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soon-palestine · 4 months

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@RBatniji is one of the most respected entrepreneurs in Silicon valley. He lost 37 members of his family on 18th Nov by an Israeli airstrike. He recently met with Secretary Blinken and here is what he shared,

"I am Rajaie Batniji. I take no pride and no honor in being here.

I was born in Gaza and immigrated to California as a young child. I am Rajaie Batniji. I take no pride and no honor in being here. Many of my fellow Palestinian Americans discouraged me from speaking with you today, concerned that this discussion was solely performative. I share their concern.

I come here out of a sense of duty, to try – as futile as it may be – to save my family in Gaza from being killed. I was born in Gaza and immigrated to California as a young child. I grew up visiting Gaza often, and those visits shaped me in many ways. I personally experienced some of the violence of occupation.

I studied the history of the region at Stanford, completed my doctorate in international relations at Oxford as a Marshall Scholar – honoring the legacy of one of your predecessors in this office – and became a physician focused on the health of those that have the least privilege. I’m an entrepreneur who builds teams and technologies that improve American health care.

I would rather not be here today. Mr. Secretary, you have provided the weapons and the political cover that enabled the murder of 65 members of my family, mostly women and children, over the past four months. In strikes in mid-November, three generations of my family were killed by missiles as they sought shelter and safety. I carry their memories with me. I see their crushed bodies when I close my eyes.

The survivors in my family are homeless. Some 70% of homes in Gaza have been destroyed, according to an analysis by The Wall Street Journal, along with almost all the schools, all the universities, many of the hospitals, the mosques, the churches, the historical sites and the public records.

My paternal grandparents’ home in Shejaiya had been among the last homes of my family still standing. This is the home where I was born. It collapsed in a “controlled demolition” just before the new year.

According to our own US intelligence agencies, Israel used 29,000 air-to-ground munitions during the first two months of its assault on Gaza. That’s more than were used in the years of the Iraq War – and Gaza is less than one thousandth the size.

No one I know in Gaza has a home, or possessions beyond what they carried as they fled Israeli bombardment.

My family may be better off than most in Gaza and they are still hungry. I spoke with my mom’s brother this week, and he told me he has lost almost 20 kilograms (44 pounds). Despite your promises, food aid has not been able to reach Gaza to come anywhere near meeting the need. It is blocked at every opportunity, including by Israeli protestors at the Kerem Shalom border crossing, and by Israeli inspections and within Gaza by the Israeli military. According to the United Nations, 4 out of 5 of the hungriest people anywhere in the world are in Gaza. You know that the UN agency for Palestinian refugees, UNRWA, provides food for most Gazans and critical infrastructure for other aid organizations. Yet, after Israel made unverified allegations that a handful of UNRWA staff participated in the October 7 attacks, you cut the funding for UNRWA in what I can understand only as an act of collective punishment. I fear this makes you, and me – as an American – party to the use of starvation as a weapon of war.

My cousins in Gaza, who are physicians like me, have no place to practice medicine. Their hospitals have been destroyed or incapacitated. After moving from Shifa to al-Aqsa hospital, only to be evacuated from each by the Israeli military after seeing patients and colleagues killed, they are now living in tents in Rafah and al-Mawasi, using their surgical skills to repair leaks in their tents while the bodies of wounded Palestinians go untreated, and often unretrieved.

I have worked extensively in global health and wrote a series of research papers in 2009 on what we thought then was a Palestinian health crisis. We could never, though, have imagined this – the complete destruction of Gaza’s health care system is unprecedented.

Even the dead among my family were not spared. Satellite images show that Israeli bulldozers and tanks desecrated the graveyards where my grandparents and great grandparents were resting. I hope to bury their remains again one day.

What do you wish to be your legacy, Secretary Blinken? You cannot say you didn’t know. You cannot say that you did not knowingly and materially support these deaths, which a US federal court and the International Court of Justice have both determined plausibly constitute genocide. I am the father of three young children in San Francisco. As adults, I am certain they will reflect on this “genocide” with horror. It will be taught in our classrooms and remembered in our museums as we vow never to repeat it.

I ask you to use the full power of your office and every bit of leverage the US has to allow aid to reach all of Gaza, including in the north, where hundreds of thousands of people remain in desperation. And, to resume the funding for UNRWA, which will be essential to the distribution of any aid. I ask you to uphold a rules-based order – which serves our long-term interests – by calling Israel’s indiscriminate bombing that has largely killed women and children, the attacks on health care and the use of starvation as a weapon of war as the war crimes you and I know they are. Your words matter, Mr. Secretary.

I feel indignity sitting before you in this comfortable conference room while my family desperately awaits word about a ceasefire, in the dark, hungry, and in tents in fear that the Israeli military will kill them at any moment.

In a dignified world, I would be asking for justice, not mercy. That day will come.

I hope that you, and this administration, can act quickly to bring our nation to the right side of history before it is far too late.I ask you to uphold a rules-based order – which serves our long-term interests – by calling Israel’s indiscriminate bombing that has largely killed women and children, the attacks on health care and the use of starvation as a weapon of war as the war crimes you and I know they are. Your words matter, Mr. Secretary.

In a dignified world, I would be asking for justice, not mercy. That day will come.

I hope that you, and this administration, can act quickly to bring our nation to the right side of history before it is far too late.

#palestine #gaza #free palestine

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majorbaby · 1 year

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There is no reason why I shouldn't believe that Trapper had at least an inkling of how much his leaving suddenly would affect Hawkeye, regardless of the fact that Trapper had no reasonable means to do anything about how had to leave. And I could get even more meta about that because the line between actor and character is so blurry wrt Trapper's departure because it was Wayne's decision that became, for many, the final word on the Trapper character. Unfairly so imo, because Trapper cannot speak for himself on the matter. I think it was a decision influenced primarily by the reality of production and not what made sense for the Trapper character or the Trapper-Hawkeye relationship.

By narrative requirement (and interpretation, if you're like me and you fancy that), Trapper and Hawkeye had a near-psychic connection which ensured that Trapper could finish Hawkeye's sentences and always be on board with his schemes no matter how "silly" or "pointless" they appeared to be to everyone else.

In Dr. Pierce and Mr. Hyde, Henry asks "McIntyre, why does he do these things?" and even tho Trapper has been at his wit's end with Hawkeye and even told him he was turning into a fruitcake, the narrative knows there's a reason for Hawkeye's mania and backs it up constantly as being the only sane reaction to an insane situation - and because Hawkeye is incapacitated, it's Trapper who has to do the talking for him, which is the practical reason he answers Henry's question without skipping a beat. But we are also still meant to believe that Trapper gets Hawkeye.

So although Hawkeye's whole deal about goodbyes isn't addressed, I think Trapper knew, and he has to shoulder the burden of that knowledge while also having just lost his other half, and having been without him for a week, right after Henry's just died, under Frank and Margaret's heel. The "us against him" Frank and Margaret gleefully fantasize about in WtK 2? That's been Trapper's reality just before he gets his discharge. I have to imagine it was an intensely lonely time for him, and then he's denied any kind of closure with Hawkeye. Hawkeye receives the kiss at least.

We get a onesided look at how Trapper's abrupt exit lands with the character closest to him, but I don't think it's plausible that there wasn't some lasting damage for Trapper too. And tbf, it's true that at least he's home now - I'm not faulting anyone for not wondering about him beyond that because the show isn't concerned with it either. I just don't think we can conclusively say that he never thought about the war or the relationships he built there after he left, and even something like "who knows if he did" seems implausible to me as a read of Trapper.

#re: mash #trapper meta #mash #trapper john mcintyre #my bias here is that i absolutely hate when people are expected to read minds in relationships #if you have needs - express them #this conflicts greatly with my die-hard belief that trapper and hawkeye really were so close they could read each others minds #trapper is also very observant though #and hawkeye very open #so it's also not implausible to me that they DID discuss their needs #it went like this:#hawkeye: trapper i need you to support me and be receptive to me sharing my emotions #trapper: i need a kissy on the forehead when i am sick #they also had very enthusiastic and communicative sex <3

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m0ther-of-p3arl · 1 year

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shepshermitdesign23 WEEK ONE

grian as a rogue

he is an avian rogue, chaotic neutral, he uses kind of long metal hooks that he holds in both hands (think jet from atla) his background is that he's yk looking for scar hes trying to find info on scar so when it says "grian needed that information" thats what i meant cuz he doesnt know where scar is and NEEDS to find him (that's his motivation)

(1946 w)

tw: slight blood, battling with magic and also not magic, yeah

i wrote this for @shepscapades hermit designing thingie but i decided to write a fic for it instead, as my drawing skills leave much to be desired lmao- so uh here have roguey grian being a rogue and stealing things! (btw i did not edit this even once so its really rough just bear that in mind while reading sldkjfs)

The stars are him, and he is the stars. This is a fact, something he knows beyond doubt, something that’s always been there underneath, rippling against the waves of Grian’s life. So as he leaps across the rooftops, a shadowed figure wrapped in black and gray, he stares up at them, breathing deeply to calm his rabbiting heart. This is fine. It’s just another heist, another job, it’s the last one.

It’s the last one. And of course, his last day on the job, he’s given an offer he can’t refuse, the biggest and most important thing he’ll probably ever do. Grian has been sent to steal the crown. The king’s crown. Ren’s crown.

Grian knew Ren once upon a time, before he was consumed by the power that was offered to him. He remembers how they would go out for drinks at the pub, laughing and towing along their respective boyfriends, betting on the raucous barbarians that just couldn’t help but pick fights with each other after getting tipsy on a few drinks.

But that was almost a different life. Now Grian’s older, he’s smarter, and he can’t remember the last time he laughed. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he smiled. When Ren became king, when it was revealed that he was the heir who had been missing for so long, Grian was adamant against a resistance. He decided that it was best to just… stay in the shadows, in honor of their old friendship.

And he’s been surprisingly good at doing so. But the offer he’s gotten… well. Let’s just say it’s something he can’t refuse. Someone he can’t refuse- or rather, information regarding to their whereabouts from a very reliable source. The only reason Grian is going to be able to pull this off is because if he does, he knows what could be at home waiting for him.

He’s been so lost in his thoughts he’s almost missed his stop, and he tucks his hooks into his belt, making sure his wings are properly bound to his back, their bright colors sure to give him away otherwise. The castle looms in the distance- Grian’s target. He pulls out his spyglass, taking note of the guards patrolling around the castle, Ren’s trademark red banner hanging from their waistbands.

How is he going to go about doing this? He scans the castle walls for an obvious in, but if there’s one thing to be said of Ren, he is not lax in his security. His eyes rove over the towers once again, hoping that maybe he’s just been a little bit mistaken, but no. Every inch of this castle is swarming with guards.

“Fuck,” Grian curses under his breath, putting his spyglass back into the pack and tightening his fists on his hooks, trying to come up with an alternate plan. He could go in by brute force, incapacitate or kill all the guards on the way up to the treasure room, but the problem with that is to be honest, he doesn’t know if he’d be strong enough.

Another option lies in the fact that he can fly- if he wished, it would be as easy as one, two, three to unbind his wings, soar up to where the jewels are kept, and enter through the window. But he’s certain someone would see him coming, maybe even the Hand, and Grian doesn’t want to have to deal with that. In fact, he’d rather he has to exert as little force as possible. His strengths lie in being sneaky, not strong, and though he often wishes he had a little more muscle on his bones, he knows where his forte is.

