#he also sent another email with a document attached

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

I'm doing a week long training for camp soon, and this morning I got an email for how to prepare, and it's written in this fucking font

I can't read this shit. I respect you wanting to be fun, but please, write it in normal text for those of us that are blind

[unabashegirl]

Enticing 31 (HS)

Summary: Harry is a young billionaire and CEO of his own company. He mostly keeps to himself, he is stern and very meticulous when it comes to business. He also likes to keep his personal life very private for the sake of his newly born son Oliver Styles. It isn't until he meets Y/N Y/L/N that everything changes. She becomes his new nanny after his previous one quits due to personal reasons. She is young, caring, and sweet. Will they ignore their feelings? Will Harry's girlfriend accept their love and leave them? Will she be able to cope with his busy agenda? What about Oliver's mother? Where is she? Who is she?

masterlist

word count: 1.5K

It was late in the afternoon. Harry was still in his office. He had planned to leave earlier, but as always issues had surfaced in the office.

“This is wrong” Harry exhaled as he read over the contract that had been drafted. He ran his hand across his prickly face. He was still getting used to the new sensation. At first, it was because he was too depressed to shave. He was not motivated to get ready or look sharp.

A few weeks ago, Harry had looked at himself in the mirror and hadn’t been able to recognize himself.  His life was a mess. His routine had gone out the window and the company was paying for his absence. Then, Harry realized that she was never coming back. He realized that he needed to accept it. He needed to accept that he had lost her forever. Harry allowed himself a few more minutes to mourn their relationship before getting into the shower and putting on a new suit.

“What is William thinking? Has he gone over this?” Harry asked Andrew as he flipped through the pages. William’s company had redacted the contract and all the information was mismatched to what they had previously discussed at a meeting. Harry couldn’t sign it.

“I believe he has” Andrew answered as he scrolled down the email to which the document had been attached to. The email had been sent from William’s email and had been signed already on his behalf.

“Get me a car” Harry ordered.

“But sir, you have a meeting scheduled in twenty minutes” Andrew reminded him, to which Harry brushed off with his hand.

“I am sure they can wait for me. I’ll be very quick. I just need to discuss this with him” Harry got up from the seat and button his blazer before slipping on his trench coat. “Tell them that I had another meeting, and it is running late. Call me when they all get settled in the conference room”.

“Yes sir” Andrew nodded as he opened the door for him. “Would you like me to order dinner?” He could tell that they would be working until late. Harry had missed a lot. There was multiple unfinished business, that he had to go through.

Andrew was only glad to see him out of his apartment. Andrew was sad to know that he had given up on Y/N. However, he could understand why he had decided to let her go. Harry had a son and a company with hundredths of employees, and he needed to move on. He had a bunch of people to take care of and the thought of her obstructed him from fulfilling his duties.  He obviously looked different, but it suited him. The slight beard made him look much older and serious, but there wasn’t anything that Harry couldn’t pull off. He was an attractive man and there was no denying it.

“That would be wonderful. Order something for yourself too” Harry said as he left.

William’s office was just a few blocks away from Harry’s. Harry could have walked there, but the day was so cold and so rainy that it was the last thing he desired to do. As usual, there were tons of traffic which gave him the opportunity to answer some emails and check up on Oliver and the new nanny through the apartment cameras.

Oliver was sitting in his brand-new highchair while the nanny looked like she was preparing a bottle in the kitchen. Harry decided to not move to the new apartment. He was still paying the rent for it, but he wasn’t ready to move in. He was also not ready to let go of it. Harry knew it was something that he needed to do, but it wasn’t a priority.

“Thank you” He thanked his driver as he got himself out of the car. He made sure that he hadn’t left his phone or the contract before entering the building. “Good morning,” Harry said to the receptionist.

“Mr. Styles! It’s good to see you! We weren’t expecting you” Mia walked up to the phone. “Let me announce you.”

“Something came up. It will only be a few minutes” Mia only nodded and gained him access to the elevators. “Thank you,” he said to her as he walked past security and waited for the elevator. He smiled at her, one last time before getting in.

“What are you doing here?” William questioned him as soon as the doors from the elevator opened on his floor. Mia had called him that he was coming up which had gotten him on his feet right away.

“Came here to talk about the contract that you just sent to me. It’s all badly written” He frowned as he pulled the contract up and handed it to him. “I was just about to sign it when I realized the numbers didn’t match what we had discussed.” William looked over his shoulder and nodded at his words. “What’s going on?” Harry asked confused about his erratic behavior.

“Nothing. Everything is fine” William said as he took the documents. “I’ll look over them. Anything else?”

“No—”

“Alright! I am sure you are busy!” William requested an elevator for Harry.

“William! What the hell is going on with you!” Harry finally exclaimed, “Why are you kicking me out?” He asked as William basically pushed him into the elevator.

Before any of them could share any other words. The clicking of a pair of heels interrupted them. It was Y/N, walking down the hallway and on her way to her office, holding a fresh cup of coffee. She wore a tight dress that showed the few months of pregnancy that she had experienced on her own.

“Y/N?” Harry asked as he pushed himself away from William. Her expression of utter shock, and her watery eyes, let Harry know that she wasn’t happy to see him.

“Harry” Her voice broke as she gripped the cup of coffee tighter to her body. “What are you doing here?” She asked as her hands went down to her low abdomen, trying her best to hide her small, but evident bump.

“I came here to talk to William. I didn’t know you were working already” Harry’s eyes move down to her stomach, but quickly move back up to her face. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He exhaled loudly and tried his best not to demand answers. Harry could tell that she was only a few months ahead. “Congratulations”.

“Thank you” She softly smiled at him. Y/N was surprised by his temper and how calm he looked.  She expected him to start yelling and making the floor shake. “It’s good to see you”. She said before she could stop herself.

“You look perfect” He smiled but held his tongue from asking who was the father. She blushed, but still kept her distance. “Can we speak privately? Harry asked noticing the multiple people that were watching their interaction.

“I-I am currently busy. I have a meeting.” Y/N explained, nervous about what he might say to her behind doors.

“I understand. Maybe for dinner?” Harry suggested he could understand that she no longer had the same schedule as before. Y/N was now an executive which meant she was busier than ever.

“Harry. I —” He could tell that she was going to decline his invitation. Therefore, he interrupted her.

“Then schedule me a meeting for tomorrow” he dictated. Y/N tried her best not to smile. “Should I get in contact with your assistant?” Harry asked noticing that he was causing her to smile. The dynamics were now different.

“That would be fine” She nodded, “I’ll see you soon then,” Y/N said just before heading into her office. Her heart was racing, and she needed to decompress. The last thing that she had imagined that she would be doing that day, would be speaking to him.

Harry smiled and asked for the elevator. He no longer needed to speak with William. His day had turned dramatically. He was obviously extremely nervous about what might have been revealed during their meeting. William got into the elevator with him before the doors closed.

“Harry —”

“How long?” He interrupted him.

“Three months or so” Harry hummed and looked down at his watch. “She asked me not to tell you, Harry. She begged and cried”. William explained he knew that he had messed up. William had always claimed that his loyalty always lay with Harry. Unfortunately, his silence proved him otherwise.

“If she is pregnant with my son or daughter, and you hid it from me. I will never forgive you.” Harry said before leaving...

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[stararise]

omg my dear friend dr. watson finally sent me another email!!!

they moved in! side note but i'm seriously wondering where the bedrooms are in tgaac's 221b because? there are no doors in the living room??? (unless of course they're attached to the fourth wall) where do iris and herlock sleep

holmes sleeps and gets up early?? 'his habits are regular'???? this is ABSOLUTELY not what i expected

watson thinking holmes couldn't POSSIBLY be addicted to drugs because of the 'temperance and cleanliness of his whole life' lmao

interesting how in his description of holmes, he never mentions, like, colors. i guess to let the reader form their own mental image, on a doylist- wait. WAIT IS THIS WHERE THE TERMS DOYLIST AND WATSONIAN COME FROM. HOW DID I NEVER REALIZE

watson immediately taking an interest in holmes and welcoming the intrigue because of his monotonous lifestyle is so sweet

oh. so that's what people were talking about when they said sherlock holmes is autistic coded. adfbshg watson saying no one would ever go to such lengths and learn so much information about something unless they had a Purpose for it... listen my dear friend sometimes the brainworms just strike without warning!!!

