#Big Sky: Deadly Trails

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles as Beau Arlen BIG SKY: Deadly Trails (2022) | 3.10 – “A Thin Layer of Rock”

[deaneverafter]

I Want More (Jenny's Version) 🩷

No one does coworkers to friends to lovers better 🥹

Beau Arlen and Jenny Hoyt, Big Sky, I Want More by Kaleo

[alwayscaskett810]

[sarahcaskett]

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[soulmates-for-real-tranquility]

[michaeltrevino]

JENSEN ACKLES as BEAU ARLEN Big Sky: Deadly Trails | Super Foxes (3.11)

[cherie-doll]

hunter!könig x doe!reader

your eyes so big and observant as you wander in the forest, it's your first year being out alone, away from the other deer. with every step you take nimbly because you're not experienced yet with where you can be loud and where you can be quiet, you hope not to attract the attention of a predator. the encounter will surely be deadly, your long gracile legs not thick enough to run for long distances, your soft body that will easily tear between sharp teeth.

you wouldn't venture out too far, preferring to stay in a patch of grassy meadow, lying in the soft earth and smelling the dirt and enjoying the gentle blow of trees that fence it in. you can fall asleep here among the blooming buds of flowers in spring, but when fall comes and things start dying you're forced to give up the now toughened and dry grass in search of the creeks where life is sure to be a little more green. you don't know when you step over into the hunter's section but soon the air is contaminated with sharp sounds piercing your ears, you're bolting through unknown terrain. you're confused and scared and you don't even know where to run to. safety was unknown here.

you take grand leaps across the fallen corpses of animals on the hills, the sun already setting. you hear and smell the hounds nearby, who must already be close on your trail. you tumble and fall as your hooves dig into unknown terrain, it's hard to manage in the unknown.

your strength is dwindling; you can't go on. the darkness has taken over and you figure it's best to find someplace to hide. the cold wind shakes the leaves and trees, creating the most terrifying sounds that make you shudder down to your bones. you feel something watching you and you instinctively take to running.

you're veering off the path now, your lungs burning, heart thumping wildly, legs weakening. and you've fallen right into the trap. a bear trap clamps it's jaws on your hind leg. you're full of adrenaline still but the pain is awful, you panic more as the sticks and twigs snapping underneath heavy steps that are coming closer. pushing away branches is a big, heavy man that stares down at you from ahead. you pull but you're locked down to the ground and can only watch paralyzed in fear as he continues his way down to you. he's even bigger up close. you snort, blowing air through your nostrils but can't do anything to defend yourself.

when he gets close he moves slower which confuses you, his gaze isn't on your throat but on your injured leg and when he kneels before you he takes to pushing the springs down and the clamps easily fall open underneath his strength.

you can't move as his hands move up to your ears, you tremble as he moves his thumb and forefinger creating a pleasant and rippling effect on your body as he calms your nerves down. you feel strangely safe as he cradles you gently in his arms, picking you up and carrying you away. his clothes are smudged with blood when he puts you down in front of a warm fire, across his skin are scars etched. he empties the chambers of his gun and rifle if it stops your quivering and allows you to sleep more soundly. and he only stares, his gaze deepening as your body rises and falls in rhythm to your breaths.

the moon hangs in the black sky blanketed with stars. you pray he's good to you as you're in your most vulnerable state. you bury your head into the earth as you choose to ignore the screams of distress of the other woodland creatures who were too agile to step into a bear trap, but they couldn't avoid the bullet.

you choose to expose your bone and were shown mercy.

[actual-changeling]

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

Crowley did not sneak up on him this time, it was more of an ungraceful drag or stumble with one hand pressed against the still-bleeding cut on his stomach. Aziraphale turns his head to look at him, his eyes lingering on the soot and bruises smeared across his skin, but stays silent when Crowley shakes his head exactly once.

Don't.

"It did, rather," he says instead, as the space around them empties slowly but surely. Stopping the second coming had been exactly like the first apocalypse and nothing like it at the same time. They're both a bit singed, for starters.

"You think we overreacted? Second offence and all."