So, what’s the ploy? Grian slides down the roof a little further, crouching and hoping he won’t be seen. He supposes that if he wants to pull this off without getting caught, his best bet is… going through the trash chute. God damn it. Grian heaves a disappointed sigh, but it’s not like there’s any better option. He jumps nimbly down from the roof and begins to follow the sewers, divots of odorous rushing liquid carved into the ground.

He’s memorized the floor plan of Dogwarts Castle, to the very point that he knows which pipes lead where and when. He crawls into the ground, soaking his front in the foul mixture of rot and feces. Only a couple years ago, Grian would have found this idea appalling, and though it still freaks him out a bit, he’s resigned now to the things he needs to do if he wants that information.

And he does. He wants it more than everything. So he crawls forwards, breathing shallowly through his mouth to block out the stench, his memory the only thing leading him through the pitch dark maze. Turn right, then left, another left, right again. There should be a ladder here. He blindly runs his fingers against the dead end he’s come across, and sure enough, a cold rod of metal sticks out from the wall. Grian moves his hands upwards to feel another, and another, and another, until he’s standing to his full height.

Then he grabs hold of the rung right above his head and begins to climb. He pulls his whole body upwards with each strong push, going four rungs at a time to save energy. He’s so close, he’s almost there. He can see the light peeking through the end of the tunnel, and he closes his eyes for a second, recalibrating to figure out where he is. That’s North, then East, South, and lastly, West. So he’s in the bathroom across the hall from the jewel room. Good. So long as no one’s taking a poo right now, Grian’s in the perfect position.

Plus, he’s so covered in human waste that even if someone is to see him, they’ll probably just assume he was cleaning out the sewers. He quickly climbs up the last couple rungs, his head poking out into a decrepit stall. Pulling himself out of the toilet, Grian briefly considers dumping the ubiquitous bucket of water sitting in the corner over his head, but in the end decides against it. It could make too much noise, leave too much of a trace, and his employer for this job has insisted very particularly that Ren or any of the guards cannot know, under any circumstances, that Grian’s the one stealing the crown.

Flipping locked the latch on the door quickly, he peers through the moon-shaped window, waiting for a gap in the constantly rotating circles of guards. Before he leaves, he makes a quick glance to the door of the jewel room across the hall, the horizontal slit in the golden lock telling him all he needs to know.

For whatever miraculous reason, the door is unlocked. Grian takes his chance, opening his door and leaping across the hall in one fluid motion, quickly sliding into the treasure room before the sounds of chatter from the end of the stony, lamp-lit hall get any louder. He slides his hand up one of his hooks, using the pointed end as a sort of skeleton key to lock the door. A quiet clicking sound tells him he’s met his goal, and he slowly turns around, his heart beating haywire in his chest.

He stumbles backwards as he realizes someone else is here as well. He’s a warlock, his blond hair cut off at his shoulders, a black headband pushing it out of his eyes. The man’s robes are a dark green (an unconventional color for a warlock, Grian notes,) a looping sigil imprinted in the center of his chest. His eyes are a light, piercing blue, a staff clutched in his right hand and a sphere of red light dancing in his left.

“Hello, Martyn,” Grian barks out in a laugh, because he should have known, he should have known. There’s no way Ren would make it this easy for him, and the door to the treasure room being unlocked was a big giveaway that he ignored. And why was he so careless? Because he needs this information, he would do anything, he would- he would kill his own mother if it meant he got to know. And because of this, he’s been unspeakably sloppy.

“How’ve you been, buddy?” Martyn smiles darkly, his skin shallower, his eyes more sunken then when Grian saw him last. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, for sure, too long,” Grian agrees, trying to drag out the conversation long enough to gauge his chances of winning this fight, and if that’s not an option, how he can nab the crown and fly out before Martyn can react. He’s already shrugging the bindings off his wings. “How’s Ren doing? Tell him I say hi, yeah?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Martyn grins, his teeth pointed, more animalistic than Grian remembers. “You can tell him yourself, right before you’re sentenced to death for betrayal of the kingdom.” The warlock lunges, lobbing the sphere of red energy at Grian’s now unbound wing. He just barely dodges, feeling the edges of his feathers singe as the wall behind him implodes.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, Martyn,” Grian mutters through gritted teeth, clenching his fists even tighter around his hooks and lunging forward, dodging the staff and hitting Martyn square in the stomach. The warlock grunts and flies backward, clutching his midriff and glaring darkly at the rogue who’d caused him pain.

“You’re asking for it,” he growls, assuming a powerful stance and spinning his staff, a whirlwind erupting from its end, tracing its way towards Grian. But Martyn’s underestimated the avian once again, and he leaps above the tornado, jumping nimbly around the room. If he can just lead it towards the glass case that holds the crown, the power of the wind will break the glass, and Grian will be home free.

He’s already gotten a good hit in on Martyn, and to be honest, he feels a little guilty about it. They used to be friends; there was a time before Ren cornered the enchantment market and took over the kingdom. There was a time when it was just Ren, Martyn, him, and Scar at the pub. Oh god. He stumbles, tripping up- and it nearly costs him his life. Focus, Grian. He can’t think of Scar right now. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

Glass is imploding all around him, and all of a sudden, his goal is met: the display case for the crown splits open, sharp shards flying all over, grooving scratches into his skin and clothes. Martyn’s eyes widen, realizing his mistake too late. Grian is quicker, grabbing the crown and turning quickly, aiming a swift kick to Martyn’s head. It connects, and he falls to the floor, momentarily dazed.

Grian could kill him, right here and now. It would be as easy as a quick snap of the neck, and for a moment, he considers the possibility.

But he’s a sentimental fool and he’s too soft for this, he still remembers the time when they were all friends. And so he leaves Martyn laying on the floor, growling quietly in his ear before he leaves: “Don’t forget this. I left you alive when it would have been so much simpler to kill you. You could leave, Martyn. Join me and leave. We could use your skills.”

And then Grian’s gone, jumping out the window and letting his wings flare out behind him, the king’s crown clutched securely in his hand, flying out into the stars, out into the sky that has become his home.

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ejzah · 1 year

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A/N: @anonkp requested Deeks and Kensi at a therapy session. For review, in this story, Kensi asks Deeks to incapacitate her in order to protect her from some bad guys. It has a lingering effect on Deeks.

***

The Least Damage, Part 3

Deeks kept his eyes focused in the direction of the floor, his vision and kind elsewhere. In the last three days, the nightmares and guilt hadn’t improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse since talking with Kensi.

Finally, when Deeks woke from a nightmare where he’d been steadily stabbing Kensi in the stomach, curled up in the corner of the room. According to Kensi, he’d been whimpering and calling her name but he didn’t recall any of it. Which is why he was currently sitting in a small office instead of tracking a missing Lieutenant with the rest of the team.

He glanced around the room, focusing on the three potted succulents placed on the top shelf of the bookshelf across the room. Unfortunately, he’d become very familiar with the contents in the last several years; he knew exactly how many tiles lined the ceiling and had memorized the author of every book.

“Hey, are you doing ok?” Kensi asked, running her hand over his hunched back. Deeks shrugged, sandwiching his hands between his knees to hide the fine tremors.

“I’m here,” he answered with a weak attempt at humor, but it fell flat.

“I know you don’t want to, but you need help.”

“I was just hoping to get beyond this without any help. I don’t want to relive what, um, what happened, in front of another person.”

Kensi sighed, settling on caressing the hair at the nape of his neck instead of responding.

A soft knock on the door had Deeks sitting straighter, his anxiety kicking into high gear once again as their therapist, Dr. Anu Dewan, stepped into the room.

“Deeks, Kensi, it’s good to see you again,” she greeted them in ever so slightly accented English as she took a chair opposite them. She didn’t sound surprised at seeming them on short notice, but Deeks supposed after dealing with them for the last several years, she’d gotten accustomed to it.

She was a tiny woman with streaks of gray in her thick black hair and warm smile that usually put Deeks at ease. Not today though, he made the briefest of eye contact before focusing on the succulents again.

“Thank you for squeezing us in,” Kensi said, discreetly resting her hand on the middle of his back.

“It’s not a problem. I assume it was rather urgent.” She nodded encouragingly. “So how can I help you today?”

Deeks stared at his knees, then glanced at Kensi, realizing she letting him take the lead.

“Last week there was a situation with our work where I, um, I had to hurt,” his voice cracked and he inhaled quickly to recover himself. “I had to hurt Kensi.”

“To protect me,” Kensi added quickly, defensively. He felt her hand tighten on his back. “We were in a really terrible situation and I asked him to do it to save my life.”

Dr. Dewan nodded, her expression giving nothing away. “I see. That must have been very difficult for both of you.“

“It was one of the worst moments of my life,” Deeks ground out. Kensi stilled beside him, but he didn’t look at her, needing to get it out now while he could. “I’ve been having dreams about it ever since.”

“And the dreams relive that moment?” Dr. Dewan asked.

“Sometimes. Usually it changes and I’m hurting Kensi more than I did that night. I stab her or strangle her until she stops breathing.” His breath hitched and he realized he was rocking back and forth slightly. “And I like it. I like hurting her.”

“Deeks,” Kensi whispered, but Dr. Dewan held up her hand.

“Let him speak, Kensi.”

“I’m terrified of hurting Kensi again. What I did, it woke something up in me and I don’t know if I can ever fix it.” He inhaled, chest shuddering as he tipped his head back.

“That must be very disconcerting. I understand your fears, but do you really think you want to hurt Kensi?” Dr. Dewan asked. “Marty, look at me, please.”

He forced himself to meet her gaze, expecting to see recrimination and disgust underneath her. Instead, he found warmth and understanding. Which was so much worse.

“Tell me, do you want to hurt your wife?”

“Of course not! You know my history, my dad—”

“Yes, he abused you and your mother. I know that left a indelible mark on you and you’ve feared becoming like him. Everything that I know about you though, tells me that you would never hurt Kensi intentionally or otherwise. You are not becoming like the man who hurt you so badly.”

“You haven’t seen my dreams,” Deeks said. “They’re horrific. And I can’t chance that.”

Turning to Kensi, Dr. Dewan addressed her, “Kensi, do you ever fear Deeks? Do you feel unsafe in his presence? Sharing your home?”

“Never,” Kensi answered immediately and emphatically. “I do and will always trust Deeks with my life. Always, Deeks.” She said the last part directly to him, briefly cupping his cheek. “I trust you.”

He closed his eyes, letting her pull him closer. For a moment, it was just the two of them, and he let himself find comfort in her embrace. That awful feeling crept back again far too soon, and he pushed himself back.

“So, how do we fix me?” he asked. “I mean, can we fix me?”

“Deeks, you are not broken. You are traumatized,” Dr. Dewan told him. “There is the new trauma created by your actions to protect as well as the trauma reawakened from your past. First, we’re going to work on managing your symptoms to lessen those nightmares.”

“Kensi trusts you, Deeks and I will help you trust yourself again too.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, clinging to her reassurance like a lifeline.

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #densi #angst #Deeks has all the trauma #the least damage #part 3 #ejzah fanfiction

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shivunin · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @scribbledquillz---thank you for the tag! I'm going to tag back @zenstrike, but no pressure at all (I know you're busy!) and anyone else who wants an excuse to show off what you're working on. Please tag me, I'd love to see it!