NOT EVEN THE SOLAR SYSTEM FJSGGSGS tbh holmes has so much power to be able to forget things at will

'i could not help smiling at the document when i had completed it' aww

wait holmes is good at swordplay? i never knew that!

'i threw it into the fire in despair' is a very humorous line

absolutely punched in the face by the reminder that the original inspector lestrade is, like, a middle-aged man

'with the unreasonable petulance of mankind' is such a good phrase

not watson insulting holmes to his face! i would be so embarrassed. in his defense, the premise does sound pretty ridiculous, though

*herlock sholmes voice* i'm a great british consulting detective, the only one in the world! fjsgsg that was the only thing i could think of when reading that line

i like how holmes's deductive reasoning method is literally just making a ton of (admittedly, fairly logical) assumptions about people. and it works

i also wondered why watson couldn't simply be tanned from being outside, and then i remembered this book is set in london, england

watson is SO upset over his blorbos being insulted lmao

'brag and bounce!' is such a funny exclamation

[thessalian]

Thess vs Fast-Talking

I am a fucking genius.

Okay, work's gone kind of mental again, because Temp's off sick. And, of course, the doctors are dictating all weekend and a lot of the long and annoying ones are in full swing (we've got The Breast Guy with three huge-ass reports, one topping out at fifteen minutes, that we just didn't have time to deal with today). But to understand the entirety of my genius, we have to flash back to yesterday.

See, as I think I mentioned on Friday, I got asked to put together a Standard Operating Procedure document describing SOP for the typing, and put it together in Word with some screenshots demonstrating what I'm talking about in each bullet point. Thing is, my work laptop doesn't have Word because no one's going to pay for the license for something I hardly ever use. So I agreed to put the damn thing together on my home PC. Because OpenOffice. Thing is, while I emailed myself the screenshots, I forgot to email myself the text. So I quickly logged into my work laptop yesterday just to send that over to myself.

Thing is ... Scruffman had sent me another email earlier in the day. This one asking me to do some fiddly bullshit involving finding lab numbers for various reports (which ... got lost in the system ... somehow?) and putting them together with the other details in a list from oldest to newest. Apparently this is for costings or something. Now, that presented a whole bunch of problems. Like, they still haven't got around to getting me a USB monitor so I still use the dinky laptop screen, and it doesn't support the kind of split-screen I'd need to make that kind of task anything but the most inefficient bunch of bullshit. Also, if I wanted to do this, it'd have to be in Excel, and my work laptop doesn't run Excel. It doesn't run anything on the Windows suite, because no one wants to pay a license for something I only use maybe once or twice a year. So I ignored it, since I wasn't technically "at work", and instead just spent fifteen minutes on the SOP document (figuring I could take it as time off in lieu at some stage in the week) and tried to forget about the bullshit that was going to face me this morning.

(Spoiler: I could not forget about the bullshit that was going to face me this morning. I was stressed to the hilt about it.)

Anyway, this morning, I log into my computer, and Scruffman has sent the schedule for the week, as he always does so that I know what the typing load is going to be like. And that's when I found out that Temp was out sick, possibly for the entire week. And I got a secondary email as a reply to our chain about the SOP document saying, "Look, it's going to be really busy with [Temp] off, so Friday's fine for this one".

And I thought: This is an opportunity.

So I replied to that email with the attached SOP document, saying, "Yeah, I actually did that already - I figure I can take the 15 minutes I spent on it as extra time when we're not so busy. On the subject, though, does this extended deadline apply to the costings document list you wanted? Because that one's going to take awhile for me to put together, given my small monitor and having to manually arrange the list from oldest to most recent because of a lack of Excel on this computer."

I never said I couldn't do it. I never said I didn't want to do it. I simply asked for clarification on the timeframe owing to the circumstances, and laid out all of the circumstances. Politely.

His response? "Thanks for the SOP document. Don't worry about the other thing; I'll work out something else".

So I got out of at least one bit of fiddly bullshit that I am not actually equipped to do, all on account of my quick thinking. I am proud of me.

I do have to wonder why it is that Scruffman always asks me to do this stuff. I'm limited by the work-from-home setup they gave me, and I don't even do as many hours as most of the rest of the staff. I mean, if it's that I'm the only one he trusts to do it right and in a timely manner? I want to hear that shit! I would actually be very grateful to know my worth! And honestly, if it's just because I'm the only one that doesn't bitch, moan, whine, or sigh too loud when he gives me this kind of work? I want to hear that too! I want him to admit to my face that he bombards me with stuff I struggle to do with the limitations of my setup because he's so afraid of confrontation that he doesn't want to ask anyone who might moan even a little where he has to hear it.

Anyway, never mind; at least I don't have to do spend at least an hour digging through our electronic patient record by various bits of information and look at all their records to find the ones they're after. Because seriously, he was talking about some of them being done before 2020. That's a lot of patient record to go through. And now I don't have to. Because I am a fucking genius.

[mariacallous]

So, I got an email from HR for the new job. There's a ton of documents I needed to print out and fill out and bring with me for new hire orientation (which is happening like 2 weeks before my start date? which is kind of frustrating schedule-wise) plus stuff like my/a copy of my college degree/diploma?

Anyway, I don't own a printer so I decided to take advantage of printing at the library. So I sent them to the library and took the bus there.

I get there, and I try to retrieve my print jobs. There's no payment option or device at the computer. I go talk to the guy behind the desk. He tells me to go upstairs and there's an option to print there and pay there.

I do that. It looks like the kid's section. Whatever, there's the print station. I go to it, and it has a card reader. Perfect. I go to retrieve my print jobs and I swipe my card. It reads that it took/prepaid $5. Great.

Except the print station is saying I need to submit payment. I try to figure it out.

One of the librarians comes over. "You can't use that, this is the kid's section." I explain I was told to come up here and pay with my card. Librarian is skeptical and rude and insists I won't be able to do anything. Another librarian comes over and asks if there's a problem. First librarian proceeds to act like I'm not there and also repeatedly misgenders me. Not worth fighting or saying anything.

The second librarian looks and tries to get the printer to work. Goes back and saw I paid and so bypasses things to get the printer to work. Printer starts printing a page at a time and then needs to be reset. Some pages get cut off. The printer says there's a jam in between each printed page. The librarian checks the printer, starting with where the printer says the jam is - there is none. The jobs keep getting held up. Librarian and I keep trying to figure things out. Librarian finally asks me to email her the attachments so she can print them from her workspace.

I have no service on that floor, so I have to manually reconnect to the wifi (because I'd been kicked off?) and then finally email the librarian. Another patron (a mom with two kids) is also having issues with the printer. Librarian is bouncing between me and her and I feel even worse now.

Turns out that there *was* a jam but not where the printer said it was. Librarian and I manually review the attachments to confirm what's been printed and what wasn't. I get all the documents printed finally and I thank the librarian profusely because of what she had to do and how much she helped me. First rude librarian has been gone the whole time and only comes back as I'm walking down the stairs.

I walk in the wrong direction and have to backtrack to the right bus stop and decide to treat myself at the market before coming back to my apartment and diving back into the work shitshow.

[mihrsuri]

An actual continuation (finally) of this. Ellie belongs to @nocompromise-noregrets (I love) and any errors of historical authentication belong to me!

Maya makes the same half joke, half serious treatise to her students every year - about the importance of just treatment in history - that you might need to see the past as complex but also recognising that you are allowed to bring your own experiences, your own complexity to the study - it’s just you need to give that complexity to your subjects as well. 

“I won’t say don’t get attached, because well, I’d be telling on myself” 

And it’s true. She has gotten attached - sometimes she thinks it’s not enough of a word to sum up how she feels about the triad - she’d joked in the talk with Lalla about feeling as though she was meant to find the coffer but sometimes it feels like she was, in the years since - and she’s lived them, the three of them. Their letters, drawings and small keepsakes - things actually held by them. They are in her heart, in ways Maya cannot describe. 

So yes, she’s attached. 

She takes a deep breath, walking out of the car outside of Welles Hall, goes through meeting Ellie (who she likes very much - talking archival stories is easy - after all that had been Maya’s other job, way back when) and then to the box and the documents. She’s talking out loud through it, because that’s how she tends to work. 