Crowley tentatively lifts his hand, grimacing when blood-soaked fabric sticks to his palm and tugs on the wound. It would barely require a miracle to heal it, but he is currently quite comfortable in the limbo of not knowing whether the destruction of heaven and hell erased his celestial powers or not.

"Someone had to teach them the real difference between good and evil," Aziraphale continues lightly, leaning into the twisted mirror of their first conversation on the walls of Eden.

"I'm pretty sure they regret sending me up here to 'cause trouble' by now."

Trying and failing to sound humorous, Crowley bites back a groan. Fatigue washes over him wave after deadly wave, and he considers simply allowing himself to fall to the concrete floor when a hesitant arm slides around his waist and pulls him closer, conscious of his injuries.

Crowley freezes for a second before leaning into it, processing the sudden influx of touch and heat as one big, blurry embrace, and it is such a welcome contrast to the painful reality scratching at his bones that his eyes flutter shut. Aziraphale holds him both gently and as if he is never going to let go of him again; unsurprisingly, he finds he doesn't mind that at all.

They stand in amicable silence, swaying slightly without really meaning to, and although both of them want to go home, they cannot imagine a place that would fit that description better than each other's presence.

"You did the right thing," Aziraphale eventually says, and Crowley forces himself to blink up at him, blue meeting gold meeting love.

"With the apple, and trying to make me see the truth, and with not coming to heaven with me. I'm sorry I caused you so much pain." His voice breaks at the end, trailing off into an ocean of unspoken confessions and feelings, but Crowley is pretty sure he couldn't handle more anyway, not right now.

He presses a hand against Aziraphale's cheek to tilt his head towards him, grimacing when he leaves bloody prints behind.

"Angel." It's a name, an endearment, a prayer, a decree, a question. A curse, and a plea, and a promise.

"I'm still mad," is all Crowley whispers before nudging their lips together, tasting blood, ash, and the dawn of something entirely unknown and new.

I still love you, is what lies beneath it.

For the first time in their existence, they're truly free. When it begins to rain, they tip their faces towards the sky and welcome it home.

[blakegopnik]

Happy to see my review of Dawoud Bey's great show at Sean Kelly Gallery getting nice play in the New York Times. The full text is below (click on "Keep reading") but one thing I didn't have room to dwell on, as much as I would have liked, is the vitally important tension between Bey's video and his stills. That's a tension (as I see it) between the “gaze” of the enslaved, in the fractured video, and of Europeans, in the elegant, traditionally artistic, even "sublime," prints. It would be so easy for someone to think the prints were just elegant, knock-off commodities meant to fund the more truly important, more challenging video. But I think the reflection back and forth, between the settled elegance and the unsettling challenge, is vital to the entire project.  

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE ENSLAVED - THE NEW YORK TIMES

CRITIC’S PICK

By Blake Gopnik

Jan. 30, 2025, 5:00 a.m. ET

The terrifying first capture in Africa.

The deadly crossing of the Middle Passage.

The brutality of slave markets and servitude.

It’s almost impossible to imagine, let alone depict, the full horrors of American slavery, although writers, directors and artists have tried.

But there’s one moment that seems to have caught their attention less often: the first encounter of kidnapped Africans with the strange new land where they were marched into enslavement.

In a remarkable exhibition called “Stony the Road,” at Sean Kelly Gallery in New York, the artist Dawoud Bey takes us on the path that tens of thousands were forced to walk, from the slave ships that landed at the James River’s docks to Richmond’s slave pens and markets.

With 14 still photos and a vast, two-sided video projection, Bey explores the Richmond Slave Trail that extends for several miles in Virginia’s capital. At Sean Kelly, Bey’s stills

are the first art you encounter. Those deluxe black-and-whites, almost a yard across, show various wooded spots along the trail, avoiding any details that speak of our era. (In fact, the trail now crosses many modern settings.) We get a view of trees and ground, of bits of river and patches of distant sky, such as an African might have encountered 250 years ago.

The images were shot on old-fashioned film and printed on traditional photographic paper, so we’re treated to the velvety blacks and sparkling whites of landscapes by Ansel Adams and Edward Weston and other pioneers of American photography. It’s tempting to linger with those tasteful, orderly images — in the gallery, and in this review — but I discovered that they get a whole new meaning after seeing Bey’s video at the gallery’s rear.