I have been elbow deep in my DA Big Bang fic all week and I think I'm technically not supposed to share any of it yet. So: here is an expansion of this Fenhawke ficlet. I am trying to turn it into a proper 5+1 format, but I am stuck fiddling with the +1 at the moment.

“Stop being so grumpy,” Hawke panted now, one arm slung over his shoulder, “It could have happened to anyone.”

Fenris clenched his jaw until he felt the muscle jump, shooting her a scathing look. Her dress was too red to see how bad the bleeding was. Still, he knew it must be bad; he’d felt the tacky blood seeping through the structured bodice when he’d picked her up. He was certain the wound had not improved while he hurried back to the manor.

“Oh,” Maria—no, Hawke, he would call her Hawke—said, chagrin coloring her tone, “I understand.”

“Do you?” Fenris said through his teeth. She hadn’t understood when they’d taken turns convincing her not to go to this party in the first place. He’d be surprised if she understood now, even after she’d ripped her stitches open dancing; she was stubborn like that.

They rounded the corner at a jog, the lantern beside her door coming into view at last. The walk was not long, but he felt as if he’d been walking for hours. It bothered him beyond words to know that his speed might determine how well she came out of this absurd situation.

“Yes,” she said, and Fenris kicked the door twice instead of knocking.

“It’s alright,” she said, hissing between her teeth when he kicked the door again and jostled her, “I can have the dress cleaned. It’ll be good as new.”

Fenris, who’d been listening for footsteps on the other side of the door, stared down at her incredulously. Hawke blinked up at him, her eyes guileless.

“But,” she said, “It’s okay to cry. I won’t tell anyone. It is a really, really good dress.”

He would gladly throw it in the fire if it would keep her from doing something this foolish again. Fenris wisely chose to ignore her and kicked the door again just as it opened, connecting with Anders’ shin instead of wood.

“Ow! Watch it,” the mage said, scowling, but immediately refocused his attention on Hawke.

“What is it?” he said, “Bring her in, quickly.”

“Anders!” Hawke said, but there was an awful thickness to her voice that belied the cheer in it, “You know, I was thinking this thing wasn’t quite red enough, so I thought I ought to add a bit more dye. You know—ah!—for…aesthetic’s sake.”

Fenris carried her up the stairs, abruptly grateful for the amount of time that he spent hauling a greatsword around and wielding it in combat. Such things had given him arms strong enough to carry her home, had allowed him to ensure she was not stranded amongst strangers in her moment of weakness. She had not even asked him to do this; had only told him to go fetch Anders for her. What might have become of her, wounded or incapacitated in that den of wolves?

He lay her down on her bed again now, careful not to drop her too suddenly. She grimaced anyway, then propped herself on one elbow.

“Take it off, please; cut the strings if you must, but leave the thing intact. It did cost a fortune.”

#wip wednesday #maria hawke #fenris #fenhawke #my writing #da2 #the red dress strikes again #long post #this might have been too much? oh well #thanks for the tag!!!#still trying to make fenris cry we'll see how it goes

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muertarte · 1 year

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PARTIES: @muertarte @thenavysealkie

TIMING: Last Week

SUMMARY: Metzli decides to go on a little hunt and tricks Marcus into thinking they need help with a drunkard. They don't! Marcus becomes a snack.

WARNINGS: Unsanitary, Alcohol, Eye Trauma

Metzli found themself in need of a fresh meal, an exciting hunt to grace their fangs into flesh. They had been good lately, taking out forgers and getting rid of them by feeding their friend. It wasn’t the same. Control was something they had an abundance of, but even Metzli, the robot, had to let the shackles recede. So they set out to lurk. Sit quietly on a bench, under a streetlamp they took out just outside the Short & Stout Brewery.

They sat quietly, watching as a man stumbled his way to the shrubbery only feet away from their seat. It was nice when the food delivered itself. In a matter of minutes, they found their unsuspecting donor— who apparently was drunkenly attempting to urinate in the shadows. Okay, maybe he wasn’t the one. Metzli had higher standards than that.

Regardless, he was too close for comfort, so they quietly rushed in and pushed his head into the shrub that was nearly a victim. He fell unceremoniously to the ground, immediately unconscious. That befuddled Metzli momentarily, believing it would take a lot more to incapacitate him. With a shrug, they went back to surveying, catching someone who was standing a little easier, not urinating, and alone. Perfect.

“Excuse me, sir.” Metzli took on the role of an innocent civilian, waving the man down. “Man has fallen.” They pointed, “Help?”

Marcus enjoyed a fun night at the brewery. There was music, dancing, and laughter, but nothing too overwhelming like some of the other bars in town. Sure, you’d get the occasional drunk asshole who overdid it, but they were still few and far between. In spite of this, Marcus watched as a man shakily rose from his seat and stumbled over to piss in a nearby bush. As the man left his field of view, he turned his attention back to his drink.

Some people just have no respect for the world around them, he thought to himself. He remembered what it was like, swimming in the vast ocean in his true seal form, before being unceremoniously choked by a sea of garbage floating in his path. He supposed the alcohol level in the drunkard’s urine couldn’t have been good for the shrub he was relieving himself into but it certainly wasn’t his place to start a fight over something like that.

His thoughts were soon interrupted by a person rushing towards him and trying to grab his attention. They pointed over to where the man had disappeared to earlier and explained that the man had fallen over. Shocking, Marcus thought to himself.

“Help?” the person asked him, looking at Marcus expectantly.

He was sure having the man wake up face first in a patch of grass soaked in his own urine was probably the wake up call the man needed, but the person in front of them seemed distressed and worried for the man’s safety. He sighed, and looked over to where the person was pointing.

“Alright, but he’s probably dead weight. I’m going to need to find a little help to drag him back over here.”

The man smelled…better than most. Alcohol permeated the air, nearly tainting the nearly divine smell that his blood had. Even without it exposed and readily available more Metzli to consume, they could feel their fang’s desire to extend. Tensing their body in an attempt at control, they sighed, making sure not to breathe in.

“Not dead.” Metzli stated bluntly, taking the stranger’s statement too literally. “But I can help. Am strong.” They waved for the man to follow, needing the whole situation to transpire faster. Once the two of them were under the cover of darkness, they’d strike. He just needed to get there first.

“Grab arms?” They asked, reaching the man who was snoring away without a care in the world. Metzli grimaced, disgusted by the scene. How anyone could drink that much was beyond them, but that didn’t really matter. Dinner was close. “Can grab legs. Or switch? Tell me which you want.” They opened and closed their fist, excitement pricking their skin like ants. Just a little more.

Marcus eyed the person in front of them with curiosity. They were certainly unique in their mannerisms, and that rang true for more than just their odd manner of speech. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes a bit when the phrase “dead weight” seemed to just go over their head. Marcus made a mental note not to use “over their head” around them so they wouldn’t start looking above themself.

As they beckoned him to follow he slowly made his way over, not too thrilled with having to haul some drunk back towards the bar. He caught a glimpse of the man as he snored loudly, somehow completely undisturbed by the situation. The effects that a strong drink and an undoubtedly damaged liver had on the mind never ceased to surprise him. He hesitated only briefly to watch the pitiable sight, before shrugging his shoulders and approaching the man.

“Right, let’s make this quick. Once we start moving this guy around there’s a good chance he’s going to vomit on one of or both of us. That being said, I’ll take the legs. Further away from his mouth that way”.

There was a twitch from the man, signs of hesitation blanketing him, weighing down his decision to help. Metzli couldn’t blame him. The pungent smell of the drunkard’s mess nearly pushing him away. Lucky for the vampire though, his need to help persisted, bringing him closer to where Metzli needed him. Darkness consumed them both, the perfect moment for them to pounce fast approaching. “Mhm…arms for me then.”

Metzli allowed their meal to take the lead, get in front of them for a better vantage point. It all fell into place, time moving just a bit slower as Metzli watched him kneel. That was the moment. It was perfect. Pouncing, Metzli pushed the two of them a few feet away, purposely missing the smelly mess, and landing the two in a dryer patch of earth. They rolled several times with the vampire landing on top, straddling his torso and holding him down by his throat.

“You can fight,” They muttered, “But is pointless.”

In an instant, Marcus found himself knocked to the ground, pinned by the seemingly frail stranger who now was easily overpowering him. It wasn’t an unfamiliar position, being bested by a physically superior opponent. Still, he couldn’t help but be astonished at the strength this person exuded. He didn’t have much time to think about the unexpected strength, however, as their hands soon found his throat.

Marcus, to his credit, was no pushover. He was physically in the prime of his life and was in great condition. He certainly had the muscles to show for it. Still, pushing with all of his might, he didn’t seem to be able to make his assailant budge. It was then that his military training kicked into overdrive. If you can’t overpower your opponent through strength alone, always search for alternative methods of gaining the upper hand.

It may have been dirty and underhanded, but Marcus felt himself losing oxygen fast. Quickly, he thrust a thumb from each hand into each eye of his would-be assassin. With a yelp, they reared back, giving Marcus enough of a window to twist his body and free himself from the hold they had on him. Rising to his feet, he met his adversary eye to somewhat injured eye.

Metzli hissed in pain as they rushed backwards, hand rushing to their face as their sight filled with darkness. “Mierda…” Involuntary tears welled in their eyes as they attempted to breathe in a soothing pattern to quell their pain as they refocused on the man. They rolled over their shoulder and blindly went for another tackle only finding purchase for a brief moment. At first, they wanted to just continue the pattern, maybe mindlessly punch at the man, but by every standard, that would be ineffective.

Struggling to see, the vampire pondered for a few moments, trying to find the correct course of action. Using their knife would kill their meal too soon, make the blood not as good. But maybe playing dirty would work. An eye for an eye. Yes, that was it. Quickly, Metzli blinked their vision back and grabbed ahold of their knife, throwing it toward their prey’s quad muscle and meeting their mark. It wasn’t meant to be fatal.

Just…a distraction.

Enough of one to give them time to grip a fistful of dirt and throw it into the man’s eyes. This granted Metzli the perfect opportunity to yoink an arm and hook their leg over it. They gained momentum, and took perch on his shoulders to hold him still as he sank to the ground. With a smile, Metzli held him in place as they maneuvered him into their chest, finally sinking their teeth into his neck.

Marcus still couldn’t wrap his head around why this random stranger had attacked him. Just as suddenly as he could process what was happening, this stranger was biting into his neck. Sharp pain came from Marcus’s neck, causing him to yell out in pain. He figured this person must be an escaped inmate from some nearby asylum, or on some very powerful drugs. Maybe a mixture of both. It didn’t matter, he knew that he needed to act quickly.

Marcus made a fist with one hand and swung around, landing a blow to his attacker’s nose while they were busy feasting. The momentum was enough for him to once again break free from their grasp and get some distance between the two of them before they were done tending to their own bleeding nose. Marcus placed a hand over his neck where the bite had occurred and was puzzled to find two very small puncture wounds, very unlike any wound human teeth would leave.

He knew that it would be unwise to stand his ground this time around, so instead Marcus opted to run away. Not towards the people and the bar, mind you, he didn’t want anybody to potentially be caught in the path of this psycho. Instead, he ran towards the cover of nearby trees. He would use the woods and the cover of night to his advantage, attempting to hide from his assailant until it was safe to make his getaway.