“The handwriting absolutely matches that of John Norwich - more than that it has his specific seal. As well, he liked to write in a mix of languages to demonstrate his learning - especially Greek and Latin - you probably know all this, working here but he had a very specific obsession with Ancient Greece and Rome and…” 

Maya reads. And she stops. Wonders if you can dig up a man who has been dead for 400 odd years and kill him again. Somehow, somehow she finds the historian in herself and pulls it up. 

“It fits. I’d hedge around and say I’d need to take a few weeks but, honestly - this is real and it makes so many things make sense - I can talk you through my thoughts, email you a summary before I make the formal report - I know my Norwich expert friend is going to want to have some input and study this or I can do both but I can tell you - this is genuine.”

She takes another breath. 

“I know Mandy will know an expert on historical safety, but if she’s not back I can recommend someone as well. But it fits - the five years we don’t know about in Thomas Cromwell’s childhood, the hints in letters - the way Mary Tudor asked for him after Thomas Seymour tried to abduct her and then afterwards said he had ‘understood, as few could’ let alone the way King Henry…god, he suppressed all mentions of John Norwich, banned his coat of arms and we’ve never been sure why, when the others condemned for treason were not given such severe treatment.”

“Wasn’t there something else? Something about court, about Norwich…” Maya attempts to make her brain work. 

“That’s in the papers” Ellie said, “He says quote “I plan to reclaim my property and further, to enrich myself in the eyes of the King and his grace, my patron” and apparently he did confront Cromwell - he goes on about it, in nauseating fashion.”

“Thomas was sent away from court just before Norwich was arrested after he was apparently very ill…which, it looks like trauma. It looks very much like trauma. We’ve never been able to fill in the gaps of that time, of why Henry and Anne became even more protective of him afterwards but now, now we know.” 

Maya takes a breath. It’s going to be awful but she’s determined.  

“I’d like to come to the meeting about how to deal with this, if your bosses wouldn’t mind. I can speak to the authentication if nothing else. And I’ll sit with this and make up my notes if you want to get back to work?” 

[samsobiz]

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[arp1advocate]

10. Election of Board Members

           I believe there are some irregularities regarding the election that took place earlier this year. When I first ran for a Board position, there were no restrictions on how many words one could use in defining themselves. The rules were changed to limit an individual’s “resume” to seventy-five words, including specific questions to be answered. In answering the questions, the 75 words were used up rapidly. In the current election one candidate apparently got no votes at all which seems odd.

           In one case an individual had exceeded the 75-word limit and our Secretary claimed to have sent an email notice giving him a time limit for correcting and returning his document. In a public meeting, the individual stated that they had not received the notice. But the secretary held tight to the “missed deadline” therefore the individual could not be considered. Finally, the Board over ruled the Secretary but it was a tense public session. There was an attempt to thwart another individual whose application was accompanied with a note from the management company representative that though “he is now current on assessments”, he had been late a year earlier and had given the management company a hard time. Our founding documents simply state “current on assessments and no outstanding violations”. Some Board members were pushing to subject the individual to be further scrutiny by Board officers.

           All of the applications were reviewed by persons who themselves were up for reelection. I stated to the members of the Board that I believe it is an unfair advantage for those up for reelection to see what others have written. We will have a new election this February and now the 75-word resume has been changed to 75 or 80 words.

           The President was up for reelection February 2023. He stated, public distributed documents provided herewith, (Photos 32, 33) that he owns “Cramer Realty”. This was published in the February 2023 Arrowhead Ranch Newsletter (distribution 1530), page 2 and, the ballot provided to homeowners (1530) for them to record their vote preferences, as part of his reelection bid. However, the public database record of his Real Estate License (SA026221000 copy attached) shows that he has been employed by “Cramer and Associates” since 7/1/1995. Marjorie Cramer, a Broker and his mother, is the principal of “Cramer and Associates”. I could not find a “Cramer Realty” licensed in Arizona (state public database). It seems at least misleading? To further complicate the matter, he also uses “Cramer Real Estate” which is a company whose license (SE010687000) was terminated 1/31/1995.  

[mariasmemo]

Don’t Take Your Computer For Granted

As I zip around on my computer, downloading attachments from emails, copying them into document folders, cutting and pasting documents from one folder to another, I am constantly amazed.  I mean, look how far we have come.  When I was in elementary school, there was ONE student computer for the entire public school I attended.  Mr. G – the sixth grade teacher who must have had some sort of tape worm as he was always walking around with HUGE sub sandwiches in his hand – was in charge of it.  He wheeled it around on a giant cart and my class maybe used it a few times a year.  We were allowed to go out in the hall in groups and, basically, we sort of just touched it – I kid you not – especially because it’s hard to share a computer with 6 children gathered around.  My Dad, when he was first in the US Air force during Vietnam, was in charge of a massive computer at the air base before he was sent overseas.  What I am doing on my computer now, my little work laptop, was done on a computer that filled a HUGE room.  I imagine it was something like a UNIVAC1050 or some such thing and he would often be called in late at night when it was having issues.

Funnily – or ironically – enough, Maria Mitchell was a computer herself.  It was her official title as she calculated the ephemeris of Venus for the US Nautical Almanac.  What she did was mathematical computations – computations that took quite a bit of time and that today would take less than a second for a computer.  Her work for the Nautical Almanac also made her one of the first women to work for the US federal government.

So the next time you are zipping about your computer whether it be crunching numbers, dealing with equations, moving documents around, writing . . .  remember what it was like in Maria’s day before such a thing existed – or when computers first came into more public use and took up a huge room – or many huge rooms!  And give thanks for this modern marvel we all take for granted whether it be on our desk of an iPhone in hand.  (Can you imagine Maria Mitchell and an iPhone?)

JNLF

[subtletruamadumping]

We're Family

______________________________________________________________

I am still struggling with accepting that certain family members will never treat me with respect. No matter how many times they claim they love me, they will always act the opposite. I'm still holding out hope, even if it's foolish.

TW: Homophobia, Religious Imagery

Date Written: January 16, 2022

______________________________________________________________

I still had hope for my sister. She hadn’t said anything when mom and I were having our big fight. Sure, she hadn’t jumped in to defend me, but she also hadn’t taken mom’s side to damn me to hell the instant the words were out of my mouth. The part of my heart that still likes to see the best in people believed that her silence might be her mulling things over, noticing how awfully and hurtfully mom had reacted. Sure, she hadn’t texted me in a few months, but we hadn’t texted very often before the fight. I was delighted to receive an email from her. She loves to write poetry and she’s always asking me to read them over. That’s what I thought the document she had attached to the email she had sent to me and her college friends was going to be. As my phone loaded in her words typed in her latest favorite curly font, my heart sank. “Why Does God Allow Suffering if He’s Good?” the title read. I scrolled further to find her explanation in the first paragraph.

She had decided to change her major from music theory, the thing she had been working towards since 4th grade, to Theology. My fears of mom’s influence completely taking over had finally come true. She didn’t want me to read over her poetry; she wanted me to read her practice of Catholic Apologetics. She wanted me to help her get better at converting people to the same religion that mom used as an excuse to throw her terrible words at me. I read further into her author’s note. It was clear to me she assumed I’d agree with her point of view, that she’d have a friend on her side defending her deranged beliefs. Another Catholic forcing their way into people’s minds to shame them into joining the cult.

That wasn’t going to be me. I texted her privately, not in the group chat that my mom likes to continuously harass me though. I explained to her I was not going to be on her side for these kinds of conversations. I was no longer brainwashed into believing Sky Daddy only ever did good things and everyone suffering had done it to themselves. I told her I’d be willing to have these discussions with her, but that I would be arguing against her, not with her. She seemed quite taken aback by this. I’m not sure why it came as a shock. Why would I continue to believe that God is good when I’ve seen what he does to people? I told her I didn’t want the reason we stopped talking to be her religious views. I was still doing my best to see the best in her. She said she agreed and I was ecstatic. She removed my name from her emailing list so I wouldn’t get these documents in the future and I thought things had ended well.

She hasn’t spoken to me sense. It’s funny how “we’re family” only applies when you're trying to change my beliefs. The minute I question yours, you disappear. Around the same time, mom begins to blow up my phone. Text after text, day after day. I work the night shift. I have for years, yet she always sends her cryptic texts at noon, or one, or two. Always when I’m dead asleep. They’re pointless.

