#[ except it's not crack and i'm wheezing ]

[ganxiously]

This is the part of the helicopter crash fic I started writing today. I don't know if I'm going to post it to ao3 but I did want to share it here. Now, this first update is angst so read at your own risk, but it will be a happy ending, I promise. This is Tommy's pov and I'll be back with Buck's side of things and the aftermath as soon as I have finished writing them —

The silence is stark in the aftermath and Tommy’s ears ring like they are still expecting the screech of the altitude alarms or the roar of metal crashing into rocks and trees. He’s not sure what happened, one moment he was flying his helo back to Harbour and the next, the altitude alarms started going off one by one. He had tried to fix it, tried to pull the bird up even as it became amply clear that nothing was working. They had dropped fast, swinging this side and that with the wind and then his tail had hit the cliffside, sending him and his medic rolling down the mountain in a 30-tonne metal can. He doesn’t know what happened to her, Amy, a new recruit with a penchant for keeping to herself. That’s why they worked together so well, a good thing until it led them here.

“Amy?”, he manages to ask, his voice coming out hoarse. “Medic Garcia?”

There is nothing. Not even the sound of feeble breaths. Tommy swallows the burgeoning feeling of grief and panic and tries to think of a way out. It’s dead of the night, the scenery outside the broken glass of his wind-screen pitch black, the flickering lights of the city not even visible from where he’s landed. He tries to move himself and then immediately freezes as the pain threatens to take away his consciousness. 

This is bad, he thinks. I don’t know how to get out of this one.

He is still strapped into his harness and beneath that, his flight suit is soaked with blood. It feels tacky and slippery against his skin, enough of it that he knows wherever it’s coming from, it’s not good news. It’s not survivable. His legs are pinned and he’s pretty sure the wet feeling around his eyes is blood. His ribs hurt and when he tries to move his hands, his shoulders refuse to bear the weight.

Oh, I am definitely not getting out of this one.

The realisation hits like G during a rapid climb and for the first time in long while, Tommy’s scared. He is terrified, as terrified as he hasn’t been since he was a wet-behind-his-ears boy seeing war for the first time. He thinks his hands would shake if he could move them that fast, his breath would stutter if it already wasn’t, wheezing past the damage, past the blood and tickling at his lips.  He doesn’t want to die like this, the thought occurs to him. He doesn’t want to die at all. He wants to turn back time and return to those scant months when he had been, for once, truly happy. He wants . . . he wants Evan. Beside him, holding his hand, his fingers tracing the lines on Tommy’s palm as he talks about anything and everything that comes to his mind.

Maybe that is the thing about impending death. Its finality, its loneliness puts things into perspective really fast. When he had all the time in the world, he had faltered, he had a thousand and one excuses ready as to why it was a bad idea. Now that Tommy’s out of time, there is not one that seems to hold up to reason. He wants Evan, he loves Evan and he should have told him that when he still had the chance. He should have spent every second he had left loving him.

He somehow manages to take his phone out of his pocket, surprised to see that it’s still mostly intact, except for the one thin crack down the middle. He thumbs it open and there he is, brushed golden in the sun and laughing at something Tommy had said. It’s a damn shame he can’t remember anymore what that something had been. There’s no cell service on his phone, which is bad but it also relieves him. He doesn’t have to make a 911 call, only to tell them they are already too late and like this, he won’t give in to the urge to hear Evan’s voice one last time.

He opens their message thread like he has done so many times these past couple of weeks, typing and deleting messages that never seem to be able to convey his complicated thoughts. He clicks on the typing bar, watches the keyboard pop up and then just keeps on staring, looking at the bloody fingerprint on his screen as he tries to think of what to write. What last words do you text your ex-boyfriend who you broke up with? That I’m sorry and I think I’m an even bigger asshole than you probably think I am?

The pain in his body notches up, so spread out that he barely knows where it originates from and he grits his teeth with an effort to keep himself from screaming. Eventually, it passes and Tommy takes the opportunity to click on the voice message button to the right.

“Buck.”

He hates that name on his tongue. 

“Evan.”, he starts and then stops again because it still doesn’t feel enough. It doesn’t feel like it encapsulates everything Tommy associates with that name — the warmth, the safety, the incredulous how is he real? and the helpless adoration that he just can’t seem to keep at bay no matter how much he tries. So, he gives it one more shot, “Evan. My Evan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about a million things.”

A cough stops him, the movement jostling him enough that pain rips through him anew and he is left gasping and sobbing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay away. I’m sorry I didn’t leave earlier and I’m sorry I left when I did . . . I’m sorry I hurt you.”

He swallows the blood in his mouth or at least, he tries to but all of it comes out with the next cough.

“I should have stuck around. I should have stayed and I should have loved you as long as you let me. I should . . . I should have told you I love you. Even—even if you don’t and that’s okay. You should— you shouldn’t love someone like me but that was no reason to not tell you I did. I just . . . I should have loved you as hard as I could while I still had the chance, Evan. You, at least, deserved that.”

He’s getting colder by the second and the part of his brain that still works, tells him that he is going into shock. Tommy’s running out of time and he’s running out of time fast.

“I don’t want to die.”, he manages to say through the sobs racking through his throat. He thinks he should feel pain but there isn’t anything beyond numbness anymore, “I don’t want to die and I don’t want to go through death alone. I want you . . .”

No, but that’s not right, is it? He doesn’t want Evan in this mess. Evan doesn’t deserve to get hurt again just to accompany Tommy in his last moments. He should be far away, happy, healthy and at peace. Maybe it is better that they broke up. If this was always supposed to be the end, it is surely better that Evan no doubt hates Tommy a little bit now. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Evan will leave a flower on his grave one day.

“I really wanted to be your last, you know?”, he finally says after a minute of silence, the words spilling out almost conversationally, long after he thought he’s run out of things to say. “But more than that, I wanted you to be my last and I’m happy that I got it, even if it’s not in the way I wanted it to be.”

And it's so fucking typical of him, isn’t it? He is being so selfish right now, ruining Evan’s life like this just so he can get some things off his chest. And he knows Evan, he knows what this message will do to him. Evan will go through life with the burden of Tommy’s regret on his shoulders and he hates how tempting that thought is, that if not in his heart, Tommy’s existence will at least have a place in the scars he carries for the rest of his life.

Here lies Tommy Kinard. He’s the bastard that broke my heart once upon a time.

But no, he can’t do that to Evan. He’s been selfish when he kissed Evan the first time, when they decided to give it a second try and when he hurt Evan to protect himself. He’s been selfish every moment that he managed to steal in between.

“Nevermind.”, he breathes out, smiling through the blood that’s threatening to choke him. “Nevermind, Evan. You— you don’t need to know all that. You should forget me. Forget there was ever a Tommy Kinard who loved you. Live a happy life and maybe . . . maybe in our next one, I’ll get to keep you. I’ll delete this now. I would have deleted myself out of your life too if I could’ve but this will have to do. I’m really outta time here, kid.”

He tries to blink away the blind spots around the edges of his vision but he’s fading fast. He fights against the unmoored feeling that is taking over, tries to swipe his screen in hopes of deleting the message but his hands are too slick and too weak to do anything anymore. The phone slips from his grasp and falls with a thunk somewhere near his feet, not that it matters. Not when he can barely remember what he was doing with the phone in the first place. Something to do with Evan. Maybe.

He huffs at his uselessness.

“Evan.”, his lips shape the word with care even though his voice doesn’t quite manage to colour it fully but it’s enough. It’s enough to have that be the last thing he speaks, to be the last thing he thinks about. The name washes away the cold like dawning sunrise on a crisp winter morning and Tommy is at peace, he is content.

“Tommy?”

That’s Evan’s voice. He has to go. He has to answer. He has to—

[greenunoreversecard]

Hi! I rlly like your writing and was wondering if you could do a platonic fic w a gn teen reader and parental figures Charlie and Vaggie? I was thinking the reader is new to hell and the hotel and is very cautious around everyone except for Vaggie and Charlie who they’re very clingy and sweet to. Thank you<3

Hellp I 'accidentally' stole a person and now they think I'm they're mother-> chaggie x teen! reader (platonic)

A/N: joke about fucking milfs, joke about being ass r@p3d. Uhh, also familial cuddles.(gif charlie guiding sinners to redemption be like)

You didn't expect it to end like..that, much less the endless abyss and free fall that nauseated you after. And if you didn't expect the falling, you sure as hell didn't expect the crash.

It felt like you broke your spine, and on top of the pain there was a barage of sound, screams, moans, crashing. You name it, you hear it.

You groan pitifully, shakily rolling onto your side and curl gently into a ball not bothering to open your eyes.

As you lay in your current predicament, you hear a small gasp and rapid footsteps.

"Oh my Satan, are you alright? Oh my gosh, what am I saying of course your not alright- i- Vaggie!"

The what sounds like a girl says rapidly as she seemingly approaches, cracking your eyelids open as she kneels in front of you calling to this 'Vaggie'.

Blonde hair and pale composition, with cherry red buttons on her cheeks and startling bright eyes full of worry. Her hand reaches out to your shoulder, gently touching as rapid footsteps come from behind her.

"Charlie, what the fuck, you can't just-"

The other person stops as she peers over the girls, whom you now know as Charlie's, shoulder.

She has long white hair, skin a similar colour to that of a gargoyle. Red shirt a bright contrast to the Grey of her skin. She's seemingly short in stature, and has bangs covering one of her eyes. Her hand goes up to her mouth as she quietly gasps.

"Shit kid, you alright?" She quietly asks, voice much smaller and calmer than when she was repremanding charlie. She kneels down next to her, hand on her shoulder.

"I feel like I got ass raped to be honest." You wheeze out, rolling back onto your back and arms splaying out by your sides.

"I- here hon, let's get you back to my hotel-I-we should-uhmmm we can get you-"

As the first girl starts rambling about helping with injuries, and a 'Hazbin Hotel the second gently lifts you up, cooing lightly as you hiss from the pain. Honestly, you don't remember much as you zone out during the rambling, to focused on not falling asleep with the gentle sway of being held while walking.

And this was just the beginning.

-----

~some time later~

"Alright n/n, let's go over it again. What do we say when you feel like things suck and we need help from others?" Charlie says, smacking her thighs and sighing.

"To solve one's problems take off a mom's bottoms"

Angel snickers from beside you. Vaggie groans.

"Uhm. No. Don't, dont, uh- don't sleep with-"

'"What if I want to sleep with a milf?"

"n/n. Please"

"I-"

Before you can reply, a timer goes off. Charlie sighs again, as does Vaggie. Everyone in the group starts to head off to their own thing, and Angle nudges your arm and whispers a 'good one, kid' as he saunters off. All who's left their is you, charlie and vaggie.

"N/n, I know you don't.. aren't really like, well acquainted- yet- with the others, but please, I'm begging you try to awnser appropriately."

You sigh. It's been a few long months since winding up here, And charlie and vaggie have been a rock in this adjustment. You even met Charlie's dad, Lucifer and he spontaneously burst into tears at "His baby ducklings little duckling". Whatever that means, I guess. But, it does seem to sum up the relationship between you and the two women. The mothers ducks and their chaos child.

"M sorry char. I- I just-" you stutter, curling into Vaggie's side as she sits next to you. Charlie comes and sits on your other side, drapping herself accross you back and staying there. Grabbing Vaggie's hand as she reaches across your curled frame thats laying partially in here girlfriends lap.

"I know... It's hard. I get it, trust me. I just wish you gave the others a chance to see the amazing person you are. Because I know you know the actually anwsers.. I just wish you let others see the you we see"

You snort a small laugh. "Gee, thanks ma. Such encouraging words."

"She's serious, n/n. You're a good kid" Vaggie chimes.

"Mm, I guess." You add noncommittally snuggling further into the pillow you've now dubbed one of the two you now consider your parents.

It will take time, but Charlie and Vaggie will be there to help.

---

A/N: rushed ending bc I didn't know what or how to end it dhsjjfjej hope its ok and hope you enjoyyyy :)

[kiyomitakada]

At last the warehouse is silent except for Light Yagami's wheezing breaths.

Teru stands. His nice shoes are stained with viscera. He has just killed seven people.

He has never particularly cared about victory.

"Mikami," Light gasps out. "Mikami. You did it."

There is the blood of an eighteen-year-old boy splashed on Teru's dress shoes. He's never fired a gun before. He's handled plenty as a prosecutor, of course, typically while cursing the murderers whose fingerprints littered the handles.

"You're not God," Teru says.

"What are—you talking about?" Light manages a smile. It twitches oddly on his face, like a dying butterfly. "We won."

Teru just looks at him. Looks and looks and looks.

He used to wonder what God looked like. It was an idle thought, one only entertained in the depths of night when the sleep medication hadn't quite kicked in yet. He told himself it didn't matter; God was an entity that surpassed shallow things like appearance, and Teru's job was to follow him no matter what. Teru was not like the rest of Demegawa's little cult, who followed God only for the sake of personal safety and money. Teru was righteous. But he had wondered, regardless.

He had never settled on an answer. But Light Yagami, bleeding from the shoulder, brown eyes and manic grin—

Pathetic, Teru thinks. You're pathetic.

"Listen, Mikami," and Light tries to sit up, but hisses through his teeth and props himself awkwardly with one elbow instead. "You've done well. I'll reward you. Anything you want."

"Your watch," Teru says.

"My—what?"

"Your watch."

The boy, before he had been gunned down by Teru's own hand, had thrown a match. Teru has never been the type for schemes, but he knows for certain that whether real or fake, all of the notebooks are now ash.

"No," Light says, clamping his free hand around his wrist instantly. "You can't—it's from my father."

Teru could almost laugh. How nice having a father must have been. How inconsequential.

"I don't care," he says.

