#but it's still much better than the void of nothing we have for the fandom right now

[idaten-jump]

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[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART V

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 2,238

Warnings: dark themes, violence, death and mention of cannibalism

Summary: Your pride and loneliness gets the better, as you choose to pry in what you should avoid.

Desecrated.

It's tender to the touch. Bruised. The simple trace of your finger is enough to draw a frown. The mottled skin of your throat is obvious. A terrible site to bare witness, but there's more; a scattered mess mares your body.

The powders have no affect in hiding their existence, and so you resorted to covering them with fabric. It's better the people don't see. It's better your father and kin don't realise the damage of only one night. If they did, they might not leave you here, and the point of all this would be for nothing.

A waste.

You've come this far and you've survived. It's not for anyone else but for you to decide when it ends. It could be weeks, years or even decades, but you know this marriage is worth more than your life. It means a future for thousands of others, if not millions.

Turning from the mirror, you nod for the servants to continue dressing you. The early morning marks the hour of your fathers return to Caladan. He and the others are set to leave this planet, and you want them to leave with hope and pride.

Honour.

You aren't going to dress like your new people, nor will you ever behave like them. The void of their culture won't ever touch your soul. Instead, the servants prepare you in one of the gowns bought from home. A statement both daring and bold.

"Is it time?" you question, to which the servant nods. She's the very same to whom had once adorned the bruises you do now. For reasons unknown, you had taken a liking to the woman. "Good."

Taking a deep breath as you left your chamber, you couldn't help but yearn for what freedom you might find outside these walls; if for only a short time. If only to see your father depart this abysmal world. Gathering yourself, it was only your lone servant who guided you through the palace and up to the hithe.

The dark star that cloaks this planet bore light, and you wince as it floods your gentle eyes; having been weeks since you'd taken in anything other than the artificial. Even the air is harder to breath despite being outside; far too poisoned with fumes.

In the distance you see the great ship to which you'd arrived in, still gleaming unlike anything you'd ever seen. A beacon. There's very few in the galaxy who have or ever will travel the vastness of space. In fact, the first time you'd ever done so was to bring yourself here.

"I didn't think you would come," spoke your father. Standing in uniform, he greets you well kept but with a face of despair. The loom that surrounds him is heartbreaking. "I didn't think you would want to see me."

"Then you think too much," you replied with a faint smile. "You're my father - my duke. You're an honorable man who deserves to be farewelled."

"An honorable man wouldn't trade his daughter to the enemy."

His words hit you like a bullet. Painful. The surrounding noise grows overwhelming to the senses. Hypersensitive. You can hear the ships, the soldiers and even the planet itself resonating from all-round. Even the wind across your face feels strange.

But as you look at your fathers rugged face, see his familiar eyes and features, you feel the noise fade away. You can see the burden he's carrying. You know this was as difficult for him as it is for you. It isn't fair or right for him to keep carrying it.

"There is no call we do not answer," you repeat in mantra. "We do what we must for the good of the people." Resting a hand on his shoulder, you give a light squeeze. "We do what we must to survive."

"You're strong, just like your mother," he nods with a chuff. "You always have been."

Stepping forward, he places a soft kiss on your forehead and your eyes close amidst the threat of tears. You want to remember him as he is and as the kind-heartedness that he represents. Steadily breathing, you absorb his gentle touch and scent; to which you won't soon forget.

"We'll see each other again," he promises with a touch of your cheek. "I'll make sure of it."

Nodding your head with a mustered smile, the duke straightens himself before taking a step back. There are no other exchanges as he moves to make way for the ship. It's a quick farewell, anything more would be too difficult; too emotional.

"My lady," utters Gurney. Stepping forward, he takes your hand to lay a quick peck. "As a man of your fathers council, loyal friend and protector, it pains me that my only power now is to wish you well."

"Fate is a complexity, is it not?" you jest upon looking at your retreating fathers form. In all seriousness you added, "You'll protect him, won't you - and Paul?"

He pauses, "With my life."

"Then there's nothing to fear," you mutter beneath your breath. A rush of relief washes your bones, perhaps a premonition. "Thank you, Gurney."

Giving a curt nod, he bid himself goodbye before following suit to board the ship; along with the rest. Watching alongside what few soldiers and groundmen there are, you waited by until the doors ceiled. The tender strings in your heart tug at the site.

Loneliness is cruel.

Yet, a shadow looms on the metal floor of the platform. Piter. The mentat appeared from seemingly nowhere, and to your irritably, is the only one of any importance to see your father and people off on their long voyage.

"Where are they?" you question bluntly, not bothering so much as to look at him. Your eyes are still sharply focused on the starship. "Why didn't they come?"

In truth, it doesn't matter that your new family by law had not shown for the occasion. They hadn't done you the courtesy of it upon arrival, and so what little there is to have changed in their humiliation. You only ask in leu of the open wound it now salts.

"Pressing matters," spoke Piter. "The Baron's time is precious. It's best not to waste what isn't so clearly desired."

"And what of Feyd-Rautha?" you queried whilst turning to face the mentat; heated eyes meeting cold ones. "Is his time as coveted?"

"The answer isn't pleasant."

"I didn't ask if it were pleasant."

"Take the day," retorts Piter as he looks out towards the horizon. "This is your home now - you should see it."

The anger within your veins begins to boil. It vexes you that this twisted man won't simply answer what should be the simplest question. It causes your mind to tick, wondering what it could possibly be to make him so reluctant; secretive.

"Do I have to pry it out of you?"

The threat did nothing to change his monotone demeanor, but you can tell he'd heard you well and clear. A break of silence fills the void between you, until finally there is no more effort for him to conceal the truth. He confesses with a neutral tone.

"Prying only leads you to places you shouldn't be," he states before glancing at your servant. "But this one can show you the way."

Glancing over your shoulder, you eye the woman; head bowed low. Piter stays while you take your leave of the hithe. You'd expected him to be stronger, but his words of warning begin ring. Perhaps he's right to stave you from the trail you now follow.

"This way," utters your servant.

Following her lead, she moves at a slow pace; an evident lack of urgency. The reason is an evident one. Venturing into the palace walls and traversing the halls, the farther you travel, the more you studied the lithe and pale woman.

The muscles in her neck twitch and strain ever so subtly. A sign of distress. The way she grips her hands together, so tightly, as if she were trying to cling on, only makes you all the more intrigued yet disturbed.

"Where are we going?"

Keeping her head bowed she responds, "We're almost there."

The answer is hardly clear enough to process. Empty. The abundance of riddling and vague responses you've received only adds to your tart aggravation. It's baneful, with how the Harkonnen's have polluted this place with such fear and secrets.

