#toss and catch

[mizgnomer]

One of my favorite attributes/quirks of a David Tennant Doctor: The need to flip/toss-and-catch things

See also: My #tossing things tag

[kedreeva]

Lost count of how many times I've been told that peafowl don't eat/don't like fish. oh yeah? Tell that to the all-out warfare that breaks out when I bring home feeder fish.

I asked the guy at Petsmart today to grab the biggest fish in the feeder tank, since I saw some real chonkers in there somehow. I wasn't sure the peafowl would go for it, they usually get small ones, but I figured what the hell. I'll get a few, see how it goes. How it went was the fish were too big to be snatched and eaten in one motion, so there was screaming and running away with their prizes and fish being stolen from one beak by another and straight up warfare among babies who have no manners being defended by their moms who have no shame. Aris, who initially turned her nose up at fish, stealing them from her own children as well as from her wife, who was trying to call the babies over to get the fish she found for them, because Aris wanted them so badly, herself.

I can freely admit that it took a couple of tries to get them to try it out, and I had to use the darker grey/black normal "fish colored" fish to start with, and the barn pen birds still aren't sure about it, but it ALWAYS takes a time or two of offering a treat before the peafowl will try something new, and there's always some birds that don't like certain foods. But they are criminally social birds, they are puffin-level social birds, if one bird tries a treat and approves of it, the rest will start agreeing it's a Good Food even if they previously refused to eat it or touch it at all. If the first bird to the treat starts shaking their head and acting like it's bad, they'll all start doing that, usually without even trying it themselves, even if it's something they previously liked. So the trick is just repeatedly offering it until someone goes oh wait, this is delicious, and going from there.

[troubldteenz]

creature

[spacedlexi]

vi sure acts tough for someone 100lbs soaking wet

[watarfallar]

Does anyone here like this weird thing called "Desert Duo Incorrect Quotes?" No? Oh well. I'm running out so I'm giving as many as I can to you all. Enjoy it!

Scar: My hands are cold. Grian: Here, let me hold them. Scar: My lips are cold too. Grian: *covers Scar's mouth with their hand*

Grian: I want to kiss you. Scar, not paying attention: What? Grian: I said if you die, I wont miss you.

Grian: Being gay is a constant battle between "I wish to sit on a window bench with my lover, our legs tangling as we listen to the birds" and "Hey, let's go throw rocks at fascists" and I think that's very sexy of us. Scar: If the window's open and you time it right, you can do both.

Scar, to Grian: We had a date! Scar: *aggressively points to Hello Kitty Coloring Book*

Scar: I warned you. Scar: I'm perfect.

Grian: Please, Scar, after everything we’ve been through together. You can’t do this. Grian: I’m sorry Scar. Grian: I’m begging you. Don’t do it. Scar: It has to be done. Grian: Scar: Grian: Scar: *Places +4* Uno.

Scar: Are you packed for the trip? Grian: Yup. Scar: Then where are your bags? Grian: All I’m bringing is a good attitude and a sense of adventure. Scar: A change of underwear might be nice.

Grian: Just be careful, Scar! Scar: *heading out the door* I'm always careful, Grian! Scar: It's everything around me that's careless.

Grian: *Gives a bouquet to Scar* Scar: You know I'm allergic. Grian: That's the point.

Scar: Your future self is talking shit about you right now. Grian: Jokes on them. I'll ruin their fucking life.

Scar: Who the fuck- Grian: Language! Scar: Whom the fuck- Grian: No.

Scar: Ha! What are you gonna do? Stab me? *Five minutes later* Scar, calling 911: HELP, IVE BEEN STABBED.

Grian, looking at the squad: Okay, so I need to become a therapist faster.

Scar, handing a balloon to Grian: I have no soul. Have a good day! Grian, walking off: I don't have one either.

Scar: I’ve only ever said ‘I love you’ to two people in my entire life: Grian and a guy in a dark club who I mistook for Grian.