There, unfortunately, was one more problem that he had to contend with. When they bit into his neck, they must have been very accurate and hit an artery. He was unfortunately losing quite a bit of blood and his running and general panic wasn’t helping that in any way. He started feeling dizzy, but fought the feeling as much as he could. He needed cover, and fast.

Injuries were inevitable in any hunt. It was something every hunter had to get used to if they were going to do it avidly. Regardless, when it did happen, Metzli was always so annoyed, yet so excited. Food fighting back, they learned from their time with Honey, could make it all the more fun. And this meal in particular appeared to have some sort of training. He was following instinct, sure, but there was more to it.

Each move was deliberate and had tinge of experience in the force that was applied. The strike to the Metzli’s nose, in particular, was rather practiced. So much so that they hardly minded the way their nose broke. All in all, the prey was impressive, making it almost sad to be taking the life away. But, the vampire was hungry. There wasn’t much room to care enough to stop, let alone not give chase.

Metzli watched as the man sprinted away, massaging their nose back into place. Thanks to the blood they had already consumed, they could already feel it repairing itself slowly. They waited a few more beats, letting the man get a headstart to whatever hiding spot he deemed worthy. It wouldn’t work. Metzli would just follow his scent and then he’d be done for. It was only a matter of time until he felt too dizzy to continue anyway, and they wanted to get to him before that happened.

Finally ready, Metzli charged forward and followed the trail of blood the wounded prey left behind. They found him in no time at all, and that had them a bit miffed. One push and the man was on the ground. How boring. A small grumble escaped them, and they rolled their eyes with a sigh as they crouched next to the human. Metzli stared as they dragged their tongue over their fangs while they assessed. The whole ordeal was anticlimactic. There was no more fun to be had, and therefore no use in finishing the job. “Hmm…” They could just leave, couldn’t they? There was no one around.

Marcus awoke very early the next morning in a daze. His whole body ached severely, but his neck seemed to hurt him the most. He looked down at his body and noted dried blood staining his clothes, arm, and the ground beneath him. He couldn’t help but wonder just what the hell had happened to him, he tried to recall the events from the night before but couldn’t seem to. He had been in a few physical altercations in his time, but none that left him quite this sore. He also always at least remembered the ordeal afterwards, whether he won or lost. He figured he must have taken a pretty nasty blow to the head, but now wondered who could have picked a fight with him. Sure, he was drinking a bit last night, but not excessively. He knew he wouldn’t have been the one to initiate a fight with somebody, at least not anymore.

Marcus attempted to stand on very wobbly legs, and braced himself against a tree to give himself more support. He had never felt so weak in his life. Whoever he fought last night, they had beaten him, and beaten him badly. He found this odd, as his stature and training should have made him one of the more adept fighters in Wicked’s Rest. This observation could at least narrow down the list of possible suspects, but figuring out who it was would have to wait for later. Right now, his head hurt far too much to be able to think critically. Right now, his main focus was on trying to put one foot in front of the other and make it back home. Slowly, awkwardly he shuffled his way back towards town.

It was still the early twilight hours, and there wasn’t a soul out and about in Wicked’s Rest. At least, none that he could see. Good, he figured. Nobody was around to see the bloodied man stumbling across town. Probably for the best, as it isn’t like telling people what happened would be helpful in any way. What would he say? “Help, I got into a fight with somebody and I can’t remember who. Why yes, I was drinking, but not a lot I swear!” He elected to spare himself the embarrassment. He had already had more than his fair share of that. Instead, he wobbled back towards home for a proper rest after what was evidently a very difficult night.

#wickedswriting #writings #bloody ink #marcus and metzli #bait & switch #unsanitary tw #eye trauma tw

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warwickroyals · 2 years

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XLIII: COMING UP ROSES

Beginning | Previous | Next

Transcript under the cut - Click for HQ photos

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Phillip was always Katherine's favourite grandchild, I think. Sometimes I wish she wasn't d*ad so that I could include her more in my story. This convo will become relevant later for . . . reasons . . .

All likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Thank you for the support 💜

[FOOTMAN] Your Majesty, welcome. It is such a pleasure to have you . . .

[???] No amount of flowers can mask the stench of this place. It’s a glorified barnyard.

[???] How he was able to tolerate it here for all this time is beyond—What’s that doing here?

[FOOTMAN] I’m sorry, ma’am, but His Majesty the King insisted.

[???] Really? He insisted? How touching.

[FOOTMAN] Yes, in case of your incapacitation. Ma’am.

[KATHERINE] As exciting as the thought of my incapacitation is, I thought my son and I had already reached an agreement on the matter. The wheelchair is for public use only.

[KATHERINE] . . . and the locals here have nothing but praise for you. You’re the most perfect little farmhand, according to them. Seems you made the most of the dreadful situation. Fancy a smoke?

[PHILLIP] I’m supposed to be cutting back, actually.

[KATHERINE] Cutting back? Your father shipped you off to this cow-dung invested wasteland and hasn’t allowed you the slightest luxury since. Do you really think I believe you’ve been “cutting back”?

[PHILLIP] I said supposed to be cutting back, didn’t I? I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of accepting right away.

[KATHERINE] The look in your eyes when I asked was enough. I know a habitual smoker when I see one.

[KATHERINE] You know, I started out as a social smoker. When I was young and starry-eyed, I smoked because that’s what all my alleged friends did and so did our husbands and their friends. But now, all these years later, everyone is one of the Three Ds—[PHILLIP] The Three Ds?—Divorced, disgraced, or dead, darling. All I have left are the cigarettes and I’ve realized that they’re far better company.

Enjoy that, it will be your last one for a while. Things at home are as hectic as ever. Your father has been twisting James’s arm all summer and we’re expecting him to propose to that Frensworth girl any day now.

[PHILLIP] [MUFFLED] Tatiana? You don’t like her.

[KATHERINE] I don’t dislike her, although I worry about that hair. Also, she thinks she’s in love. That’s strike one, right out the gate. You can never marry into this family just for love. It will never be enough, that’s exactly what your mother did.

[PHILLIP] Are you going to stop it? You have this terrible stare. I always thought you would arrange something.

[KATHERINE] Don’t be stupid, this might be a monarchy but we live in the modern world. Your father told James he could have any high-born, mild-mannered girl of his choice and Lady Tatiana happens to be it. I just hate seeing her going in blind.

[KATHERINE] I’m surprised James hasn’t told you anything about her.

[PHILLIP] James and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. He hasn’t called me once.

[KATHERINE] I know. I spoke to him in person last week. Do you want to know what he told me?

[PHILLIP] Not really, but I’m sensing I don’t have a choice in this upcoming lecture.

[KATHERINE] You’re right, you don’t. Phillip, I’m worried about you. Not because of what James told me, but because you seem completely lost. I don’t see a hint of motivation in you. Have you been studying for your entrance exam?

[PHILLIP] There’s no point. I’ll still get in even if I fail, fat chance Father will let them reject me.

[KATHERINE] This is exactly what I mean. On top of that you lied—I know, I know—For months. Phillip! You lied to your parents about being sober for months. I want you to tell me—I don’t—I want you to tell me, tell me: why?

[PHILLIP] Because. I guess I thought . . . I could stop whenever I wanted, or something, and it wouldn’t be a big deal.

[KATHERINE] Phillip. You can lie to your parents, but you know well and good that I can see through you.

[PHILLIP] Well, you people keep asking me for the truth but when I actually say it, it’s not what you want to hear. I lied because it was easier than telling them the truth. Dad keeps saying that I’m going to get myself killed, but, if I somehow went clean and things went back to the way they were before . . . I’d probably still kill myself.

[PHILLIP So, it’s like no matter what I do or how hard I try, I end up in the same place. Everyone acts like I’m just misguided and that there’s this happier, sober version of me buried under it all. But that person is still me and he’s not all that great, either. At least when I’m high I don’t care what other people think or say about me. I care too much otherwise.

[KATHERINE] What about the third version of yourself?

[PHILLIP] What third version?

[KATHERINE] The one version of you that’s sitting across from me. He’s sober, honest, and very much alive.

[PHILLIP] One bad day, Grandma, that’s all it will take for me to slide right back into it.

[KATHERINE] When James and I spoke, he said what frustrated him the most about you was your pessimism—I don’t really care what James has to say about me—Would you be shocked if I told you that he’s been struggling, too?

[KATHERINE] This is the royal family, darling. Whatever sibling rivalry bullshit is going on between you two, it needs to end. You are brothers. If you can’t be there for each other, you won’t be able to support anyone else who enters your lives.

[PHILLIP] I know, but he’s always acting like he’s so much better than me. More important. And I’m just a lost cause.

[KATHERINE] I understand. But James needs you, Phillip, more than you think. He might be the heir, but he can do the job alone.

[KATHERINE] Don’t you forget who you are. You’re still a Warwick.

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diana-bookfairchild · 1 year

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Title: those who have never sought it Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: None. Warnings: Canon level violence. Trauma. Flashbacks of a sort Prompt: @badthingshappenbingo - Killing in Self-Defense @whumpcember - The End is Nigh and Desperation

Peter had just—

He’d killed. He’d activated the Instant Kill Mode.

He remembered asking Mr. Stark exactly what that setting was supposed to do. He’d been going through Karen’s coding in the lab, adding what Ned and he’d figured out for a sort of explosive GPS. They’d thought it might help with the Queens Arsonist.

Mr. Stark had looked solemn. He’d put away the fabricator to come talk to him. “Kid,” he’d said. “I dragged you to Germany. It was wrong of me, incredibly so, but I did. That was … the big leagues. Your groundwork is important, but things like that – they could get you killed.”

Peter had swallowed. He was hardly unaware of mortality. If burying empty coffins for his parents at age six hadn’t driven that lesson in, holding Ben as he bled out on the asphalt certainly had.

But Mr. Stark’s heavy tone spoke to horrors even beyond those. It reminded Peter of trying to figure out a way to dig a bullet out of himself one of his first weeks Spider-Manning, of being helpless as the Vulture’s claws choked the breath out of him and his vision blurred, of the sad, grave look on May’s face when she lost someone from FEAST or at the hospital, of the dark circles under Ned’s eyes after Peter woke up post two days in a medically induced coma, of inhaling dirt and sobbing desperately as he tried to hold up the collapsed warehouse.

Mr. Stark had clapped a hand on his shoulder tightly. “Instant Kill’s a last resort. It’s ridiculously dangerous, and Karen’s programmed to reflect that. But I’d rather you have that if there’s even the slightest chance it might help you someday.”

And now it was.

And Peter loathed it.

He didn’t want to kill.

It wasn’t that Peter didn’t respect people who he knew had killed. He knew Mr. Stark had killed many terrorists and aliens and blah blah blah. He was an Avenger, and that wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. He knew Miss Potts had killed Obadiah Stane and The Mandarin. Daredevil didn’t pull his punches with his villains. Deadpool was a straight up mercenary.

But the whole concept behind Spider-Man was that he showed mercy. He’d sworn before Uncle Ben’s grave that he would never walk past a tragedy he could prevent again.

And killing was always a tragedy. What right did Peter, seventeen-year-old high schooler, have to be judge, jury and executioner? The Vulture was a villain, but he was also Liz’s dad. How many others were like that?

Yet Peter stood now, with the world’s most powerful collection of rocks in his hand, swinging desperately and leaving dead bodies in his wake.

They were aliens, but they were sentient beings. Peter’s animal rights sensibilities brain screamed every time he punched one and one of his pincers killed them.