A terrible infestation.

Eventually, the servant stops outside that of a chamber door; similar to your own but far removed. This place is located deeper within the palace, if at all possible. You can see her milky skin prickle and shiver beneath her thin dress.

You order, "Stay close."

Swiping a hand over the console, the door opens wide; revealing a bright illumination as it beams down from the ceiling. As you step forward, your shoes click against the glossy ground whilst the door close from behind; entrapping the two of you.

The channel of light strikes down upon the epicenter of the room, clearly irradiating the psychotic man you'd been seeking; although he's far from alone. As criminal and dangerous as he may be, his blood still belongs to great wealth.

Feyd stands within the down cast of light, muscular arms outreached while servants attend to his requisite. In a warped sense, his marbled pose and aura makes you think of an something akin to ancient; like a god from the old world.

A god of death.

The other servants are quick to stop and turn heads at your unexpected arrival, but Feyd remains unbothered. Evidently, there's not a soul on this planet for him to fear. However, his attendants have paused far too long for his liking.

Feyd turns slowly, clearly agitated at whomever had decided to enter his domain. His sharpened features don't soften upon realising your presence. Instead, he looks you up and down rather analytically.

He rumbles, "What do you want?"

"Respect," you answer simple and low. "Honour."

Feyd's lip twitches in a slight grimace and snarl. It's enough to show blackened teeth, to which you still find utterly unsettling. Feyd waves off a servant, before turning his undivided attention towards you; malicious.

"Honour," he repeats as he stalks towards you; one step at a time. "For who? For you?"

"For us both," you respond as he circles behind you. "The empire watches - waiting to see what will happen next. Now all they see is you - absent from the honour my house was due this morning."

"You Atreides," he drawls with a grumble. A flutter of feminine giggles echo from the far corner of the room. "You're all the same."

Feyd moves from behind you, instead leading himself to a table. It gave you a chance to take in the room. The servants stand predictably petrified, while three others sat lounged on a booth; the strange women are intermingled with one another.

"Would you like some fresh meat my darlings?" he boasted, whilst lifting a knife from the counter. It took you all of a moment to realise he's no longer speaking to you, but to the women on the lounge. "What would you like? A lung? A liver?"

Their own blackened mouths show in a mixture of smiles and grins. Deranged. Their giggles and moans visibly shift the tension. The other servants seem to faulter on the spot; their heads tucking lower and bodies tremoring.

"You," he leers at your own servant. "Come."

"No," you quip without hesitation. The last thing that'll happen in this room will be his hands touching the woman who stands so vulnerably behind your body of protection. "She isn't yours to torment."

"Everything's mine," he replies while approaching his nearest attendant.

You watch the girls lips quiver and eyes widen as his blade thrusts into her abdomen; once, then twice and again. She groans and splutters whilst falling to the ground in a matter of seconds. Butcher.

A pool of blood seeps as he turns to add, "Even you, Atreides."

The violent execution shocks you deep within, and control is hard to fight for as your emotions take hold like a vice. You're trying not to scream. You're trying not to react as to give him satisfaction. Instead, you watch as the girl continues to die, his victim twitching and suffering on the floor; dying then dead.

"There," he gestures matter-of-factly. "My honour."

His reasoning makes no sense. It's all madness to you. Murder. Lifting the dagger, he observes the blood which coats the blade. Transfixed. The gleam in his wicked eyes is unmistakable, but the gravity of it even more so, when his tongue licks a line of blood.

"Because of me," he elaborates. "My darlings are satisfied. Because of me, they're to live another day. There is honour in being master."

Your gaze flickers from him to the three women who sit intertwined on the lounge. It sounds as exactly as he'd announced, but you simply don't want to fathom the truth. These are fowl notions, even for the likes of his kind.

It sickens you more than the memory of his touch.

Listening to the women revel amongst themselves, they seem clearly pleased with their masters slaughter and offering. Feyd gestures and the others are swift to drag the fresh corpse from site; leaving a trail of smeared blood.

Concubines and cannibals.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 8: isolation chamber

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Tags: Child Abuse, Dark Bruce Wayne, Running Away, Protective Dick

Summary:

The car breaks down outside of Metropolis. Bruce arrives only a few hours later.

"There's an inn a few miles down the road," he says, his face impassive. Jason knows him well enough to know he is furious. "You can walk or one of you gets the trunk."

Jason looks at the free, spacious backseats of the car. Before Tim can make a stupid, self-sacrificing decision, Jason pushes forward and in front of him. "We'll walk."

The car breaks down a few hundred kilometres out from Metropolis. It is not the smartest place to go, considering that Superman is based there, but they did not actually plan much beyond the how. When was the best and earliest opportunity. Where was just away. They got farther than Jason would have expected. He has long since given up building on hope.

"What now?" he asks as he opens the door and stretches out his legs. They are all alone out here, having stuck to smaller streets. No one to help get the car running again. No one to helpfully point them in a direction where two runaway kids could disappear to, never to be found again.

Tim is fiddling with the car's cables, fruitlessly trying to get a reaction out of it. Nothing happens. The entire car just shut down on them, leaving them to come to a slow halt by the side of the road, with no clue what, exactly, went wrong, much less how to fix it.

Finally, Tim resurfaces and mulishly packs up his little toolkit. "We should get someone to look at it," he then says, shrugging at their surroundings, void of any life. "There must be a garage around somewhere."

"We don't have that kind of money," Jason says, as if Tim needs the reminder. They have slept in the car instead of getting even a cheap motel room, and lived off junk food to stretch their meagre cash as far as they can. "Aren't you a computer genius, though? Can't you hack a bank and get us some money?"

Tim snorts, not sounding very amused at all. He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. "I don't think life will get better in prison."

Jason is not so sure about that. It cannot really get worse. "B wouldn't send us to prison," he says anyway, turning the key in the ignition again, as if the twentieth attempt will actually change the outcome. "Too much temptation for us to talk."

"Not if they put us in solitary," Tim points out, voice too quiet for it to be ever mistaken as a joke.

"Tim." Jason reaches out and grips Tim's shoulder like a lifeline. Softer, he adds, "We'll think of something."

It is a lie and they both know it.

Still, Tim manages to smile at him. "Sure."

Bruce arrives a few hours later. That just shows they never quite got out from under his thumb in the first place. He stops the car a few feet in front of them and then gets out. He leans against the hood as he watches them silently. Perhaps they should have taken their chances and gone straight through the fields instead of sticking to the road. It would, at least, have made it harder to find them, even if that would have only delayed the inevitable further. 