That video is titled “350,000,” an estimate of the total number of enslaved people who passed through Richmond’s trading markets. (The piece was originally commissioned for a major Bey show at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond in 2023.) Ten minutes of black-and-white footage appear on a screen that bisects a big space and reaches almost to its high ceiling. It shows the same wooded path as in Bey’s prints, but to utterly different effect.

The piece works hard to put us in the place — physical, but above all psychological — of one of Richmond’s newly disembarked. The images are projected at “life scale,” Bey told me, so that the path’s tree trunks and branches are the same size on the screen as they would be if they were there before us in life. And the trip down the path is captured in a single take, without edits, by a Steadicam held at an adult’s head-height, giving a captive’s-eye view of the passage up the trail.

But the goal isn’t to create a crisp, immersive substitute for a past reality. (Bey insists that his piece isn’t about faking some kind of long-lost documentation.) It’s about using the visible artifice of fine art to encourage a trip into a past we need to confront. In some ways Bey’s video has more in common with a poet’s evocative description than with a Spielbergish attempt at historical re-enactment.

So Bey’s cinematographer, Bron Moyi, shot all the footage with a century-old Petzval lens, once used for dream sequences in silent movies. It blurs all but the middle of the scene it shows, giving an almost drunken effect to Bey’s footage, which is also shown in somewhat slow-motion. Real vision never really works quite like that, but the Petzval provides an excellent metaphor for the kind of disorientation Africans must have felt on first being shoved ashore in Virginia.

They couldn’t have known quite where they were going, or what the endgame might be — most couldn’t understand their tormentors’ language — and “350,000” has a similar lack of plot or endpoint. Its camera’s “eye” rarely looks straight down the path toward some far-off goal. Instead, it veers from earth to treetops; from river, down at right, to undergrowth that hems the path at left.

No one knows if captives would really have looked anywhere but at their own stumbling feet or at the back of the chained figure ahead, but the camera’s wandering eye evokes the fracturing of any normal they might have known. Even the flora in Bey’s video, sure to strike most Americans as an average woodland scene, must have seemed foreign.

Bey makes his disjunctive technique stand for the utter confusion — physical, cognitive, spiritual — that captives must have felt. A soundtrack, commissioned by Bey from the dance scholar E. Gaynell Sherrod, adds to the effect: It’s a mash-up of random footfalls and birdcalls, of heartbeats and hoofbeats, of grunts and sighs and clinking chains. It doesn’t quite reproduce what the enslaved might actually have heard, but it sometimes adds Hollywood melodrama that the visuals smartly avoid. However, Sherrod’s soundtrack, and its lack of obvious sync to Bey’s visuals, maps onto how trauma can fracture our perceptions.

 “Bey’s installation doesn’t recreate a single moment in someone’s pain,” our critic writes. “It condenses all the moments that thousands of subjects might have suffered on the Richmond Slave Trail.” via Sean Kelly, New York/Los Angeles; Photo by Adam Reich

In a final touch, Bey gives art viewers a more immediate taste of that same bewilderment: The occasional visitor who peers around to the other side of Bey’s screen will eventually realize that the view there is actually the same path but seen on a different trudge down it. That gives a sense that Bey’s installation doesn't recreate a single moment in someone’s pain; it condenses all the moments that thousands of subjects might have suffered on the Richmond Slave Trail.

And then, leaving the video behind, you encounter Bey’s stills once again, and now they seem to play a different role in his story. After witnessing the splintered sights in his video, his stills now seem to stand for the very firm and settled present that today’s art world lives in, at so many removes from an enslaved person’s view.

They give us something like the stable, settled view favored by Europe’s artistic culture, circa 1800, when wild nature promised escape from the everyday into the sublime. It’s almost as though Bey’s prints offer a bright light at the end of their forest path, so that, as in many an Ansel Adams photo, the white of the immaculate silver print becomes the white of escape and transcendence. The prints have a stable authority, in their confident choice of subject, the snapping of the shutter, their deluxe printing, that isn’t there in the video.