It’s self-defense, he told himself firmly. I have to do it. Just incapacitating them isn’t enough – they’ll just get back up. I don’t know how quick or well aliens get rejuvenated.

And now that he’d killed once – several times, in fact – he knew the option of killing would never leave his brain. Every time this happened, he would hesitate lesser and lesser to kill.

And the line between hero and villain – especially vigilante and villain, according to certain police officers and newspapers – was very thin.

Overwhelmed by his thoughts and the unending stream of hostiles trying to take the gauntlet, he cried out for help. He had about two seconds to fanboy over Captain America being able to wield Mjolnir and having a nickname for him before chaos reigned once more.

Miss Potts saved his life, and a very nice woman on a Pegasus. Peter rolled over, gasping for breath, trying to hide himself from the enemies who wanted the gauntlet.

This is going to end soon, he told himself. From his perspective, he’d fought at Titan with Mr. Stark and Dr. Strange and the Guardians of the Galaxy just to end up on Earth continuing the fight.

Dr. Strange had said it’d been five years, but that hadn’t really processed until he saw the older, more ragged version of Mr. Stark staring at him like he was a miracle, cradling his face like he was something precious, holding him like he would never let go, showing emotion in a way he would’ve never allowed himself to just a day – five years ago.

It had to end soon.

Dr. Strange had said that there was only once chance out of 14000605 that they won. This had to be it.

Right?

Anxiety roped through his chest, making it hard to breathe. The stones glinted in the dull lighting and off the blood and dirt. Pretty, he thought absently.

The blue one was obviously the Tesseract – the Space Stone, Dr. Strange had called it. Anybody who had the internet would know that one, after the Battle of New York.

The sandy one – the Mind Stone - he was used to seeing on Vision’s face. He wondered how Thanos had gotten it in the end. It hadn’t been in the Gauntlet on Titan.

The orange one sent chills down his body. He hadn’t known what it was prior to being turned into dust, but he certainly did now. He didn’t know how the others had felt it, but he’d felt his body disintegrating, the Soul Stone pulling him into its void.

The screams around him were intense. As discomposed as he was right now, he could hear everything. Mr. Stark’s repulsors – or were they Miss Potts’ or Colonel Rhodes’ or Princess Shuri’s? The whoosh at Ant-Man expanding or shrinking in size. The whirring in the spaceship above them. The flapping of the Pegasus’ wings. Parts of the Compound still collapsing. Someone asking for the Gauntlet.

Peter gave a strangled laugh. This was what was being fought over. The glove in his hand was one of the most - if not the most powerful - weapons in the universe.

Absurdly, he was reminded of playing Passing-the-Parcel in Abe Brown’s birthday party in third grade. He’d prayed not to get out. He supposed the stakes were just a tad higher in this game.

He heard repulsors whir again, and felt his stomach tighten. What would Miss Potts do if Mr Stark died? What would T’Challa do if Shuri died? What would Mr Stark do if Miss Potts or Colonel Rhodes died?

What would he do if Mr Stark died?

This was going to end soon. It had to.

But how was it going to end? What would happen?

What if Thanos showed up right now and snatched the gauntlet from him? What if the Squidward-lookalike turned up again?

The spaceship above them clanked and tumbled. He heard guns and satellites being loaded in there. What were they aiming at? Was he going to be blown up into the bits of dust and dirt he liked to imagine Ben was still watching him from?

He could know, he realized suddenly. He had a foolproof way right in his hands.

He remembered the way Dr. Strange spasmed while invoking the Time Stone, how he’d looked at Mr Stark and said solemnly that it was the only way before dying. He remembered learning about paradoxes and how knowing the future can sometimes be worse than not. He remembered the gauntlet coming into his hands on Titan, victory slipping through his fingers like fine sand. He remembered begging Mr Stark to save him as he fell apart.

He looked back at the Stones. They glowed tantalizingly.

There was a plan, he thought. Something about a van and a time machine. How could he know better than so many experienced heroes?

But then. He remembered reading about Sokovia. He remembered kneeling in front of Ben as he gasped his dying breaths. He remembered sobbing with desperation and cleaning dirt encrusted blood off his arms later.

He remembered the choked cry the first alien he had killed had let out right before they stopped breathing.

Never again.

He dug out the green glowing Time Stone from the gauntlet, thankful for his super strength, and on an afterthought took the red and purple ones too.

He wanted to change reality, after all. And that would take a lot of power.

He wasn’t sure how to use the stones. Dr. Strange was the time keeper and Thanos had just waved his hand around to use them.

He felt the sheer power, the radiation eating away at his body and spirit. His Spider-sense rang like a bell.

Thoughts, memories, emotions swirled around him in a vortex.

I am never walking past another tragedy I can prevent.

I don’t want to ever kill again.

—And another Parker grave added to the set —

May. Ned. Mr Stark. MJ. They have to be okay.

—And Ben was dying again, his blood spilling over his hands and their clothes and the dirt —

What is going to happen?

—And May was saying “It’s just me and you” —

How do we win?

—And Ned and he were high-fiving as they opened their acceptance letters to Midtown —

W H A T D O I H A V E T O D O

— And Mr Stark was scolding him for being reckless while patching him up as he tried to convince him that building a lightsaber would be a great idea —

H O W D O I M A K E S U R E

—And Ned was screaming in excitement as he swung from the building and saved someone else from the fire —

I N E E D T O K N O W

—And he was brushing the spider off after the sudden sting, impatient and wanting to re-join the tour group—

D O I N E E D T O C H A N G E A N Y T H I N G

—And he’d just accidentally broken down a door and was staring at it in bewilderment—

G O O O D M U S T P R E V A I L

—And MJ was smirking at him right after driving Flash away and tossing him a drawing of him ‘in crisis’—

A H A P P Y E N D I N G?

He blinked his eyes open.

His eyelids felt unusually heavy.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” A voice mused, and suddenly Peter knew who he was and what he was doing there.

“Son of Mary and Richard,” Another voice joined.

“Beloved of Maybelle and Benjamin and Anthony and Edward and Michelle and Morgan,” A third added.

“We hear your request,” All three chorused.

Peter stumbled to his feet, wrung out. He wasn’t sure where the hell he was. He wasn’t sure of anything – least of all how he felt after that rollercoaster of memories and sensations.

“So, you’re going to grant it--?” He asked awkwardly.

The view shook like it was an optical illusion. The part that didn’t was the cemetery – where his parents and Ben were laid to rest. One moment the three were humanoid figures. The next they were large rocks. They glowed the colour of the Infinty Stones.

Peter couldn’t feel his body or his Spidey Sense, but he could somehow tell the one which was speaking was faintly amused. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“It’s opposing the previous thing you did,” he pointed out. “Or – well, I don’t know if it counts because you’re from the past—”

“We are infinity, child,” one said indifferently. “What would that matter?”

“We merely perform the functions for which we were created,” the third said. “Which includes following the orders of the worthy. The Timekeeper – Stephen Strange – proved himself by showing perseverance, accepting the death of his mentor, and mastering the Mystic Arts. Thanos did by being powerful, determined and a leader enough to collect all of us despite the sacrifices and struggles he had to go through. Anthony Stark would have proven himself by being willing to give up everything, through his sheer will and love.”

Mr Stark would have what--?

“What would the nature of the command do to us?” The first one said idly, still sounding amused. “Whatever happens, whatever goes on in the universes – Time, Space, Mind, Power, Soul and Reality remain constant.”

“Though not so much in this case,” The third continued, “You do wish to mold reality, child?”

Peter felt his ghosts pressing into him. It was his mom and dad, teaching him to become who he was, Uncle Ben who handed over the most important lesson of his life, Aunt May who endured and loved, Ned who was steadfast, Mr Stark who understood and equipped. “Whatever it takes.”

They considered him. “So young,” they hissed as one. “To be carrying the burdens of so many.”

And then suddenly Peter wasn’t in that limbo – he was Carol Danvers who felt a smug sense of satisfaction at blowing up the ship and empathy for teenage superhero Peter Parker; he was Steve Rogers who became worthy of Mjolnir and fought to the bitter end and his happy ending; he was Tony Stark who looked over the compound and thought of his family and decided it was worth it; he was May Parker looming helplessly over her nephew as he grieved at the funeral of someone else he loved; he was Morgan Stark as she stared at the stars and grew up; he was Sam Wilson being handed a legacy; he was T’Challa learning to rule a kingdom he’d been absent from five years; he was Yelena Belova and screaming and raging at the unfairness of the world; he was America Chavez traversing one universe after another in search of something she couldn’t name; he was Ned Leeds discovering magic; he was May Parker reinforcing her husband’s lesson; he was Michelle Jones watching helplessly as the boy she loved disappeared from the world and her mind; he was Peter Parker deciding not to involve the people he loved in his mess; he was Johnny Storm agreeing lazily to a trip in space; he was Queen Shuri screaming her grief into the world and meeting T’Challa the second; he was Jane Foster hoping for a cancer treatment; he was Thor looking for life’s meaning again; he was Shang-Chi being sent on the mission that would change life forever; he was Captain Monica Rambeau getting sucked into the Scarlet Witch’s world; he was Jennifer Walters getting powers; he was Wanda Maximoff destroying Mount Wundagore – he was so many and no one at all at once.

He was Peter Parker crouched in the ditch in the battlefield in the Battle of Earth, Peter Parker at Tony Stark’s funeral, Peter Parker stumbling over his words to confess his feelings to MJ before she pointed out the drone, Peter Parker holding his aunt’s body begging her to wake up, Peter Parker meeting his dimensional counterparts and thinking family, Peter Parker at the Statue of Liberty, Peter Parker kissing Johnny Storm as the world ended, Peter Parker going out in a burst of explosions and glory against Kang. He was all of them and yet someone new.

Peter blinked. His eyelids were surprisingly heavy. His brain tried to reorganize itself from the scrambled mess it had become, hurriedly trying to incorporate the injected memories.

He’d asked what would happen.

He supposed he’d gotten his answer.

“I think you broke the boy,” The perpetually amused one said interestedly.

“I’m fine,” Peter said. He thought his throat would be dry if he could actually feel it. “I. . .”

In the end, it wasn’t all bad. Thanos would die. Kingpin would be defeated as the Vulture was. The Incursion would be prevented. Beyonder, Titania and the others of the alliance would fall. Kang’s reign would be ended. Humanity would push on as it always did, cockroaches in the fabric of reality.

But in the meantime. . . So much suffering. So much pain. So much tragedy that could be prevented.

But what could he do? He was just one person. Sure, he’d been and would be important in fights and confrontations that changed the world, but he couldn’t singlehandedly overturn every single disaster, much less ones of as epic proportions as Thanos and the Alliance and Infinity Ultron and Kang.

“A happy ending,” The apathetic one mulled over the words. “That was your wish. How would you propose that happen?”

“I guess I’ll go back and try to prevent some of the worse things from happening. . .?” Peter volunteered, entirely unenthused about the prospect. How was he supposed to stop Mr Stark from snapping? Or Wanda from going crazy with grief? Or Wilson Fisk from running the mafia?

What even qualified as bad things? Johnny getting his powers had been traumatic, but he’d later helped save the world multiple times and – Peter would’ve blushed if he could’ve. He thought the Human Torch had been happy by the end.