It's a fitting choice for a sacred compartment. Something paternal, something time-keeping, something small. It must fit right over Light's pulse point.

"It's not enough," Light tries. "It's—it's a tiny scrap of paper. It could fit ten names at most."

Teru feels his face fall. He can write very, very small, but the idea of the paper running out is terrifying.

Still. It's better than nothing. Perhaps he'll never even write in it. Perhaps he'll keep it on a necklace or frame it on his desk. Teru can do good work without the Death Note, but he cannot go on without God.

"I don't care," he repeats, and strides towards him.

Light flinches. He tries to get up again; his arm fails him, and he starts dragging himself backwards instead. Like a worm, Teru thinks. That's all he is. A worm and a murderer.

"Don't get closer, Mikami," he says, voice cracking with the beginnings of nervous laughter. "I still have—"

Teru punches him in the nose.

Light collapses. Teru very easily slips the watch off his wrist.

The shinigami is cackling.

"You don't know how to unlock it!" Light reaches for him. Teru yanks the watch away from his grasp. The idea of being touched right now is more repulsive than the blood. "I never told anyone!"

"I saw you do it," Teru points out. Just before he'd broken out of his restraints he'd seen Light twisting at the crown of the watch to kill Nate River. Not that it matters much to Teru. If he really wanted the Death Note, all he'd have to do is smash it.

"Ryuk!" Light shrieks. "Stop him!"

Oh, there it is. The appeal to a higher power. But Teru's God loves him, and Light Yagami's false idol does not.

It's almost sympathetic. Teru is not a heartless man. He knows how it feels to be screaming for help that never comes.

"I'm not going to kill you," Teru says, folding the watch carefully and slipping it into his breast pocket. Light stares at him, eyes wild. "You're just misguided."

"How dare you—"

If Teru was more inclined to humor, he might have said One day you'll see the light. As it is, he closes his eyes. A sense of beautiful, serene inner peace descends on him. It was foolish of him to put so much faith in a human voice over the phone, to be honest. Teru knows better now.

This time, he'll get it right. This time he will please the real God.

In the meantime, he might as well spread His word.

Teru rolls his sleeve down. He grabs Light's bare wrist through the fabric and, before Light can pull back: kisses his palm.

A day ago, this would have been reverence. Now it reveals itself as pity.

Light sucks in a breath, sharp, pained. Teru lets go.

"Good luck," he says, and means it.

"Mikami! Where are you g—Mikami!"

Teru does not look back. The shinigami's cackles fade into the distance.

(Teru Mikami dies of unclear multiple system failure ten days later.)

[ @deathnotetober day 18: worship ]

[themaclean]

hi i just came from ao3 and firstly, i have read ur vaultghoul fic probably 20 times already it’s just so good with spot on characterization and amazing writing, thank u so much 🙏

secondly, i was reading the comments on it and came across one abt wanting to see a pre-war au where cooper and lucy start an affair and immediately my ears perked up like 👀 all i could imagine is her being cast as his love interest, her being a big fan of his already, and them having a wedding scene where they fuck in her wedding dress after they call cut

n e way so sorry for rambling haha but unfortunately ive got the brainrot now

I MEAN HYPOTHETICALLY -- I'm mobile (and somehow wrote 2k words still wheeze) so I'll finish this when I'm on my PC but I played around with the idea a bit thanks to this ask. :)

...

Summary; Cooper Howard x Lucy MacLean, 2077 AU where Lucy and Cooper star in a movie together.

...

There's a whole host of ways that Vault-Tec could have cracked down on Cooper. Given the infringement of their security protocols and the divorce and the way they choked him out of all the good roles...

It wasn't such a far stretch that he'd have to take place in the biggest circle jerk of a film production where his super-fan shoved his daughter into a starring role using Cooper's connections.

Because, so far as the public knew, he was still a supporter of Vault-Tec and he'd do just about anything to sell that delusion.

Cooper crushed the heel of his palms against his eyes, a limp cigarette hung between his teeth.

The girl was a nightmare.

Stiff, picky, absent-minded. No emotion, either, no semblance of self-awareness. It was like some Disney Princess popped out of the cartoons in the worst way, quick to parrot the lines she was meant to say with perfect diction but nothing more than that.

And it was somehow his fucking job to coach the girl -- Lucy -- into a leading lady. The idea was that she was the daughter of the Overseer, played by her actual father, and Cooper was some vault dweller from another section.

The whole thing was convoluted. He did cowboy flicks and the sort that had a showdown at the end. This sci-fi garbage went right over his head, this future projection of the what-if. He didn't have time for the what-if.

He had a daughter he needed to vy for custody of and an expensive divorce on the horizon. And Barb had the best lawyers money could buy and he'd never thought they'd end up like this. There was no pre-nup and nothing to protect him.

And he didn't have a goddamn lighter.

"You shouldn't smoke."

Cooper near growled around the butt of his cigarette, only just keeping himself civil at the last moment. He turned towards Lucy, unable to mistake her for anyone else. There was something about her vacant, pretty face that irked him, those giant goddamn eyes.

"It's bad for you. I read an article about it."

"Maybe you'd be better off reading your lines again," Cooper said with a wave of his hand. He dug in his jacket pocket, the one he'd worn to set.

Bingo.

Lucy crossed her arms and leaned against the vault railing. It was strange to do the filming down, a hundred feet or so beneath the surface, but it made for impressive sets. They were around the corner from the rest of the camera crew and cast.

And they were alone for the first time since shooting. Most times, Cooper had a few stage hands or interns at his heel. And he didn't see Lucy around much, except for scenes. Didn't chase her down, didn't much think of her.

Except now he's aware she's still in the wedding dress she'd been in earlier. Stage blood soaked the stomach of it, thick streams of blood from where she'd been stabbed. But he'd saved her and they'd shared a chaste kiss for the camera.

And then he hadn't seen her.

"I thought you'd be a better kisser."

Cooper didn't withhold the glare, couldn't bring himself to give a fuck. "Pardon?"

"Just -- the kiss. Didn't really..." Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. "I grew up watching your movies. My dad is a big fan. I always figured you'd be a good kisser, but you aren't."

"You ain't much yourself, either," Cooper said with a raised brow. "Like a fish, sweetheart. Cold."

"I'm not a fish," she snapped back. "That's very mean. I -- I know I was mean first but I just thought you could do better."

Cooper couldn't help but laugh to himself at this miserable brat who'd sought him out to complain about an on-screen kiss. He took a long drag, his gaze slanted across the backs of his knuckles.

"You're here 'cause your daddy yanked some strings," Cooper shrugged a shoulder. "My only obligation is to make a movie for the studio. I'm not your damn boyfriend-for-hire, trying to get you off for the cameras."

Cooper was a professional and on his best behaviour -- usually. But the long days of filming for a corporation rooted in the exploitation of the country he'd fought for... That patience wore thinner with each moment he was alone with this brat.

"I'm here as an actress -- "

"You can act?" Cooper asked, mock surprise as he pressed a hand to his chest.

Lucy had the gall to look offended.

Cooper took another drag, his hip notched against the railing. "It's a movie, darling. I've been doing this shit for years. They ain't gonna let people tongue each other to high hell."

"That..."

"That is exactly how it works," Cooper said as he ashed his cigarette onto the grate beneath his feet. "It's not about you, it's about the shot."

Lucy looked at him like he'd slapped her. "I know it's about the shot."

"Could've fooled me." Cooper huffed out a breath. He'd kissed plenty of women for his films and he was a consummate professional. If the audience bought into it, that was all he needed. He didn't give a damn if his co-star got butterflies over it.

Especially not the daughter of some jackass at Vault-Tec, for a project that was nothing more than an empty propaganda piece. But he didn't have much choice.

"I'm here because it's important to my father. Vault-Tec wanted to keep as many roles as they could within the company -- "

"Nepotism."

"To promote the culture they want within the movie, which is carefully curated -- "

"Cultish."

"To their... Could you stop doing that?"

Cooper crossed his arms, his cigarette nearly finished. The vault had good enough ventilation that the smoke disappeared but the smell lingered. He pushed away from the railing, his expensive smile slack across his lips.

"I had my fill of the Vault-Tec propaganda, sweetheart. Don't make a difference if it's from a pamphlet or a pretty girl, I'm just doing what I'm being paid to."

"Wasn't it your wife -- ex-wife -- who brought you in originally?"

Cooper's neck twitched as he looked down at Lucy, as she smart-mouthed her way right into some shit she didn't know anything about. He tipped his head to the side, the annoying collar of the vault suit biting into his jawline.

"So you believed what Vault-Tec thought originally." Lucy toyed with the stain on her white dress, her fingers tugged at the frayed edge. "What changed?"

"Nothing," Cooper said, his voice flat.

Lucy met his eye, her head tilted to contrast the angle of his head. She settled a hand on the railing, uncertainty replaced her uppity edge from before. "I'm not trying to spy on you or get information. You just -- had your life together, and then you're getting divorced."

"It happens," Cooper said, aware now that she was between him and the crew. The vault split into spidery webs in all directions, though. He could leave her if he wanted. But then he'd end up who knows where, deep in the belly of this steel nest.

But they were alone, and she'd inched closer to him.

Cooper saw the leading ladies he worked with as colleagues. Sometimes they'd have to kiss or imitate gentle moments or intimacy -- but for the most part, he could compartmentalise it. But Lucy didn't act. She couldn't. She was an atrocious leading lady and she read everything as if she were saying it herself.

Like a porn actress, saying shit to get through to the action, rushing through the writing like it didn't matter.

It wasn't her fault. He had the sneaking suspicious she had no interest in acting or in this movie; that she was only doing it because her father asked her to do it. Maybe even so she could have an excuse to meet him, he realized dimly as she looked up at him with wide hazel eyes.

That separation -- of leading lady and of a romantic partner -- muddled with her. Because he didn't even like her. He didn't want to get to know her. He hated her father and he wanted nothing to do with this company.

And she was closer to him than not, and they'd kissed a handful of times, and she'd said he sucked at it.

Cooper rolled his jaw as Lucy didn't have the guts to do more than she had. Her moony eyes fixed up at him like a challenge. And then he felt his resolve snap because it wasn't like he had much to lose. This wasn't a real acting gig and she wasn't a real leading lady.

His hand snapped out, fingers and thumb dug into her cheek. He brought her close, to see what she'd do. The answer was -- not much. She didn't shout or push him away, their mouths inches apart as he hovered close to her, examining her beneath his lashes.

"Bad kisser -- that what you said?"

Lucy swallowed hard enough to nudge his hand. "Well, you were. I'm not going to lie to you to spare your ego."

Cooper made a soft sound from the back of his throat as he kissed her. The distant crack and shift of the crew as they moved their cameras from one vault room to another should be a deterent but Cooper doesn't care.

He's single, isn't he. Has been for a few months. He'd not acted on it, hadn't felt the urge to, but he's as trapped as ever in the shadow of what Barb had done to him. It's only fair he make use of that shadow to indulge, even if it's just to prove a point to this girl Lucy.

There's some inherent amusement to how she melted into the kiss. She wanted it far more than she'd let on, that soft mewing, moaning neediness as he stroked her long brown hair out of her face. He threaded his fingers softly through her hair, hand on either side of her face, fingers combing through her hair.

Her back was arched over the railing as he gave her the kiss she'd probably expected earlier, the one he wasn't about to throw out on camera. There's standards for cinema and he didn't want to waste film or time.

But then her fingers were on the zipper of the stupid fucking vault suit. He didn't stop her, even as she yanked it down and slipped her hand along his stomach.

If anything, he pushed harder against her. The fluffy white skirt of her wedding dress made it hard to get much for himself. But with a yank of her knee and the shift of her weight, he had her seated on the railing. Her shoulder caught one of the metal frames, to keep her pinned in place.

If this were any other job or any other actress, he'd give a fuck.

But it's Vault-Tec, through and through.

[abutterflyobsession]

*breathing hard* I just wrote 800 wordsd I . . . I'm so sleepy. Kidnapping AU, attempted excerpt, love me a symbolic dream yessir

There were always leaves here in the shadow of the forest’s border, whatever the season may be. The distinction of spring were the soft slips of pink resting gently on the cracking, ragged leaves. Her fingers ran along the edge of a petal, soft, rounded, moist from the damp sheltered in the shade. A chill of fear seeped into her fingertips, sweeping up her arm and over her heart, making it ache with each beat. This was wrong. Touching the fresh smoothness was wrong. Dangerous. No good could come of touching the petals.

She couldn’t pull herself away.

Where the outline of the petal met and dipped down to form twin arches, a tiny tear appeared. Her heart beat faster and she was certain that if the tear grew to reach her fingers it would rip her hand apart too. Already her hand throbbed with the anticipation of pain, as if she had felt the pain before, made the same mistake of touching the tempting sweetness of the petal before and learned nothing from it.

The tear grew, the petal curling into two halves. From the raw wound welled up red drops of blood that stained the pink, racing the tear to reach her fingers.

She couldn’t let go.

Except for the painfully quick breath that rasped in her throat her body wouldn’t move. The flower had been so beautiful she had taken it in without a thought. In the desolation of the forest it had been the promise of softness. How it was a pink heart ripped in two and sodden with warm blood.

The fresh red was frighteningly beautiful.

She couldn’t let go.

It hurt so much and she wanted it so much. A split formed between her finger and thumb and she gasped then sobbed but she couldn’t let go. Her fingers clenched it more tightly. She didn’t want to let go. It was beautiful and it hurt and it was hers and she wanted it.

A shadow from the leaves, jagged and unbeautiful, slipped over the dripping mess of the petal and her hand. She gasped again, even the illusion of losing the petal causing as much, maybe more, pain than the tear in her skin.