“Hello?”

“Are you alive?”

“Call me.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I am your mother.”

“We’re family.”

I finally have a day off and reply back, explaining that I was asleep when she was texting me. She goes off on me for ignoring her, saying how awful of a daughter I am. She demands to know why I won’t call her, why I have no desire to talk to her. I blink at the words on my phone screen. How could she not know? Surely, she was trying to get a rise out of me. I still take the bait. After all these years, I haven’t learned my lesson. I remind her of the fight, of how she'd rather me die alone or be in a miserable marriage than be able to actually be with someone I loved. I don’t even get the chance to bring up how many times she belittled, bullied, and berated me. She cuts me off, doubling down. She tells me the minute she can vote for someone who will repeal gay marraige, she will. She tells me I shouldn’t have rights because I’m dirty and that I deserve to burn in hell. Somehow, she still expects me to want to talk to her, to call her up out of the blue. She expects me to wreck my sleeping schedule, bend over backwards, and listen to her shout awful things at me through the phone. Just like my coming out, this conversation did not end well. I received an angry text when I didn’t wish her a happy birthday. That was the last time she spoke to me.

I’m not sure which one, but someone snitched on me to my grandma. In a similar vein to mom, she started sending me text after text. After I ignored them all, I received a letter in the mail. She clearly outlined in this letter how stupid I was. How I was such a dimwitted, hateful, sheep that was only doing what the crowd told me to do. It was clear to her I needed to go back to church, clearly the only brainwashing she approves of. She demanded I call her, expressly telling me that she was going to debate me on my sexuality. As if she knew better than I did who I get horny for. She demanded why I would do such a selfish thing by choosing such a sinful lifestyle. She wanted to know how I could possibly put my own feelings before those of the rest of the families.

I never answered her letter or called her like she wanted. Despite what my family thinks, I am strong enough in my sexuality that I don’t feel the need to debate them on it. I know my mother and grandmother will not change their minds and will only use any contact they have as an excuse to continue their beratement of me. My grandma continues to text me daily, demanding I pray for her, sending me pictures of prayers she takes with her shitty phone camera. She demands I pay attention to her, listen to her judging and condemning me. She sends me old pictures of when I was anorexic, begging to know why I had changed.

“Didn’t you look so much better when you were a good Catholic girl?”

“Why can’t I get this version of you back?”

“Six years ago was such a different time.”

“Don’t you miss this? I do.”

“Don’t shut us out of your life just because you’re mad at your mom.”

“You’re being immature.”

“All kids fight with their mom.”

“You’ll regret turning your back on God.”

“And us.”

“We’re family, after all.”

[ukftm]

Hi, kind of URGENT.

I have been on the NHS wait list for hormones for almost 5 years. My previous gp had said for 2 years that he had referred me and I didn't know any better, turns out he hadn't. I got a new doctor and been waiting. While I waited, I saved up. I've decided I can't take it anymore and just to go private. I'm going through gendergp as I've heard a lot of good about them and through a different group it was highly recommended.

I had no issues at all until today. I'm just really confused. So I pay the £30 subscription membership thingy. They sent me an email with just a basket. So I went to this basket I apparently had my prescription in, and it had an extra cost of almost £50?? Like, I was told leading up it would be about £15 which I was okay with. But that's a lot more. I won't be able to afford that.

I'm honestly just confused on what to do next. I plan on emailing in the morning (I'll update if I can) is there another way to do this? I wanted to take injections as I'm autistic and can't handle things touching my skin. I said this. I told them I couldn't do gel, but they're prescribing me gel? Is all this normal? Is this what's supposed to happen? I mean if I have to have gel I can try but I won't be able to take it for long yk. Can I get my prescription and take it elsewhere? My gp said he'd happily help with anything I need, can I give him this prescription? Can I change over to NHS?

I'm sorry, I know this probably a lot and you probably can't help me much, but it's just really confused me. And I don't know any trans people irl. Honestly I'll take any advice and update on what happens

Thank you, Tony

Hi,

You may find it useful to have a look at the gendergp website. I have attached a link to their callback form as it may be helpful for you to ask their staff directly.

If you also have a look through the documents on the helpcentre section of their website they discuss fees etc.

We also have lots of posts on gendergp which might provide you with helpful information.

https://www.gendergp.com/help-centre/request-a-call-back/

[wherelibertydwells]

More than any other group, it is White Coat that has elevated the cause of stopping these horrific government experimentations on dogs and puppies into the mainstream political conversation. And numerous media outlets — led by The Washington Post — have spent years publishing flattering profiles on this group and its innovative bipartisan strategies.

Now everything has changed. The government official who oversees the agencies conducting most of these gruesome experiments has become a liberal icon and one of the most sacred and protected figures in modern American political history: Dr. Anthony Fauci, the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) and President Biden's Chief Medical Advisor. Many of the most horrific experiments, including the ones on dogs and puppies now in the news as a result of White Coat's activism, are conducted by agencies under Fauci's command and are funded by budgets he controls.

In other words, White Coat's activism, which had long generated bipartisan support and favorable media coverage, now reflects poorly on Dr. Fauci. And as a result, The Washington Post has decided to amass a team of reporters to attack the group — the same one the paper repeatedly praised prior to the COVID pandemic — in order to falsely smear it as a right-wing extremist group motivated not by a genuine concern for the welfare of animals or wasteful government spending, but rather due to a partisan desire, based in MAGA ideology, to attack Fauci. In emails sent last week to the group, Post reporter Beth Reinhard advised them that she wanted “to talk about White Coat Waste and the #beaglegate campaign.” She specifically asked for a wide range of financial documents relating to the group's funding — far beyond what non-profit advocacy groups typically disclose. “May I request your 2020 filing with the IRS,” Reinhard first inquired. White Coat quickly provided that. On October 30, White Coat Vice President Justin Goodman provided even more financial documents — “attached are the Schedule Bs. I’ve also attached a breakdown of our funding sources from 2017-Q3 2021,” he wrote in an email to Reinhard — yet nothing satisfied her, because nothing in these documents was remotely incriminating or helpful to the narrative they were trying to concoct about the group's real, secret agenda. After White Coat voluntarily provided more and more detailed documentation about its finances, it became obvious what fictitious storyline The Post was attempting to manufacture: that this is a far-right group that is funded by "dark money” from big MAGA donors, motivated by a hatred of science and Dr. Fauci. But in trying to manufacture this false tale, The Post encountered a rather significant obstacle: White Coat is funded almost entirely by small donors, grass-roots citizens who use the group's website to make donations. Once The Post was repeatedly thwarted in its efforts to concoct the lie that the group is MAGA-funded, Reinhard continued to insist that there must be hidden right-wing funding sources, and even began demanding that White Coat take some sort of bizarre vow never to accept right-wing or "pro-Trump" funding sources in the future. Documents provided by White Coat both to me and The Post demonstrated that the group's average donation in 2020 was $30.47, obtained by 81,805 individual donations (that includes all donations, including from groups). The group took no PPP bailout funds, and received, in its words, “$0 gifts from conservative aligned groups ever.” Even more disturbing was the telephone call which Goodman had on Monday with Reinhard and another Post reporter, Yasmeen Abutaleb, assigned to the health and COVID beat. During that call, Abutaleb in particular repeatedly demanded to know whether White Coat was concerned that the activism they were doing on these dog experimentation programs could end up harming Dr. Fauci's reputation and thus make him less able to manage the COVID crisis. They even suggested that by encouraging people to call the NIH telephone lines to protest this experimentation, they might be making it difficult for people with questions about COVID to get through. The obvious premise of the entire conversation was one completely antithetical to the journalistic ethos: it is immoral to do anything that reflects negatively on Dr. Fauci now, no matter how true or warranted it might be, because his importance is too great to risk undermining him. After speaking with the two Post reporters, Goodman told me that “it’s clear based on my conversations with them that rather than investigating the horrific puppy experimentation being funded with our tax dollars by Anthony Fauci — about which they have asked virtually nothing — they are instead interested in attempting to discredit our organization and #BeagleGate campaign in order to run defense for Fauci.” More at the link.