Peter suddenly felt sick and wished fervently he hadn’t done this. He had no idea what to do or how to resolve any of the numerous moral quandaries he needed to in order to progress. He'd killed. He'd taken life. Surely that should have gotten rid of some of his ethics?

“Would that give you your happy ending?” The third – the humane - one inquired. “Everyone you care for alive? The world saved?”

Peter was motionless and he felt his Spidey Sense give a long warble before curling down to settle.

If you expect disappointment, then you can never really get disappointed.

Everyone wants a happy ending, right?

Everything Spider-Man touches comes to ruin.

Okay, so let ‘em do their thing. You can go work on a fallback plan.

Strong enough to have it all, too weak to take it.

If you’re nothing without the suit, you shouldn’t have it.

You have a gift. You have power. And with great power, there must also come great responsibility.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked, resigned.

“’Want me to do’,” The amused one said, savouring each word. “Nothing, boy. But it was your wish to have your happy ending.”

“And that isn’t possible in this timeline,” the humane one continued.

Peter had to agree. He hated it, but he agreed. Even if he snapped right now instead of Mr Stark, EDITH existed and Quentin Beck would want it, the Multiverse would still break but instead of him some poor sorcerer apprentice would be caught up in it, without him around Fisk would be a lot more open with his general shadiness, Shuri would still lose everything, MJ and Ned would still get caught up in some nonsense because they were people with large hearts and a deep intelligence and he wouldn’t be there to save them, and without his sacrifice Kang might be able to get the edge on them.

Peter was one insignificant soul – but in the grand scale of things he did matter.

“So what do I do?”

“You picked up Time, Power and me,” The indifferent one – Reality, apparently – said. “What was your intention there?”

“Um,” Peter said dumbly. “Dr. Strange used the – Time to see the future, which is what I wanted to do. And I wanted to change it if I needed to so Reality – you.”

“And you thought I would be necessary to do that,” The amused one, Power, said.

“Which is fair enough,” Time, the humane one, said. “Since that is what allows us to do this.”

“Do what?” Peter asked, alarm stirring. His Sense gave a light buzz but didn’t tingle, which probably meant this wasn’t going to harm him.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Power thundered.

“Bearer of the gauntlet,” Time said.

“Holder of Infinity,” Reality announced.

“You will be sent back to your body on the date of May 23rd 2016,” Time glowed oddly at the words.

Peter was still stuck on the point. “Wait – time travel? Like Back to the Future? Or Peggy Sue got married?”

“You did agree that The Battle of the Earth is a point of no return for your happy ending,” Reality pointed out boredly. “The only logical conclusion is to therefore send you to sometime where you can work towards it.”

“Foster better relationships with the other Avengers and diplomacy with alien planets,” Power said, like he – she – they – it? Was ticking items off a list. “Take down Kingpin and Vulture sooner. Stabilize the multiverse.”

“You say that like it’s simple,” Peter said vaguely – but his mind was whirring.

There were so many things he could do better. So much he could make easier for Ned and Mr Stark and Dr. Strange and the Avengers.

The chance to have a do-over was something people would give anything for. Excitement and panic began to build up. Something occurred to him. “Why May 2016? Why – why not before?”

Ben, he thought longingly. Ben had died in January. He could go back. He could - he could save him, apologize to him, see him again—

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Time said gently. “The day you met Anthony Stark is the day you were set on this path. Your being bitten by the spider and Benjamin Parker’s death are universal constants. Them being changed would be too much too quick.”

Peter swallowed his bitterness and the stinging in his eyes. He supposed his parents’ and Ben’s survival would be too much to ask.

The world is unfair, he thought, remembering MJ telling him she loved him on Liberty Island, the blood and dirt and the light fading from the eyes of Ben and Mr Stark and May, Ned’s desolate eyes when he’d learned his dad’s fate, the way Shuri screamed when her mother died, Johnny’s final supernova, dying in pain and alone without knowing Kang had been defeated, but it’s ours. I have power. Power to change everything, to give us a happier ending. The end is close, but so is a new beginning. I have a responsibility to everyone who doesn’t have that power.

“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. “I’m doing this.”

“Excellent,” Reality said briskly. “Now—”

“You must choose your companions,” Power said, voice light. “Whom will you choose?”

“W-What do you mean?” Peter asked, thrown off.

“You may choose five companions,” Reality said.

“One for each of us,” Power said.

“I can choose?” he asked, bewildered.

“Your happy ending,” Reality reminded him brightly. “Your choice.”

His happy ending. That had been his final, most fervent wish when handling the Stones. No wonder they were harping on that so much.

Peter wished he could feel his corporeal body, because he really wanted to pinch himself. Aliens, space, Infinity Stones. . . It was hard to believe only a day ago to him he’d been on a field trip to MoMA listening to Flash moan about the horrid bus conditions.

But how the hell could he choose?

He needed people whom he trusted, but who would also be ready to give everything up to save the world.

Peter wasn’t unaware of what he was doing. He may be dazed, but he was a smart kid, as Mr Stark often told him. He was giving up his May, his Ned, his MJ, his Johnny, his Shuri, his Matt, his Wade, the life that would have been his – tragic, sure, but also filled with love and laughter and heroism.

He needed to find people who would have been worse off if this timeline continued.

One choice was instant. He ticked all the boxes, and he was one of the people Peter loved and trusted most in the world. “Mr Stark.”

The Stones gave no sign as to what their opinion of his choice was.

Mr Stark covered the Avengers, and earthly heroes. If he needed to build bridges with aliens and maintain the multiverse, he needed people experienced in that – “Dr. Strange.” He remembered the future he saw for Dr. Strange. He liked America Chavez, from what he’d seen of her, and hoped the doctor would be able to find her sooner.

Two safe ones. Now to shake the boat a bit.

Aliens were harder. He supposed one of the Guardians of the Galaxy would do, but he couldn’t think of how they might have any power over the entirety of space. He considered Thor – Thor, the strongest, the god of thunder, Peter’s bi reveal – but what he needed was someone subtler. Someone sneakier. Someone who practiced magic.

Controversial, but he’d died. Peter thought he could cut him some slack. “Loki.”

Avengers. Aliens. Multiverse. For the street level, though. . . . He needed someone with power on the business side of things. Someone who was strong, who had managed Stark Industries and its trade and resources with other planets and countries for years after becoming a widow. Someone without whom Morgan – Morgan, his beloved little sister – couldn’t exist. “Mrs. Potts.”

Peter suddenly realized he’d already filled four spots. He only had one left. He longed to say May or Ned. May and Ned, who had been there with him since his parents had died nearly a decade ago. May and Ned, the two people whom he loved most in the world. May and Ned, who were invaluable to him, but held no significant power when it came to changing the world.

Peter closed his eyes to prevent the rush of tears. It seemed his physicality could change when he felt devastation. With these words, he was losing his emotional support as he knew them. May would go back to being the fun aunt who had no idea he was Spider-Man. Ned would be the happy-go-lucky best friend, not the traumatized sorcerer and programmer who’d grown with him and faced multiversal dangers.

This is my power. This is my responsibility. The Green Goblin was wrong. I am Spider-Man.

“Shuri.” Shuri, his friend, who had lost everything the way Peter had. She deserved a chance for a do-over too. And she could help advance technology to the level it was in space, and help T’Challa and Mr Stark and Mrs Potts influence the UN and the wider world.

“Wise choices,” Reality said, for once sounding solemn.

“And you did not choose selfishly,” Power observed. “Very well, Peter Parker. The best of luck on your mission. We have fulfilled your desire to the best of our abilities.”

“Your happy ending, your future is now up to you,” Reality said, once more sounding entertained.

“Selflessness must be rewarded.” Time said. “And so as a final gift: knowledge of the Time Variance Authority. And Edward Leeds.”

Peter’s blood rushed through his head as more knowledge filled it, and simultaneously joy and relief sprung through him. Ned.

The world filled with the colours of infinity.

It looked like the Soul Stone’s realm.

The six people he’d chosen stood in front of him.

“Pete?” Mr Stark asked, sounding confused. “What’s going on?”

Peter straightened with glorious purpose.

My power. My responsibility.

My happy ending.

“We have a mission,” he began.

#bad things happen bingo #whumpcember #mcu peter parker #mcu fandom #peter parker #fanfiction #ao3 fic #canon divergent au #avengers endgame #irondad #infinity stones #time travel

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writereleaserepeat · 2 years

Text

Gnashing of Teeth - Chapter One

Two years ago, Sasha signed away his humanity in exchange for paying off his debts to the mob. Now he’s not just subhuman, but a prize fighter, set against other unfortunate souls in no-holds-barred matches. Each win earns his new masters cash, and each fight gets him a few days closer to the end of his contract. But this is a brutal industry, and there’s no guarantee Sasha will live to see another day, with death awaiting at the whims of his masters. What chance does a monster like him have at rescue and rehabilitation?

// Next

CW: pet whump, dehumanization, forced exercise, non-con drug use

Sasha glanced at the timer on the machine. Five more minutes.

Yeah, I can do five more minutes.

The treadmill beneath his feet moved at a grueling six-minute mile pace. It wasn’t a grueling pace on its own, at least not for a man of his athleticism, but it was having to keep the pace for the better part of an hour that had him exhausted. If he had any say in the matter he would have slowed down at least three miles earlier.

A metal collar soldered around Sasha’s neck was a pressing reminder that he had no meaningful autonomy, neither in his running regiment nor any other matter. The chain padlocked to the collar’s ring attached to the wall beyond the treadmill, and the chains rattled with each subsequent footfall. It was the only music he was treated to while he ran himself to the bone.

Each breath he drew scraped against a dry throat, tongue like a piece of sandpaper in his mouth. Sweat dripped from every pore, some falling into his eyes, all but blinding him with the sting of salt. It pooled beneath the metal collar around his neck and gradually eased some of its friction against his skin.

He almost startled when the door behind him swung open, and it took all of his focus to keep his footing. If he fell at this speed, the treadmill would skin him alive.

“You’re rasping a bit, Sasha.” The handler’s voice grated like gravel against Sasha’s skin. “Are you tired?”

“No, sir,” Sasha panted. If he failed to answer, he knew that the handlers were liable to add another mile to the run.

“You sure? You sound tired.”

“Not tired, sir,” Sasha said. “Focused.”

“Good.” He could hear the smirk in the man’s voice. “You should be focused. As soon as you’re done there, you’re getting tested for dope. If you’re clean, you’re back in the pit tomorrow, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.” The response was automatic. Even as breathless as Sasha was, he wanted to scream, let his frustration tear free from his chest. It hadn’t even been two weeks since his last bout, and he had hardly recovered from it - another one of the fighters must have been killed or incapacitated if they were putting Sasha back in so quickly.

The overwhelming thought of another fight made the final two minutes of the run pass quickly. Before Sasha knew it the treadmill was slowing beneath his feet, groaning as it came to a walk, then finally to a stop. The handler came and clipped a lead to his collar before releasing the padlock that had kept Sasha confined to the treadmill. And although Sasha’s own chain now ceased its rattling, the room still echoed with the gasping breaths and jangling restraints of the two other fighters chained to their own respective equipment.