"There's an inn a few miles down the road," Bruce finally says. His face is impassive, but Jason knows him well enough to know he is furious. The kind of icy anger that burns everything it touches. "You can walk or one of you gets the trunk."

Before Tim can make a stupid, self-sacrificing decision, Jason pushes forward and in front of him. "We'll walk."

Because there is no question who would be allowed to ride in front and who would get locked up in the dark, cramped space behind. It is one of Bruce's favoured punishments for Tim. And it looks like he chose the car accordingly. Things will be bad, but Jason has not yet learned not to fight.

Bruce nods as if it is all the same to him. "If you make it until sundown, you'll get dinner."

They do not get dinner.

Jason is the one who ruins a perfectly good vigilante and pushes him over a line they did not know was drawn in the sand. He wants to go to the new production of Macbeth. He is the reason they are on the road that night, right in the path of a man driving drunk. He gets Alfred killed. It is all downhill from there.

Tim is also Jason's fault. He saw the kid first, following after them at night with his camera and absolutely no sense of self-preservation. He should have been subtler, should have taken the kid aside and told him to stay away in a way that worked.

Instead, Tim kept following them and, one night, hit with a dose of fear toxin, revealed he knows who Batman is. Tim's parents got served a lawsuit for criminal neglect two days later and Tim officially became part of the Wayne household a week after that.

For days, Jason did not sleep, waiting for the inevitable, wanting to apologize for ruining another life but not knowing how. The first time a bruise darkened Tim's cheek, he knew it would not do any good.

He is still trying to protect Tim as much as he can.

Bruce is waiting for them in front of the inn, drinking from a half-empty water bottle. 

"What exactly was your plan?" he asks calmly. He is his most dangerous when he is calm.

Tim is eyeing the water, his eyes lingering too long before he turns towards Bruce. "We wouldn't tell anyone." He does not clarify what he means. He does not need to, of course. There are a hundred damning things to pick from.

It is still the wrong answer, Jason knows, and winces. Strike one.

Bruce shows no outward sign of what he thinks. "Jason?" he prompts instead.

But Jason is tired, too. Tired and thirsty and on the verge of lying on the dusty ground and just giving up. "What the fuck do you think?" he snaps. 

It is usually not a good idea to make Bruce angry. The thing is, he already is. Now it is all about damage control. About not drawing things out. The longer Bruce has to think about things, the worse it will get. He already had two weeks to simmer. Two weeks of running and they are back to square one.

"Language," Bruce says without inflection. Strike two.

He gets to his feet and picks up the bottle, only to casually empty it out on the ground between them. For a moment, he watches the water sink into the dirt like a declaration of what is to follow.

"Come," he orders. And, like beaten down fools, they do.

Turns out, Bruce does not need a trunk. The closet in the inn is lockable and small enough to be uncomfortable. It is not, however, soundproof like the one in the manor.

Jason tries to keep quiet, but Bruce has both experience and patience. He knows how long he has to hit Jason and where, to make it really count. To make him bite his lip bloody and then cry out anyway.

Tim still does not have a lick of self-preservation, because he hammers against the closet door, drawing attention in a way that is dangerous. Jason does not want him to be locked in, but he wants him to be dragged out and beaten right alongside Jason even less. They all have their roles to fill, and Jason is not as fragile as Tim. He has taken beatings long before Bruce ever took him in. 

Just like Tim knew isolation before Bruce ever built a sensory deprivation chamber just for him.

"Next time, I should send Superman after you," Bruce says the next morning when they are in the car, driving back towards Gotham. "I'm sure he could make the lesson stick."

Jason shudders. He sits primly, careful not to let his bruised skin touch the back of the seat. Of course, Bruce knows to accelerate fast enough to push them all back far enough to count.

He can only imagine the damage Superman could do if he puts his heart in it. The few times they have met, Superman was always genial, careful when handling normal things and people. Bruce is good at keeping up facades, too, though. Jason does not want to find out how Superman gets rid of his frustration.

Tim is friends with Conner and he never let anything slip. Then again, neither do Jason or Tim.

For a man his size, Bruce knows how to move quietly. It only adds to the quiet threat of omnipresence he likes to wield. There is nowhere they can hide without him finding them, nothing they can say without him hearing it. Privacy is nothing more than a pipe dream in the manor, and Jason has learnt to expect that everything he does will be used against him.

Bruce appears in the door to the dining room, where Jason is trying to get caught up with school work. When they arrived back, Jason's work was laid out for him on the table and he was ordered to get started on it immediately. He could only watch helplessly, as Bruce led Tim further into the manor to lock him up for who knows how long.

"Dick will come for dinner. He wants to hear all about your vacation to Metropolis," he says, his tone mocking but not hiding the threat behind the words.

They will have to conjure up stories about a happy trip that never happened. Not that Jason particularly wants to talk about the truth, about failing to run away, about all the reasons why they even felt they needed to in the first place.

Jason has never found out whether Dick knows what is happening in Wayne Manor behind closed doors. He does not think that Bruce ever touched Dick. The first time Bruce hit Jason was after Alfred died, long after Dick had moved out. Also, Jason could never imagine yelling at Bruce the way Dick does. Jason snaps and curses and shows his teeth, but only when he knows punishment is inevitable. The waiting is always the worst thing for him. Dick, on the other hand, often seems to argue just for the sake of arguing. Jason could never. He does not have a death wish.

Jason straightens his shoulders. "Is there anything specific you want us to prepare?"

Sometimes, Bruce gets out Alfred's cookbooks and gives them impossible tasks in some attempt to relive the old days. Or to set them up for failure. He does not need a reason to punish them, but he still likes to make some up.

Bruce shakes his head and says, "Tim can cook. You and I will train."

Jason swallows. They have been back for barely a day and every movement is hell, pulling on the welts littering his back. He merely nods, though. If Tim is to cook, then Bruce will have to let him out of the chamber. That is good. He will gladly take a few more bruises for that.

Dick comes in bright and smiling. He engulfs Jason in a hug that Jason is sure reopens some of the cuts on his back. He does not make a sound.

"Jaybird. I was so jealous when B told me about your vacation." He pouts as he turns to greet Tim, too. "Why didn't you invite me? We could have made a proper outing of it. All us brothers on the road."

Brothers, Jason thinks and almost scoffs. Tim is his brother, cemented in misery and blood and the doomed need to protect each other. Every minute Tim is out of his sights just allows anxiety to grind down Jason's insides further.

Dick, on the other hand, is just the kid Bruce took in before them, who once did not like Jason for taking his place while not bothering to check whether Jason actually still wants to be here. He is an infrequent guest, who puts Bruce in either a worryingly happy mood or a terrible one. Neither of which is actually good for Tim and Jason. A happy Bruce gets creative. An angry Bruce is just cruel.

