yourself savagely, clutching your purse tightly to your body and power walking through the downpour that had started the instant you had stepped outside.

You reluctantly came to the decision that walking the rest of the way home in such a storm would probably make you ill, and you didn’t think that Kathy, your boss, would be too forgiving if you had to take another sick day. Unbeknownst to you, the moment this thought popped into your head, and before your mind had even moved on to thinking of alternative ways to get home, every car on the street vanished into thin air, as if by magic. You, a simple mortal, would never have noticed it happening, and if you had, you would have forgotten it almost as quickly as it had happened. As it was, you looked around and realized that there would be no taxi to drive you home. You did some more inward cursing.

Now, it is important to note that when miracles are performed, it is not without great disturbance to the world around them. Someone who is well-acquainted with the practice will tell you that the air crackles with what most people will call “static electricity”, and those same people will then make a prediction about the weather—those people are almost always human. The experts—who are very rarely human, or even mortal at all—will also tell you that miracles make the most peculiar sound, like a high-pitched ringing in your ear. They will also tell you that miracles smell and taste faintly of vanilla.

It was at this moment in time that you, completely obliviously, were being subjected to one of the larger miracles that have been performed, one that stretched across time and space. It was this enormous miracle that caused you to look up at the sign for a little shop on the street corner, and read its name for the first time:

“A.Z. FELL AND Co. ANTIQUARIAN AND UNUSUAL BOOKS”

It was such a strange place, because although it seemed old and worn, and the very name of the shop seemed to come straight out of the 18th century, you didn’t recall ever having seen it before in all your years living in Soho. At once, your interest was piqued, and you forgot all about the rain in favor of this bookshop. As you opened the door, met with the twinkling of tiny bells, someone somewhere heaved a great sigh of relief: It had begun.

You, in the meantime, were in your new-found happy place, surrounded by every old book one could ever want. You had been completely wrong about it being small, it seemed to be so much bigger on the inside. Reverently, your fingers brushed against the spines of books that were old enough to be your grandfather, if books could be grandfathers. Your hand stopped on beautifully ornate golden letters, embossed on a red leather cover that begged to be pulled off of the shelf and read. You were about to do just that when a voice startled you out of your almost trance.

You jumped in alarm, snatching your hand away as though the book had burned you, and stumbled back into a warm body, whose hands instinctively caught your arms so that you wouldn’t fall over completely. Your whole body tensed, and you shut your eyes tightly, hoping that you could wish the whole incident away. After a few seconds of silence, you had to admit defeat. The body behind you lowered their hands and stepped away, clearing their throat awkwardly.

“I am very sorry that I frightened you, my dear, Crowley does tell me that I tend to sneak up on people, but you seemed so focused and I didn’t want to interrupt your train of thought, Go—I know that happens to me too often and I—” The man—you’d determined from his voice—stopped himself. In the pause that followed, you slowly turned around to face him. Your breath hitched.

The man—you’d now confirmed—seemed to fit right in with the rest of the shop. His clothes had a very vintage feel to them, and although it was highly unlikely, something in you told you that they were all original. He was not terribly tall, but he wasn’t short, either. He had such a kind face, that was currently frowning in embarrassment. All of this was topped off by some extremely blond curls—so blond in fact that they may as well have been white. Although he would not be considered particularly handsome by most estimates, something about him was drawing you to him like bread to butter.

The pair of you had been standing there for what felt like hours, inspecting each other. It was very odd, and you were very glad that there were no other customers around to see you act so bizarrely. Just when you thought that the silence had passed the point of no return, the man burst out into a dazzling grin and put his hand out between you.

“I’m sorry, miss, where are my manners? I am Aziraphale. What is your name?” You looked down at his hand for a second before grasping it with your own.

“Hullo, Aziraphale, I’m Y/N. It’s your name on the sign, then?” You asked, shaking his hand and then gesturing to the windows. Aziraphale chuckled.

“Oh, dear me, no! No, that is my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s name, I only inherited it. This shop has been around much longer, than I have, I’m afraid. Much, much longer.” He smiled his smile at you, but you frowned back at him.

“But I don’t remember this shop being here before, and I’ve lived here all my life!” You protested. At this, Aziraphale looked a bit sheepish, and started to fidget with the chain of his pocket watch.

“I have had to close it down quite a few times in recent years, family issues and all that—”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that—”

“No! I mean, no nothing bad.” Aziraphale’s look turned to something soft and proud. “I’ve recently acquired a Godson, and I’ve been helping to raise him up.” Your heart warmed at how much love you could hear in the man’s voice.