Grian: I found a note in one of my old word .docs that said Note to self: Get revenge on Scar. Grian: Except I couldn't remember what I was supposed to get revenge for. Grian: But I trusted my own judgment, so I went with it. Scar: Hmm... I don't know what you were supposed to get revenge for, either. Grian: I can only assume you got what was coming to you. Not 100 percent sure, though. Scar: Well, whatever I did, I guess I deserved it. Grian: Let that possibly be a lesson to you.

Grian: Oh, fiddlesticks. Scar: Look, I understand this is a tense situation, but let's watch the fucking language.

Grian: Heh, Scar sneezes like a girl. Scar: How about I pound you like boy? Scar: That didn’t come out right.

Grian: Consider the fundraising over! Your hero has arrived! Scar: Uhh… where did you get so much money from, Grian? Grian: Well, you know, I’m pretty good at numbers. I just crunched them, I stretched them, I analyzed my accounts, I timed the market- *police sirens start to wail in the background* Scar: DID YOU ROB A BANK?! Grian: Oh, come on, Scar, do you really think so little of me? *opens the bag as purple dye explodes on their face* Scar: Grian: …it was a credit union.

Scar, turning to Grian: Stop calling yourself hot, the only thing you can turn on is the microwave.

Grian: *trying to get five seconds of sleep* Scar, poking Grian’s arm: Grian Grian. Grian. Grian. Grian: WHAT? Scar: …We’re out of Capri Suns—

Grian: I’m not being weird. Am I being weird? Scar: Yes, and that’s coming from me.

Scar: And have you learnt anything this Christmas, Grian? Grian: …Not really. Scar: Nothing? Grian: Tell you one thing I have learnt—Christmas; ultimately, commercial holiday. Who's the real winner at Christmas? Amazon. they have drones now! Tiny little dystopian slaves delivering iPads and headphones. I ordered a toaster; It was on the doorstep five hours later! Do we need that? It was 4.99! For a toaster! I mean, someone's being exploited there.

Scar: Bottling up negative emotions is bad for your health, so you shouldn't do it. Grian: I know, that's why I bottle up all my emotions, both positive and negative, so it cancels out. Scar: Th-that's not how that works-

Scar: Priest kink is definitely a thing and I am afflicted by it. Grian: Go to church. Grian: WAIT—

Scar: Is it just me or is instant ramen even better uncooked? Grian: It’s just you.

[naffeclipse]

Temperate Tail

Tigertaur!Eclipse x Reader. Sickness. Non-consensual touching. Kidnapping.

Prev

You moan quietly at the arms underneath you, lifting you away from the cool cave floor. Blearily, you peek between heavy eyelids to watch the deeper shadow of stone break away to red evening, burning into a black-blue twilight on the horizon. The leafy foliage flutters with a warm breeze. You shudder underneath it as the arms that hold you squeeze you a little too tightly. The motion of being carried away is not as smooth as the nagas ought to be.

Sun and Moon went to hunt for themselves. You thought they had only awakened you a moment ago, gently fed you another sensitive plant, and told you their plans.

They worried, whispered, but you had shooed them away. They can only hunt together in the dusk or dawn, and you’re well aware that they’ve kept from satisfying their stomachs to watch over you in your sickness. You can survive a little while on your own—all you do is sleep.

And the nagas are not the only dangerous creatures in the jungle.

“Back already?” your hoarse voice crackles under the ill strain to speak. You allow your head to loll against the firm arm cradling you. 

You desperately long for the flower to kick in soon and spare you the furious whiplash effect of fevers one moment then chills the next. Sun and Moon have been diligent in tending to you; a fact you still have to stomach. Under their constant care, you’re useless, at their ever gentle mercy.

This body pressing you close is not the warmth of a sun-heated patch of grass nor the cool shadows stretching underneath a misty tree. It’s even, neutral, calm. The being is steady in a way that betrays the skilled strength hiding under short fur of orange and deep red. An unagitated killer, carrying away his prize prey.

Your eyelids fly open.

“Eclipse,” you half growl, half groan.