Bey’s show gets its name from a passage in the second stanza of “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” the hymn by James Weldon Johnson that premiered in 1900 and is known as the Black national anthem: “Stony the road we trod/Bitter the chastening rod.”

Here’s how the stanza ends: “Out from the gloomy past/’Til now we stand at last/Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.”

Now, 125 years later, Bey’s gloom seems to cast new light on art’s gleam.

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles as Beau Arlen BIG SKY: Deadly Trails (2022) | 3.01 – “Do You Love An Apple”

[deaneverafter]

Something about Beau and Jenny being each other's second chance at a life and family, and each other's first chance at true love and happiness 🥺💕

Beau Arlen and Jenny Hoyt, Big Sky, Second Chances by Gregory Alan Isakov

[alwayscaskett810]

[neteyamshoney]

Similarities

(This was kinda, very loosely, inspired by the song My Ex's Bestfriend by MGK)

Hey y'all. I had this idea in my head for awhile and I'm currently drafting a Neteyam x OC AU but I just had to get this out. After I'm done with that one, I'll expand on this one-shot. For now, enjoy a little fluff with my favorite blue giant :) Gif is also not mine. (I'm working on making pretty pics for the AU pic if anyone has tips to get those super cute ones I see on here lol)

Neteyam Sully x f!OC

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff

Ever since he could remember, Lo’ak had known his older brother to be everything he was not.

Brave. Strong. Intelligent. Accurate. Deadly. The perfect son.

They were so different. Day and night.

Though he loved to give him shit for it, Lo’ak understood the pressure his brother was under. Being the perfect heir to the clan, always having eyes on his every move, sounded like literal hell for the second son. He was secretly so glad that Neteyam was the oldest and not himself. He couldn’t imagine the mental stress that kind of pressure would put on him. How Neteyam didn’t have the urge to runaway from home and never return was a mystery to him.

It was only natural for Neteyam to focus solely on his duties as the perfect warrior and heir. It was all he had ever known, as soon as he was crawling (which of course was months before the average baby because of fucking course he was even advanced as a literal infant). As soon as the light lit up their world, Neteyam would be out - sharpening his knife, tuning his bow, practicing his hand to hand combat - before Lo’ak even rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The poor thing didn’t even have a social life outside of training with the other boys their age. There was no room for him to have any free time, even less to mingle with the young women of their age in their clan. 

It was painfully obvious that the girls of their clan favored Neteyam over his baby brother. The way the girls their age would huddle together, giggling with a hushed voice as the brothers would pass them at first was an ego boost, definitely. It became glaringly obvious that they were casting their love-struck eyes at his older brother, and while disgruntled at first, he could understand. However, his big brother was too busy living up to their father’s expectations to find love, much less a crush.

So, when Lo’ak was sitting next to Tsireya, listening to Roxto explain how to spear fish underwater, he noticed how Neteyam’s amber eyes glanced passed the Metkayina boy and his back straightened up. It wouldn’t have been odd, until Neteyam’s face softened into an expression he didn’t think he’d ever see on his no-nonsense brother. An expression he’d seen on his father whenever their mother would walk into his line of sight.

Love-struck.

With wide eyes, Lo’ak whipped his head to the side, following his brother’s line of vision without shame of being caught. Subtlety was not in his vocabulary and he wasn’t about to start now. The others around them, surprised by his sudden movement, followed suit.

Almost twenty feet away, there was the subject of Neteyam’s distraction. Staring right back at the oldest Sully boy with a bashful smile as she walked with a few of the other girls of her clan.

Yana.

Ao’nung was the first to recover from the shock of the new information, his blue eyes narrowed dangerously at the forest prince. “No fucking way. Not Yana. Pick another girl.”

Tsireya smacked the back of his head, glaring. “Stop using the sky language to curse. And Yana passed her trials. She is older than you, and can decide who she wants.”

Neteyam didn’t bother replying, probably not even listening as his eyes still trailed after the older girl. Bright eyes wandered down her back, hypnotized at how her long spiral curls swayed in time with the swing of her hip. She glanced back to him once more, wiggling her fingers with a wink that nearly sent his heart into cardiac arrest.

Lo’ak snapped him out of it, tugging on his arm band with a teasing glint in his eye. “Really? Tsireya’s older cousin?”