The shadow settled over her hand, washing away the throbbing pain in soft darkness. It should have been cool, but it was warm. Not the ugly heat of the bleeding petal, it was a firm handclasp where before she had grasped only dissolving pink. The pink was white now, the blood almost completely consuming it as it wrapped around her hand and the comforting shadow. Between her hand and the shadow beat what felt like a small heart and the blood no longer feel senselessly on the ground but circulated, sustaining some tiny little life.

“May what has been bound never again be parted.”

Fire smoldered in her hand, consuming petal, blood, fingers, and shadow. It ate away at her skin, leaving burnt nothing and she became indistinguishable from everything else in the heart of the flame.

It hurt so much.

It was so beautiful.

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

Marianne wheezed out a small gasp that set off a spasm of coughing. Once that was finished she was awake enough to be uncomfortable and to feel her fingers unconsciously tracing the scar of her marriage oath on her right hand. It was still deep winter and the bloom of flowers, primrose or otherwise, was a long, long way off.

A rumbling snore raised prickles on Marianne’s skin. Nobody she knew that might possibly me that close to her at night snored like that. Not even with Dawn’s worst cold produced that deep a sound. A flash of hot-cold panic coincided almost immediately with confusing realization and she froze while she tried to process it.

She was wrapped up in about twenty layers of blankets, typical of her life recently, with even a nightcap pulled snugly over her ears. Yes, that was to be expected. It was the rigid frame underneath all this over-protective padding that was unexpected. The large fingers that petted the top of her nightcap when she had stirred were completely and totally unexpected.

After a brief internal struggle Marianne expelled a wheezy breath and let herself relax. This was fine. This was good. This was normal. Or had been for the past two whole days and nights. Every since they had fallen asleep talking and she’d woken up hours later with her head on Bog’s lap—albeit separated by multiple pillows. Pillows and blankets seemed to be breeding among themselves lately and producing offspring more quickly than rabbits.

Bog had succumbed to the illness going around the castle—because everyone was getting it, there was no connection between kissing and catching it. There wasn’t.

[boxfullaturtles]

Can we have more of Leo’s perspective of Another mAn’s poison when they first find Mikey

only because i'm a sucker for angst

Perspective Shift: Another Man's Poison

warnings: implied force-feeding of unknown substances

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

Raph punched through four different doors before they found the room they were looking for.

Leo's entire world was suddenly just Mikey. Just his little brother, strapped to a chair with a tube down his throat. Strapped in a chair and looking sick. Nothing else mattered except his baby brother.

Hot anger smashed against cold terror and all of it boiled into a frothing despair in Leo's chest as he flew across the room. It swelled inside him in a violent storm with nowhere to go, his hands trembling as he searched Mikey's face for a sign of life.

A choked, watery cry, muffled by the tube, came from Leo's baby brother and Leo felt his heart crack into pieces. His fingers felt numb as he tried to quickly and gently extract the tube from Mikey's mouth, shoving it to the side, heedless of the thick slop still dripping out of it.

He could see Donnie in the corner of his eye, crouching to undo the restraints on Mikey's legs, and hear Raph growling in barely suppressed rage nearby. But the only thing that mattered was Michelangelo, the little sunshine spitfire, their baby brother. The baby brother who'd ripped a hole in the universe to save Leo. And Leo had let this happened to him.

“Mikey, Mikey, oh my god, Mikey, I’m so sorry,” The words and apologies spilled out of him in a rush of despair, useless patches to a gushing wound that nothing could stitch closed. His hands were still shaking as he gingerly removed the bit from Mikey's mouth, tossing it to the floor with a clatter that sounded muffled to his ears. He fumbled with the strap on Mikey's head, cupping the side of his brother's face, his eyes hot because Mikey was terrifyingly still, his eyes dull and tired, “We tried—we searched for you, we were trying so hard! God, Mikey, please say something, please, please…”

(If he never heard the sun's voice again, he was going to wither and die.)

Mikey twitched and a wheeze rattled in his chest as he sucked in a breath. He blinked slowly and seemed to be trying to work his mouth, opening and closing his jaw a few times before he squinted up at Leo. Their eyes met and a ragged smile tugged at Mikey's face, shaky and unsteady and more of a grimace than anything. But there was life in his eyes when he looked up at Leo and rasped in a voice that was barely a whisper,

“…t-took you guys…l-long enough…”

(Sunlight spilling into the dark and the cold, rays of hope with his brothers on the other side, reaching for an exit and for life he thought he'd never see again.)

Leo almost broke, a sob hitching with the relieved laughter up his throat as he held Mikey's face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. Tears blurred in the corners of his eyes, his smile hurt, the relief hurt, everything hurt, hurt, hurt.

“Did you just—damn it, little brother, of course we came for you!" As if Leo would ever leave one of them behind ever again, as if he would let the world take even one of his brothers away, "Dad and April and the Caseys are here too! And—and Draxum, if you can believe it! Let’s get you home, we’re gonna take care of you, Mikey, you’re gonna be okay!”

And he would, he would be okay. Leo would make sure of it.

[chronicowboy]

wrote this on wednesday then promptly forgot about it (thabk @danielsousa for reminding me) but there's like a tiny chance eddie could be trapped in that van with someone so the bones of this fic could still technically apply

Eddie makes it out alive. Again. Somehow.

(Except somehow is 6ft2 and looks a lot like an angel when the last piece of rubble falls away and the light filters into what Eddie had thought would be his grave.)

Eddie makes it out alive, but Joel isn't so lucky.

He had been on a motorbike when the first crash had happened, in critical condition before the bridge had collapsed. It had taken them far too long to extract him from the cluster of cars, and then, when they'd finally gotten him ready to transport, the bridge had swallowed both Joel and Eddie whole.

It had been a long two hours of trying to keep Joel from bleeding out, but eventually he'd lost the fight and the man had taken in one final, wheezing breath before going still.

Now, Eddie's staring into a hospital mirror covered in dust and another man's blood. The bathroom door creaks open, and Buck's reflection appears in the mirror.

"Chim's okay," he offers softly. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut in relief, its the most Buck is going to get out of him. "Maddie's just waiting for him to be assigned a room and then she'll go up and sit with him until he's awake." Buck joins him by the sinks, turning the faucet on and grabbing a wad of paper towels. "Hen and Bobby have been checked out too. Nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. Karen and Athena are looking after them."

Buck picks up Eddie's bloodied hands with a gentleness that makes Eddie want to curl up in a ball, but he lets Buck wipe away the grime on his skin and doesn't think about Maddie with Chimney, Athena with Bobby, Karen with Hen. He catches the bandage peeking out from under Buck's shirt sleeve and his stomach clenches.

"What about you?" he croaks, voice hoarse from begging Joel to stay with him. Buck looks up at him with earnest eyes before following his gaze down to the gauze.

"Oh, that's nothing." Buck shakes his head. "Chim needed a blood transfusion, and..."

"You're a universal donor," Eddie mumbles to himself. Buck nods.

"How are you?" he whispers, guiding Eddie's hands under the lukewarm stream of water. Eddie fixes his gaze on the pink liquid swirling around the drain.

"Unscathed," he spits.

"Eddie," Buck murmurs. "You did everything you could for him."

"It wasn't enough."

Eddie jerks his hands out of Buck's grasp, pumps three drops of soap onto his palm, turns the heat up to full and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. Buck shuts the tap off just as the water begins to burn, and Eddie slumps into a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the counter, squeezing his eyes shut and hanging his head.

"He had a kid at home, Buck." Eddie bites his lip, revels in the gritty taste of dust. "A little girl. Jackie. God, you should have seen his face when he spoke about her." Even in the darkness, even in tremendous amounts of agony, Joel had lit up like the fucking sun when he spoke of his daughter. For a single moment, Eddie had been back in the well, fighting to get home to Christopher.

"And I know that you did everything in your power to try and get him back to her," Buck says with conviction.

"Well, it wasn't enough, was it?" Eddie snaps. "He died in my care, Buck. I let a little girl lose her father."

"Eddie, that was not your fault," Buck warns him, tone stern. "The universe was working against you in every possible way."

"The universe!" Eddie laughs coldly, meets Buck's eyes in the mirror. "The universe has been working against me my whole goddamn life, Buck. But I'm still here." His voice cracks, but he doesn't take his eyes off Buck. Can't. "Why am I still here?" Buck opens his mouth, but Eddie doesn't want an answer as much as he wants to spit in the universe's filthy fucking face. "Shannon died, my convoy died, Joel died. You died." Eddie takes in a ragged breath, cursing the oxygen in his lungs. "Why am I still alive?"

"Because there is a little boy, who's not all that little anymore, waiting for you at home. A little boy who loves you more than anything in the world. A little boy who needs his dad."

"Wasn't enough for Joel," Eddie croaks.

"No, but." Buck sighs. "You made Chris a promise. To always fight to come home to him. You were just keeping that promise."

"He had a wife," Eddie whispers. "A wife and a kid to get home to. And he fought for them. But..." He squeezes his eyes shut again. "Why am I still here, Buck?"

"For Christopher."

"Christopher would be fine." Eddie shakes his head in dismissal. "He'd have you."

For a moment, the only sound in the bathroom is Eddie's ragged breathing and the drip-drop of a leaky faucet. Then, a low and furious noise, like the grumble of thunder -

"Eddie, you are not expendable."

Eddie huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

"Clearly not," he snaps, spinning around to face Buck head on. "Clearly I'm not expendable when everybody around me, everybody but me keeps dying."

Eddie storms out of the bathroom before Buck can say anything else. The itch under his skin turning into a haunting chorus telling him to run. He follows the winding hallways of the hospital in a blind need for air, suddenly claustrophobic trapped in between four walls, just waiting for it all to come crumbling down around him. He doesn't stop until he's outside, collapsing onto the bench just left of the exit as the tears start to fall. He hunches in on himself and cries into his hands for what feels like hours.

Eventually, somebody eases down onto the bench beside him. He doesn't have to look to know its Buck, can feel it in the warmth where their shoulders touch. Eddie braces himself for whatever Buck is going to say, but nothing comes. Buck just. Sits beside him. Sits with him in his grief. And Eddie is so thankful for it that he almost doesn't remember Bobby's words to him in the hardware store.

a motorcycle accident... it was a bad one... I wasn't at my best at the time... I needed to take a minute and she sat with me.

"Eddie, you said it yourself." Buck smiles at him. "Experiences like this they change us, so you're gonna have to make a choice. What's this gonna change in you?"

Oh, Eddie thinks, that's what its going to change.

[sagitarrio]

Day 3 - pets

New tricks

by MyBladeIsWorseThanMyBite

"Not allowed to participate" Hokuto grumbled, he was walking away from the stadium after watching Gingka's match with that arrogant new kid. He was feeling terribly indignant, "its discrimination!"

Hokuto knew he wouldn't have been able to win. Even with all his training, he was nowhere near the level of Japan's top bladers, but to not even be able to try! He had proven himself, he had made it to the Battle Blader finals, beating hundreds of other much taller bladers.

But nooo, just because he has four legs and a fluffy tail, poor old Hokuto is kicked to the curb.

But worst of all (and Hokuto would have a sob about this later, right now was he was too busy huffing) was that his best friend Gingka had just stood by and let it happen. After watching Gingka put himself on the line for his friends countless times, Hokuto couldn't help feeling abandoned.

"I'll show them, I'll show them all! The WBBA, Kyoya, Kenta... Gingka" he hopped on to a tram, setting his sights on new horizons "I'm going to make them acknowledge me, no matter what it takes!"

Gingka hit the ground, what was left of Pegasus scattered around his limp body. "HOLD ON GINGKA!!!" screamed Kenta, doing his best to check Gingka's vitals with violently shaking hands. Gingka drew a weak, desperate breath "I'm sorry Kenta" he whimpered "this was all I had".

"MUAHAHAHAHA" Damian stood above, looking down on Gingka curled up on the ground, looking down on everyone as the grim reality settled in their faces, "to think that this is the best humanity has to offer, it's pathetic" Damian doubled over in hysterical laughter, tearing up, until he ran out of breath and ended up wheezing.

A voice broke through the laughter "Too bad for you, it's not just humanity you're up against" everyone looked up except Damian, who was still regaining his composure, a hooded figure stood in front of Gingka. Kenta gasped, "Is that...?" The mysterious stranger spoke again, this time commanding Damian's attention, "I'm going to defeat you, and I'm going to save my friends." Damian let out a grunt of annoyance "how dare a gnat like you interrupt my victory", he flicked his hand and Kerbecs went flying straight for the stranger.

The stranger effortlessly stepped aside as Kerbecs shot past his head, blowing back his hood and pulling the cloak up behind him. There stood Hokuto, his once bright green headband dirtied, fur rough, and Kenta was close enough to notice a large scar running down his leg. But that wasn't what everyone else noticed, he was larger than before, rippling muscles, and an aura of strength almost as overwhelming as Damian's. His cloak came undone and flew away in the wind.

Hokuto pulled out his launcher, "Let's do this Libra", he felt Libra steady itself for battle "Let it rip!!" Hokuto launched his bey, feeling the friction of the gears, the resistance of the spring, the lagging inertia of Libra's growing momentum, the sensations of this movement had become known in every muscle, nerve, and cluster of brain cells in his body. The sense of balance, focus, and resolve, settling in his core as his spirit synchronised with Libra's, was as much a part of him as his tail.

Libra carved through the air, gaining energy as it accelerated towards Kerbecs, which had returned to its station in front of Damian. The turbulence whipped the water around it into a massive wave, but Libra still flew with a terrifying steadiness. "Libra, deliver justice!" Hokuto brought his paw down in a sharp strike, and Libra slammed into Kerbecs, throwing up a huge cloud of water and dust.