"We thought summer is a busy time for you. It was rather spontaneous," Tim answers diplomatically. He is wearing a sweater long enough to hide the burns on his arms. Of course, Bruce was not content with just letting him cook. "You know how it is. The lack of homework and exams paired with summer heat? We just wanted to get out for a bit." Or out for good.

Neither Jason nor Tim had to learn how to lie. True, they used to do it under drastically different circumstances, but at least Bruce deemed them both reasonably capable of keeping their mouths shut without doing it for them or locking them up indefinitely.

Dick sits down at Bruce's right hand, leaning into his space like there is nothing to it, like Bruce's hands are not just there, within easy punching distance.

"It's been ages since I took a vacation, though." He is making puppy dog eyes at them, including Bruce, who smiles in return, broad and honest. The sight just makes Jason's stomach churn.

"Next time, we'll take you," Tim says easily.

Next time. Bruce had said that, too. As if there truly would be a next time. They had their chance and blew it.

Tim moves to serve the soup. His hands are not as stable as Alfred's were, once upon a time. Might be that he has not yet shaken off the hours of being locked up. Might be the burns pressing against the hot china.

"Deal," Dick agrees with all the enthusiasm of someone missing any and all signs of the tension around him. "I hope you didn't get into too much trouble."

Tim and Jason share a quick look, brief enough that Dick does not notice. Bruce, of course, does. He always does.

"Trouble?" Jason takes over to allow Tim enough respite to try to serve the soup without spilling any. "You know Timbers. We were going from one museum to the next. No time for fun when there's things to learn."

No time for fun when they were fearing for their lives, either, but that is just another secret tucked away behind high walls and new scars. Trouble, however, they know intimately.

Picking up Tim was a stroke of luck for Bruce. There is no better way to control someone than by threatening someone they care about. Tim and Jason took to that lesson like ducks to water.

Jason would have either given up or done something drastic ages ago if it were just him and the vengeful bat in the manor. Now, if he goes two hours without seeing Tim, he gets nervous. And pliant.

And Tim, well, Tim will never not try to spare Jason, no matter what that means for himself. He has never learned to think of himself as someone worthy of protection, of love. Jason does his best to rectify that, but life is making that very hard, indeed.

The first time Bruce put a gun in Jason's hand, he thought it was a joke. Batman has rules, principles. Not taking lives is one of them. Probably the most important of them. Batman has gotten a lot laxer about his rules, however. And sending others to do his dirty work does not, apparently, count as breaking the rules at all.

He saw potential in Jason and now bleeds him dry using it.

"I can help," Tim insists one night, a secret whispered only once they are sure Bruce is out of the house. They have taken to sleeping in the same room, as if that would actually make them any safer. If he wants to, Bruce comes for them no matter whether the other watches.

"No," Jason denies him immediately. "I will not let you kill someone." Things are bad enough without loading that on Tim's conscience.

"I wouldn't do it myself," Tim argues stubbornly. "But I can arrange it. If you need a break."

And he could do it. Easily.

But Jason says, "No." And that is that. It is enough that his own hands are bloodied.

Tim's talents lie elsewhere, anyway. He is trained to fight like all of them, but the true magic happens when he is put behind a screen. Recon, research, finding patterns, writing up ridiculous complex formulas to predict all kinds of things, hacking anything and anyone he sets his eyes on.

Jason is strong and Tim is smart. Bruce uses them accordingly.

Bruce is restless. They have been back for a few weeks, but he does not seem willing to let it go, watching everything they do, just waiting for the smallest mistake. It is almost as bad as during those weeks after Alfred had just died. It had broken a dam when Bruce had struck Jason for the first time, when he realized how he could lessen his own pain by putting it on another.

"Perhaps we need to switch it up a bit, since you've been feeling so adventurous lately," Bruce says in the middle of dinner. He pushes away his plate, making Tim and Jason scramble to put their cutlery down. It is a principal rule that nobody eats once Bruce is finished. "Tim, go to the gym and wait for me there."

Tim stands up immediately, even though he looks wide-eyed at Jason before he moves to the door. It is not the prospect of a beating that scares him, Jason knows.

As if Bruce read their minds, he continues, "Jason, you know the way to Tim's chamber."

Chamber, of course, is an entirely cruel name for the cramped, dark box Bruce likes to lock Tim into, taking away his senses and freedom in one go.

"No." That is Tim, standing straight, one hand on the doorknob, not moving. He is pale and trembling, but he looks straight at Bruce, refusing to back down.

"What was that?" Bruce smiles and Jason feels a trap snap close around him.

Tim swallows, his knuckles going white around the doorknob. "I said no," he says, anyway, his voice the only thing that does not waver. And then he makes it worse by adding, "Running was my idea."

Jason is on his feet in an instance. "That's not true," he exclaims, almost stumbling over the words. "I stole the car keys. I convinced him to go."

They are left to glare at each other, unwilling to let the other take the fall, even though they know better, even though they know it is never about whose fault it is. They both ran. They both broke the rules.

"It seems we have a bit of a conundrum." Bruce waves Tim back in. "Sit."

He waits just long enough to watch them both do as they are told. Then he gets up himself and leaves the room, knowing they will not move. Not so soon after having been dragged back here.

When he returns, he has a switch in hand, well-used, familiar. He puts it down on the table between Jason and Tim. He has the gall to be still smiling.

"I think twenty strikes each sound fair. Tim will start." It is the calm in his voice that always, always gets Jason's blood boiling. The way he can sit there and just casually order them hurt. The way they always comply.

Tim remains where he is for a long moment, drawing deep breaths. Then he stands and, with entirely too steady hands, begins to pull his shirt off.

"Oh, no," Bruce interrupts, his smile turning into something sharper. "You will do the honours."

Shirt halfway up his torso, Tim freezes, expression filling with horror as realization dawns. Jason knows his face must mirror Tim's. This is not - Bruce hurts them. They do not hurt each other.

"No," Tim says for the third time this night. No one could ever say he is not brave. Bravery is the surest way to get himself hurt here.

"It's twenty if you do it. Of course, you'll have to repeat strikes if I don't think you're taking things seriously," Bruce says easily, looking at both of them in turn, making it clear what Jason will have to do, too. "If you make me do it, we double it."

Double. Forty. Jason swallows.

They look at each other, Jason and Tim, brothers in misery but also something far more precious. Jason loves Tim. Whatever else happens in this house, Tim is family and there are lines he will not cross. From the determination settling over Tim's features, Jason thinks - hopes - he feels the same.