A large hand, tipped in compacted but curved claws, slaps over your mouth. Your weak protest is muffled under his near smothering palm. Deep red eyes flash in warning. His gait is swift and seamless, not the swaying motion you register with Sun or Moon. The beast holding you flies over the forest floor upon four tiger legs, his upper half bearing the resemblance of a man in form. The silent pads of his paws let him ghost through the forest, you caught in his muscular embrace.

His focus remains on the forest as it deepens with shadows and reddens with the last slips of sunrise. You boil internally, not only because of your sickness, but at how long he must have been lying in wait, watching, willing Sun and Moon to leave you for but a moment. The fiend.

Eclipse is the only beast who stands a chance against Sun and Moon, save for one other in this mad jungle.

You try to bite his hand but only succeed in scraping your teeth against his palm and getting hair in your mouth. His round ears flicker. Turning his head, he watches for a moment, still bounding between thick, mossy trees before resume his cunning getaway.

You want to snarl at him, threaten him, demand he puts you down now. His hand gags your every attempt to throw threats. Furious and festering in your feverish state, you struggle to find a way out of his arms. His claws press against your cheek, almost squishing the flesh against your molars. The promise of bruises hangs over his fingertips.

His own threat flares in his round, black pupils—so unlike the slitted gaze of Sun and Moon.

You glare at his orange, light yellow, and dark red mane-like growth of fur around his head, flaring around him like sun rays. He’s always made you think of a dark sunset, eclipsing a land of light. Upon his face, he’s marked by an orange and deep red jagged crescent, and around his deep red eyes are vertical white stripes that cut from the corner of his gaze.

Through the quiet buzz of the jungle, you fight his vice-like hold and your own fading strength while he carries you from the lush and verdant part of the jungle to tall grass, wild and whipping in the summer breeze, to thickets speckled with rocky crevices. 

Eclipse’s territory. The pulse in your throat quickens. You try to kick but weakness sets upon your sickly form.

He stops in the center of the verdant field. His large head tilts down to gaze at you. The appetitive glint in his wine dark eyes fills you with acidic apprehension. He nimbly folds upon his tiger legs, sitting not unlike a cat pleased with the mouse he’s brought back. His large palm lifts away from your mouth—there’s no worry that Sun and Moon will hear you now. He lays you down on the thick grass. The emerald green colors darken just as the sun slips away, leaving a purple twilight against the sky. The lush vegetation brushes against you like strands of hair. You shudder.

“Take me back, right now,” you demand is overwhelmed by your croaking. That is not the fierceness with which you want to address Eclipse.

His wide grin upon his large head splits to reveal curved canines. He licks his teeth once. You force yourself to not flinch, though holding your head off of the ground is beginning to take its toll on your limited energy.

“No. You’re staying here, with me, until I say so.” He bows over you. Large tiger paws dig slightly into the moist dirt as his hands arch for you. “As if those two snakes were taking care of you. You still have a fever.”

You glare. He has too many limbs, too many claws to watch for. Though you fade under the aching pulse eradicating your body, you refuse to close your eyes for even a moment.

“I don’t need your help.” Before his hand takes a hold of you, you twist onto your belly. Shoving your knees up and working your elbows, you begin to crawl away—as slow and pitiful as you are, you refuse to stay here a moment more. You push with strength you do not have. Glass blades swipe against your arms. The almost muddy ground soaks into the fabric of your long khakis. 

A large hand seizes your ankle. With a rattling breath sucked out of your lungs, you’re dragged back over the grass and flipped upright. Before you can curse him, Eclipse tucks you under his white hirsute belly of his lower tiger half, two massive paws pinning your arms by your sides. His weight holds you down like a striped blanket. 

You groan sickly. Throwing him a half-lidded stare of disdain, you can only watch as Eclipse lays down on top of you, his arms crossed over your midsection as you struggle to breathe under his weight. He tilts his head, his mane-like fur too short to take after a lion, but the tufts are spikey and vibrate with orange, light yellow, and deep red hues.

“You won’t get any better crawling around in the mud,” he drips with derision. “Why are you so difficult?”