Damian felt the impact too, felt the crack along Kerbecs' Boost Disk, felt the heat rising in his cheeks and his heart pounding in his chest. "HOW... DARE YOU" the dust cleared and the two beys stood there, regaining their stance after the impact. Hokuto pointed at Damian, "You're in the dog house now, pal. The real battle starts now!" A green light began pulsating from Hokuto and Libra, and Libra began building up speed. "Destory them Kerbecs!" Damian screeched, and his bey's energy exploded, the beys collided again and again, each impact shaking the ground, until both beys began to falter.

Damian let out a sounds from the depths of Hades, his face a bright pink, voice shaking, "I simply can't! I can't! I can't lose to a fucking dog!!" Kerbecs began to vibrate, its energy becoming volatile, "Finish it Kerbecs!!!". It shot toward Libra, and missed, before swinging around and coming back even faster, this time making contact and nearly knocking Hokuto over. Kerbecs let out an erratic and wild barrage of attacks, often missing, but the energy of a missed attack would be added to the next hit.

"HOKUTO!! DON'T GIVE UP!!!" Blader DJ shouted, watching from a distance "Your our only hope! We believe in you!" the crowd began to cheer. Hokuto smiled "Let's finally finish this Libra", Libra started gathering energy and levitating slowly into the air, out of reach of Kerbecs. "Ultimate move! Destiny hammer!!" A perfect cylinder of solid energy thudded into existence around Libra, crushing Kerbecs beneath it, cracking the ground and boiling the sea.

The move ceased, and Kerbecs stood still, half stuck in the ground, Libra flew back to Hokuto's hand. "We did it bud" he whispered, then turned to face Damian "You're done for, pal, beyblades will never be weapons of war!" Damian said nothing, just staring off into space, mouth hanging open, a foundational pillar of his reality had shattered and now his mind was all over the floor.

The crowd began to cheer as Hokuto checked on his injured friend

"Thank you Hokuto!"

"You saved us!!"

"We're so sorry for kicking you out of the tournament!"

Gingka looked up as Hokuto sniffed his face "I'm sorry too Hokuto, I should have stood up for you" Hokuto smiled, tears rolling down his cheeks "I forgive you old friend, I missed you so much".

The crowd cheered as they threw Hokuto up into the air "Hokuto! Hokuto! Hokuto!"

The End

[lumpywhump]

Hidden Scars: Chapter 1 - Kane's

heyyyy! This is like really short but I wanted to get it out soon and like this was a really good place to stop. At the end I'm just gonna have some stuff about Kane to make up for this being short, enjoyyyyy!

Cw: Whump, injuries, mention of restraints, imprisoned. (Let me know if I missed any)

The prisoner cracked open his eyes. He could feel the crust sticking to the corners. He idly stared at the concrete ceiling in front of him before sitting up. The whole room was just gray, cracked concrete. He must have woken up late because breakfast was already left on the floor. "Oatmeal," Kane grimaced, "how tasty." He dragged himself to the bowl. He was no longer chained so the servants were no longer required to put the food within arms reach. He stirred the soggy mess and took a bite. Eating out of need was his only motivation. It was redundant. Scoop, bite, scoop, bite, scoop, bite. Kane looked up at the water damaged corner. Something green was growing on it and made the air musty. Kane just took what he could get. It had been so long since the boy had seen a plant, he had almost forgotten what they looked like. He leaned back against the wall and looked at the door, longing for it to release him. Something was wrong. The door was left cracked open. Kane knew there was no way someone would have left it open on accident. It must be a trap, right? Still, the boy rose on aching legs. It was probably a test. His captor probably wants to know what he would do. And yet, Kane gently pulled the door open. No one was waiting for him in the stone hall. Kane glanced at the cameras on the wall. No doubt someone was watching him. That means the boy had to get out of there quick. He ran up the stairs to the left. He knew he was underground so the only way out is up. Kane passed a landing and froze. On the wall was a fire exit map. That was convenient. The boy followed the colored line with his finger. He had to go up two more flights and there should be a door that leads directly to the outside. His legs were already tired by the time he got to the door. He pressed the door open, praying to any and every god that an alarm wouldn't blare. The only sound was the door creaking. Kane took in the view of the garden. Shrubs and flowers lined the stone pathways. There were stunning statues dotted around. He had been outside before, but always blindfolded. Kane took a step, expecting someone to call after him. When everything remained silent, he took another step, and another, and another until he was at a side door to the gate lining the garden. There wasn't any guards there. He must have caught them in between shifts. He had heard guards out here before. Kane passed through the surprisingly unlocked door and ran. The little prinxe pushed himself as fast as he could go. Wheezing in each breath as fast as he could. He could feel the squeaking in his lungs. He ignored it. He had to focus on his feet. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Le— a blinding white pain scorched through his foot. Before they were able to see what happened, his back hit the grass and he began rolling. He kept rolling and rolling, taking in a mouthful of grass and dirt with every turn. His hip clipped a rock and he finally hit flat ground. Kane opened his eyes, squinted at the high noon sun. A head blocked the light from his eyes. "Hey, are you okay?"

Random stuff about Kane!

he/they

Siblings in age order: Jenni, (this is where Kane is), Mila, Kon, Leam, Chime, Dorre

Kane has had a hidden relationship with Basil for years. He never told his parents bc they wouldn't be cool with it. (Basil's family treats Kane like their own)

fun fact! His mom isn't his bio mom. His siblings aren't related to her either and none of them have the same bio mom (except for Kon and Leam bc they're twins)

here's the next one:

Lmao I can not figure out how to do the thing where you click on the word... so this is what you get

[mlobsters]

supernatural s10e4 paper moon (w. adam glass)

(ps apparently i didn't actually finish e3 yesterday, i still had a little scene left. but i glanced down when copying out the transcript to get the dean and cas convo bits and didn't see any more dialogue so i was like okay, see ya. so, noted, new evil beautiful red haired lady to fill up the abaddon shaped hole)

exCUSE ME what are those sunglasses??? cringing and laughing. are those someone else's glasses they just plonked on jared's face? it looks like there's a prescription?? dying.

listen. jared, baby, i am so sorry they did this to you and now i'm wheezing over it

(wiki)

In the scene by the river, Sam is wearing Prada Wayfarer sunglasses and Dean is wearing Oakley Holbrook.

prada???? sam. in prada sunglasses

DEAN Hey, something I needed to ask you. SAM Shoot. DEAN You've been... kicked, bit, scratched, stabbed, possessed, killed... And you sprain your friggin' elbow?

when in reality how is he not constantly recovering from surgery/stab wounds/being shot by bela etc 🤪

very cute. it's been a while since we had a scenic drink and chat! went for a whopper of a view too

DEAN Seriously, I'm good. I am. You know, we got… Three more cases of this stuff on ice in the trunk. Taking some ‘we time.’… best decision we ever made.

*studio audience awwww's* "we time" huh. werewolves gonna crash the honeymoon?

SAM Hear that.

god that just makes me think about

s5e10 abandon all hope this sweet and funny moment that could have started a fight but no one got mad

DEAN Sam Winchester, having trust issues with a demon. Well, better late than never. SAM Thank you again for your continued support.

and jo and bobby and ellen and....

🥲

all right. we time with extremely questionable sunglasses. let's go. oh, honeymoon too boring, the mark still got him stabby feeling.

DEAN Look, Sam, what we're doing here, it's good, okay? You and me hanging out. But I need to work… I need this. SAM If things go sideways... I mean, like, an inch, you gotta give me the heads-up.

sam, the real "we time" would be the werewolves we kill along the way. oh i do have a hazy idea of something that happens when he must still have the mark. i bet it involves not telling sam when he's going sideways :P

SAM Guess she likes bad boys. DEAN Well, wait’ll she gets a load of us.

LOL okay, dean. feelin himself. splitting up when sam is down his dominant arm seems not great, especially at night when he needs a flashlight. needs a headlamp :p

ahh, kate, the werewolf from the found footage episode (s8e4). i gather that was quite unpopular? i liked it fine

oh my god a like, full episode recap so we can dredge up the memory of lester that was what, 2 episodes ago? lol. wow this is some kind of conversation

SAM You're serious? This is about Lester? DEAN Um, don't get me wrong. I'm not -- I'm not -- I'm not trying to start anything either, okay? I'm just saying, maybe... maybe we oughta talk about that. SAM Okay, except there's nothing to talk about. DEAN Okay. SAM Okay. DEAN I just figured, since we're opening up veins that maybe you'd want to talk about the guy who you made sell his soul. SAM The guy who you then killed, right? I mean, that's the same guy we're talking about? DEAN I was a demon. SAM Oh, you were a demon? Oh, I didn't realize that.

made me laugh. tell him, sam!

DEAN Hey, man, Lester was gonna pay for that soul shake sooner or later. So technically, it's still on you. SAM What do you want from me, Dean? Look, I w-- I'm not happy about it, okay? But I needed to find you. So if I had to... bend a few rules...

this is cracking me up. sam's like damnit dean, usually we just ignore this and move on and never address it again. shove it down. you know???

DEAN Go dark. SAM Go dark. Sure. Label it if you want.

now that got another laugh. ugh kids and their labels

DEAN Look, man, again, I'm not complaining, okay? In fact, I'm doing just the opposite of complaining. I... I just... You know, between Lester and the others... SAM There weren't others. DEAN Okay, either way, maybe we both needed that time off. DEAN This is good. This is good. SAM Yeah. Okay.

is our impromptu therapy session over? 😂 dean what are you doing? haha. was that all just a deflection so they wouldn't talk about his issues?

KATE Don't! She's my sister.

snorted. a murderous sibling, oh, the moral dilemma!

SAM Yoga? DEAN [mocking] Okay. KATE You laugh, but... I'll pretty much try anything to keep that side of me under control.

*staring at camera*

feel a little bad laughing at all these things but when they start hitting me over the head with a point/parallel to the boys i just can't

SAM So back at the barn, that was all just an act to protect Tasha? KATE She's family. And, yeah, worth eating a bullet for.

dying for her so she can continue killing other people too! lol. normal sibling behavior

DEAN Kate and Tasha are monsters, okay? Last I checked, we kill monsters. SAM Right, but how can you possibly blame Kate for fighting for her sister? We do it all the time.

mmhm

DEAN Well, yeah, and that's worked wonders for us. SAM Well, we're still here, aren't we? DEAN Yeah, but is it right? I mean, all that you've done for me, I've still got this Mark. SAM And we'll figure that out. We always do. But you can't take whatever's happened to us or to you and -- and dump it at these girls' feet. DEAN All right, so, what? You wanna nuance this thing? Hit me. What's your plan?

look at all of this impressive communication. impromptu therapy session #2 in the books

SAM Okay. Then, um... I gotta tell you something. I, uh... I lied about Lester. DEAN What? SAM There were others. DEAN Other humans? SAM No. No, no. And -- and I'm sure there were a few hunters I rubbed -- or I... punched the wrong way, but...No. I pretty much saved my best stuff for the bad guys. But you gotta understand something, Dean.

ringing up #3! it's like a season's worth of straight forward communication

SAM I watched you die. SAM And I carried you. I carried your corpse into your room, and I put your dead body on your bed, and then you just... DEAN Yeah.

sam 💔

DEAN I know. I guess I was hoping that note would, you know, fill in the blanks. SAM “Don't look for me”? That note? Yeah, that was really informative. Thanks. DEAN Yeah. I... SAM What? DEAN It's embarrassing, you know? SAM W-what's embarrassing? DEAN All of it. You know, the -- the -- that note. Crowley. Everything.

oh, dean. i hadn't thought about that, that would be mortifying

SAM Dean, you were a demon. DEAN I was a demon? Oh, thanks. I didn't -- I didn't realize. SAM [smiling] Shut up.

cute cute

DEAN Not to mention, I never even said “thank you”" so... SAM You don't ever have to say that, not to me.

oh my god LOL it's like.

Pylades: I’ll take care of you. Orestes: It’s rotten work. Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you. ― Anne Carson, Euripides

which is pretty much their dynamic all the time but the "not to me" would not be denied

TASHA Drop the gun, or Dreamboat here gets his mind blown.

dreamboat, that's a new one. also accurate

TASHA No one's talking to you, Paul Bunyan!

i snorted. okay, maybe this is the problem with my emotional attachment. serious scenes make me laugh. but not in a bad way most of the time? just i'm enjoying the silliness but then not feeling the serious parts. tone too wonky maybe. chicken and the egg, did the tone break the attachment or did the attachment break and made me notice just the jokes because i'm not emotionally engaged

well, they made the sibling parallel diverge pretty starkly what with one being full dark and the other willing and able to kill her

DEAN If you got an itch to scratch... SAM Dean, look, we both jumped on this case. I agree. Equal parts blame there. But the whole idea behind laying low was to rest, to...try and deal with everything we – everything you went through. Maybe we jumped back in too fast. I mean, Dean… you were a demon. You still have the Mark.

yes, dealing with it, definitely a new concept :p is this #4? lost track

SAM Didn't you ever wanna talk about it? DEAN Talk about it? Talk about it how? SAM Come on, man. DEAN I am coming on, Sam, look… I know what happened. Okay? I was there. Remember? I'm not trying to get by it. I just... That's not what this was about. SAM Then what is this about? DEAN It’s about gettin' back in the saddle. Okay? Doing something good, not stewing in my own crap. SAM And what if you're not ready?

this feels like a reminder, hey dean is the king of feeling guilty about things. which honestly, it wasn't at the forefront of my mind either. embarrassed and guilty ✅✅ i'm too worried about what the mark is doing to him

don't think i care if this is ooc i'm taking it. i ship clear communication 🤝 the boys

[seadeepywrites]

bleeding from the storm

Character: Haven Vasselon Words: 6139 tw: death, depression, fantasy violence

1. like an ambulance that's turning on the sirens

"I can fix this," Haven says. In panic, she says it a few more times. "I can fix this! I can fix this."