Forty strikes from Bruce will be brutal. Even if they were to do it themselves, though, there is no telling whether Bruce would not have them repeat strikes to reach the same number, because there is no way Jason could hit Tim in a way that could ever satisfy Bruce. And that is not counting the psychological element of it. It is hard enough to be helpless, to watch when Bruce hurts Tim. He will not be complicit. Not any more than he already is.

"No," Jason says, his throat dry. It does not come out as strong as he hoped, but strength has never helped them anyway. "I will not hurt him."

"Is that so?" Bruce cocks his head to the side, sounding curious. "Tim?"

Wordlessly, Tim shakes his head and then finishes to pull his shirt off. He folds it, showing a calm Jason is certain he does not feel. Then he pulls a chair out of the way, braces his arms against the tabletop, and waits, staring unseeingly at the remains of their dinner.

"So obedient, all of a sudden." Bruce hums and just looks for a long minute. "Stay where you are. Jason, we'll begin with you."

That is the obvious choice, of course. The pain is just half the punishment. The rest is having to watch. Tim might not be fully present by the end. Why give him an easy out?

Jason swallows a curse as he gets to his unsteady feet. He does not bother to fold his shirt but simply throws it on the table.

"Count for me, Tim. And do take care. I'd hate to begin again if you miss one."

Every time, Jason thinks the anticipation is worse than the actual hits. Every time, Bruce proves him wrong.

"One."

"We have to do something," Jason says, two nights later. Bruce is out on patrol and Jason has taken a jammer out of the cave. He is not going to let Bruce overhear this.

Tim sits up in bed. "What can we do?" he asks, sounding utterly exhausted, which has little to do with neither of them being unable to sleep. "Do you think the car broke down out of the blue? You know Bruce. He's weird about his cars."

Which means he let them run for two weeks, just waiting for the right time to bring them low. Like a cat playing with its prey.

"It's only going to get worse."

Tim nods in agreement but still scoffs. "And who'd believe us?"

"Look at us," Jason says, pointing at where bandages peek out from under Tim's sleep shirt. "Who wouldn't believe us?"

"Let me rephrase that." Tim rolls his eyes, Jason knows despite the darkness. "Who would believe us that we could actually contact without Bruce knowing and who would do something about it?"

Jason knows exactly what Tim means, of course. They have been adopted by Bruce Wayne. They should count themselves lucky for that privilege. Surely, being slapped around a bit is an adequate payment for a life otherwise lacking nothing. Nothing that Bruce does not withhold from them.

"You're the computer whiz," Jason says, aiming for a lighter tone and falling painfully short. "Don't tell me it's impossible to get a message out. Hell, one picture should be enough." At least until Bruce's money and lawyers make it like no evidence ever existed. That is the oldest story in the book. Money dictates the world.

"It's not impossible." Tim shrugs. He likely has played through all possible scenarios already. "I just don't know how quickly he'll notice. We can't be around when he finds out."

An involuntary shudder runs through Jason. Getting caught at trying to run away again, after the first time went so terribly wrong just a few weeks ago, could just be the thing that tips Bruce entirely off the edge. And he is barely clinging on as it is.

"He hasn't killed us yet. He likes it too much to have his own personal punching bags," Jason says, although it does not come out as convinced as he would hope.

What if Bruce does tire of them? Worse, what if he wants to exchange them for a younger, less troublesome model and Jason has to die knowing he has condemned another person to this hell?

Tim looks at him, too young and too serious. "He also hasn't had us hurt each other before. Things like this always get worse."

The words settle between them, making the air taste bitter. Although that might just be the bile at the back of Jason's throat.

"So what?" he finally asks. What can they do, if staying is not an option but running is hardly feasible either?

"Superman isn't an option. The way Bruce talks about him, he might already know," Tim says, falling into the familiar rhythm of presenting research. "I can try Conner, though. I mean, I can call for him without technology."

Their civilian identities are still a secret, of course, so they cannot know that Conner will answer if it is not Robin calling.

"And then?" Jason asks anyway. "Wonder Woman loves children."

She pretends to, at least. Then again, Bruce likes to get photographs with the babies at orphanages, too, whenever he has to visit for the Maria Wayne Foundation.

Tim smiles bitterly. "I'm not sure the Justice League will forsake their bankrolling member just because of us." There it is again, the problem with the money.

"Gordon?"

But Tim shakes his head before Jason has fully finished saying the name. "He has taken Batman beginning to kill without protest."

True. So much for the only upstanding commissioner of Gotham.

"Dick?"

They look at each other, full of the same gnawing hesitation. This might be their last chance. They cannot botch it up.

"Assuming he doesn't know," Tim picks up the idea as if it is not a giant, uncertain if. "What could Dick do against Batman?"

The mere thought is laughable, so Jason points out, "Nothing. But against Bruce? He could get us out of the house. He will never reveal Batman's identity and he wouldn't let us do it either, Bruce knows that." Allowing himself a moment of weakness, Jason says, "We could just go living with our older brother."

He expects Tim to shoot down such a stupid pipe dream immediately. Instead, Tim studies him, his features somehow sharper than before.

Then, without the slightest trace of hesitation, he says, "We could also kill him."

"Tim," Jason exclaims, immediately looking at the door, half expecting Bruce to appear as if summoned.

"What?" Tim asks dryly. "He must know we'd think of that eventually. We're trained. He's paranoid but he can't be on alert all the time."

It is true and Jason will not lie and say he never thought about it before. Taking a life, now that he has had practice, is not hard at all. They would have to carefully prepare, but it should be doable. It would, however, just get them into a whole new world of trouble.

"We're not killing Batman," Jason decides, sounding more convinced than he feels. "We're not killers. Not when he does not force us to be."

Tim nods and some of the tension bleeds out of him. "All right."

A small part of Jason is disappointed at Tim's quick acquiescence. "Just like that?"

"I just wanted you to know that's an option." Tim reaches out in the dark, finds Jason's hand and squeezes it. "I would - you know. For you."

Jason turns his hand so they are holding each other. "If it ever comes to that, I would, too. For you."

They do not let go of each other until the sun rises outside.

They needle Dick long enough that he agrees to take them to some kind of event in the zoo. Jason has already forgotten what it is about, but it coincides with an important board meeting at Wayne Enterprises, so they are reasonably sure to be free of Bruce for at least a few hours.

On the way to the zoo, Tim, admirably, keeps up with Dick's excited chatter, pretending for all the world to see that nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. Jason grunts out responses when needed and otherwise tries to keep his heartrate under control. He hopes his lack of excitement can be put down as him being a moody teenager and feeling himself too old to go to the zoo with his brothers. He has never had a talent for acting, and he will not start to try with so many things hinging on this going right.