Sasha eyed the cattle prod the handler kept in his left hand. The pinprick burn scars that criss-crossed his abdomen were more than enough proof that the instrument was effective, and for just a moment Sasha felt the impulse to grab it and turn it on the man beside him.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, he reminded himself. Ever since they had begun pumping him full of steroids and testosterone he had struggled to keep a clear head. Anger came easily, and rage followed shortly after. He grit his teeth and drew in a deep breath through his nose, easily disguised as an effort to slow his breathing after the run, pulling himself away from the heat of emotion. A slight tug on the lead snapped his focus back to the present moment.

“C’mon. I really don’t feel like dragging you brutes around today, so it’d make me real happy if you just listened, capiche?”

Sasha wasn’t sure that the handler could feel anything resembling happiness, but he nodded and answered anyway. Anything less than neutrality meant he would get a cattle prod to the ribs.

“Yes, sir.” And with that he took small steps towards the door on aching legs.

#whump #pet whump #whumplr #whump community #original characters #non bbu whump #gnashing of teeth

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misskgetsfit · 2 years

Text

My almost yearly Facebook post that I thought I’d share here too, just in case it helps

Dear Friends,

It’s time.

This Thursday, September 8, is R U OK Day. This is not the first time I’ve written about this and it will not be the last.

I am not OK

It’s not a secret that I’ve battled depression and anxiety for many, many years. But I’ve survived. I’ve sought help as I’ve needed it, from loved ones, friends and professionals. And I’ve managed. I’ve worked my way up the corporate ladder. I’ve developed a handful of wonderful, caring, close friends. I’ve met and married a wonderful man. We’ve got two beautiful dogs, have just moved into a beautiful house (I’m building a freaking home library).

But right now, I am not ok. I am far from it.

What is a sort of secret to a lot of people is that I have become incapacitated by my illness.

Covid, lockdowns, the past, the future, the current shitshow that is the world we live in has a lot to answer for. And since October last year my mental illness has taken over my life. I have been hospitalised 3 times, and will soon be making a call for my next stay (because sometimes, that’s the treatment we need).

I worked for as long as I could, each day, each week, watching myself perform less and less to the standard that I am accustomed to for myself until I reached the point where I needed to take an extended period of leave.

I struggle to get out of bed. I struggle with the worst kinds of intrusive thoughts. My house is a mess. I can go days without showering. I take a litany of medications to get through. I ignore texts and emails. My phone is nearly always on DND.

This is a scary place to exist in. I know that with a break and continued treatment, I’ll be back to myself. With good days and bad days, but on a more “normal”, a more “balanced” way. But how do I prove to others that this is true? The secrecy behind mental illness, the stigma, the shame, has the possibility of the worst consequences imaginable.

The worst part is, that if it was a different illness, cancer, broken limbs, viral infections, long covid or even the ups and downs of parental leave, I might be less scared. I might be more open to conversations about what lies ahead, what my treatment plans looks like with less judgement from others. Without fear of saying yes or no to different events because of what I can cope with of any given day.

As always, I beg of you to not ask someone if they are ok if you do not mean it. If you would not ask the question on any other day of the year, don’t ask on Thursday. If you are genuinely concerned about someone, think about the conversation, be prepared for the any answer they might give.

Is it odd that I’ve shared so publicly (and yes, I have deliberately made this public and shareable)? Potentially. But I am an advocate for mental illness, health and safety. We need to be able to have honest and open conversations. If I can give you the courage to reach out and talk to someone (even if that someone is me) then I have done something good.

It is OK to not be OK, and there is so shame in asking for help.

Some resources available to you include:

- your GP

- a friend/trusted family member

- Lifeline (https://www.lifeline.org.au/)

- Beyond blue (https://www.beyondblue.org.au/)

- Headspace (headspace.org.au)

- Australian Psychological Association (https://psychology.org.au/)

Much love,

Kate

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bloodytalonswhump · 2 years

Note

Something for delirium maybe?

Delirium - Elijah

Warnings: no major warnings in this one!

Story under the cut.

Elijah

In and out, in and out. He's breathing- he's alive.

For now, at least.

It hurts. What hurts? Him- he’s in pain. He tries to focus, to pin down where he hurts, but it only makes the pain worse.

His eyes are closed, but he can still see light beyond his eyelids. On. Off. Light, then dark. Day, then night, then day again.

It’s cold.

Chase

He crouches near Elijah’s head and lifts it carefully, slipping a pillow underneath it. “Shh, shh.”

Elijah shifts and his brow furrows, but he doesn’t wake.

It terrifies him to see Elijah like this- beaten and bruised over every inch of his body, deep wounds in his shoulder and side, far too thin from the Court starving him. His hair has grown out quite a bit as well during the several months it’d been since he’d gotten captured. Now it falls down over his forehead and around his ears, and Chase keeps having to push it back.

How many days has it been? He hasn’t really been counting- he’d been too busy taking care of Elijah. Matthias would know for sure, but he’s also hurt and is sleeping across the room, so Chase guesses it’s been about a week with Elijah completely incapacitated.

He hates the Court for doing this to Elijah.

Elijah shifts again, making a soft, pained noise. Chase brushes his hand across his forehead, trying to gauge his fever. It’s high, he can tell, but they don’t have a thermometer, and even if they did, he doesn’t know if it’d read accurately for them. Talons run colder than humans, after all.

He glances away, thinking that he should get a damp rag or something to help with the fever, but his attention is jerked back when Elijah grabs his wrist.

Is he awake? His eyes were open.

“Hey, ‘Lijah.”

Elijah seems to stare through him, mouth moving slightly, a barely audible whisper escaping his lips.

When Chase leans in, he realizes that he’s begging.

“Please- please, I’m sorry- please- I won’t fight anymore, please- please- I’m sorry- I’m so sorry- please- I don’t want to die, please- please, sir- Grandmaster- please!”

Chase carefully pulled his wrist away from Elijah, brushing back the hair that’s sticking to his forehead. “Shh, shh. You’re safe now, okay? The Court’s not here. I got you out.”

Elijah keeps staring through him, lips still moving but no sound coming out anymore. He’s shaking, and after another minute of waiting for him to notice he’s there, Chase stands up and goes to get him a damp washcloth and the last blanket.

Giving it to Elijah means he won’t have anything to keep himself warm, but hopefully it will keep Elijah a little more comfortable while he goes and finds food.

Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll get the opportunity to steal another blanket, and maybe some medicine or something to try and help Elijah’s fever.

Elijah

Someone is touching him.

He jerks away and it hurts, badly enough that he thinks he screams.

The hands come back, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him down, trapping him. He fights them, but every little movement hurts too badly and he can’t manage for long.

Something cool and damp is laid across his forehead- that doesn’t hurt. Why?

He doesn’t understand what’s going on. Half the time everything hurts him, and half the time it’s trying to help him.

He doesn’t know what to trust.

———

Chase, a few days later

Elijah’s getting more and more conscious every day, which is probably good. He’s still not awake, really, but he’s starting to react more when Chase touches him, and on the rare occasions his eyes are open he looks at Chase instead of through him.

Elijah keeps kicking off the blankets, though, and that worries him. The fever hasn’t gone down, even with the help of some medicine and the cool cloth he tries to keep on Elijah’s forehead whenever possible.

It would be fine for Elijah to kick off the blankets if it weren’t the middle of winter, or if they were somewhere more sheltered, but as it is the two layers of blankets Chase has pinned over the broken window don’t do much to keep out the cold.

He’s moved Elijah over next to Matthias, and he’s taken to sleeping right next to them as well, but even with their body heat, Elijah will freeze if he doesn’t have a blanket.

#whump #bad things happen bingo #bthb #bthb card #delirium #sickfic #recovery whump #environmental whump #whump writing #whump community #whump prompt #writing #angst #ask game #ask me anything #Elijah Cross #Chase Whitney #Matthias Carter #eema writes

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paperanddice · 2 years

Text

Living guns are a dream manifested of nightmares, weaponry unleashed to perform that which it was designed for regardless of the target. These guns fuse themselves to a person, innocent or otherwise, and drive them to commit atrocities out of their control. While possessed by these creatures, the wielder cannot release the weapons, staggering along from one fight to another, only stopping to eat or drink out of pure necessity, though few ever last long enough for that to become an issue. The gun literally feeds upon the creature wielding it, siphoning off material to form its bullets, and those who survive for a long time wielding the creature are often quite anemic and withered looking upon their death.

Living guns often act in pairs, teaming up to possess a single creature and making it a more effective killer. In rare cases where a living gun manages to possess a creature with more hands than living guns present, it will hunt for other living guns to try and join together and fully equip the victim, though fortunately these guns are rare and short lived so finding others is very unlikely. Living guns rarely look like regular weapons, instead appearing as fantastical designs, toys, or some kind of organic facsimile of a gun.

I had some serious thoughts over whether to convert this particular figure, given a lot of real world situations that could be unpleasant, but I decided to put it out and trust in the capacity of others to recognize whether or not to include it in a game. This is definitely something that should not be used carelessly, as gun trauma is incredibly common for good reason, so take care to account for the mental health of your friends. Some groups may appreciate being able to fight a sort of manifestation of serious issues like this, but others will not, and don't spring this on someone unless you know for sure they're in the first group.

Originally from the Dreamblade Base Set. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I'm working on, consider backing me there!

5th Edition

Gun Possessed Veteran Medium humanoid ((any race)), any alignment Armor Class 17 (splint) Hit Points 58 (9d8 + 18) Speed 30 ft. Str 16 (+3) Dex 13 (+1) Con 14 (+2) Int 10 (+0) Wis 11 (+0) Cha 10 (+0) Skills Athletics +5, Perception +2 Senses passive Perception 12 Languages any one language Challenge 3 (700 XP) Gunslinger. The veteran doesn't have disadvantage on ranged weapon attacks while within 5 feet of a hostile creature, and can make ranged weapon attacks when a creature provokes an opportunity attack from it. Actions Multiattack. The veteran makes two Living Gunshot attacks. Living Gunshot. Ranged Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, range 80/320 ft., one target. Hit: 7 (2d6) piercing damage. Effect: The veteran takes 2 (1d4) damage. This damage can't be reduced in any way.

Living Gun Tiny aberration, unaligned Armor Class 11 Hit Points 27 (5d4 + 15) Speed 15 ft., climb 5 ft. Str 4 (-3) Dex 12 (+1) Con 16 (+3) Int 10 (+0) Wis 10 (+0) Cha 16 (+3) Senses blindsight 60 ft. (blind beyond this radius) passive Perception 10 Languages understands two languages, but can't speak Challenge 1 (200 XP) False Appearance. While the living gun remains motionless, it is indistinguishable from a non-living object. Gunslinger. The living gun and any creature it is possessing don't have disadvantage on ranged weapon attacks while within 5 feet of a hostile creature, and can make ranged weapon attacks when a creature provokes an opportunity attack from them. Actions Gunshot. Ranged Weapon Attack: +3 to hit, range 80/320 ft., one target. Hit: 7 (2d6) piercing damage. Effect: The living gun takes 2 (1d4) damage. This damage can't be reduced in any way. Possess. Melee Spell Attack: +3 to hit, reach 0 ft., one creature holding the living gun or a creature that is incapacitated or restrained. Hit: The target must succeed on a DC 13 Charisma saving throw or be possessed by the living gun. The creature grasps the living gun in its hand and the gun fuses to its body, and the gun controls the creature's body but doesn't deprive the target of awareness. The living gun can't be targted by any attack unless the possessed creature becomes incapacitated, and it can't be disarmed. Multiple living guns can possess a creature at once, working together to control the creature. The creature can be possessed by one living gun per hand it has. The living gun retains its alignment, Intelligence, Wisdom, Charisma, and immunity to being charmed and frightened. As an action, it can make one Living Gunshot attack per living gun possessing the creature. This attack functions like the living gun's Gunshot attack, except it has an attack bonus of 4 + the possessed creature's proficiency bonus, deals xd6 piercing damage, where x is the possessed creature's proficiency bonus, and the possessed creature takes the effect damage instead of the living gun. Every 24 hours, the possessed creature can make a DC 13 Charisma saving throw. The DC increases by 2 for every additional living gun after the first that is possessing the creature. On a success, the creature is no longer possessed by any living guns. Otherwise, the possession lasts until the creature drops to 0 hit points, the living gun ends it as a bonus action, the living gun is magically separated from the creature, or the living gun is forced to end the possession by an effect like the dispel evil and good spell. The target is immune to this living gun's Possess for 24 hours after succeeding on the saving throw or after the possession ends.