There's nobody to hear her babbling except the dead — the truly dead, like Siggi, who lies motionless on the bloodstained deck, and the undead, who crowd in around Haven and Siggi with gaunt, grasping hands. The possessed navy crewmates have a terrible slackness to their faces, eyes rolled so far back in their heads that only the whites are showing, but Haven's attention remains on the gatekeeper. It is something that should not exist, something Haven had not prepared for, and there is a very real possibility that she is about to die alongside Siggi.

The gatekeeper says nothing as the echoes of its Toll the Dead spell vibrate through the floorboards. It only stands before her implacably, its scythe glinting in the darkness and its withered face obscured under the deep cowl of its tattered cloak. 

Haven licks her lips, noticing absently how dry and cracked they are. She can taste blood beading up on them, then hardening almost immediately into a grainy crust. She feels cold, all the way to her core.

She has to leave. Now, while she still can.

"I can fix this," she says, more faintly this time.

She leans on her Staff of Power for support, bends down to touch Siggi, and tries not to lose her balance as her vision swims and tilts with the motion. Gripping Siggi's collar in her fist, she mumbles a few arcane words. She steps backwards, away from the gatekeeper, and through the gleaming golden outline of a door that has opened behind her.

She sags almost immediately upon emerging, sinking to the deck in exhaustion, but her Dimension Door sent them where she intended — strong hands support her as she falls. Haven knows those hands intimately, very literally. Even as she blinks to stay conscious, she gestures towards Siggi.

"I'm fine," she wheezes, which isn't actually true. "But Siggi, he's..."

Whisper eases Haven to the deck, sparing half a second to brush one hand against Haven's cheek, then nods and reaches for Siggi. She pulls a small pouch from her belt, empties it over his body. Diamond dust spills downward like a waterfall, glittering in the lanternlight.

Haven relaxes, closing her eyes. The Nightweaver still lurks, less than five hundred feet away — Haven can be sure of that distance, considering her Dimension Door — but she got them out.

Whisper can do the rest.

~

2. like a loser that's betting on his last dime

Haven's nerves haven't settled since the gatekeeper fight. Even after the Magic Missiles hissed outward from her Staff of Power and shattered the gatekeeper's final ward, and even after Jaeldirra, tears streaming down their face, summoned shadowy spider legs to cram Whisper's soul back into her body. Even after Haven held tight to Whisper, touching her face, her shoulders, her hands, over and over — reassured herself that Whisper was alive again, was still here.

Haven kneels on the deck of the Abyssal Gaze, hand in hand with Whisper, and wonders why she can't quite manage to catch her breath.

It takes her ten minutes to identify the anxiety that buzzes inside her like an unquiet hive of bees. The telepathic bond has faded, its hour elapsed, and one of the last messages exchanged through it was a hazy reassurance from Klaus that he was conscious and swimming to the Munafik with the Kraken. So Haven knows Klaus is still alive, but knowing that intellectually doesn't settle the discomfort, the occasional little sparks of adrenaline.

Haven, it would appear, cannot trust the fight is over until she sees Klaus with her own two eyes. His stealth and his alacrity and his caution mean that by the time she's realized there's a threat, he's already vanished, and the devastating barrage of his black-feathered arrows is sometimes her first clue there's anything wrong around her. Conversely, she relies far more on his ability to sense danger than her own, and she knows he never appears back on deck until he's confident that all the enemy combatants have been dealt with.

But here, in the exhaustion after a fight that claimed the life of two crewmates, Klaus is absent. He's on board another ship, tending the Kraken's wounds, which were moderately serious — as well as his own, which were significantly worse than anything he usually suffers. There's no particular reason Haven needs him here, no practical justification she can find to demand his presence. She just cannot relax, cannot make herself believe this horror-filled night is over yet.

As it turns out, she is entirely correct. Even Haven can recognize the percussive roar of cannon-fire when she hears it. There's an awful crunching, splintering noise. The entire ship lurches suddenly, and chips of wood begin to rain down from above as the canvas of the sails folds and crumples. A few seconds later, another impact, and the deck begins to list beneath her.

Haven jumps like a startled cat. Looks around wildly, struggles to her feet. Her heart is in her throat, but she still does not understand what's happening. She saw the conjured crew of the Abyssal Gaze using crane equipment to move the Nightweaver's cannons across to their ship, so where is this damage coming from?

"Under attack," Whisper signs. And when Haven stares at her uncomprehendingly, she just points — across the dark, storm-tossed waters, through the drifting snow.

Towards the Kraken's ship, where its sails paint a blood-red pattern against the night.

Haven understands then, as Siggi begins barking orders to the crew and Nitha yells something about the Haste spell and a bottle. But her heart trips and stutters, one question swelling up to eclipse the rest. The details of why the Kraken betrayed them, and why now — they aren't important.

What she needs to know, so desperately that it feels like the question is carving its way out of her chest, is whether Klaus knew about it.

~

3. like a junkie tying off for the last time

Haven has cried so much in the last twenty-four hours that her eyes are sticky, her throat is parched, and she cannot breathe through her nose. Every time she thinks there are no tears left inside her, she thinks of something new the shipwreck has cost them, and her eyes well up again.

But before breakfast, before the seafloor search for their various possessions, Haven attends to the most important item that's missing — the former captain of the Abyssal Gaze.

From the unfamiliar surroundings of a cabin on the Nightweaver, she casts Sending, picturing Slark in her mind. His mottled skin, his webbed fin-like ears. The glittering diamond scars surrounding where his eyes once were, and the starry black orbs that replaced them.

The relief Haven feels when the Sending connects is like a rope snapping, tension evaporating into mist. She mumbles the words aloud as she thinks them.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "It's Haven. We couldn't find you."

The surge of distress at the memory scrambles her concentration, and she finds herself repeating, "Are you okay?"

It's all she can think to ask. If Slark's in trouble, he can tell her where he is and they can come find him. They can save him. She waits for a few seconds, then finishes with, "Love, Haven."

At least with Sending, the response is almost immediate. Slark's voice, nasal and as rapid-fire as his pistols, rings out inside her head.

"I'm okay! It seemed like things are getting pretty dangerous with you guys, so I think I'm gonna leave. Good luck with everything."

And that's it. Haven blinks a few times, lips parted in shock. It shouldn't surprise her — the day she met Slark, he told her that he was in Savnaer because, faced with a difficult conversation, he'd simply leapt off a pier and started swimming. He's even more flighty than Klaus, frequently choosing to vanish into the walls of the ship when combat erupts rather than stay and lend his gunfire to the fight. The idea that the Abyssal Gaze sinking — and therefore severing Slark's bond to the Shiplactery for good in the process — would cause Slark to panic and leave them is, unfortunately, wholly in-character for him.

It hurts anyway. Haven has known Slark for over a year, and shared a room with him for half that time. He was her first friend on Savnaer. She saved him from aliens, then debated a gatekeeper to call his soul back from beyond the Shell. They've faced Trihorn Behemoths and hyenas and aliens together, and Haven thought—

Haven thought he might have said goodbye. To her, if to nobody else. She'd thought their friendship was worth enough to him for that, at least, but it turns out she was wrong.

She's crying again, stomach muscles shuddering and shoulders shaking, but there are barely any tears to accompany the sobs. She just has nothing left to give.

~

4. like a child looking off on the horizon

The Nightweaver flees the harbor at full speed, sails snapping in the wind. Behind them, only half-visible behind the dark silhouette of the peninsula, the Disciple burns.

Haven watches from the sterncastle of the Nightweaver, clutching her Staff of Power close, because it seems like the right thing to do. Nothing else about what they've done to Bless and her crewmates felt right, and this is the best she can offer. To witness the destruction, to acknowledge it.

Haven only manages this vigil for a few moments, however, because Siggi quickly calls her over to the sails. She remembers why they came back to Farwater in the first place — they don't even have enough crew for her to remain at the railing and protect them. Setting her staff aside and shaking out her fingers, she stretches sore muscles and trips over to take her place on deck with the other Corsairs. Her arms and back haven't stopped hurting in the week and a half since the conjured crew liquefied into seawater. Keeping the Nightweaver moving requires everyone to pitch in, even pink tieflings who can barely hold a line taut without trembling.

The work is physically demanding, but only in intervals. Haven has altogether too much time to huddle on deck and be buffeted by the wind and the wet, driving rain, which combine to leave her freezing cold and even more thoroughly miserable. She can't stop replaying it all in her mind: the blue and red lanterns signaling for the Nightweaver to slow, the flurry of action to hide the illegal goods, the hasty conversation to agree on a story to tell.

They all knew why the Peaceguard was waiting at the mouth of the harbor, after all. The crew of the Nightweaver were returning to Farwater to reap the rewards of a sin they'd already committed weeks ago. They just hadn't counted on Bless and the other residents of Farwater putting the pieces together so quickly.

Haven hopes she never has to experience that awful feeling again — standing in front of Bless, drenched in sweat, stomach twisting with fear and guilt. Fever-hot tides of nausea and vertigo, piling up on top of each other and then crashing like waves on the shore. An echo of the feeling passes through her even remembering the moment, aftershocks following an earthquake, and she clenches her teeth until her jaw protests.

She couldn't lie to Bless, when the time came. Bless looked at her with those luminous green eyes and just — asked.

Haven, do you know what happened to Bessie?

Yeah, Haven said, shutting her eyes tight. I do.

At the time, Haven was solely concerned with getting Bless off the deck of the Nightweaver. Haven pleaded with her to stop, to let them leave, to stay away so Haven wouldn't have to hurt her. Yet no matter how many times Haven shoved her back onto the Disciple with Bigby's Hand, Bless kept leaping the gap and re-entering the fray, bruised and bleeding and relentless.

Haven was wholly focused on the delicate maneuver of keeping Bless alive. It would have been far easier to blow them all to hell with her magic, but that's always been true, hasn't it? Haven's an abjuration specialist for a reason — she flatly refuses to enact the indiscriminate violence that comes so easily to most wizards. Not against sentient creatures, and certainly not against someone she considered a friend. Bless was trying to die for Farwater, and Haven was just as incapable of allowing that as the day that they met.

But in that single-minded state, Haven didn't notice Nitha stealing the diamonds — or didn't realize the consequences. Haven torched the sails of the Disciple to stop pursuit, but never thought what that might mean for a port town already missing their monstrous defender.

It's far from the first time that Haven's been sideswiped by the unforeseen impact of her actions, but rarely has the impact been so widespread or so universally harmful. And she has never, not once, heard the kind of hatred that burns like wildfire through the Greater Sending that she establishes with Bless on the evening following the confrontation.

It was a mistake to befriend you, Bless says through the Sending, and I don't trust your word, or your crew.

Haven can't find the words to refute her. She isn't even sure that Bless is wrong.

We've made the decision to abandon Farwater, Bless says.

There are a thousand excuses and apologies that seethe on Haven's tongue, but in the end she shares none of them. She has already witnessed the tempered-steel strength of Bless' convictions.

What has been broken is already damaged beyond repair.

~

5. like a son that was raised without a father

Haven's conversation with Bless hurts worse than the time Haven got chewed up by giant hyenas, but when it's over, she swallows the heartache and casts Greater Sending again. She reaches out one golden thread of magic, seeking the brightest soul she's ever encountered. She holds his image in her mind's eye — his poncho from Pentibor, the shaggy mop of his hair growing too long, and that faint blush that always seems to dust his cheekbones.

Haven is seeking answers — she can rationalize Slark's abrupt departure, as painful as it has been for her, but Zeremy? He started teaching her Celestial only a few days ago, and he wants to explore the world. The garbled explanation that Nitha gave the crew on his behalf just doesn't make sense. There must be something that Haven is missing.

This conversation lasts twice as long as the one with Bless did — Haven has to burn through the entire day's reserve of her high-level magic to keep fueling the spell that connects them. And Zeremy assures her that he doesn't hate her or the crew, which should comfort her, but it doesn't.

Zeremy, formerly the Zenith of Tillnette Isle, still beloved of Vrent, cares most of all about the truth. And he tells Haven in no uncertain terms that the truth and the Corsairs are incompatible.

I realized, he says, that I had to choose between my god and my friends.

Bless' hostility has scorched Haven, has left her raw and open and stinging with humiliation. Zeremy's disapproval passes through her flesh entirely, exposing the darkest parts of her to an unflinching, unforgiving radiance. And even as she burns, Haven finds herself sick with jealousy. She wishes she possessed even a shred of Zeremy's confidence, or at least his conviction in the path forward.

What does it mean if someone that holy can't stay with this ship, despite knowing their mission and how little time is left to accomplish it? Haven has convinced herself so many times that she needs these people with her to save the world — that despite their lies and thousand little cruelties, she is stronger when she is with them. She loves her friends, even knowing how much blood is on their hands. Even when traveling with them bloodies her hands too, more vivid and indelible with every day that passes.

In the last minute that the Greater Sending grants her, Haven whispers to Zeremy her hopes for his happiness. Doubt in her own decisions mantles darkly above her like dragon wings, like thunder. There is silence in the room after the Sending, and she stares unseeingly into the corners without any expectation that the shadows will yield the solace she seeks.

She knows what she could have done differently — has scrawled it in ink-splattered words across countless pages of her notebook as some form of self-punishment, as if repetition alone can atone for her mistakes. The past cannot be altered, but that doesn't blunt the sharp edge to her sorrow, or season the bitterness that fills her mouth like blood.

Later, on the map in the captain's quarters, Haven traces a line from Coalition Cove to Tillnette Isle, from Tillnette to Veville, and from Veville to Farwater. Her fingers are shaking, but the path of destruction is all too clear. When she closes her eyes, she can see the scenes overlapping on the canvas of her eyelids.