[rumblelibrary]

I'm not sure if you have already done something like this before, and if you did, please let me know, I'd love to read it, BUT I was wondering if you could do a little thing, maybe with Sebastian Zöllner, where he is like totally behind on every fucking deadline, work is just piling up, he got into stress with his ex, the dishes are not done, he should go take out the trash, you know, everything is just piling up and he just cracks under the pressure, severely doubting his worth as a person. And his friend, the reader, gotta try their best to build him up again, telling him all the things they love about him, and it slowly turns into a love confession without them noticing.

Is this too elaborate, does that make sense for Seb? Idk. To me it does? Like he's always very...Seb around other people, but deep down I feel like he's always under this pressure to live up to his own and others expectations, wanting to be big and famous and perfect in a way.

I'm so sorry, brain go brrr.

Never Enough [Sebastian Zöllner x Reader]

Word Count: 4k Warnings: bad habits (heavy smoking and drinking), self deprecation, depression and some fluff in the end. A/N: I loved this prompt, I love to write Sebastian so thanks to you once more for giving me this opportunity

He should have probably realised something was wrong when the ashtray was vomiting cigarettes out from its dooming position beside the laptop.

He nervously used the left part of the one he just ended to scavenge some space and just pressed it along the others.

Or maybe when after another sip of the same cold coffee mixed with cheap gin he felt the walls of his stomach revolting and stirring against him, threatening a much bigger damage.

Or, again, when he felt like calling back Elke because he was so alone and he was hungry and tired, and she might hate him but he could pull some puppy eyes and maybe it would work. It usually did.

The truth was that he shouldn’t have taken up so many jobs, but the bank account was crying and he needed them, he needed the money.

But again: writing about the umpteenth girl- artist performing naked on a famous historic location?

Or do we have to talk about the way somebody splashed some colour here and there  on a canvas saying it is the catharsis of his young mind against the social construct?

Please, may God spare him from the man calling himself landscape artist because he takes pictures of naked girls on a field.

Charged up with this amount of nothingness, he could just write and delete, write and delete, words count going quickly up to 400 only to go back at 0 in a snap of his fingers over the buttons, because he couldn’t just tear them down. He had to give them some hope, a glimpse of potential he couldn’t see and he wasn’t even aware it existed. Each of them disgusted him, but he was specifically asked to be entertaining and not a killer with his words.

So he kept swiping up videos and photos of these artists, trying to find one thing, one holy grail to get attached to and finally write one good optimistic line in the middle of the words he had to pull up to keep a moderate tone.

He rubbed his temple running over his hairline, which by the way was perfectly fine, before his hand reached down and he touched his t-shirt pulling on the neckline to gather some air, he was wearing his pyjama still, white stained shirt on blue tartan pants. He raised up the shirt and bowed his head down giving in a long inhale from the inside and just cringed to himself.

He looked around as he couldn’t stand up, if he did then he will get only more distracted and these articles needed to be ready for tomorrow.

He noticed the spray against the mosquitos on the floor, those little bastards always hiding under his desk to bite his ankles, he picked it up and sprayed it over himself like it was perfume hoping to ignore the need of a shower for few more hours.

His eyes scanned the small studio flat he was living now: the dishes sticking out of the sink, the noisy fridge buzzing. The one table that was also his work desk filled with used mugs, stained plates covered in cigarettes and leftovers, empty packages of his favourite brand discarded everywhere: from the bathroom up to the couch and to the small bed he owned. Damn, if he run out of cigarette it will be hard to ignore how he also run out of food.

The space was dark and gloomy, some of his stuff still packed up, the fake pop art panting of him and Elke staring at him reminding him of his other loss.

He didn’t touch the bed in days, he just slept on the seat or on the couch.

His attention was attracted by his phone buzzing.

He sat up straight as it was her, it was Elke.

Did she sense his discomfort? 

“Elke” he picked up the call in a second.

“Wow, a quick answer, did you have your phone already in your hand or it happens just so late at night?”

Her sarcasm did’t go past him, but he just thought how long it was since he heard a human voice and not the recording of some idiot calling himself artist.

“No, I was thinking of you”

“Yes, sure, look I have sent you an email with the bills of the time you were here, the ones you have left to pay and it is only fair that you pay at least half of them”

“Sure” he just said it because he wanted to go past the point of money, he wanted her back. Maybe he could crush at her place, feel her hands through his hair, shower, sleep some good sleep and the articles will come around in few types “Elke, I was thinking we might…”

“I just called you for the bills”

“I know, but maybe we could have” his eyes darted at the top right of his laptop screen to see the time “a drink together?”

She huffed a laughter as he frowned lightly “I know you Seb, if it is money or sex what you’re looking for that door is closed and it has been for a long time”

“I know” he murmured as he let out a breathy sigh, a dooming sense of loneliness creeping over him like a giant spider ready to wrap him up and eat him “I just hoped…”

“Don’t hope Sebastian, you’re already an hopeless cause”

She hung up on him and he was left there, he kept that same pose with his phone against his ear. His eyes trailing once again over the empty page of his document on the screen, on the chaos surrounding him.

He nibbled on his bottom lip before running his tongue over the pained area.

He pushed the phone back down on the table with a tremble of his jaw and a shaky hand.

She was right.

What he did of his life anyway? He lost most of his occasions in life, he was now in his thirties and he concluded nothing of what he hoped to be, he failed in all the departments both as an artist and as a critic.

A jack of all trades is a master of none, and maybe only the first type of the famous quote could be applied to him.

He couldn’t even take the trash out or he couldn’t remember the last time he ate something that was vaguely resembling of fruits or vegetables. It is all good when you imagine yourself as a bohemian rooting against the world, when you convince yourself that’s only the proof you needed to know you are fighting well against a system of art that privileges banality and marketing over real artistic value and that, one day, all your struggles will be worth it.

Even Picasso was poor for a long time in Paris.

Damn, maybe to be in a situation like this in Paris would sound more romantic.

But the truth was: he never imagined to have to do it alone, that life would feel so overwhelming, that there wouldn’t be anything but extreme struggle, anger, loneliness and a terrible diet.

For a moment he wished to be a baby again, to be the bright boy he was and let mommy take care of his needs and his dirty shirt and empty stomach. He wished that maybe somebody noticed him before, that somebody saw his talent and helped him to pull it out instead of leaving him to do it on his own only to come late to every step.

And now it is too late, he is lost in the sea of terrible paid jobs and anguishing relationships, let’s not forget maybe he indeed had a receding hairline and he was doomed to get bold .

He squeezed his eyes as a soft sob took over his lip, hand running over his forehead as he pulled on his hair justifying his tears with some physical pain. He shook his head as he tried to gain back some composure, hand flung over to pick up his coffee mug and giving in a long gulp of the coffee, the same one he swore before to not touch again, only to almost choke on it, couching it out only to pick up the bottom hem of his shirt to clean his laptop screen.

He fucking hated to write on a computer, the old typewriters inspired him but that damn ink was too expensive now for his sore pockets.

He smirked to himself as he kept doing it, finding good excuses to call himself off any responsibility. But maybe Elke was right, well she surely was, she had two degrees, maybe he was really a lot cause. He frowned as he wiped slowly the screen with his already stained shirt, the wetness sticking then against his skin as soon as he let it go giving him another shiver.

He didn’t have even the strength to cry, he could only accept it was over.

The curse that he shouted out loud when he heard knocking at the door, smashing him out of his thought spiral, generated an immediate anger reaction from him.

“Fuck, shit, if it is the fucking neighbour, I swear I will kill her cat or that rat she has as cat, fucking hell”

He grumbled as he stood up moving across the table not caring about his state, he only wanted to crawl back into a ball and maybe nuzzle a bit somewhere.

When his death glare appeared after the door opened in a powerful swing his eyebrows lifted immediately finding you on the other side.

He blinked, one of those sleepy blinks where somebody closes his eyes and then opens them really wide to make sure it is not made up in their brain, that one.

His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at you 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You should wash your mouth with holy water Sebastian” you said shaking your head raising your arms to show him some paper bags “I am bringing food and body shower”

He shook his head “Are you calling me stinky?”

“I am” You quickly replied moving past him into his place ignoring his groan.