“How nice that must be!” You said, his infectious smile bringing out your own.

“Oh it is! He’s such a lovely boy, very kind and not at all like—” Again, Aziraphale stopped himself. He peered down at you, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. “I mustn’t bore you! I’ve been rambling this whole time, haven’t I? Such terrible manners—”

“I don’t mind,” You interrupted. Shocked, Aziraphale stared at you, seemingly unable to believe what you had said. You grinned at him, placing a hand on his arm. He broke his gaze and looked down at your hand, and then back up at you. “Ramble all you like,”

[wolfiefics]

To all the fans of Steve Rogers who persist that Steve was in the right during Civil War, consider this:

Your argument that after the events of Winter Soldier he lost faith in the US government, why did he stay? Why did he not renounce his US citizenship and try elsewhere? He likely had enough ties with another country, either of familial origin or one he helped liberate during WWII, to do so. Why did he stay? Why did he continue being an Avenger? Living by US society rules put in place and maintained by the government he no longer believed in? If you can answer that in a logical way that isn't knee-jerk high-mindedness, I'll concede it.

If he was right to go against the Accords because "they stifled his freedom" then you are advocating the same mindset of the people taking guns into government buildings in an attempt to terrorize officials into not wearing protective gear designed to save the lives of themselves, their family and their fellow citizens AS IS IN THE US CONSTITUTION CHARTER. Or you are the one calling the police on someone for doing something you don't like, lying about it to make it wrong when that person was doing nothing wrong to begin with? You just didn't like them for some reason, they have to go away. FREEDOM is not a gift. It's not a thing that everyone has. EVER. Not even in the US at the time of the American Revolution. Freedom is a CONCEPT, an ideal to reach for. A utopian dream. The very nature of human civilization NEGATES freedom by its very existence. You want "freedom"? I can rob, rape, murder, enslave, and destroy everything I want to because I'm FREE to do so! No one can tell me what to do! You're the victim? Not my problem! Maybe you should be bigger, meaner, carry a bigger weapon or have more people in your side. FREEDOM is ANARCHY, lawlessness, and disrespecting others wants and needs for whatever you want to have withoutrestrictionsof moral conscience instilled by society (i.e. laws and government).

Society, civilization, has rules for a reason. So that shit DOESN'T happen. You don't follow the rules? You're a criminal. Since the Law Codes of Hammurabi its been this way (before that, those are just the first known written laws). Rules can be amended, recodified, or completely rewritten as your society and culture expands intellectually, technologically or in accordance of getting along with another culture different from yours. They aren't concrete (I was going to say "written in stone but some actually were...aforementioned Hammurabi law codes for example).

But to argue that Steve Rogers was right to IGNORE the rules and laws and do whatever he wanted because he was "betrayed" by the government is ignorant, elitist bullshit. He had NO RIGHT to do that. Attempt to dissuade, argue down or compromise, yes, definitely. But give it the middle finger and stomp off in a snit and do whatever HE thinks is right? He's no longer a law-abiding citizen who has EARNED the rights of his society. He has turned his back on them. I'm not saying the Accords were right (though they had a strong argument for it) but everyone tried to tell him "do this now, we'll wiggle it around til it's more acceptable. If not, they are going to ram it down our throats or throw us in a dark dank corner and forget we're there". But noooo! Steve was too good for that! The petty concerns of almost the entire world is not his problem! HE knows better than ANYONE what's right and what's wrong! Fuck them! He was not interested in compromise, trying to work a deal, nothing. He saw it as oppression and done! And that's how all of you who say he's in the right feel too. 112 out of 128 countries have no RIGHT to feel threatened! What's their problem anyway? It’s not like the Avengers destroyed an entire country! Oh wait.. well it's just some backwater Eastern bloc country, no big loss. And part of South Africa. And an entire floor of visiting humanitarian and diplomat workers. No big deal. The UN should just suck it up. Steve knows what he's doing.

All governments have laws a person doesn't like. Nature of the beast. You might get away with bending it on occasion, depending what it is. But if your actions breaking it means ending the lives of others or compromising/destroying their property or culture because "I'm right, you're wrong"? Bigotry. Elitism. Holier than thou. Entire civilizations have vanished for that and we know little to nothing about them because that attitude meant no one cared to note it. Those civilizations could have cures for, I don't know, CANCER!!? (Medicine Man with Sean Connery is awesome. You should watch it).