13th Age

Gun Possessed Killer Double-strength 5th level archer [humanoid] Initiative: +10 C: Living Gunshot +10 vs. AC (one nearby or far away enemy, 2 attacks) - 18 damage Effect: The gun possessed murderer takes 1d4 damage. This damage can’t be reduced in any way. Gunslinger: The gun possessed killer can make living gunshot attacks as opportunity attacks. Drop Living Guns: When the gun possessed killer is reduced to 0 hit points, it spawns two living guns at full health. AC 20 PD 19 MD 15 HP 90

Living Gun Weakling 5th level spoiler [aberration] Initiative: +6 Possessing Touch +10 vs. MD (one enemy touching the living gun, or a stuck, stunned, or weakened enemy) - The target is possessed by the living gun (hard save ends, 16+). While possessed, the living gun controls the creature’s body and can’t be targeted by attacks. C: Living Gunshot +10 vs. AC (one nearby or far away enemy) - 18 damage Effect: The living gun or the creature it is possessing takes 1d4 damage. This damage can’t be reduced in any way. False Appearance: While not moving, the living gun is indistinguishable from an inanimate object. Gunslinger: The living gun can make living gunshot attacks as opportunity attacks. Weakling: When building battles with this monster, it only counts as half a normal monster. AC 19 PD 15 MD 18 HP 30

#gun warning #D&D #dnd #dungeons and dragons #5th edition #13th age #homebrew #my homebrew #monster #aberration #humanoid #dreamblade #dnd cr 3 #dnd cr 1 #13th age level 5 #long post

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open-hearth-rpg · 7 months

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Open Hearth Video Roundup - November 17, 2023

Welcome to the weekly Open Hearth Gaming video roundup!

These recorded sessions represent only a portion of the games we play every week, and anyone is welcome to join the fun! If you'd like to play in games like these, join our Playabl community and click on the "Calendar" tab to sign up for upcoming games. To browse our entire library of session videos, please visit our YouTube Playlists page.

This week’s post also includes videos from Shared Hearth, our free online gaming event last weekend. These events are a great way to get to know our community; watch this space for future event announcements, or come join a game with us any time!

Open Hearth Gaming Calendar

Delta Green: Impossible Landscapes (Session 13) Shane runs for Blake Ryan, Brandon Brylawski, Mark (he/they), and Puckett Carcosa has even corrupted by numbering system for these videos! The agents continue their search for the whisper labyrinth and from there, to Carcosa. Along the way, they see some familiar faces, and one of the few demons they trust gives them some disturbing news about their future.

Alien World: Jaws (Session 1 of 4) Jason Zanes runs for Alun R., Daniel Kušan, and Will H Weyland-Yutani is on the way to buyout the residents of the Hope Colony on the frontier water world of Praxis but there's a problem; something killed a fisherman and Sheriff Moss doesn't think the local wildlife is the culprit. Resident surfer/drug smuggler Scott Cray needs to recruit someone to help him find the murderous beast and settles on local petty thief Buddy. But first Buddy must work off some community service hours acting as an ad hoc sheriff's deputy. Will his first day on the job be his last?

Alien World: Jaws (Session 2 of 4) Jason Zanes runs for Alun R., Daniel Kušan, and Will H Sheriff Moss, surfer dude Scott Cray, and petty thief Buddy spend a relaxing day on the farm with some cuddly critters.

Hearts of Camelot: Once and Forever (Session 6) Madelancholy runs for Chris Greenbriar, David Miessler-Kubanek, and Rod Santos Lord Vortimere seeks to sabotage the knightly quest, but the boon companions find ways to thwart his plans. This finale ended up being an incomplete manuscript of a chivalric poem - I thank the players for this beautiful series ending of Hearts of Camelot!

Star Trek: Fate of the Quadrant (Session 7) Alun R. runs for Anders, Lowell Francis, Paul Rivers, and Will H A routine planetary survey in the Delera Sector is disrupted when a Ferengi navigation beacon stops broadcasting. The USS Montgomery investigates only to find not only the Ferengi outpost gone, but the entire Uzek Alpha system and the stars beyond it... There's a Breen task force, the Monty unable to escape, and the Captain incapacitated. Then a high risk away mission, and the sudden arrival of a pilgrim, and the realization that the solution may require an anti-matter torpedo they don't have...

Star Trek: Fate of the Quadrant (Session 8) Alun R. runs for Anders, Lowell Francis, Paul Rivers, and Will H The Away Team begins to explore the apparently dead Breen frigate on the far side of the 'anti-energy' front, and finds aggressive survivors, potential allies, and a Shipmaster intent on revenge. Then a pilgrim hears voices, Lt Keenec cites Starfleet standing orders, and a crime, perpetrated by the USS Enterprise over a hundred years ago, is revealed...

Free from the Shadow: Samurai Fantasy (Session 4) Lowell Francis runs for Cale P, Elle, Mike Minutillo, and Sherri The clans attempt to progress the Emperor's project and complete their own agendas. Asuka deals with the outcome of the last session and the characters interact before the next Winter Court.

Hearts of Yokai (Session 4) Lowell Francis runs for Agatha, Anders, and Sabine V. Well that escalated quickly.

Eotenweard: Northumbria (Session 5) Alun R. runs for José Feito, Paul Rivers, Sabine V., and Will H The Heroes arrive at Caicaester just as a solar eclipse turns day into twilight. They find the settlement in chaos, as villagers take refuge in their huts and the Lord orders the Hall doors barred. Out of the darkness looms a creature out of nightmare...with groans and a disturbing clicking sound suggest there are others out there in the putrid mist. There's a nightmare dismembered, a very unusual acorn, and a hasty retreat to draw breath...before...an outcast who wants revenge and a tree warden who implicates herself, but escapes as wolves intervene...

Star Wars Saturday

SEE YOU, SPACE COWBOY: CUSC one-shot Rich Rogers runs for Greg G. and Steven Watkins A pair of outlaws hunt down a bounty who did them both wrong.

MCU Sunday

MACE Corps (Session 1) Rich Rogers runs for Anders, Cody Eastlick, Marc Majcher, and Steven Watkins The MACE Corps sneak aboard a Latverian helicarrier to retrieve a magic wand before it falls into the hands of Dr. Doom!!!!

MACE Corps (Session 2) Rich Rogers runs for Anders, Cody Eastlick, Marc Majcher, and Steven Watkins The MACE Squad finishes the Latverian mission, has some downtime, and heads off to Madripor.

Shared Hearth

Old School Essentials: Halls of the Blood King Anya Reyes runs for David S. and Dom

Against the Vampire Conspiracy Alun R. runs for Blake Ryan, Erik, Helba, and Roy We meet Root, a teen tech wiz-kid sick of working for Decioma Technologies but fascinated by the blasphemous unknown; Ibrahim 'Abe' Wheeler, the former Marine & intrusion specialist who'd rather die than get taken by the Conspiracy; Katrina, who left the French DGSE after seeing her husband killed when she wouldn't join the Conspiracy; and Gio, a good soldier (and assassin) for the Contini Family who wants revenge for their massacre by a Conspiracy proxy. There's a podcaster gone to ground, a plan that goes perfectly until Abe picks the wrong room, and unexplained missing blood donations. Then...a former lover goes missing, and a suspicious Health Charity warehouse, and Roman catacombs with an ornate tomb...before the beneficiary of the missing blood becomes clear and a husband offers his wife the opportunity to join him...which she does...

Hearts of Wulin: Wedding of Ice and Fire Lowell Francis runs for Alex C, Chihuahua Zero, Madelancholy, and Olav An attack upon the bride-to-be brings our heroes together as they head to an important wedding. But some have ulterior motives for their attendance, and even our protagonists may not trust one another. Betrayals, revelations, deaths of beloveds and more!

World Building: Collaboration & Beyond Lowell Francis A recording of a talk by me about handling world building and collaborative elements. This session is part of Shared Hearth, the Open Hearth Gaming Community free TTRPG weekend. We discuss: Reasons for a shared approach How existing games handle this Online tools and techniques Managing collaborative building ...and more. This was a mixed discussion and Q&A.

Paranormal Inc: Haunted Holidays Madelancholy runs for Alex, Andrea Rick, and David Adrian Randall Ghosts are running wild at the office during the holiday party - can our ragtag investigators contain them and find out the cause of their escape before they eat all the canapés? Ran Paranormal Inc with the holiday-themed mystery, both by Alicia Furness for Shared Hearth, Open Hearth Community's gaming weekend. The players did a great job, and a heartfelt solution was reached...

Under the Autumn Strangely Madelancholy runs for Dom, Kae, and Robyn Choi Got to share this wonderful storytelling game by Graham Gentz at the Shared Hearth weekend, and it was beautiful... Wandering down the lonely road to find mechanical help for their car, two brothers find themselves roaming different aspects of the Never Was...and perhaps remembering aspects of their own selves, that were and could be...

The Hunted Madelancholy runs for Helba, Kae, Roy, and Will H Four friends take a weekend trip, finding themselves lost near a supposed abandoned property with a history, and darkness, within... This was an early-morning romp for me so hopefully The Ritual and other folk-horror vibes came across okay in this game by Chris Bissette.

Trophy Dark: Butter Princess Mike Ferdinando runs for Cassidy, Chris R., Madelancholy, and Rob Fletcher Four desperate people attempt to steal for themselves the ultimate prize at the Minnesota State Fair: The larger-than-life bust of this year's Butter Princess, carved from 90 pounds of sweet sweet Minnesota butter. What could possibly go wrong? (Hint: everything.)

Vow of the Knight-Aspirants: The Gloaming Rite Alexi S. runs for Annie, Jonathan, Mario C, and Steven Watkins Four squires weather a bandit ambush, and then confront something dark and ancient that has taken over the village of Harrowdale. Griffin tries to make peace, and Kaldwyr nobly gets stabbed as a result. Nimrei shows off her swordplay skills and offers to train her compatriots. Malgwyn uses diplomacy, up until he needs to draw his blade against true evil...

Hearts of Wulin: Wedding of Vengeance and Hope Lowell Francis runs for Cliff K A-C, Rod Santos, Tad, and Zech An upcoming wedding is complicated by the presence of a poet, a magistrate, and a magistrate turned outlaw-- leaving the normally happy-go-lucky brother of the groom to try to keep things in order. But the center cannot hold and a series of betrayals reveals the true nature of this gathering.

#ttrpg #rpg #rpg actual play

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