He stood by the door slowly closing it, he was sure that old bitch was looking through her peephole, only then he stared at you try to make your way into the filthy kitchen. He was really embarrassed about his antics, but surely this time he exceeded some record.

“I am speechless Seb, I helped you with the moving and this place seems to have taken over you” you said as you knew he was in some rut when he kept such a long phone silence.

He was usually always texting, sending memes or one sentence texts.

You cared about him, deeply, you knew he was full of flaws and little quirks, but that’s what made him special. Nevertheless, you were worried about the state of the place, how it showed the way he let himself get dragged through the days. So he observed you, better to say, your back, the way you moved around opening the window to let fresh air inside, turning on a lamp to make some light that wasn’t just the blue one of the screen. Pulling out commodities and food from your magic bags like some sort of Mary Poppins of struggling writers. How you poured soap in the dirty load of dishes and pans, the way you marched securely to his desk to pick up that filthy mug and you frowned just sniffing at it.

“Is that poison?”

“Rat poison” he corrected you.

You shook your head as you cleaned a glass and filled it with water and among the groceries you pulled out a banana.

“Have this now, it will help” you said and he took the glass with one hand and the banana with the other like his brain was shut down.

He stared at you as you leaned your head slightly on side, he went through bad times after the break up but you had never seen him in such a helpless state.

He was chaotic but he always loved to keep up his appearance, to give that handsome and damned kind of vibe.

“Sebastian” you called him as his eyes spaced out and now where back on you “Are you alright?”

He observed you, he stared at your face like he was trying to recognise you, truth it was he kept pushing himself to say yes, say yes, say it is all good, make a joke, a remark, keep it up. You don’t need his burden, you don’t need to hate him like Elke and others do.

Just say yes.

“No” he said as his lips trembled and you watched his ironic mask fall right in front of you as he looked away hiding his tears, real tears, not the ones he can play out whenever he needs.

Just as quickly as you gave him the banana and the water you took them off his hands afraid he might hurt himself by dropping the glass in particular.

"Seb" you called his attention as he sobbed moving like a bird trying to hide his face against his own shoulder.

You took his now empty hands dragging him toward the couch and kicking off the pile of dirty clothes and discarded books on top of it to make him sit down with you.

"Talk to me"

He didn't, the man that was never out of words, even in the times he should have been, was now silent as a tombstone staring away from you as you gave a gentle squeeze to his hands. It pained you to see him in such a state.

So weak, so helpless like a lost child.

"I can't help you if you don't talk"

Sebastian shook his head still staring at the wall.

"You can't help me"

"Is it about writing? I can proof read you, it will be a moment"

He shook his head again making, hair bouncing from side to side.

"No, it is not important if I write or not"

You frowned at that comment.

"What the hell?" you just blurted out "Seb you're a talented writer, you're passionate, funny, witty, why shouldn't it be important?"

He looked up at you shaking his head "I can't write, I can't put together two sentences"

Your eyes travelled onto his side profile, truth to be told he looked worn out but he was still handsome like only Sebastian Zöllner could be. He had that chaotic charm, even with a wrinkled suit he was fearless, strong, poignant. You couldn't avoid him, he owned every place he stepped in and you could feel his gaze run through your bloodstream.

When he asks a question, he meant it, it was a test run into your bones and you loved every second of it.

His lips tightened as he diverted his gaze finally to you. You knew his relationship with Elke was important, he cared about others even if he didn't show it daily like most people do.

"Is it Elke?"

"No, she was just right"

"About what?"

He gulped, his throat dry as he pulled his bottom lip in his mouth grinding his teeth over it like playing something through that gesture.

"About me"

"Breakups are always shit, don't you even.."

"No Y/N" he interrupted you, he was serious, maybe his voice trembled but he wasn't lying or playing some role "I am really a lost cause, I mean look at his place"

His hand waved around the small flat like a drunk orchestra director.

"It is pure trash, I haven't finished unpacking, I didn't have food until you came, I am unable to look after myself, to look after the people that I care about. I worked so hard to be an artist and then I became a critic and now I am so knee deep into my own shit that I have more debts than entries, more failures than successes, more haters than friends"

He gulped down, the waterline of his eyes dangerously red and he sniffled up as he let out a little weak whisper "I just wish I could disappear"

"No"

It came out of you like a lighting bolt, it surged out of you before you could even elaborate. Like an order. A command.

"Seb, you're now in a rough patch of life, but you have always worked hard and well as a writer"

"I am a writer because I failed as an artist"

"You're a writer because you know of what you're talking about, because you're able to see the difference between marketing and passion, between hard work and laziness, because you respect that profession and it makes you the best critic"

"I just want to destroy them all because I am envious, Elke always said I am fuelled by my own envy”

"I have read pieces of yours only encouraging the rightful and bringing down the real frauds"

He shook his head as he was just fixating on the wrong, on the flaws, on the problems.

You huffed cupping his cheeks to force him to look at your eyes.

"Look at me" you said not admitting replies "you are talented in what you do, you are one of the best in your field and you're not on some big magazine only because they know they will have to put up with your shit: with the fact you always meet the people, you look at art pieces in presence, you touch them, you research the colours, you scrutinise everything to the bone"

He took your hands hating to be held like that but he squeezed them in his owns.

"And yes, you're allergic to ironing clothes and washing dishes is your personal nightmare, and yes, you give out many temper tantrums and have a terribly dark sense of humour, you are a failure at time and money management, you love filthy rich stuff and smoke like your life depends on it"

He stared at you, he listened quietly as you knew him from so long and many people, Elke included, wondered what you gained from helping him or just being around him that much. He often teased his ex about being jealous of you and she always said that it was like being jealous of a mortgage.

"So you agree?"

 "I agree to say you are flawed like all of us, that you are just the perfect balance to your writing, you're what you write. You're passionate, you give out the two hundred percent of what you can give, you are like this, you go all-in in everything you do, there's no compromise, no mid way, no foreseeable change of direction, you speed up into the darkness and don't look back. You are bold, you take risks, you let people hate you because you do not compromise with who is son of who or who is the director of what gallery, you judge people over their real qualities. Because you talk to them in their face, because you don't hide that yes, you want to be great, because you're handsome and charming and smart, nobody can outsmart you in your field, not even that idiot you hate that much"

"Golo Fucking Moser" he murmured

"Golo Fucking Moser" you repeated with a chuckle "you don't have anything to envy to him beside the bruises he probably has on his knees for bending down to anyone"

He chuckled at that comment.

"And also, you're more attractive, that pisses off Seb, it is unfair to the poor man”

He leaned his head on side as you wouldn't normally shower him in compliments, he had enough ego for that, but you had never seen him like this and you wished to never see him again in such a state.

"You find me attractive?"

"Well for sure you're an eye candy" you joked

"I mean it"

You rolled your eyes blushing a bit and huffing a chuckle "I do, alight? It is universal knowledge"

He looked at you as he still held your hands in his, his thumbs making soft shapes over the back of your hand.

"That I am attractive or that you find me attractive?"

You groaned looking away with an embarrassed giggle “okay, okay, I see you're back in yourself, let's eat now"

You moved to stand up but he didn't do the same remaining sat in his spot.

"Tell me"

"I pumped your self esteem enough, now let me go"

He chuckled softly, he never really thought you'd be interested. He usually shows off so many bad traits that he has to tone himself down and really try hard to attract someone. It is all an effort on his part to appear better or at least less quirky.

And then now look at you, appreciating even his shit show.

"Y/N" he murmured giving you a soft squeeze. You kept silent not daring now to meet his gaze. He bowed his head trying to reach for your eyes with his gaze and he looked up at you, a smile that wasn't provocative over his lips.

You pulled back yanking your wrists off his grip to move straight into the kitchen corner.

You begun pulling ut some fresh vegetables and bread, you also got some cheese knowing he loves it, wanting him to have a good dinner.

He followed you almost immediately and soon you found his arms grasping you once more in a hug, his chest pressed against your back, his forehead on your shoulder.

"Seb, you..."

"I know, I stink, just give me a moment" he said and you obliged him gently caressing his arms around you.

You hated to be in the friend zone, but you wouldn't be able to survive to lose him forever or to have him joke about it.

Now he was quiet, tender like a hurt pup.