He had to hand it to Neteyam though, he sure knew how to pick a crush. Yana was arguably the most beautiful girl in the clan, second to Tsireya in Lo’ak’s personal opinion. They had met her family last night during the communal celebration. Ironically, it was in celebration to reward the newest members of the clan passing their trials; Yana being one of four. She was now recognized in the clan as an adult - the dark ink of a fresh tribal tattoo wrapping around her shoulder the first indication of her new status. There were many young men in the clan that had showered her in attention last night, but she had stayed close to the Sully family after being introduced by her parents.

Too wrapped up in Tsireya, Lo’ak hadn’t even paid his brother any attention last night. Seeing how love-sick he looked as Yana disappeared from view, he was slightly glad he didn’t witness anything that might’ve corrupted his innocent mind.

Kiri giggled to his side, “You’d better hurry and finish your trials, Neteyam.”

The chuckles around them made the topic of conversation duck his head, hiding the heating of his face by looking at the soft sand beneath them. It was common knowledge that only those who were seen as adults in the clans could pick a mate, and they didn’t need to voice it for him to understand the innuendo.

They poked fun at him for a few minutes until a shadow fell over Ao’nung. “You don’t mind if I steal the mighty warrior for a while, do you, little cousin?”

Yana grinned at the surprised faces of the younger teens, and felt her smile widen at Ao’nung’s pout. Her baby cousin was too protective for his own good. She placed a hand over his damp braids, feeling him relax slightly. “I promise to bring him back before dinner, hm?”

While the others had turned their attention to the newcomer, Lo’ak took this time to examine his brother. How his eyes light up when she first spoke, braids swishing around his head as he turned to give her his undivided attention. The look in his gaze was as if this girl had put the sun in the sky herself. As if no one around him mattered when she was near. The two love-brids made eye contact and Yana held out her hand.

Neteyam didn’t even hesitate to stand, sliding his larger hand into hers so the shorter Na’vi could pull him any which way she desired. Which was apparently somewhere only the two of them were going. They didn’t even bother with a wave goodbye.

As if in sync with each other, Lo’ak and Kiri made identical gagging noises. Neteyam was so whipped, it was downright nauseating.

Tsireya nudged him, laughing at the Sully’s immature reactions before trying to get them all to focus back on task at hand. A soft teal hand on his upper arm was all she needed to get his attention and those dimples made his heart do flips. He felt those sparkling blue eyes take all of his focus, not even bothering to stop himself as he smiled at her.

Maybe he and Neteyam weren’t that different after all.

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tags @mysticstarlightduck @theink-stainedfolk and probably many more!

Wip Aesthetic Tag

Rules: Make a moodboard for your WIP, a playlist (3+ songs/music will suffice but it can be as long as you want) and describe the Vibe of your WIP.

Oh god, I'm really bad at aesthetic stuff. No clue why, I just feel like it's never cohesive. That said, here's my best stab at Mystery of the Mortal God.

⚙️Moodboard🌿

🎵Music🎶

Instrumental (pulled from my character playlists):

Flight of the Silverbird

Ponyo's Sisters

HUNGRY!

Exclusive Coupé

A Murder of Crows

Wings (Aether 2)

The Quiet Earth

Vocal:

I Want to Conquer the World - Bad Religion

Supersonic - Bad Religion

Harlan Road - NewTown

Black Lipstick - Chicano Batman

The Reckoning - Dom Fera

Norwegian Wood - Buddy Rich Big Band

Call me Call me - Steve Conte

🩸Vibes🏵

A walking, steam-powered vardo lurches over a yellow-flowered marsh and under a sky of curious stars. Red, sparkling smoke rises from its chimney. Muddy footsteps are left in its wake like the trail of a mechanical dragon. It seems like a place of magic, which is fair, as it's the home of a witch. She sits with a lit pipe and a tabby cat purring on her lap, quietly contemplating a distant, stolen song. Even in the peace of the moment, her mind is alight with grand schemes and dreams of adventure.