Once at their destination, they make sure to pass at least four security cameras and then dive into a crowd where it is loud enough that their phones will have trouble picking up their conversation if Bruce decides to listen in. They still ditch their bags there for the moment - and Dick's, too - just to be sure. Bruce is not the only one who can be paranoid. Then they drag Dick off into a corner of the zoo with fewer people and, more importantly, no security cameras.

"What's going on?" Dick asks, because he, too, was trained by the greatest detective and, of course, knows that something strange is happening. He does not resist them, however, which has to count for something.

"We need to talk to you," Tim says simply, sounding like he is chewing glass. "Only you."

Dick raises an eyebrow at the implication but nods, tersely.

When they are suitably out of the way, Jason looks at Tim, suddenly breathless. Are they really doing this? Well, it is now or never and Jason has never liked waiting. 

"We noticed you are yelling a lot at Bruce."

That is not exactly how they were going to start the conversation, but Jason needs to know. All of their plan hinges on Dick being clueless as to what is going on in the manor. After how their last plan ended, Jason is not willing to take any chances.

Dick's shoulders slump. "Boys, it's -" He trails off, looking miserable. His face is so open, guileless. "I'm sorry if it's making you uncomfortable. It has nothing -"

Jason cuts him off, not able to stand the uncertainty any longer. "Has Bruce ever hit you?"

Out of the corner of Jason's eye, he sees Tim wince. He shrugs at him. They are on a strict schedule. They cannot be out of sight of cameras and out of the range of their phones for long.

Dick is staring, opening and closing his mouth several times, before he manages to ask, "What are you talking about?"

Jason crosses his arms in front of himself and shifts slightly, just so that he can slip fully in front of Tim if it becomes necessary. "Has he?" he then demands. Before he does not have a satisfying answer, they cannot push further.

"No, of course not," Dick exclaims, entirely too loud before remembering where they are. Much quieter, he continues, "I know it's not good that we keep arguing so much but -" Dick cuts himself off as he takes a closer look at them, at their sombre expressions, at the way Jason's hands are digging into his arms and Tim is standing entirely too straight. "Did something happen?"

In a measured tone, Tim asks, "Would you believe us if we said that Bruce hit us?"

Dick flinches back and stares at Tim, stares like he can open up their heads and find out exactly what is going on. He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out rough. "Us as in both of you?"

Tim turns abruptly and, after a quick glance around, lifts the back of his shirt. Their backs are looking better, the bruising already more green and yellow than angry blue. The places where Bruce drew blood, however, are unmistakable. Fine, parallel lines like a confession.

"Forty strikes," Tim says, voice sharp, clinical. He has no intention of pulling his punches, so to speak. This might be their only chance. "Well, forty-four, because he did Jason first and then had to start over several times with me because Jason was fighting to stay conscious and did not start counting quickly enough."

Jason wants to close his eyes at the memory, but he keeps watching Dick. This is the moment of truth.

Pure horror takes over Dick's face and Jason cannot help his relieved sigh. Dick did not know. Dick does not approve.

Jason reaches out blindly, finds Tim's arm and squeezes. He is not sure he can keep standing on his own. Tim shrugs his shirt back on properly and then moves against Jason's side. They have practice keeping each other up.

"Is this - are you -" Dick takes a deep breath, then tries again. "Was this the first time?"

"No," Tim says and smiles, no trace of humour on his face. "Far from it."

Dick leans back, pressing his hand against his mouth. He does not look away, however, does not hide his terror. "And you both - you - your trip?"

He is smart, quickly connects the dots. Jason tries not to feel bitter about the fact that they might have gotten help earlier, if only Dick had deigned to see them.

"We were running away," Jason admits, shaking off his misgivings. He learned early on in life not to cry over what ifs. "Unsuccessfully, of course."

To give him credit, Dick does not ask why they did not come to him sooner, why he seems to be their last resort. He knows Bruce, perhaps not as well as they do, but well enough.

"We can't get him arrested."

They know that. Bruce has too much money, too many lawyers just waiting to do his bidding. He has the Justice League and Gotham's police. They are just two kids with nowhere else to go.

Jason and Tim stay silent. They both agreed on the importance of this. Dick must want to help them, must offer to help on his own. Otherwise, he will never stare down Bruce for them to tell him he will lose them both. Well, all three of them, at best.

They watch as Dick thinks, fighting to correlate the Bruce he knows with what he has just learned. Then, he sets his jaw. "What can I do?"

Jason feels like he is taking his first real breath since their stolen car broke down. Tim finds his hand and holds on for dear life. They are not alone anymore.

[spidertroupeart]

Not gonna lie, we need more GOOD UNDERTALE AU outcodes... ya' know, the guys who go around the multiverse doing stuff with their own specific goals

I mean, we definitely have them, but it's sad that the last "Big" outcode to ever reach a greater audience was this sad mistake of an Error clone.

I mean, I'd highly suggest looking into stuff like Stitchau, Poppy's story, the ALIVE AU and No!sansverse (which is basically a take on the sansverse that de-sansifies the OUTCODE sanses, this sad sack of rooftop swordsman brainrot included), but it's unfortunate this guy gets more publicity than these three... we need more input from the community.

I don't want to insult or spread hate about undertale outcodes, AUs, or what have you; a lot of them were made by people who were genuinely trying to do something interesting- and unfortunately, everyone's favourite character at the time (and still the majority of the fandom's, probably) was Sans, so he always got the most attention. I can't complain a lot about that, considering I myself am also incredibly guilty of favouritism.

What I think is that a lot of what people were doing could be better expressed and made more interesting if different characters were used, and it didn't become a confusing mess of "Wait. Who's from where??" for me, personally. My brain is very small and can only handle so much.

But, along those lines, I'll share my thoughts that went into Ink!Chara and Ink!Asriel, to try and better make a point- the void, or anti-void, whatever it may be, is a neat concept, but I never really understood it myself- so I kind of made my own interpretation of it with my minimal knowledge.

The whole thing behind these two was that it's stated in-game that no one knows what would happen if a human and monster soul fused- so for all we know, the fusion could be incredibly unstable. Perhaps game-breaking. And along the lines of not knowing what would happen, it's even less known what would happen upon defeat- considering that a monster soul cannot persist for long after death (provided said monster is a boss monster), and a human's can persist for God knows how long.

What if this contradiction led to a huge bug in the already unstable game, and in order to save itself from a crash, the game just. Completely drops the souls? Shoves them out of the way to get everything working again once they were no longer active. We know for a fact that both Chara and Asriel (now Flowey's) souls are seemingly gone, so why not do something with that?