The first rule EVERY writer learns when writing about sentient beings is there are good things and there are FLAWS. There is no such thing as perfect. If you have a perfect person who can do no wrong, makes no mistakes, just rolls through life getting everything they want without effort...why would you want that? It's boring. It's unrealistic. Why is this persistent idea that everything Steve does is right and just and morally incorruptible? Sounds like some asshole that needs a bullet in the brain before he decides to kill ME for getting in his way. Most of you don't write him in your own fics that way. Why on EARTH do you think he's perfect in the movie verse? Is he not fictional? Is he not a character in a story? Is he somehow exempt in the movies of all writing conventions?

Civil War is easily the worst of the MCU movies. The potholes are so large you can hyper drive the Deathstar through them. Too many to go into here. That's a whole nother rant. But this movie is the basis of this fan idea that Steve can do no wrong and anyone who opposed or argued with him are immoral, arrogant and oppressive...or government doormats. REALLY?! It's obvious Steve trusts NO ONE. Not Sam, whose life he continually puts in danger with very little remorse. Nat, who has been at his side since two weeks after he woke in the 21st century, fought aliens, was on an elite task force with (two in fact), etc ad nauseum but since she DARED to disagree with him, she's obviously not to be trusted. And he was hyper focused on two things:Bucky and Peggy. Peggy, he moped and brooded over, punishing himself for a trick of Fate. FOR YEARS. And Bucky, who was such an obvious distraction that Hydra knew it was a HUGE weak spot and CONTINUALLY used it against him at the expense of other people's lives that Steve apparently didn't give two shits about or even attempted to modify that weakness. How many legitimate, under cover S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were exposed world-wide when Nat laid bare every record of S.H.I.E.L.D.? Not even a flicker of remorse from Steve. Made this big patriotic speech to the Triskellian but not one single mention at all in the planning of those people. None. Cannon fodder. So sad, too bad, ah well! Gotta save Bucky!! Same in Civil War. Steve headed that op in Africa. He ordered and helped gather the Intel on Crossbones and his gang. He made the plan, placed an unstable high-powered individual ALONE in the field with Nat telling her what to do over an ear piece (and Wanda blew her off), as soon as Crossbones blew Steve's strategy, he went gung-ho through a major, heavily populated marketplace, confronted the enemy, IMMEDIATELY got compromised by the word "Bucky" and allowed Crossbones to set off a suicide vest. If Wanda hadn't been there, Steve and that entire block would have been decimated. Wanda did her best, but she was not up to snuff and lives were lost anyway. Did Steve show remorse? No. He brooded that Rumlow said "Bucky and I was 16 again". He told Wanda essentially that it's regrettable but not to worry about it. Those dead people due to his hard-on to get Rumlow? All those lives of diplomats and humanitarian workers gone? No big whoop. Sad but you know, Steve's perfect so they just had to die. He willingly and uncaringly put people in harm's way that got them killed that with a cool head and better planning (or compromise with others ideas) could have been avoided. That's the making of a sociopath. A monster. NOT someone who should be in charge of an elite team that defeated an ALIEN INVASION HEADED BY A GOD.

Think about this. I loved the Winter Soldier. I think it's in my top 5 MCU movies. Other than the exposure of who knows how many legitimate S.HI.E.L.D agents who may have been in the middle of stopping child slavery rings or something, it's an excellent film. Civil War? Garbage. Utter garbage. Trash. They had a good plot, the Hydra super soldiers, that could have been action packed, exposed Bucky's whereabouts, had a big fight scene, had Tony learning Steve had been omitting how his parents died and still had Zemo taken down and the Avengers break up. Set it up even. Those soldiers were shot off screen as this confusing red herring. Why even mention them if you're just going to shoot them off-screen like an afterthought? Hmm. I should write that. I may have too, if someone hasn't done it already. If so, DM me the link?

But get away from this "Steve Rogers can't be wrong cuz he's Captain America" schtick. Bad enough Civil War turned him into a callous, selfish tool. Don't make the situation worse for him.

I love my Stucky, don't get me wrong. I'll die on this ship. But Civil War is NOT the Steve Rogers characterization you need to be advocating as the ideal. In that movie, he's an asshole and if Peggy or 1930s Bucky knew what he'd done, they'd have BOTH punched him. Maybe more than once. And withheld his dessert at dinner.

I'm just saying.