The fleet burning in Coalition Cove, masts and sails ablaze as Peaceguard and priests lie slaughtered on the shore nearby.

An airship and its crew consumed in an explosion of blue light, all because Haven agreed to lend her magic to someone she should have known better than to trust.

A child kidnapped from Tillnette Isle, an entire community left in darkness without its sun-blessed figurehead.

The rumors of a prison break in Veville, gang violence surging and civilians caught in the deadly crossfire.

Most recently, Farwater. Families scraping together their possessions and leaving behind what they cannot carry. Bless, teeth bared and shield gleaming, leading them into the wilds of Benatia.

There is good that Haven has done — she can even call to mind some of the details, like the defeat of Xatroch in the Shadowfell and the exorcism of her brother. But right now, the rest of it eats at her with serrated teeth, and Zeremy's departure is one more loss piling up. One more crack widening in Haven's fractured heart.

The Corsairs might have kidnapped Zeremy, but it also brought him the freedom he'd only dreamed of. They gave him a new name and brought him to new continents, but it seems that wasn't enough.

Haven isn't enough.

~

6. like a mother barely keeping it together

Magical Darkness boils up from beneath the deck, and from the shadow-smothered hatch in the floor emerges a midnight-blue tiefling. Haven's first instinct is relief, but her stomach plummets a second later as she remembers Whisper's warning. She curls her fingers tighter around her Staff of Power, breathing shallowly.

Haven wishes she could be unilaterally glad to see Siggi, because it's only Haven and Whisper on deck right now — Klaus is entirely absent, in a way that actually concerns her, and after a few minutes of muffled screaming from beneath the floorboards, it seems Nitha's voice has given out entirely. Jaeldirra is working against the crew, possessed by a rabid fervency that is not their own, and Haven and Whisper by themselves may not be enough. 

The howling void that parts the stars above the ship has broken the minds of the crew as easily as it broke the Shell itself. And Haven was slow to acknowledge the spreading fissures through her own her heart, her trust, her hope in the world. But she has learned her lesson by now. So she doesn't step towards Siggi, doesn't smile. Doesn't take her eyes off of him, even as Jaeldirra gurgles something incoherent from the ocean on the starboard side of the ship.

Siggi waves one hand in a lazy gesture, banishing the Darkness, and climbs out onto the deck. His ascent is hampered by the sword in his hand, which gleams like glass and measures easily six feet long.

The sight of it confirms all of Haven's worst suspicions. She asks anyway.

"Siggi, what did you do?"

Siggi smiles, looking down at the blade. Haven's not good at reading people, but something in Siggi's expression makes her skin crawl. It's not as obviously, abhorrently wrong as Jaeldirra's current insanity, but it's terrifying nevertheless.

"I have this now," Siggi says slowly. He looks at her, his gaze curiously vacant. His tone is all vague surprise on the surface, but there's an undercurrent of satisfaction running beneath it.

"Where's Lastiar?" Haven asks. She asks it slowly, nausea already roiling in her gut because she knows the answer to this question too.

"Downstairs," Siggi says.

His reply is smooth and instantaneous — simple enough when it reveals nothing important. The cuffs of his shirt are dyed crimson, but his gait is loose and even as he strolls across the deck towards Haven. He is casual, uninjured and intact. That's what fills in the remaining details for Haven — those stains on Siggi's shirt aren't his own blood.

Even as Haven processes this, Whisper has already taken a step, placing herself between Haven and Siggi as he approaches. Whatever Whisper has already seen belowdecks was enough for her to condemn Siggi, it would appear. Haven recognizes the iron hardness in Whisper's posture — instant and unyielding protective instinct. A choice to defend. It is the way Whisper faces her enemies.

Haven looks away. Moves to the railing again, even though each step feels like wading through mud. She is so tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Jaeldirra is swimming back towards the Nightweaver, if it can be called swimming — an odd, disconnected movement that involves flickering closer by several feet at a time, disappearing between one clumsy stroke and the next.

Whisper's hand closes on Haven's elbow. A surge of warmth, of healing and strength. Something unspoken must pass between Whisper and Siggi behind Haven's back, because Siggi speaks again.

"I love Haven," Siggi says, higher-pitched. True surprise in his voice. "I would never hurt her."

Haven curls her hand into a fist, summoning Bigby's Hand to smack Jaeldirra, and wishes she could still believe him. He hasn't attacked her yet, though, so she says, "I can stop JD. I just need someone to hold them still."

"On it," Siggi says promptly. He takes a few quick steps to the railing and dives overboard in one graceful motion. He disappears into the dark waters with barely a ripple, resurfacing only to strike out towards Jaeldirra with Presvyre, and Haven has just enough time to think — wait, isn't Jaeldirra an elf? Won't Presvyre object?

A wave submerges both of them before Haven can judge the result. She blinks and squints against the salt-spray, lifting her hand in preparation for another push with Bigby's Hand. It is only Jaeldirra who comes back up, and it sends a shock of terror twisting through her throat, so she responds with a shock of her own — golden lightning crackling out from her staff, racing across the water towards them.

It's not the first time Haven's caught Siggi in one of her Lightning Bolts — it's not even the third or fourth time — but she worries anyway as the seconds pass and there's still no sign of Siggi. He has disappeared into the depths, and she and Whisper are alone again against Jaeldirra.

Except — there's someone else behind her on the deck, dripping seawater. Haven spins around, fearing another threat, and cannot quite bring herself to relax when she meets a familiar set of lime-green eyes.

"What now?" she asks, heavy with dread.

Klaus looks down, nocking an arrow to his bowstring with slow, methodical precision. "The sky," he says after a moment, "is really scary."

Well, Haven can't argue with that. Klaus does look afraid, wild-eyed with some emotion that seems different than his usual paranoia. It is less controlled, more unsettling — but it isn't that different. He is here with Haven. He vanished, but he came back, like he always does. Haven almost smiles.

But then Klaus stiffens, staring hard at the weather-scarred boards of the deck. "They're belowdecks," he says, low and urgent. "Heading for the stairs."

Haven calls her Hand to her side. It swivels to place itself in between her and the stairs, coloring her vision in a shimmering, translucent pink. When she looks up again, Klaus is gone, but that doesn't surprise her. Hopefully he is hiding away to help her, not merely to hide, but she'll find out soon enough.

It ends like this: 

Jaeldirra slithers up the stairs and pushes through Bigby's Hand, which shouldn't be possible. Then they phase partially into Haven, which really shouldn't be possible, and tangle their grasping fingers into her hair. They force her head back, even as she gasps and struggles, and the sight of the sky above drills into her. Encompasses her. Obliterates her entire being. 

Haven gapes as the stars dance above her. Only for a few seconds, before she wrenches herself back to reality, but it is enough. Jaeldirra passes a hand through her flesh again, and Haven's knees give out.

As she crumples, she summons her Hellish Rebuke — a last act of futile desperation, because her tiefling flames have never burned very bright, but it's all she can think of. The fire is only a few flickers of gold in the darkness. Not enough. 

Her staff clanks to the deck, rolling away as she loses control of her limbs.

The last thing Haven remembers is the hiss of an arrow above her head, passing directly between the prongs of her antlers. A masterful shot, but Haven would expect nothing less.

She sinks into unconsciousness hoping Klaus can finish what she could not. 

~

7. like a soldier coming home for the first time

Haven comes to in the medical bay of the Nightweaver, splayed out on one of the cots. She keeps her eyes closed for a few minutes after she wakes, in a meager attempt to ward off the headache that has her skull in a vice grip, but eventually she acknowledges the futility of the act. She rolls over, opens her eyes, faces the world.

The world turns out to be Whisper, Nitha and Klaus at the moment. Whisper is lying motionless on the cot next to Haven, and she waits for a few trembling seconds — but yes, Whisper is still breathing. Nitha huddles on a stool in the corner, resembling nothing so much as a ragged bundle of red and white feathers. Her good eye tracks Haven as Haven sits up, but when she cracks her jaw open, only a wheezing rasp comes out. 

It takes another few moments to find Klaus — even in this small, crowded room, Haven’s attention skips right over him at first. He is making no effort to hide, but he simply blends in with the teetering piles of supplies in his corner, possibly by pure instinct. He has something in his hands that he is fiddling with, fingers moving rapidly.

“How are you feeling?” Klaus asks without looking up.

Haven considers the question for longer than it truly merits. She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, applying grinding pressure until her vision bursts with sparkling swirls of colored light.

"My head hurts," is all that she says out loud.

It is hardly the only part of her that is wounded. Whatever Jaeldirra did to her left deep bruises that throb with pain, and they are layered over several weeks' worth of other combat injuries. Her heart keeps its unsteady rhythm in her chest, but even that is conditional, held captive by the amulet around her neck. Any other words she might say have withered in her throat, stifled by her deepening misery.

Klaus doesn't reply, though, and Nitha still cannot speak, so they sit in silence for a minute or two — just the three of them and an unconscious Whisper. Haven dredges up a flickering wisp of curiosity, some fading echo of a sense of responsibility.

“How long have I been out?” she asks.

Klaus does meet her eyes now, gaze steady. “About an hour.”

Glancing at Whisper, Haven recovers a blurry memory of Jaeldirra attacking Whisper the same way they attacked Haven. Of Whisper hitting the deck shortly before Haven did. And if the ship’s only cleric is still unconscious, then that means…

Haven swallows, hard, and forces out the next question. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Jaeldirra left. Siggi hasn’t come back. Lastiar’s dead.”

Klaus sounds so calm about it, so matter-of-fact. Even about Jaeldirra, whom Haven thought he genuinely liked. Haven buries her face in her hands again. Quite independent of her intentions, her brain whirs into motion again, churning out her usual iterative lists of options: spells to cast that might help, clarifying questions to ask, people to check up on after the immediate crises are resolved one way or another.

She doesn’t reach for her notebook, though, or a scrap of parchment. She just lets the thoughts ricochet off the inside of her battered skull, splintering into pieces and disappearing again when she does not focus on them or transcribe them as is her usual habit. She’ll reach for them later, and probably only be able to come up with half the checklist, and hate herself a little for being unable to remember.

Instead, Haven thinks: there have always been words clouding the air between herself and Jaeldirra. It is rare that Haven finds herself so frustrated by language, because it’s usually one of her greatest tools. But the slippery consonants of Undercommon continue to elude her, and she never found a way in any language to reassure Jaeldirra, despite her repeated attempts.

When the Abyssal Gaze first sets sail from Veville, even Haven could see Jaeldirra's misery. And she wanted to help, of course, if she could. They were both children of Povrunei, though Haven was raised on the sunny surface and Jaeldirra in the unforgiving depths of the Underdark. So Haven shared some of the convoluted tangle of logic and emotions she has constructed through intense consideration over the past couple years. Magic and its morality are topics she ponders frequently — which is apparently unusual behavior for a wizard, but that's not the point. 

The point, which she tried somewhat incoherently to explain to Jaeldirra, is that power on its own isn't inherently evil. That using magic to save people isn't wrong just because other people have used that same magic to cause harm. Jaeldirra listened to her explanation, watching her in thoughtful silence, but Haven doesn't think she made them feel any better.

Later, she offered to teach Jaeldirra arcane magic, which they refused — of course they did. Haven only wanted to offer another option, one that didn't require worshipping a god of deception and pain, but it was probably tactless. Another clumsy reminder of Jaeldirra's rejection from the Unwoven.

Haven's request, then, to learn Undercommon from Jaeldirra, was made as politely and unobtrusively as she could manage. She tried her hardest to adhere to to Jaeldirra's rigid curriculum and strict lecturing style — Jaeldirra, normally level-headed and almost as quiet as Whisper, was brisk and unforgiving as a teacher, right up until Haven broke down crying during one of their lessons. After several earnest apologies on both sides, the two of them reached a workable compromise. Haven was making rapid progress, too, and estimated she'd only need a few more weeks to attain reasonable fluency. She planned to have another conversation with Jaeldirra about magic, maybe in Undercommon this time, when—

The sky split open.

Something monstrous took up residence in Jaeldirra's body.

The rest of the Corsairs also descended into various levels of insanity, and Haven was left standing alone on deck, trying to stop Jaeldirra's rampage without killing them.

Haven wishes now, here in the medbay, that she had been more ruthless. The crew could have brought Jaeldirra back from death, but cannot rescue them from the all-devouring obliteration that awaits them beyond the Shell. In trying to save Jaeldirra, she has damned them to a fate that is even worse.

Despite all that time Haven spent with Jaeldirra, she never really connected with them. It was only Klaus who seemed to see the world in a way they understood, who could speak to that restless uncertainty at the core of them.

Haven chooses her third question carefully. She’s watching Klaus’ expression, but she also knows he could easily hide his emotions from her even if he did feel something.

“What do you mean by ‘left,’ exactly?”

Klaus blinks. His voice is very level when he says, “They sort of… turned into spaghetti. And went up into the sky.”

“Oh,” Haven says. “Um.”

She thinks about that — what kind of spell it might have been, and how it correlates with the rest of the strange new abilities Jaeldirra developed in the short minutes before their ascension. It explains why Klaus couldn’t stop them, at least — he can obliterate any mage that sticks around long enough to fight him, but his arrows can’t counter teleportation spells. Only Haven or Siggi can do that, and they had both already been eliminated from the fight.

“They said something about Sty’ryk,” Klaus adds, helpfully. “That they were returning to it.”

Haven scours her memory. The word doesn’t spark any kind of recognition, but maybe there’s something in her notes. Then again, since it’s probably a place or entity beyond the Shell, her chances aren’t good.

From the hammock, Nitha makes a kind of creaking noise. Her eye is wide, but her voice is still too ruined to form words. Maybe she knows more than Haven does — it will have to wait until she’s recovered from the special brand of insanity the sky awarded her.