In the capital of a thousand peoples, there stands a detective office lit by golden lamps. It's busy - goblins, elves, and lizardfolk rushing every which way in hopes of managing the many crimes wrought by rogue mages. At its heart resides a beat of calm in the eye of the storm - an opulent office out of place for its cushy decorations and color coding fit for a palace. This is also fair, as working at its desk is a prince of sorts. The prodigal heir to divine contracts and a deadly curse. He shudders at the knowledge of his bloody fate, yet pursues it nonetheless.

On the side of a lonely road, in a lonely land, under stars that are not curious, but disappointed, lays a wreck of bronze and steel. It bleeds black on green. It is confused by this. Where is the red? Where is the pain? It remembers another place - gray and icy and riveted. It remembers two eyes surrounded by shadows and a grin hanging in the dark like a half-moon. Hate closes in like a frigid wind, piercing through any amount of heart or compassion. It will have revenge.

Tropes include slow burn romance, revenge quests, magic as a science, and mad scientists. Genre is fantasy steampunk.

Snappier character descriptions include a braggadocious redneck mage with a chip on her shoulder the size of a mountain, a prissy, gossip-loving detective with a deadly curse, and a sweetheart of a maybe-robot with some terrifying instincts hidden behind a fog of amnesia. All of them, due to personal quests, will end up banding together to defeat a would-be demigod, facing cunning traps, summoning ritual shenanigans, and their own conflicting personalities. Will they survive? Will they join the villain? Who's to say? All I can assure is that if they fail, it'll at least be in a blaze of glory.

Heavily inspired by the Foundryside Trilogy and Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.

I'll tag @spideronthesun @kaylinalexanderbooks @ominous-feychild @galactic-mystics-writes and anyone else who wants to play!

[hannahhook7744]

She’s a Motherfucking Killer Queen, a Psychopath at 13 (A Beauty in a Blood-Stained Dress)!;

Summary: the day Hannah Hook snapped.

Trigger Warnings: Execution of teenagers mentioned, grief/mourning, trauma, fear and anger, swearing, villain origin story, etc.

Co-written with @igetthedisneybox .

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

This was… not how Zee had thought the world would end.

She had always thought the world would go out with a big bang or a quiet whimper. That it would end with ice or fire or an asteroid that no one saw coming. 

She never thought that her captain would be the cause.

“...you all good, H?”

13 year old, Hannah Hook—her captain, someone she'd even call her best friend–was standing on the deck of her ship still in her nightgown that had probably once been white (before they had fished it out of the barge) a letter printed with Auradon’s crest in her hand, crushed by the pressure of her fingers. Her eye twitched involuntarily.

And the isle was deathly quiet for once. 

The isle was never quiet.

“It isn't fair.”

“What’s…what's not fair?” She’d rather stab herself in the foot than admit this, but Zee was slightly scared.

“We're not going to Auradon.”

“Oh…” Zee trailed off, confused. “Why’s…why’s that a problem? You’ve never cared about Bouradon before?”

“—You're not understanding. None of us—no one in this crew—are going to Auradon. Ever.” 

“Oh.” Zee understood, with a sharp clarity.

Hannah laughed, lowly. Tightening her grip on the  already crumbled paper. “We've been banned. No, not banned. We've been blacklisted by Beast. And…. And…”

Hannah threw the paper at Zee, kicking a barrel across the deck. 

Zee just stared, feeling…well, not feeling much of anything, really. She should have been surprised at this, or angry, like Hannah was, but all she felt was a numb acceptance.

“The Lost Revenge crew, CJ Hook, Freddie Facilier, Zevon, and Ally of Wonderland have been executed.” The younger girl’s voice was unlike anything she'd ever heard from her before.

Cold. Deadly. 

The Lost Revenge was Harry Hook’s crew. Hannah’s brother. CJ Hook. Hannah’s sister. “Oh fuck, Hannah, I am so sorry.” There was that surprise she should be feeling.

“It's not fair. That Ben kid wasn't hurt! He wasn't even scared of them! And… and he told me he was sorry. In his lettter. He passed along a letter from Ally of Wonderland’s parents, too.”

Zee frowned at the crumpled up letter on the floor. “What did they have to say to you?”

“Turns out, Ally was adopted. From the isle. Did you know CJ was a twin?”