Clutching your hands into fists, you bare your teeth as if you had as sharp of fangs as him. He laughs. The harsh, sharp sound makes you vibrate within your ridiculously chilled body. If you weren’t sick—if you had your machete—

“Get off me,” you rasp. 

“Relax, kitten,” he purrs, lifting a hand to trail a black claw over your arm, tracing from the crease of your elbow to the curve of your shoulder. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” 

He does not feed you, and you very much want to bite.

You shiver. Goosebumps prickle your skin under the lethal brush of the tiger’s hand. Your breath catches when his touch nears your neck. Your fever spikes. Caressing your throat, Eclipse’s claws linger on your jugular vein. The very beat of your heart pushes back on his presence. You will your frantic pulse to not give away the violent fear flooding your veins, too weak to throw him off you and run.

His deep red eyes flash with a predatory smugness. You squirm. In what you can only understand as delight, he shifts his hand to firmly press on your shoulder, restricting your movement further.

A moan slips past your teeth.

“I will make you feel better,” his throaty growl fills your body. You freeze, eyes wide like a gazelle. 

“Eclipse,” you try to argue, but you cough.

Softly, so softly you almost don’t understand what’s happening, Eclipse begins to purr. You feel it within his tiger half as well as his chest. Fully laid out underneath him, deep rumblings fill you like the echoes of thunder. A strangely gentle vibrancy soothes the edge of the fever. You gasp quietly at how sweet the relief is—how swift and consuming it is of the ache that’s been plaguing you for a day and night now.

“What are you doing?” you ask, harsh in your allayed confusion.

“Giving you what you need: me.” His wicked maw splits into a wide smile. “Don’t deny you feel better. I can already see it in your face.”

“No,” you groan, but it’s not your best lie.

He laughs softer this time, condescending but adoring, as if he can’t get enough of your antics.

Internally, you writhe. The aching soreness, the flip-flopping of shuddering from chills and melting from the fever is washed away like mud from a stone, but you wonder if that could be due to the flower you consumed earlier. His purring… it is enticing, seductive in how it urges you to stop resisting. You hate that a sliver of you wants it. You loathe that you want him to keep taking away the sickness.

You’re useless. Eclipse has stalked you time and time ago, and pounced just when you were foolish enough to believe you were safe. Now, you don’t even have a weapon to brandish against him. He’s too swift and cunning—he always has you before you realize what’s happening. 

A perfect ambush predator.

He keeps telling you that you need him. You have never revolted against such a bold declaration more than this. His bone-snapping strength and his sound-breaking speed are intimidating, certainly, but you won’t let him play with you. 

He acts hungry, he keeps looking at you as if you were a sweet morsel, and you refuse to believe that he is anything but a monster yearning for flesh after he’s finished playing with his food.

Depleted of adrenaline and reserved energy, you can do nothing but soak in his healing rumbles.

Eclipse’s body lays lightly over your own. You carry vague suspicions that he’s not resting his full weight on you—crushing you to death is not his means of slaughter. He has far too many claws and a pair of powerful jaws for that. Instead, stomach to stomach, he longues over you as if soaking in the starry light. This close to your chest, you wonder how well he senses your angry heart.

Insects buzz through the grass. You have an urge to shiver in the lack of safety in the night, but Eclipse’s purring keeps you from feeling too aware of your surroundings. In the darkness, his orange and deep red hues have melted to a muted color. The length of his tail playfully flickers behind him, long and tipped in black. He is too cat-like, too large, to be trustworthy.

“Relax, sweet little kitten,” he croons in a low voice, “I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

You glower in the dark. His predator eyes can see your expression perfectly, but he only sneers in reply.

As if sweeping aside your ungrateful attitude, Eclipse plays with wisps of your hair, twirling the strands around his claws with a casual intrigue. He never tugs on the strands. You do little but breathe. His purrs are alleviating the worst and you need every ounce of strength you can steal to get away from him. The gleam of his deep red eyes become black in the crescent of moonlight.