"Thank you, you know you can count on me too, right? For anything” he said and you chuckled softly “I know, you’re my favourite avenger”

He nodded brushing his crisp beard against your cheek and after few minutes stuck in that hug he dropped a kiss on your neck "love you”

He pulled back giving you a smile as he picked the shower gel you left on the counter bringing it with himself to the bathroom with a soft hum.

You smiled a bit bitterly to yourself as you guessed it was meant in a friendly way, but today it was alright. You could endure it. Also that kiss, he always did it when he was drunk, at parties or in the taxi back home after a viewing. It was his cuddly way to say things without saying them, without rambling, and you appreciated that silent language. 

Maybe now he was drunk over his own feelings.

Just like you.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams @charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone @rhymerhymerhyme  @thehuiabird @lilith-blackrose @unbeatablecurlgirl @obsidianlaszlo @alindeluce @zemosimp05 @baronesszemo-blackwood @nocapesdahling @everythingbeginsineternity-blog @archangelproperty

[anika-ann]

Attached - Pt.1

The Words of Doom

Type: (mini)-series, college AU, professor AU (technically)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 1880

Summary for the series: You messed up. Your very sleep-deprived Self attached the wrong document when emailing a professor and sent him one of the stories you wrote instead of an assignment. It should be embarrassing, really, but it wasn’t. It was worse.

Why did it have to be the smutty one? Why did it have to be the one starring his best friend, Professor Rogers? You were so screwed.

Aka the ‘you sent the wrong attachment to hot professor A that just happens to be about his friend hot professor B and now professor A is not able to look at professor B without wheezing in laughter anymore and you are unable to look at either of them’ AU

Warnings: swearing, literally one mention of a possible daddy kink, double entendre

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Your eyes felt like on fire, burning hotter than the sun above Sahara Desert; the metaphor your sleep-deprived mind came up with was only perfected by the huge dunes of the bags under your eyes.

You were running on disgustingly strong coffee and three energy drinks, but you summoned the rest of your strength and clicked on ‘send’, slumping so heavily into your chair that when your back hit the backrest, it almost toppled over—but never mind, you made it!

Penny, your gracious roommate, would inform you that had you started earlier and were writing the actual essay instead of wasting words on steamy stories that somehow filled the desired wordcount with considerably less effort, you wouldn’t have been turning into a zombie sending assignments several minutes before eight a.m., the actual deadline.

Yeah, well, sue me, I prefer romance to the World War II., no matter how important history is.

You were certain Professor Barnes would understand if you told him that anyway – he was a pretty easy-going guy for a scholar after all. Then again, you sure as hell didn’t want to test the theory out and so you tended to hand in your homework perhaps ‘minute to midnight’, but still in time.

You grinned as you checked the sent e-mail, proudly reading it had been sent at 7:56. You mentally patted your back, not having the energy to actually move to do that.

And then your Sahara-dry eyeballs fell lower on the screen and you let out a shriek of horror.

Your heart stopped in your chest before kicking in faster than it had been pumping after three Red Bulls.

The attachment.

Oh no.

OH FUCK, the attachment!

Now, it happened on occasion that people forgot to attach the files they spoke of in an e-mail, right? Sometimes shit like that happened.

But this… this was so, so much worse.

“Oh no,” you uttered under your breath, shooting up and suddenly sitting with back straight as a ruler just to look at the screen from shorter distance to-- nope, still there. “Oh fuck.”

You quickly scrambled to send another e-mail with similar text but the right file, along with a swift apology.

Sent 7:59.

You should be relieved. Perhaps Professor Barnes would notice the correct one first and automatically deleted the one that obviously must have been wrong.

So why couldn’t you find it in you to think you would have such luck?

At least if he opened the wrong document, he would understand very quickly that it was not what he had asked the students to do and would delete it before diving in fully, right?

But a worm of doubt – or intuition, whatever you wanted to call it – told you that it wouldn’t be the case.

You covered your mouth with your palms and screamed at the top of your lungs.

Penny, sleep-deprived considerably less than you because she was an actual responsible human being, walked from her room to the bathroom and blatantly ignored you, probably thinking you had missed the deadline by a minute and were now freaking out.

Oh, you wished.

“Pennyyyyyyyyy!” you cried out in a whiny tone, but she clicked the door shut as if nothing was happening. As if your whole life wasn’t in shambles because of one single e-mail. “Penelope, you get your ass back here! I need to know how to switch schools without having to repeat a year!”

Her wild black curls peeked from the bathroom, followed by an annoyed sleep-raspy voice. “Why? You accidently called Barnes a daddy in your message or somethin’?”

Your heart was still beating its way out of your chest, a low ominous hum in your ears. Gods above, you wished. Still would be easier to explain, like… you could claim it was a dare or something.

No, this was much, much worse.

Penny, apparently taken aback by the lack of your response, left the safety of the bathroom and approached your lair (probably stinking of sugary drinks and caffeine) and peeked over your shoulder, searching an explanation for your antics.

You only gulped, moved the cursor to the title of the document you had sent in your first e-mail and closed your eyes, actually feeling tears of humiliation stinging in them.

The silence that followed spoke volumes until-

“OH SHIT.”

You had just shared your smutty one-shot with your history professor, but that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that it was starring his rumoured one and only best friend he shared an office with. One who had acted like a substitute for two weeks when Professor Barnes got a particularly bad case of cold, but wouldn’t leave you without a lecture. Needless to say, Professor Rogers had also starred several of your steamy dreams after that and became a source of inspiration for your occasional writing streaks.

And now your history professor could read all about it and, god forbid, share it with the man who was the template of the main character of the story. You weren’t dumb; you alternated the names, just in case of you didn’t even know what (and it might have made you feel better about writing filthy stuff about a prof), but you went with the same looks including hair and skin colour, hairstyle, Rogers’ glorious beard and you certainly didn’t omit his surprisingly ripped body.

So, yeah. Penny’s ‘OH SHIT’ was pretty accurate.

You were so screwed.

Yes, once again, you wished.

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You had handed in your work on Friday morning and had been jittery all weekend, practically unable to focus on any of the studying you desperately needed to do. Normally, you might write some comforting piece to relieve your frustration, but that was not an option right now as simply opening a text editor gave you palpitations.

The all-nighter you had pulled didn’t exactly help your already non-existent ability to get your head on straight either.

You were looking forward to Monday and dreaded it at the same time – Professor Barnes was to give your assignments back with a mark and commentary. You were praying for Monday to come already, because you just needed to know the consequences of your actions. You were freaking out about Monday for very obvious reasons.

You had no idea what was happening in your first Monday class. Your lunch consisted of half bottle of coke.

And now here you were, seated in the second row of three, because that seemed like the safest place, a seat where Barnes couldn’t approach you from any angle.

When he entered the class, you decided to stubbornly watch the desk in front of you. Under any circumstances, you would not make eye-contact, wouldn’t raise your gaze. There was no fucking way anything would force you look his in the eye.

Or you thought so.

You hadn’t realized he would call out each of your names and would say the necessary commentary about doing well, missing something, excellent work, this one feeling a bit sloppy… out loud, which would made it truly impolite to keep staring ahead. With each work sent through the sea of people to hand it to those in the second row, your stomach was turning heavier, your heart beating faster.

And then Professor Barnes said your name and you winced in your seat, squeezing your eyes shut on instinct, the childish if I can’t see you, you can’t see me either kicking in.

He called out your name again as if there was a chance you missed it the first time and with a huge lump of panic in your throat, you blinked your eyes open and raised your gaze, only to meet his neutral face with just the tinniest twitch to the corners of his lips and a barely visible twinkle to his eye.

Your stomach dropped to the floor, your face burning with embarrassment and humiliation.

He held out the papers to the person in the first row in front of you, whose name you didn’t care for at the moment, and nodded his head.

“Not bad at all,” he said and that was the end of it.

Your essay landed in front of you and you finally breathed in properly, your hand trembling slightly as you noticed the circled B+ in the corner.

You were deaf to his next words, your heart jumping as you read the note by the mark.

B for the cliché used, + for the originality.

Huh. What a strange way to word an evaluation… but hey, you wouldn’t complain. For one, no one had filled a harassment complaint for your stupid ass so far and you had written this shit during an all-nighter and still got B+. This was the best outcome you could hope for; Barnes didn’t even give you shit about your... error.