Ink!Chara and Ink!Asriel are separate entities from basegame Chara and Flowey, in that they are their souls and only their souls. My point is.

There are so many ways to make these outcodes more interesting (at least to me) just by using different characters and throwing things at the wall. Once again, nothing against the originals; without them I wouldn't even be having these ideas.

Apologies for this long and unstructured ramble, I've been wanting to properly talk about my inks for a while now lmao

[doonarose]

Right, so here's the thing(s).

I've not been around much... which is probably what I've said the last half-dozen sporadic posts I've made but basically since like July or August I've just kind of fallen out of fandom for a number of complex reasons and also just because it was time for that to happen, I guess?

I would very much not like to have fallen out of fandom and am trying to force my brain back into engaging. But then every time it does and for whatever/whoever reason, it's not fun engagement, off I go again.

This is entirely a me problem.

Work is work and we've had a hectic month. I am somewhat disappointed in two of my research students but somewhat pleased with the other two. The two I am pleased with are very on the fence about whether they will convert into PhDs... which I would like because they're good students and we could actually get something done with three more years. It's a big ask though, with shitty pay and less than ideal conditions. In some ways, I am mentoring them to explore other options because they probably could do better than my dinky little lab and it's story of woe. Their final theses are due in a week... that's something like 30k words I need to comb through and poke at which is just... exhausting... on top of all the other stuff.

And it's my birthday on Tuesday. 37 which is a bit of a nothing year but maybe I can convince myself it's going to be a good/better one... If nothing else I think I've convinced my parents not to drive up and surprise me/take me out for dinner/whatever. Which in itself is a bit pathetic but also, even more pathetic that I've asked them not to which has just pissed them off. They'll come up Friday and we'll do something... And then I'm down there for four or five days the week after to see all of them and some friends for the traditional four day horse racing weekend thingy.

Honestly, the best, easiest way for my birthday to go is for me to do a few hours at work and then go home, drink a bottle of wine and eat some cheesecake and that be that.

Rivals is a nice little treat in all of this. If my math is correct, it'll land this evening and I can, again, drink a bottle of wine and eat some cheesecake, and lose myself in tv and new David Tennant.

I'm gonna power through a few more hours thesis reading and then head home. I do still enjoy my journaling here, even if it is mostly talking into the void. Gosh, maybe I do, finally, need to get a therapist, in this, my 37th year...

[all-for-geek]

The Void's Reflection - Chapter 2: The Manor

Chapter 1

Fandoms: Who Killed Markiplier/Hatchetfield

Summary: John and Wilbur continue through the strange manor, quickly learning that they are too far in over their heads.

Word Count: 1,566

The inside of the manor looked much more in line with the almost century of neglect the house had received. Even in the middle of the day, the foyer was dark, the only light source coming from the open door. Dust covered the once ornate house, now only the home of the animals that had snuck their way in.

Wilbur shines his flashlight around the space, first scanning down the hall deeper into the first floor. The furniture, although thickly layered with dust, had not budged in the near century that it had laid festering…no, no that wasn’t the right word. Wilbur squints at the chaise lounge in the drawing room. Slowly, he sits down on it, his flashlight highlighting the dust now floating in the air. The chair stood firm, not even a creak as he pressed more into the seat.

“It's like this place has been frozen in time,” John mutters mostly to himself.

“Maybe it is,” the colonel answers regardless.

John hums, acknowledging the point as he notices a discoloration in the tiles. Kneeling down, it doesn’t take long to realize it’s blood. He ruffles through his bag to grab the equipment to collect a sample.

“You know with all that rustling you might draw some unwanted attention.”

“Isn’t that the idea? Luring out whatever is here so we can catch it.”

“We only catch if it’s dangerous. For all we know this place could just have some poor souls trapped here. No point in dislodging them if they aren’t a threat.”

“No, no something is up with this place. I can feel it.”

Wilbur sighs, but he can’t disagree. He stands, turning his sights onto the rest of the house when a loud gasp behind him causes him to whip around, hand poised to take out his gun at a moment’s notice. John stares  at the broken mirror, even paler than usual. The colonel runs over to him, placing a grounding hand on the captain’s shoulder.

“What did you see?” he asks gently.

“A…a shadow. I couldn’t quite make out a shape. It looked like it was coming from inside the mirror.”

Wilbur furrowed his brow, a little confused. They had seen more strange and unsettling things on the base by far. Why did this get John so rattled? “...it’s different out in the wild, isn’t it?”

“It…it’s not that I…” John pauses to find the right words, but falls short. “I don’t know. A little, I guess.”

“Don’t worry. It wears off quickly.” Wilbur pats John’s back. “Come on. The sooner we figure this place out, the sooner we can leave.”

John nods, glancing back at the mirror as they head down the hallway.

The hallway leads into a small game room, the remnants of a poker match still on the table. John examines the cards, looking for any sort of spiritual meaning in them, but nothing.

“Wonder who won,” he muses to himself.

“My money’s on-” Wilbur pauses as his hand grazes over the table, his blinking slowing. Suddenly, his mind starts to get slurred and groggy, stumbling into the table as if he’s drunk.

“Wil?” John turns toward the man, his face paling as he rushes over to his side. “Hey…hey, talk to me.”

Wilbur stands there for a moment longer before blinking, his vision coming back into focus. “Alright…house provides visions…good to know.”

“Wait what?” John sounds the appropriate amount of alarmed. “What do you mean? What did you see?”

“A group playing at this table. There were 4…well, 5 with me I guess.” He walked around the table standing in front of the spot with the cards. As he talks, he points to the other chairs. “A man in a military uniform sat there…the mayor there…a detective and…that was the actor, Iplier.”

John mentally runs back through the guests at the party. “Which means you were in the spot of the DA.”

“Guess we know one of the spirits that still resides here.”

John can’t help but feel a shiver up his spine. “...let’s go. The sooner we find them the better.”

Wilbur agrees. The two move further into what appears to be an entertainment room, a projector pointed at the curtain and the body outline below it.

“This must’ve been where they found him,” John notes. He takes out his equipment, beginning to scan the area. “Huh. I’m getting a reading from-”

John’s cut off by the sound of shouting in an adjacent room. The two hurry over, guns raised, but when they arrive, they are met with dead silence.

“Okay…not the weirdest-” It is now Wilbur's turn to be cut off as he turns to the spot he could’ve sworn John was just a moment ago. He frantically reaches for his walkie.

“John? John, do you read me?!”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the crackle of static and Wilbur’s heart falling to the floor.

“....”