He leans down. You turn your head away but that does little to stall his nuzzling. He rubs affectionately against your nose, your neck, even your hair, and you protest with loud grumblings. You squeeze your eyes shut at the stroke of his sleek fur—something so dangerous shouldn’t be so soft. A whimper escapes you, and you bite the inside of your cheek to hold back the next one. His purr picks up. He effortlessly ignores your half growled cursing while fussing his fuzzy short mane against your cheek.

When will he have his fill? Is he ever going to be satisfied bating you around like a delicious little mouse? Your heart skips a beat.

“Why are you doing this?” you grunt.

“You smell like those awful snakes,” he growls lightly. He pulls back in the slightest so you can catch the sizzling pleasure in his gaze. “You have no idea how much better you smell with me all over you.”

“I don’t smell like anyone but me,” you hiss. But you’re not sure. Have Sun and Moon left their scent on you? The thought hadn’t crossed your mind seriously until now.

Eclipse tilts his head slightly. The wild fluff of his head speaks to his jungle prowess. Hanging only an itch above your mouth, he muses in tune with his purring. 

“You do smell lovely.” He traces a tapered finger from your temple to the edge of your jaw, as if sizing up a morsel. “Like dried petals with a slight spice.”

A shudder takes over your shoulders. He hooks your chin in his grasp then deliberately rubs his fluffy cheek against your mouth. A thick sultry ting of amber and dark earth fills your senses, ending with a lingering, spicy musk.

You sputter, tasting hair. He snickers with a simper when he lifts his head.

The strong scent reminds you of when he first surprised you. He pinned you to the ground before you realized you were being hunted. A mistake you refuse to make again. There was no doubt in your mind that he was going to tear your throat out, but he purred and fawned over you, and dragged you off to a rocky crevice to find out more about you. You were terrified then—but you at least had your machete on you.

The shiver that rolls down your body is not for his pleasure, despite his smirk. You’re going to find a way to wring his neck.

“Stop it,” you snap, your voice thick and labored.

“I am good for you. You can’t deny that,” he leans in closer. He lays his head beside your own, covering your chest. You swallow at the graze of his teeth against your soft neck. 

His voice lowers, “You like to think you have claws, but you don’t. You need me. You need to trust me.”

You screw your eyes shut.

No. You can’t. You can only rely on yourself. Sun and Moon are sweet, they practically begged to help you, but you can’t accept that, not truly. You won’t let them have your back just to get a fang or claw in it.

It hurts. You remember.

When push comes to shove, you can only hope you’re out of reach of everything and everyone.

“Kitten,” he purrs, turning your chin with a sharp finger. “You’re safe with me.”

You stare back at him, eyes narrowed with disbelief. The rhythmic swells of his purrings have yet to wane. The delicious relief holds you down still. He envelopes you like a waterfall, crashing down, drowning you where you stand.

A sliver of you wants to trust him, and that part of you is very, very wrong and weak.

His one round ear twitches, and then both lie flat against his skull The summer breeze ceases. Unease pricks your spine. His expression sharpens as he rises, hands pressed into the grass on either side of your head, claws extended.

The deep purr within his body cuts off. For a fraction of the night, he holds your gaze with a promise.

I will steal you away again soon.

His jaw splits open in a snarl that quakes the meadow. Your heart climbs up your throat, rattling under his force. The next second, Eclipse leaps off of you. You gasp at the sudden loss of the tiger’s presence. A flash of midnight blue scales darts through the grass. 

Moon.

The naga strikes in the blink of an eye. Moon’s fangs snap inches from Eclipse’s neck, vicious spit dripping from his sharp incisors. The flare of his hood makes him larger, and horrifying, and the glinting red and yellow diamonds flaring underneath his intimidating display promise lethal retribution. The tigertaur dives deeper into the field, effortlessly lunging out of reach from a furious swipe of Moon’s claws. Eclipse grins; there is nothing humorous in his glinting jaws.

The meadow rustles to the side of you. A sweeping mass of golden scales circle you, crushing grass and smothering vegetation. Hands take your shoulders. A low hiss fills the air with a threatening rage but soon softens. You look up, stunned. 

Sun, too.