Haven makes ready to stand up, reaching out with one hand. She hesitates.

One last question, then — an important one. “Where’s my staff?”

The silence stretches a little too long before Klaus replies. Haven’s already sinking back to the cot, strength draining from her limbs, as Klaus says, “JD took it with them. As a gift.”

She doesn’t cry. She can feel her dismay in her chest and throat, thick as smoke and sharp as broken glass, but it only gathers there, dense and aching, without breaking open or spilling out.

“I can cast Gentle Repose on Lastiar’s body,” Haven says dully, falling back on those mental lists. “And, um, I’ll Send to Siggi, I guess. To see if he’s okay.” After a moment, she glances at Klaus, then Nitha. “Are you guys okay?”

Nitha can’t answer, and settles for an eloquent shrug. Klaus looks away. There is a strange sadness in his expression, a vulnerability that looks entirely unfamiliar on him.

“I want to go home,” he says softly, “but I don’t know where home is.”

Haven doesn’t know what to say to that — she can count the number of times on one hand that she's tried to offer advice to Klaus, rather than the other way around. It is a conversation that will have to wait for later.

Instead of speaking, she unwinds what's left of her bun, yanking her wand from the tangled mess. Her hair tumbles down around her and spills across her shoulders, down her back. She stares at the wand, readjusting to the feel of its wood in her hand, and bites her lip as she fights again against the burgeoning cascade of tears.

The Staff of Power was more than a lucky find — it was a trophy she and her friends had to defend over and over again, at the cost of two of their lives. Haven only took it originally because she wanted to keep it from Ally, but it has become her most powerful tool to keep them all safe. Not that Haven's done a very good job of that, recently. But now it is gone, along with Jaeldirra, to a place Haven could not follow even with twice the power she currently wields.

Haven tries to summon up optimism from a well that is rapidly running dry. There is no way to make this latest crisis more bearable, but the rest of it — she can still try. She has to, or risk losing her mind completely.

Half of her friends might have left her, but at least most of them are still on this plane of existence. And healthy and safe, as far as she knows. Klaus is still here with the Corsairs, and not with the Kraken, despite the memories that haunt him on the Nightweaver long after the more literal ghosts have been vanquished. And at least the Corsairs recovered most of their possessions from the wreck of the Abyssal Gaze, and were able to commandeer the Nightweaver.

At least they have a ship, and some of their crew.

But as Haven looks around this small, cluttered room, it all seems like slim comfort indeed.

[eddathegreat]

Before I get any judgement from people, let me just say that the superheroes I kill are all pieces of shit. They do violence for a living, and even the nicest of the bunch will get it wrong some time and rough up someone who was just minding their business.

(I'm not any different, but hey, I'm not on my high horse here)

The good thing for me is that not every superhero has enhanced durability. Or at least, not enough that a bullet won't fuck them up.

Any jackass who flies is an open target, so that's nice.

Any kind of energy projection? Well, fuck you, I have a gun.

The more esoteric or stealthy powers can trip me up, for sure. Killing the Invisible Kid was a chore. I'm just glad that he turned visible once I shot him, I had no idea how I was going to confirm the kill otherwise. I still have scars from when the Dancer made me put a knife in my own leg.

But the ones that are a real pain in the ass, which I try to avoid taking on, are the ones who are damned quick or tough enough that bullets don't hurt them.

So I'm really not a fan of the idea of trying to fight Ego Trip. The man has taken bullets for years and only seemed tickled, and has bursts of superspeed.

I say 'fight' and not 'kill' because my only goal at the moment is to get the fuck out of here, and killing him seems like wishful thinking. And I say 'fight' and not 'escape' because I already tried that.

I winced as he hit me again.

Small mercies, the man didn't have much added strength. Still knew how to punch, though.

I let myself rest against the side of the car I had stumbled into, attempting to catch my breath.

My shoulder wasn't dislocated yet.

I wasn't a gifted speaker, but running and fighting seemed like they weren't working.

"Listen, the kid had it coming, alright?"

I barely dodged a superspeed run towards me, rolling out of the way. Ah, there, now my shoulder was dislocated.

"He killed people, Ego. I know you give a shit about that."

I didn't know shit about Ego's personality, maybe he skinned people alive in his spare time.

Ego looked at me. His costume was all gold, except for two black goggles that looked like beady eyes. Superheroes didn't seem to know when their costumes got creepy.

"He was reforming. He had time to grow up into someone better."

"Well, that's not really a comfort to the dead kids of my clients."

That at least made him pause. "Who hired you?"

"That's a secret," I said. I started backing away, making a little more space for myself.

I'd said it was one of the parents, but it was really Breakdown's ex girlfriend. She was afraid of him, after seeing how angry he could get.

Grenades wouldn't work, Ego had stood in the middle of gas fires.

"This isn't the way to achieve justice," he said.

"I'm cheaper than a lawyer. Probably nicer too."

"He was trying to be better, not ruled by that anger. He was going to atone, save lives."

"He was out here with you, ready to crack skulls again."

That caught him off guard.

"I was supervising-"

I tased him. Fancy thing, supercharged for dealing with tougher superheroes, with added range and accuracy.

His costume smoked for half a second before he tore the wires off of him and stepped fifty feet to punch me in the face. I went down, with cartoon birds circling around my head.

So electricity was out.

Fire and explosives wouldn't do shit, and any kind of blunt force was crap.

"I bet you want to kill me," I said, trying to get up. "Is that why you took him on? Saw a kindred spirit, someone who had the itch to kill?"

He clenched his fists. Struck a nerve.

"Believe me," I continued, on my feet but not upright. I turned my face to the ground. "I know the feeling. You know, it's a rush, the feel of a fight to the death."

I tried not to wheeze, and adjusted my mask. This was going to suck.

"And there's just so many reasons to kill someone. So hey, I figured, why not make a career out of it?"

"Because of what it does to you, for one thing. Killing someone, it leaves a mark."

That was a very stupid argument in my opinion, but sure.

"Well, the mark's already been left," I said, sounding as sad as I possibly could. "Nothing's going to wash it off now."

"No," Ego Trip said, walking towards me, arms outstretched like he wanted a hug. "But we can try. We don't have to wallow in it, in all the violence."

Rich words from a man who'd been kicking my ass.

I threw the cannister of nerve gas, turned around, and booked it as the cloud saturated the air around us.

It wasn't bad as far as nerve gas went, minimal collateral damage and I could feel safe with my mask's functions. I didn't want to stick around to test the limits of my gear, or Ego Trip's resistance to nerve gas.

Anyway, those are the big, surefire ways to kill superheroes, 99% of the time. Attack the fragile moral posturing, and hit them with nerve gas.

You are an assassin that hunts superheroes. You haven no powers yourself.

[skidqrow]

Sonic Fandub Prompts

- - From various Snapcube Sonic Fandub videos - - Mostly crack with some angst and flirting thrown in. Add + 🔁 to reverse Adjust for pronouns as needed! (Warning for language & drug mentions.)

"Cya, nerd!"

"I can't believe your tits are only one polygon!"

*sigh* "I miss my wife, [name]. I miss her a lot. I'll be back."

"No! It's too late! You've already made up your mind!"

"You've done nothing but ruin my life."

"Can you guys, like, stop having relationship issues while I'm on the phone with my dentist?"

"I'm taking the world by storm! I'm gonna drop my newest album: [insert funny title here]!"

*gasp!* "[Name], my long-lost lover!"

"If you say 'please stop' one more time, I'm going to piss my own ass!!"

"Get reckt, you fat scrub man."

"WHAT?!? You are not allowed to fuck my wife!!"

"I'm going to kill you......and then kill you again!"

"How do you think I feel getting cucked by a hedgehog?!"

"Well, it might upset you to find out that I also fucked your wife."

"AND SHE HAD A DIAMOND IN HER VAGINA?!??"

"Except I'm not gonna piss on the Earth!! I'm gonna go higher! I'm pissing ON THE MOON!!"

*villainous laughter* "Welcome to Tilted Towers."

"Welcome to my house. As you can see, I've knocked over many chairs because I get so TiLtEd at the ToWeRs."

"I'd like to be in the friendzone! I like friends!"

"But unfortunately, as a gamer, I don't get respect."

"Well I'm not a gamer, so maybe they'll respect me?"

"...That just makes you a beta cuck."

"Speak for yourself, motherfucker!"

"...Yep. I can kill you."

"Good luck with that; I have weed."

"Bye, guys, I-I'm peacing out. I'll let you deal with this."

". . . . . ." *frustrated sigh* "The Caucacity of this bitch."

"Look around you! Imagine......dragons."

"If someone hacked my Fornite account I'm going to have a birth of cactuses out of my asshole."

"You silly-minded, feeble little gay."

"I'll be as hard on him as I wanna be."

"I'm almost proud of you."

"You are still my bitch."

"NOW EVERYONE'S MY BOYFRIEND!!"

"I will put you in the dungeon."

"You would never replace us with somebody else...promise?"

"Not unless you did something lame or stupid or uncool."

"I'm out. I'm done with this shit."

"Honestly, I'm not fucking with any more RedBoxes. Last time I did, it spit a bunch of quarters at me."

"I almost drowned like Scrooge McDuck!"

"You just left me to die!"

"Top 30 Reasons Why [Name] is Sorry...number 5 will surprise you."

"Well. . . I can't think of anything!"

"You can't go! You are a bitch! You gotta stay here!"

"Each of these cursors represent one of my--" *wheezes* "--my tentacles."

"Back in 19-odd-7, when I first graduated from [college], I remember learning--"

"Looks like college was no match for classic street learning!"

"You ableist piece of shit!"

"[Name], do you think I've been a dick to everybody?"

"[NAME]?!?? IS THAT YOU?? Have you finally come to put me out of my misery?!"

"I'll sin in my own way!"

"I kicked them so hard they turned into dogs."

"I've eaten nothing but drywall for the past three years."

"New idea. . .adultery."

"The sound effect on this gun isn't very edgy."

"...Something just happened."

"I need to update my audio equipment." *reloads gun* "I've updated my audio equipment."

"I made all of these because I want them to take over Apple."

"Well, you know what they say: You kill someone and you get all of their sin points."

"BOMBS??"

"Yippee! I can die happy tomorrow!"

"Dem's the breaks, pal."

[casspurrjoybell-25]

The Healer of Shakkara - Book One

*Warning Adult Content*

Chapter 9 - Destruction - Part 1

Galen fell to his hands and knees in the street as the ground bucked and rolled beneath him.

Stones cracked, fissures split walls and screams mingled with the rumble of breaking rock.

It seemed to go on forever but he counted only five breaths before the shaking stopped.

Then, as the earth grew still, the cries and shouts grew louder and the orange glow of flames lit the night.

Already, clouds of dust and smoke rose upwards in columns, obscuring the stars.

Yells and cries for help and running footsteps rang out from the streets above and below and all thoughts of escaping the city fled Galen's mind.

He had to help.

He had to make sure Harrald was all right.

Turning, he took a few unsteady steps and tripped on an uprooted cobblestone, skinning his palms on the rough ground.

He hissed in annoyance, clenched his hands into fists and willed the pain to stop as he pushed himself up again.

To his surprise, the pain faded almost at once and when he opened his hands, his palms were smooth and undamaged, only a thin smear of blood left to show he'd been hurt at all.

A wave of dizziness washed over him as the earth trembled again, though much less violently than before and he started off again.

He'd almost reached the end of the alleyway when a desperate call drew him back.

"Gale. Galen? Where are you? Say something, please."

It was Behn's voice, coming through the grill in the basement wall.

Galen bit his lip, hesitating.

Then Behn called again, just as another small tremor, almost like an echo of the first, shuddered the ground.

The basement wasn't safe.

The walls were only packed earth, shored up with stone and heavy beams.

He had to tell Behn to get out of there.

Doubling back, he slid to his knees in the damp earth alongside the grate, bending to peer inside.

He could see the beam of a lantern swinging back and forth.

"Galen?" desperate fright, frayed Behn's voice and Galen grasped the bars of the grill as he leaned down.

"Here," he called.

"I'm outside, Behn. I'm safe."

"Oh, Goddess," Behn exhaled sharply and coughed, waving a hand in front of his face.

Part of the far wall had collapsed and the air was thick with dust.

"Thank Thrynis. I thought you'd been buried alive."

"Behn, get out of there," Galen said, low and urgent.

"It's not safe. There could be another tremor and..."

Even as he spoke, the ground heaved again, as if a shiver had run up the spine of the earth.

Galen yelled for Behn to run but it was too late.

With a rumble and crunch, the ground beneath him collapsed as the wall of the basement caved in.

Galen scrabbled at shifting earth and stone and rode the wave of debris as it tumbled down into the choking, dust-filled dark.

In the subsequent stillness, he blinked and coughed, rubbing grit from his eyes and spitting it from his teeth, amazed to find himself unhurt.

In the gloom, he spotted the dim beam of the lantern lying on its side.

Crawling forward, he picked it up and lifted it, illuminating the piled rubble.

There was no sign of Behn.

"Behn," he called and coughed again.

"Behn."

A wheeze answered him and he stumbled over the heaps of stone towards the sound.

Behn lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes.

Galen dropped to his knees, searching his friend's body for signs of injury.

He seemed unhurt, except... except Galen's knees were wet and a sweet, coppery scent filled the air.

"Behn?" he whispered, leaning closer.

Behn's chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths.

"Gale?" Behn's voice sounded small and frightened.

"I think I... I think I fell on something."

Quickly, Galen checked him over again but found no sign of injury.

It must be on his back.

"Can you sit up?" Galen asked.

Behn shook his head slightly, his face pale and frightened in the lantern's beam.

"I don't feel so good, Gale," he said.