A smile slowly found a way to your lips, a shy little thing, but definitely present, your mimic muscles, so stiff from trying to keep a poker face, relaxing.

You browsed over the other notes in red ink scattered over the pages, some sentences and phrases unlined and commented on, sometimes corrected, sometimes complimented to.

It wasn’t until you reached the red note that had one word from it actually crossed out and replaced.

Really hits the spot mark.

Your smile froze on your lips, your heart ceased to beat before kicking in with furious pace, loud pounding humming in your temples.

Oh god. Oh no.

Hitting a spot? He could have written it was ‘spot on’ or that it ‘hit the mark’… he made the mistake deliberately, you were certain of it – all of his other notes were so neat and thought through-

You checked the individual notes, your stomach twisting when you re-read them in a new light.

Nearly all the wording he had used was referencing to your… special assignment you had handed in.

Oh god, please, let the lightning hit me. Let the floor swallow me. Let the cardiac arrest momentarily trying to kill me actually kill me.

Interesting work for certain with a winky face?! Really? That would be innocent enough on its own, but it was feeling like a conspiratorial wink. The I know more than I let on and you know what I’m talking about wink.

The next one was a blatant double-entendre and you could bang your head against your desk for not realizing it first time reading it. Good writing, nice flow, clearly heading to the climax.

Your face was set aflame once more and despite your better judgement, you glanced at the professor momentarily showing whatever in his presentation.

He caught your gaze and had the audacity to wink.

You snapped your head away and silently whined, sliding down your chair nearly enough to lie on the floor.

OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.

Why did it have to be the smutty one you sent? Why couldn’t it be a cute one at least? You had loads of those! Why did it have to be the one about Steven damn Rogers, his friend?

Why, just WHY?!

Professor Barnes had definitely read it. And for some reason, you had a hunch that he had showed it to his friend slash colleague he shared an office with too.

You whined some more and pretended that this day was the apocalypse and that you would never have to face either of the professors ever again.

Of course, you could not have such luck.

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Part 2

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There it is! Shorter chapter for starters. Just you wait ;)

I’m pretty sure something like this have been written before, but plot bunnies are little shits that refuse to leave no matter how much you kick them and beg them to go away.

I blame @pies-writes-and-more @kayteewritessteve and @queen-kass-the-writer for supporting bad behaviour, but they are not the only ones. You know who you are, don’t YOU? I am a weak human being and you are corrupting me. Thanks, sweeties ;)

Thank you for reading! 

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Tags: @scentedsongrebel @patzammit @donutloverxo @annathesillyfriend  @orions-nebula @iheartsebastianstan @wxstedhexrt

If anyone wants on the taglist or out, lemme know via DM or an ask :)

-.-.-

ALSO. A friend of mine created a perfect artwork for this chapter/series and I wanted to share 😍🥰🤩:

Thank you, @chase-your-dreams-away 🥺

[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​

[jessicajonesrp]

Trish the spymaster

 

It wasn’t very difficult for Trish to get into Phillip Jones’s apartment. For one thing, he didn’t live in an area of the city where there were lobbies with doormen and security; in fact, the set up could hardly be called an “apartment” so much as a “motel that allows prolonged habitation.” Trish was almost disappointed at how little ninja skills she had to use to get into the place. It almost wasn’t worth the all black clothing and piling all her hair into a ski cap, in effort to avoid recognition. And also, because she figured that was a look ninjas would use, minus throwing stars.

She got his address easily enough from Jessica; she had simply asked her for it, stating something about if he could eventually be integrated as part of their Heroes for Hire company, she will need all his contact and demographic information. Jessica had voiced no suspicions and had texted it over. By the time Luke let her know when he and Phillip had headed out together to shop for work clothes, Trish was already lingering outside the building, having had a cab drop her off a block away over an hour ago.

 

His ”apartment” was on the second story with an outside door, much to Trish’s disappointment. She had hoped to have to make her way in through a skylight in the roof or at least have to climb upside a fire escape or the side of a wall or something that would take a lot of effort and sound cool to recount to Luke. Instead, she got the door open with little more than a few seconds and a credit card- some security he had. Either he had really shitty finances and could afford nothing better, or Phillip simply felt confident enough in his own safety that he didn’t feel the need to put out any more effort to secure himself and his belongings.

The motel room didn’t look like much, at first glance. King size bed, neatly made, and as Trish surveyed his belongings, she noticed that Phillip was very organized and neat; until she went into the closed bathroom door to see his personal hygiene items lined up along the sink and inside the tub, she would have thought that no one was staying there at all. With gloved hands she opened the closet door, noticing that his shoes were lined up inside, his clothes hung up, and he had no personal belongings of notice. His dresser drawers contained more clothing. She was beginning to grow frustrated until she found the laptop computer in the bottom dresser drawer.

Her hopes rising, Trish opened it delicately and still gloved, attempted to boot it up. It was password protected, but after only one miss, she got the password- Jessica. Her heart sank as she quickly began to look through his documents and search history, her heart beating faster when she found two documents in particular of interest. One was a folder bearing Jessica’s name as its title, and the other was titled “People of focus.”

Aware of the limited amount of time she had, Trish quickly began to open the documents, snapping pictures with her cell phone of each page that looked as though it were remotely in connection to the strange incidents occurring recently. She found a third folder that was labeled simply “history” and opened that as well, quickly discovering that it contained both medical records and what appeared to be an entire social service file in regards to Phillip. Thinking quickly, she opened up her own email on the computer, attached the files and documents in an email to her own self as quickly as the size of the files and documents would allow, and sent all the information to herself to look over more closely later. Logging out of the email and then deleting the necessary steps from the browser history, she then put the computer back carefully,  exactly as she had found it, and locked the door behind herself as she left.

She waited until she was a few blocks away and had called for a driver before she texted Luke. “Mission complete.”

Once back at the penthouse, she opened up the files and went through them thoroughly, her brow furrowing as she read along. Somehow, Phillip had managed to access not only his own medical records and social service file, but also Jessica’s medical records from when she had been hospitalized. The names of the doctors mentioned in Jessica’s files sounded familiar to Trish, but she wasn’t sure why. He also had Jessica’s police records for her arrests, news paper articles in reference to her, and articles referencing her adoption by Dorothy Walker.

Obviously, he had kept tabs on her- more than Jessica kept tabs on herself. Trish was pretty sure even Jessica didn’t have access to her medical records from over fifteen years ago.

She opened the file on Phillip’s own records and noticed almost immediately that the names of the doctors mentioned on his records were familiar- because she had just read them, mentioned already in Jessica’s. That made sense, that the same doctors who treated Jessica in her coma and while hospitalized would also have worked with Phillip, especially as they would have initially been in the same hospital and had arrived at the same time from the same accident. Jessica, she knew, had eventually been transferred out to another hospital, under Dorothy’s directives and finances- most likely to further separate her from Phillip.

Trish had long suspected, although Jessica refused to do the research necessary to confirm, that Jessica had not gotten her supernatural abilities as a result of her car accident, but rather possibly because of experimental surgeries or medications used on her while she was in a coma by the doctors treating her. If this were true, and the same doctors had also treated Phillip, did that mean that they may have also experimented- and given supernatural abilities- to Phillip?

She quickly googled the names, and her blood went cold. The doctors mentioned in both siblings’ files had all died within the past few months- each from mysterious fires. The very mysterious fires that Jessica was now investigating.

Sick with adrenaline, she skimmed through the file that had been labeled “persons of interest,” dreading what she might find. She wasn't surprised to find articles saved about herself, with a focus on scandals from years back. It wasn’t long before her horrible suspicion was confirmed. Phillip had typed a list of names, under which he detailed information as to the person’s current profession, address, contact information, and other identifying details. She recognized the doctors as the first three on the list. The next contained several names she did not recognize but which she immediately noted to be described by Phillip as foster parents and social workers- apparently, all associated with him in his eight years of foster care.

But the final names at the bottom of the list was what made Trish have to put down her phone and turn away, taking deep breaths. Her mother’s name was typed, along with the address of her acting coach studio and its telephone number. And the last name on the list, punctuated by a question mark and no other identifiers, was her own name. Patricia Walker.

Her hand was shaking as she picked up the phone, texting Luke again. “We have a problem. Huge problem. Call me when you’re alone.”