The naga instantly grabs you and holds you against his warm chest. You lock your arms around his spindly neck, minding his sharp head spikes. His blue eyes are dark as if ink were spilled into his irises. His arms tremble for one moment before steadying around you. In the emptiness of Eclipse’s purrs, your entire body shivers and the fever returns in thick, heavy waves.

You twist your head back, fighting the ache dripping back into your limbs. Moon is coiled upon his tail, tall, taller than you’ve ever seen him hold himself up. He watches the meadow with a fervent rage. His red eyes are wide, glinting dark like arterial blood.

Sun says Moon’s name. In a snap, Moon is slithering to your side, his hand brushing the small of your back with a reassuring—or in need of reassuring—touch. You try to say their names. Sun tucks your head against his shoulder.

The moment they turn away, you see Eclipse in the tall grass, not yet gone. He’s crouched, half-hidden. He grins like the Cheshire Cat between wavering blades of green. His fingers dance in a goodbye. Your heart drops into your stomach.

Sun and Moon shoot away—a fight avoided is the only good fight. Cutting through the grass, rustling through it with thunderous hissing, they spirit you out of Eclipse’s territory. You cling tighter to Sun and watch Moon’s and his long tails become whipping blurs, scales glinting with shards of starlight.

“You came?” you gasp. You try to not choke Sun with your crushing grip.

“Are you hurt?” Moon hisses.

“No.” You shake your head. “Eclipse was watching the cave.”

“We put that together,” Sun gives without his usual musical timber. “Did he do anything to you?”

“No.”

He nods, relieved, but it’s short-lived as a dark cloud passes over his usually sunny expression. “You scared us, lily pad. That’s the second time I’ve found you gone.”

“We should have stayed,” Moon says, his snarl lowering into remorse.

You let your head fall against Sun’s shoulder, bouncing along with his swaying. Moon’s concern rings in your head like a bell. 

They came for you. They didn’t let you go. You close your eyes even as liquid spills underneath your eyelashes.

They take you far away from the tall grass, and they don’t stop until you’re well into the densest, darkest shadows of the jungle. You cling to the quiet sound of the nagas’ hissing.

You still feel Eclipse’s purr deep within your chest.

[fleurlumii]

just a random thought but imagine that out of the entire D.A.M.N Crew, Lasko & Dear would be the first ones to get married (even though they're the final couple to form in the group)

[volivolition]

part of that "raising a kid au" i was working on, this is almost definitely not how skill checks work and i don't even know if i'll include this, but for now i think it's. so funny kjkgj

[latenightsundayblues]

If there's a good side to getting your face smashed in with a TV and needing to use a glass eye, Stu seems to have found it.

Billy has nightmares about it sometimes.

[justsomeguy-cassavetes]

OLIVER REED as IVAN DRAGOMILOFF in THE ASSASSINATION BUREAU (1969)

[tetzoro]

ITS FRIDAAAAY !!! good morning friendz :3 i am so relieved we have made it to the end of the week omgee !! i am so proud of us because i know a lot of us have felt the effects of this wonky week, but we did it. i think we all deserve a treat ! please be kind to yourselves, because you’re here despite it all & thats absolutely wonderful ❤︎

[janeelyakiri]

Day 6- Restrained

Polly's in troouuubleeee~ They aren't afraid though hehe

nightmare (c) joku

polly (c) me

[andtheywerecrewmates]

not a zosan girlie but this is them to me

[thetomorrowshow]

i came to take up your offer

posted to ao3 19 November 2024

this is a fic that was a dream i had :)

~

Grian’s been trying to leave for months, now. Years, even. 

When one’s home world turns to war, though, the portals all close. There are ways to get out, but hubs tend to ban the presence of refugees, so if you escape you have to be well-disguised and have quick entrance to another world.

Grian’s seventeen when the war breaks out, and the draft comes for him as soon as he’s eighteen. He escapes when he’s twenty-three, after fighting in this stupid war for five years.