“Ally of Wonderland is your sister’s twin?”

“Small world… isn't it?”

Suddenly, the ship shook. Violently. So violently in fact it nearly knocked Zee to her feet. 

“What the actual fuck was that?!” Zee asked as she braced herself on a barrel.

Hannah took a deep breath and the ship rumbled. But… that wasn't… all. 

The barrier lit up. 

The captain stomped her foot. “IT'S NOT FAIR!”

“Uh…Hannah? Is that–” She shakily pointed at the barrier. “–are you doing that?”

“Beast needs to pay. They all do. They think they can just—what? Lock us away and forget about us?”

“I mean, fair. Totally fair. But–” Zee paused when she realized she didn’t really have a ‘but.’

“They want the children to die, Zee. They want your sister to die.” Hannah grit her teeth. “They… they killed my siblings for doing something that anyone on the isle would have done. Beast fucking overstepped and slaughtered my siblings!”

The barrier shook. 

But Hannah didn't seem to notice. She didn't even seem to hear what Zee was saying. 

Zee hesitantly put a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “Hey. I’m with you. Just like when we were kids, right?”

Hannah looked at her with tears in her eyes. And nodded. “..Right….”

And the barrier shattered. 

Zee jumped. “Woah! Was that you?!”

Hannah looked up at the sky, dazed. “I .. I don't know.”

[selmasemlan]

The Fall of Heroes

Summary: The war continues and it is not going as planned.

Pairing: Todoroki Shoto x Luna Aizawa (OFC)

Author note: this just hurts, I'm sorry

Warning: mention of war, spoilers of season 7

Word count: 1128

Series masterlist

Part 1

Part 2: The Fall of Heroes

The battlefield was chaos. Buildings shattered like glass, and the sky churned with dust and debris. Shigaraki's mere presence distorted the air, his malevolent aura overwhelming the heroes. Despite their combined efforts, Shigaraki tore through their defenses like paper, his every step pushing them closer to the edge of defeat.

Luna’s heart raced as she adjusted her rifle, her fingers trembling on the trigger. High above the battlefield, she had the advantage of range, but that didn’t make the task easier. Shigaraki was moving too fast, even with his quirks suppressed intermittently by Aizawa and Monoma. Her target was constantly shifting, his movements erratic and unpredictable.

She had already fired six shots—six perfect, lethal bullets that missed their mark. Each time, she moved to a new position, trying to find the right angle, the right moment. But every time, something went wrong. Shigaraki would twist in an unnatural way or debris would block her line of sight at the last second.

“Focus, Luna,” she muttered, repositioning for the seventh shot. She couldn’t afford to waste another bullet. Only four remained. Bakugo, as reckless as ever, was already pushing himself beyond his limits.

On the ground below, Bakugo charged at Shigaraki with a furious intensity, using his Cluster technique to keep his speed high. Each explosion from his palms propelled him faster than Shigaraki could react. His allies, including the Big 3 and Best Jeanist, watched in awe as he narrowly dodged Shigaraki's decaying strikes, his movements fluid despite the wounds covering his body.

“Damn it, Kacchan!” Luna cursed, her hands tightening around the rifle. His erratic movements made it even harder to get a clear shot. She trailed him through her scope, every second ticking away as he launched a direct assault, his anger palpable and dangerous.

Best Jeanist, positioned farther away, tried desperately to control the young hero. “Dynamight! You're overextending yourself!” he shouted, his fibers reaching out in vain to pull him back. But Bakugo broke free, blasting toward Shigaraki with even more force. His Cluster technique, overclocked and unstable, sent him rocketing toward the villain, leaving Shigaraki momentarily stunned.

The impact was brutal. Bakugo’s fist connected with Shigaraki’s face, sending shockwaves across the battlefield. Shigaraki staggered, a deep gash forming across his cheek. For a moment, it seemed like Bakugo had gained the upper hand.

But then, Shigaraki grinned. His lips curled into a grotesque smile as his decaying hand lashed out. Bakugo dodged the blow, weaving through Shigaraki’s strikes with a deadly precision. His allies could only watch in stunned disbelief as he evaded each attack, his instincts seemingly preternatural.