Galen swallowed.

According to Harrald, he had the ability to heal.

He had no idea how but it seemed like he'd healed the scrapes on his hands a moment ago.

If Harrald was to be believed, it was something he'd done instinctually, at least as a child.

He had to try because if he didn't, he was pretty sure his friend would die.

"Come on," he said, tugging at Behn's shoulders.

"You can do it. Sit up."

Behn grunted, sat up and gave a whimpering cry as he collapsed into Galen's arms.

Galen looked over his shoulder and saw the problem.

A sharp, dagger-shaped piece of wood, maybe a bit of splintered beam, stuck from Behn's back.

It wasn't large but it must have hit a bad spot, judging from how much blood he'd lost already.

He was losing more as Galen watched and he knew he didn't have much time.

Behn moaned against his shoulder and shuddered.

"Hurts."

"I know," Galen said.

"I know. It's gonna hurt more in a second but I gotta get this out of you before I..."

Before he what?

He didn't even know if he could do anything but he had to try.

"Okay. On three."

"Okay."

Behn nodded weakly.

"One..."

With a smooth, determined motion, Galen pulled the dagger-like fragment of wood from Behn's flesh.

Behn screamed and a crash and curses sounded from above, followed by heavy footsteps.

Behn sobbed weakly in Galen's arms, blood streaming down his back and panic flared in Galen's chest.

He didn't know what to do.

If he had healed Harrald with magic, he didn't remember it and as for his hands, all he'd done was.

Another crash and more curses came from the floor above and then the door to the cellar burst open and Behn's father descended unsteadily, lantern in hand.

"Wha' in the fish fuckin' sea is goin' on down here?" he slurred, obviously drunk.

It seemed he'd slept through the earlier destruction and had only been roused by Behn's cry.

His blue, bloodshot eyes swept the heaps of rubble and his lips trembled with rage.

Then his eyes locked on Galen and on Behn in his arms and he stumbled towards them with a strangled yell.

"Devil. What have you done? Get away from my boy."

[the-baddest-of-batches]

Dar'Aliit Chapter Fourteen: Peacekeeper's War

4 BBY Decimator Crew Quarters

New armor is still new armor. I know I can't keep the old stuff around once it's gone dud, but I wish sometimes plastoid didn't crack like hell every time I took a hit.

I sand down the left pauldron in prep for paint. Plastoid doesn't take to paint as easily as it looks. You have to scuff it up.

That's why shinies never have painted armor. Then again the Empire technically doesn't let anyone paint their armor. I'm the exception.

I'm always the exception. The expendable exception. I laugh and huddle over the new armor again. I'll get some red paint on it and it'll look good as new. With less dings.

I look at the helmet. The red paint has stuck over the years. No one questions it anymore because I'm a clone. Tha about answers every question.

I reach for the bucket of paint. I know I can commission this stuff but there's something about doing it with your own two hands. It's relaxing.

Myren got the order right too. Except that they still send that kriffing right pauldon. I throw it out. I know she tells them not to ship one. They send it anyway.

They wouldn't understand why I keep the old one. That pale white pauldron is now grey with the years. Red tally marks spread across the dome. Names lay etched inside.

I grab it and set it with all the other pieces ready to go. The red shines under the lights. It's important. A warning sign.

I sit back and return to sanding.

#

20 BBY Caeopa

One tank full of water, one tank full of fuel. One to keep me alive till I can get off this forsaken rock, and another to get me off it. Not that I know how to repair a ship. My flight skills need a touch up too.

Coughing, I lean over the barrel of distilled liquid. It doesn't quite smell like water, but then again, the rain on this planet might be something weird. I'll have to risk it. Scraps hasn't said anything.

Who am I kidding? He can't. He's dead and a droid.

I reach down with one of the empty bottles and let it fill. After limping back to the shelter under the wing, I tip it back and try the first swig. It's horrible. I almost spit it out, but chug it back. It stings the whole way down.

"The hell!" I look at the bottle. This doesn't taste like water at all.

I try another gulp. Worse than the first. It's nasty. I shake my head and blink a few times. It's nasty and it's strong. My head swims. Maybe that's just how rain tastes here. Maybe it's from distilling it through fuel lines.

I need the water.

Choking on the taste, I manage to chug half the bottle. I can conserve later. For now I need to think. Thinking is hard. Thinking means I gotta keep my eyes open and my eyes are heavier than having a bantha sit on your chest.

The hell was in that water.

"Scraps, what did you do to the water supply?" I wag a finger at the droid. He glares at me menacingly. He knows what he did.

I know what he did.

I laugh and wheeze and it hurts like the depths of hell. I break off coughing. I'm alone. I'm so freaking alone. Why!

"What kind of cruel trick is this!" I'm laughing again and kriff it hurts so bad but I almost don't care. It's pitiful! Everything in the world is so pitiful. This little war of skirmishes over things no one really cares about. We're all going to die and become fuel for someone else's fire someday, so what does any of it matter?

My head hurts. I'm too tired to put up with all of this bantha crap. I want to go home. I want to be a kid again. I want to run away.

But I have run away. I'm alone! I'm basically a child, and basically a man. Who am I? Why am I?

Scraps rattles again. I glare back at him and close my eyes afterward. Maybe I'll find the answers if I close my eyes. Or maybe there's a universe behind my eyes that has more stars than a Kaminoan sea.

Maybe is the answer to everything. The dumb luck of the draw.

I'm maybe. Maybe something.

Maybe the rain wasn't rain after all. I'm floating, or falling, or dreaming? There's something in that water for sure.

"Scraps, what did you do to me?" My voice slurs off and I think if I squint hard enough I can see the droid laughing.

I pick up a rock and chuck it at Scraps. It dings off his silly laughing face.

"Shut up, you clanker!"

He doesn't shut up. The whole world is laughing at me now. The grass. The stars. The freaking bomber ship I crashed. I plug my hands over my ears to drown them out. Their laughter only gets louder, banging inside my head. It's not laughter anymore. It's drums.

The drums of war.

#

The water isn't water at all. I distilled the wrong tank and now I've got a barrel full of what I can only call moonshine. It tastes like the underside of a shoe. But it's a very effective painkiller, and using it to wash the wound a couple times seems to have kept any infection at bay.

And the taste gets better the more you drink of it. The sunset looks prettier too. Everything has a sort of rosy glow. I'm stranded. I know that. But is it all that bad?

My shoulder pauldron has almost forty marks now. Some of them blur in and out of each other, so it could be more, could be less. I blink and my eyes focus in and out.

I gotta do something. I've been sitting here for days. Nothing is getting done.

I haul myself up and almost trip over my own two feet. Something tells me I shouldn't be standing, or moving. I ignore that and stagger out past Scraps to look at the horizon. The sun will be gone soon.

I came here for a purpose. Right?

Stars peek out. They're swirling around overhead like little tadpoles swimming in water that's slowly fading to black. I almost feel like I could touch them. I should grab them and stuff them in a jar.

They'll be safe there. I'm here to keep the stars safe.

I whip around. I need a jar. Or maybe a barrel. Something big enough to hold all the stars.

A low whistle stops me in my tracks. Did I imagine it? Maybe it's Scraps. He's been rather noisy as of late.

I stagger back a few steps and squint at the blurry horizon. Something is moving. Something small and round. It whistles again.

"Hey!" I wave a hand in the air. I regret it. Pain tears through my stomach and side and I'm on my knees, gagging in pain. Tears well up in my eyes, but I crawl forward anyway. Somethings out there! Is it friendly? I don't know. But I'm not alone.

With the third shrill whistle the figure takes shape. It's round and looks sort of like a fuel tank, but it's got strange legs sticking out and flashing lights. I've seen it before somewhere.

It rolls right across the prairie and to my surprise, stops before it reaches me. It's menacing, more so than Scraps.

I put out a hand and my palm meets cool metal. It's real. I've seen plenty of things that are real without being real. Blame the moonshine.

This is real. And it's talking to me in garbled binary. I should understand it but I can't. All the beeping and cursing is slipping in and out of my head faster than I can comprehend.

"Slow down, R3!"

That's right. This is my droid. The droid that landed here with me. I came here for a mission! My head hurts. Everything's starting to hurt again. I need a drink.

R3 spits something at me, it's garbled but understandable. He knows how to find a communications array.

"Wait, really?" I stagger up and nearly stumble over him. R3 wiggles his dome as I brace myself against him. His response is affirmative.

"We have to go." I can't take another step, though.

R3 beeps a warning. I'm going to fall over. I let go and sit back down hard.

"Maybe, maybe you're right." My head pitches forward. "You go."

R3 bumps into my back. I hiss in numb pain. He's trying to get me on my feet, but I'm too tired. "Go." I tell him.

R3 curses at me. I curse back. But he obeys, and trundles off back toward the red sunset. I flop onto my back. I'm going to have the worst hangover in the morning.

But it doesn't stop me from pumping my good fist into the air. "I'm coming back!"

Then I'll stick to the General. To every Jedi who thinks their little force tricks make them better than us. Nidor abandoned me. Left me to die. The Jedi don't care about us, or peace, or anything. Krell, Nidor, all of them. They're just like us, copies of the last one. Except they don't know what it's like to be buried a thousand miles from home, to not even have a name until you give yourself one. They wouldn't know what it's like to be less than human.

Kriffing jedi. I might be drunk, and losing blood faster than I can put it back, but I know something. I know this war wouldn't exist if the Jedi really cared about peace.

Chapter fifteen coming soon...5/19

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[demonwebs]

there is a faint spark in his eyes , a flame of life flickering in the wind , threatening to be extinguished with a single harsh breeze . but vhaal'krin , for all of his countless faults , doesn't go easily . stubborn as a mule , really - and death is no exception . it's not time to go yet , he decides . not yet . he will stay .

❝ hey ... ❞ the drow coos , softly as a sparrow wanting to fill his head with sweeter melodies than this as warm tears fall down his chest , the knot on his brow twists into a wounded expression - it hurts to see him like that , to hear sound of serkan's own voice cracking like broken porcelain . it tugs at something in him - remorse , pity ... love . ❝ don't cry ... ❞ he speaks in hushed murmurs , his own pain neglected - he can't even feel the ache of his mauled flesh as he reaches to cup the half-elf's beautiful face in his bloodied hand . ❝ serkan ... don't cry , ❞ he implores , all battered and bruised , but single-minded in his desperation to console his inconsolable lover .

he tries softening his face into a smile , something more reassuring to lift the burdens from his heart . ❝ pretty boys like you shouldn't - ❞ but it catches in his throat , a rough , wheezing cough as the taste of metal fills his senses , bitter and overwhelming , impossible to ignore . that sharp daggering pain pierces through the softness of his flesh , climbing through his wound and burying its teeth at the xylophone bones of his spine . his head spins , but he shakes the dizziness off him like dust , forcing his red eyes to focus . ❝ hey - hey , hey , ❞ the warlock is quick to grasp serkan's wrist in a shallow attempt to placate him , lacking any real strength to physically restrain him , of course . ❝ ... you're gonna overexert yourself if you keep this up , stop . ❞ he's fine . he's breathing - serkan has done enough . most of him has been repaired - and as soon as the numbness begins to fade , it's replaced with the familiar but ever so unsettling sensation of a thousand spiders crawling through his spine . serkan is not the only one upset - but he'll handle her later . ❝ i'm okay ... hey ... i'm okay . ❞ he repeatedly reassures , forcing his torso to sit up halfway . ❝ i'm tougher than i look ... promise ... come here , ❞ he gestures for serkan to lean further into him so he can properly wrap his arms around his form .

He's so so good for him. Not a shred of self preservation in the drow it would seem, not a shred of fear either.

He can feel the warm blood slide down his chin, drip onto his bare chest. Vhaals blood, his beloveds blood was covering most of his upper half as it poured out of the gaping wounds across his neck and shoulder, anywhere Serkan could reach in this position.

He could feel the other grow heavier in his arms, as he loses the ability to hold himself upright. Then... he's limp in his arms and Serkan pauses mid-bite, the fog over his mind lifting, the Urge having been fulfilled.

It takes him a moment to register what was happening. He remembers the Vhaal casting a spell on him, the others leaving... then nothing but broken pieces and words... until the moment he felt Vhaal die in his arms.

Silently, he drops to his knees, his hands gently laying the drow down in the dirt. His head feels like... static as he looks down at the corpse of his beloved. A part of him was reveling in it, about how pretty he looked like this, about how amazing he tasted on his tongue, about how he wished he could bathe in his blood forever.

The other half... felt sick looking at him.

His brows furrow as he shifts to sit himself on Vhaals lap, one hand would gently cup his cheek as he leans down to press his still bloodied lips against the warlocks. Blood smears against his pale lips, but it doesn't give him the pleasure it should.

It only made him feel worse.

It wasn't right for Vhaal'krin to be so still, so lifeless. He should be kissing him back, giving him that teasing little grin, trying to nuzzle up into him.

This is what he'd fantasized about so many times... and he hated it. He hated this.

With an uncharacteristically shaky voice, he'd mumble an incantation in Infernal, placing his hands on Vhaals chest as he cast Revivify on him.

Both relief and... something else fill his chest as his beloved breathes again and the first thing he does is smile at him. He should be mad, he should hate him. He knows he isn't capable of it, but he should.

His teeth grit and warm blood drips from his chin and onto the drows chest... wait, the blood on his face had already cooled. Was... he crying? Gods, how long had it been since that had happened? He couldn't remember.

"I-I can't do it, Vhaal." His voice cracks, the half-elf sounding so pathetic compared to the violence he'd showed only moments ago.

He... can't just wallow right now though, he needs to keep healing Vhaal before he passes out again. There's still several chunks missing from him after all.

With gentle hands, he starts casting Cure Wounds at the highest levels he can over and over.