There’s a small group of friends that he’s gathered—people from high school, fellow soldiers, et cetera—that are all waiting on a message from him at any time, telling them when and where. Grian’s not sure how he ended up in a leadership position, but he promises them that he’ll work on it, and until then he fights this bloody war and hates every second of it.

Then it happens.

Twenty-three years old, about to march into a battle. He’s out on the field already, scoping out the place, taking notes on where they ought to line up their cannons, when he passes over a patch of land that makes his stomach swoop.

Grian blinks.

Then he backs up, walks over it again.

It’s just a bit of grass, a space no bigger than a meter squared, nestled between the roots of a massive, gnarled willow tree. He’d thought that hiding under the shadow of the tree might keep them hidden, give them a moment of surprise against the opposing army, but now he quickly leaves it, noting down that it is not an advisable place for anyone to be.

There’s a portal under the grass, he’s sure of it. One that no one had caught, hidden as it was.

He sends out the message that night. They’re all there, camped on the other side of the hill from the battlefield, but he doesn’t dare to whisper of their plans aloud. Plans to desert could just as easily get them executed as the battle tomorrow.

Found it , he writes. Meet me after the battle if you survive .

None of them respond. He doesn’t expect them to.

-

This battle is no different from any of the others. Grian considers himself lucky that he’s on the winning side, because it leaves him with less of a likelihood that he won’t make it. He sits in a trench for days, tnt exploding all around him, bullets whizzing past his ears, and occasionally pops his head up and fires at the lines opposite.

By the afternoon of the fifth day, they’ve won this one. The other army retreats, and the soldiers all around Grian breathe silent sighs of relief as they haul themselves out of the mud and trudge on back to camp.

Grian hangs back, volunteering to start digging graves. Nobody else wants to, of course, when they have the chance to go back to camp and wash off and sleep, so they let Grian stay and lead the gravedigging, a handful of others helping him.

Once the rest of the army has disappeared over the hill, Grian turns to Martyn.

“By the willow tree,” he says shortly, and Martyn nods once.

It isn’t too deeply buried. They dig for maybe half an hour before BigB’s shovel vanishes entirely, and from there, they dig carefully, handfuls at a time, to completely unearth the small square of swirling, purple portal.

Grian’s never cared too much for purple, but right now, in this final moment, it’s the most beautiful color in the world.

They stand in silence, gathered around it, all eyes drawn to it. Finally, Grian pulls his gaze away, quickly counts everyone there.

“We’re missing someone,” he murmurs. There’s only nine of them, including himself. Shouldn’t there be ten? “Who are we missing?”

“Timmy,” Martyn supplies. Grian bites his lip, glances behind himself at the bloodied and torn ground.

“Did he. . . ?”

“No,” Netty’s quick to assure. “No, I saw him. I think he’s on the hill.”

On the hill? Why hadn’t he come down to help them?

Grian huffs, adjusts his pack over his shoulders. “Right. I’ll go find him. Pretend to dig graves.”

He isn’t the oldest among them, but somehow, he’s become the leader. They trust him—maybe it’s because he was able to get in contact with an enemy soldier and convince him to join their group, or maybe it’s because he’s willing to admin a world once they get out to create a safe place for them, or maybe it’s because he’s an ordained minister and he married Martyn and Netty for free. Maybe none of that.

Maybe he’s just the only one who dared.

So Grian, the leader, heads back out from under the shade of the old willow tree.

He doesn’t want to go looking for Jimmy. He knew they were supposed to gather after the battle, and he should have seen them getting ready. If certain members of his group weren’t such bleeding hearts, he would have just left him behind.

Having to take the time to look for him could put their entire escape at risk.

He finds him, and not nearly quickly enough. He searches for what must be almost an hour, trekking across uneven, exploded ground and limp bodies, before he eventually spots a figure sitting on the side of the hill. He’d had to go all the way to the other side of the battlefield to see him, angled to look out toward the setting sun as he was.

Grian huffs when he sees him, starts hiking up the hill. Of course, he had to be on a different side of the hill instead of the one that faced that battlefield.

Why didn’t he come down? He knew what was happening, why didn’t he help them?