Luna adjusted her aim again, this time locking onto Shigaraki’s head. Bakugo had thrown him off balance—this was her chance. She lined up the shot, her breath steady.

Bang!

The bullet sliced through the air, aimed directly at Shigaraki.

But in a split second, Shigaraki grabbed Bakugo by the collar, yanking him forward like a shield. The bullet missed its mark, embedding itself into the debris behind.

Luna froze, her heart stopping.

“I can’t shoot,” she whispered, horror sinking in. Shigaraki was using Bakugo as a human shield, blocking any potential shot. Luna’s mind raced, panic filling every corner. She couldn’t risk it—not with Kacchan’s life hanging in the balance.

"Stay focused, Luna!" Aizawa’s voice cut through the comms, grounding her. But her hands were shaking. Bakugo was too close. She couldn’t pull the trigger.

Meanwhile, Shigaraki lifted Bakugo by the hair, his grip like iron. “Your precious Deku isn’t here to save you this time,” he sneered, tightening his hold on Bakugo’s throat. “But don’t worry. I’ll send him your corpse as a welcome gift.”

Bakugo gasped for breath, struggling to break free. His last Grenadier Bracer shattered in Shigaraki’s grasp, and his Strafe Panzer shots went wide, missing their target. The heroes could only watch in helpless horror as Bakugo’s strength began to fade.

“Luna!” Bakugo’s voice cracked with pain as he realized she hadn’t fired. “Shoot!”

“I… I can’t!” Luna’s voice broke, her hands trembling. She adjusted her aim, desperately searching for an opening, but Shigaraki kept twisting Bakugo’s body in the way. She couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t pull the trigger.

In that moment, Lemillion phased through the chaos, his Permeation Quirk allowing him to pass through Shigaraki’s attacks. He grabbed Bakugo, pulling him free from Shigaraki’s grasp and tossing him back toward Best Jeanist.

“Take care of him!” Lemillion shouted, re-engaging Shigaraki without hesitation.

Bakugo hit the ground hard, coughing as Best Jeanist’s fibers caught him. “Idiot…” he muttered, glaring up at Luna’s position. “You had one job…”

Luna’s heart clenched painfully. Her eyes flicked back to Bakugo, the blood staining his uniform, his breathing labored. “Kacchan…” she whispered, guilt eating at her resolve. He was hurt, and she couldn’t do anything. She hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. She couldnt risk it.

But before she could recover, a cold, terrifying silence fell over the battlefield.

Shigaraki’s hand struck Bakugo, sharp and decisive. Time seemed to slow as his decayed fingers pierced through Bakugo’s chest, the sickening sound of flesh tearing echoed louder than any explosion. Shigaraki’s hand came out the other side, a burst of blood following in its wake.

For a moment, everyone froze. The world stood still.

Then Bakugo collapsed, his body flying through the air before landing with a hollow thud. Blood pooled beneath him as his heart lay in tatters.

Luna’s breath hitched. “Kacchan?” she whispered, her voice lost in the noise.

Best Jeanist was the first to reach him, his hands trembling as he knelt beside the boy. His voice cracked, panic filling his usually calm tone. “Dynamight!” His fingers pressed against Bakugo’s chest, feeling nothing but cold flesh beneath. No pulse. No life.

The rest of the heroes arrived, their faces etched with disbelief. Mirko’s prosthetic arm hung useless as Shigaraki’s mass of fingers tore through it. “I couldn’t finish him… I couldn’t stop him back then, and now…” She bit down on her rage, blood dripping from where her teeth tore into Shigaraki’s flesh. But her efforts were in vain.

Shigaraki’s eyes glinted with malice as he sneered. “Dynamight is dead,” he said, mocking the heroes with a sadistic grin. “Well and truly dead. Who’s next? Who wants to be another corpse for Deku?”

Luna’s vision blurred as she gazed through her scope. She saw Bakugo’s lifeless body, Best Jeanist frantically trying to save him, and the realization that she had failed him crashed over her. Her hands tightened on the rifle, tears streaming down her face, but the battle wasn’t over.

She had three bullets left—three chances to end it.

“I’m not done yet,” she whispered, steeling herself. This time, she wouldn’t miss.