Jimmy’s face is smudged with dirt and soot and a bit of crusted blood, his helmet in the grass beside him, his hair limp and greasy. His uniform is barely recognizable under all the grime, even worse than some of the others of their group. He must have been near an explosion.

He’s just sitting there, knees pulled up to his chest, gazing out at the reddening sky. He doesn’t even look at Grian, not more than a glance to the side.

“Come on,” Grian says, folding his arms. He’s out of breath from the walk up, exhausted down to his bones. He hasn’t slept in almost two days straight, far longer than any soldier is supposed to go (but about the amount of time that all of them spend, anyhow). “Let’s go. We’ve already dug it up, we’re just waiting on you.”

Jimmy doesn’t respond.

“Let’s go,” Grian complains. “Get up, we’re going. Unless—”

“I can’t hear you,” Jimmy says bluntly.

Grian rolls his eyes, then sits down in front of Jimmy, the grass crunching under him. Jimmy’s eyes focus on him, weary and irritated and bloodshot.

After a staring contest that Grian quite decidedly wins, Jimmy groans, digs in his pocket. His dirt-stained fingers pull out a hearing aid, gingerly fit it into his right ear.

“We’re leaving,” Grian says, once Jimmy stops fiddling with it. “We’ve got the portal, we’re all about to go in. You coming?”

Jimmy sighs. “What’s the point?”

“What’s the point? The point is that we get out of here. We’ll never have to fight again, come on.”

“Wherever we go, it’ll turn to war eventually. That’s just how it is.”

“Not on my server,” Grian says firmly. “I’m gonna admin a world. It’ll be peaceful, I swear.”

It’s clear that Jimmy doesn’t believe him. He shifts, just a bit, so that he can see the sunset over Grian’s shoulder.

There’s something odd in his expression, under the layers of battle. Something dark. Something . . . disturbed.

Well, he tried.

When Grian rejoins the group around the portal, Martyn raises an eyebrow.

“He didn’t want to,” Grian says by way of explanation. Martyn sighs.

“I’ll go talk to him,” he says, heading off in that direction. “Don’t wait up, all right?”

They don’t.

Grian goes first. He went to a hub once, when he was thirteen. The one he lands in isn’t so different from that one, but Grian doesn’t stick around in its portal room for long. He heads to the first public restroom he can spot (just off the main room, the sign visible from far off), where he takes off his shirt and balls it up, shoves it into the trash can. He sticks his dog tags into his pocket, then scrubs the grime off his face until he’s moderately presentable.

His trousers are plain enough that they won’t immediately call him out as a soldier on the run, and his white tee is dirt stained but passable. He has all the money he’s ever earned in his backpack, which he transfers to the front pocket of his trousers.

Tom slips into the restroom, stripping his shirt off. Grian pats him on the shoulder and walks out, then confidently strides to the nearest information desk.

“I’d like to buy a world,” he says, his eyes following Netty and Salem as they fall into the hub together. The woman at the desk surveys him for a moment, then slides a paper to him.

“Fill out the form.”

-

They call it Evo, and it’s everything Grian’s ever wanted.

Evo. It’s an old, abandoned world (absurdly old, honestly), the cheapest available. Grian had spent every coin he had to purchase it, much to his chagrin. Even so, this rusty old dump is safe, and has respawns, and they can all live here in peace.

He loves it.

He gets to properly build for the first time in his life. He has his own place, where he can feel the clay under his feet and feel the salty breeze against his cheeks and it’s perfect.

Grian doesn’t spend much time around spawn, usually out in the ocean, working on his base, but he stops by to fix up a rail on his little train track and notices that Jimmy’s there, sitting atop the Property Police station.

He’s staring at the sunset, legs drawn up to his chest.

Grian doesn’t call up to him. He doesn’t do anything.

He just watches him for a moment, then heads back home.

[starchasersversion]

tony "and you can aim for my heart, go for blood" stark and steve "but you would still miss me in your bones" rogers

[vaguely-concerned]

kremy 'assigned elderly citizen by the witchlight carnival' lecroux