“...I r-r…d..ya…I…ink…” John’s voice, distorted and grainy but distinct, vibrates through the walkie.

Wilbur jerks forward, pacing to try and get a better signal. “John, you’re breaking up. Where are you?”

“...I do…dark…slow…everything…”

Wilbur rushes to the door. Maybe the house was interfering with the signal? He pokes his head out into the yard. He looks around for a moment, trying desperately to get a good read and-

Has there always been a figure by the pool?

John stares down at the empty pool. His breathing was heavy and labored. His thoughts race a mile a minute, still trapped in that odd space in-between he had somehow stumbled into. Something rushes into him, restraining him before his reflexes can kick in. It takes a moment to realize that it’s Wilbur, embracing him tightly. 

“What the hell happened?” The colonel asked, giving John a once over to ensure that he’s not injured.

“I’m not sure…” John forces himself to focus as he answers. “One moment we were in the theater room. The next, you were gone, the world went black and white…then I was here.”

Wilbur frowned. He pulled out a device that scanned his partner’s body for any lingering effects. He breathed a sigh of relief when it came back negative. “We should get you back to base so we can run a more thorough test.”

“What? No!” John huffs indignantly. He wasn’t going to abandon his first mission just because of a little teleportation. “I’m alright, Wil. We can keep going.”

“We don’t know that. And as the commanding officer of this mission, I’m not going to put your health at risk. We have enough proof that this house is anomalous.”

“But we don’t know what the anomaly is. Look-” He pulls out the scanner from earlier, a bright white dot blinking over one of the rooms on the upper floor. “This is probably the hot spot for the activity. Let’s check that, and then after if you want to call it we can.”

Wilbur was conflicted. He knew that if any other agent had been with him, he wouldn’t be as ready to leave, but he couldn’t shake the terror that had overtaken his body when John had disappeared. He looked the man in the eyes. “If at any point, I think you’re acting off or something’s fishy, we’re leaving, and you won’t be talking your way out of it.”

“....fine.”

“Good. Let’s go then.” The two enter the cursed house once more, the stairs creaking beneath them as they ascend to the second level of the house. They follow the map on the scanner to a room that is dark even by the standards of the house. Wilbur’s flashlight reveals a table taking up most of the room covered by a cloth decorated to look like the night sky. On top of it sat a crystal ball along with a tarot deck.

“Well no wonder this room is such a hot bed for activity,” John comments as he slowly enters. 

He roams around to the other side of the room, every sensor on him going haywire. He scrambles for one of them when he hears the sound of cards shuffling behind him. Both men whip around to see one of the tarot cards now flipped over: a man in a toga standing on a balcony with the words “The Emperor” written in bold calligraphy on the bottom. John stares at the man, Wilbur looking at the card’s upside down, stoic face from across the table.

“You familiar at all with tarot?”

Wilbur shakes his head. He steps closer to investigate the card when his eyes fall to the crystal ball next to it. His breath seizes as it begins to emit a bright green glow, his hand poised on his gun before his body freezes, trapped in whatever vision he was receiving.

“Wil?!” John rushes over to him, shaking the man’s shoulder to no avail.

A cold laugh grabs John's attention. A woman steps from the shadows of the room. The soldier recognized her from the briefing: Celine Whitaker, Iplier’s ex-wife. Her face was sunken in, more bone than skin, but besides that she looked as if she had not aged a day. Her lips curl in an unnaturally wide smile as John pulls out his gun.

“My oh my…” She speaks in a voice that clearly did not belong to the body, a deep register that echoed off the walls. “How some things never change.”

[i-only-know-fandoms]

Carlos's mention in the wedding special and how they handled it was disappointing and vague and, in my opinion, leaves the door open to either fate

Context

So I took a peak at the Barnes & Noble bonus chapter of Melissa de la Cruz's Beyond the Isle of the Lost and Mal and Evie and Jay and Ben and even Doug are there but there's no mention of Carlos, and I don't know, that really upsets me. The Core Four aren't going to be in the movies anymore, (Disney, though intent on making more movie, at least hasn't sunken as low to recast Cameron, and Dove, Sofia, and Booboo won't return without him) they still exist in the universe (Mal's portrait, this bonus chapter, etc). And it just seems to me, as long as it's not on screen and they're continuing the franchise, Disney should include Carlos in any future books they might appear in

(Which I also believe they should do to continue Mal, Evie, Carlos, and Jay's story. They're intent on continuing the franchise, they've made that clear, and so tossing aside the characters that created it seems callous. Obviously there can be no more movies with them, thus, books. Also, these theoretical books could be for the YA fans of the original trilogy and thus get into the grittier details of the Isle, not the watered down happy ending that made no sense canonically in D3. As many are pointing out, Rise of Red will be for a new generation of fans)

I, personally, think that if they're set on continuing the franchise they should honor they characters should still be used (again, offscreen in books) to continue their stories and the legacies of the characters and the actors who created them, especially Cameron, as this is really his only legacy character. It also gives another way of keeping his memory alive, if they dedicate the books to him, and raise awareness for his foundation by including an page promoting it in the books.

It also seems callous to me to just toss all the work of those characters to the side, like they don't mean anything now that they can't be used in movies.

But, I am also worried want wanting this (or even asking Disney this, though I doubt they'd pay attention) that I am also just using Cameron? I just, I miss him so much, and this would keep him alive (similar to Chadwick Boseman through T'Challa. Like, they had him die in the movies as to not recast him, but there's still all the Black Panther comics and merchandise that he lives through. Yes, it's not necessarily his iteration of the character, since it did exist before him, but he's still connected with it). But should this stay in the fandom through fanfics and fanart, and not touched by Disney? But they're continuing the universe, so feels like this is just forcing him to disappear? Idk, I did another post about this after the Wedding Special, because I don't know if I'm being insensitive by wanting this. I don't think I am, I don't mean to be, but that doesn't mean I'm not.

So I set up this poll, (and set it before my rambling since who wants to read all this, lol) to get some wider perspective. Should I keep asking Disney to try and get the Core four's stories continued in books (if you're on Instagram, yup this is me) or am I being insensitive towards as them by asking for this

(The utter hopelessness of asking Disney and if I should give up because of it isn't in question, I have nothing better to do with my life than scream into the void. But if it's morally wrong.... I trust the fandom for an honest opinion on this and tumblr is the best place. And now we have polls, so......)

[kalolasfantasyworld]

You know what. Two chapters in one day! AAAUUUUUUGGGHHHH! Chapter 9!

The very first paragraph of the chapter. So as not to say too much about the spoilers I've been made privy to from group chats, Helena's, erm, feeling for lack of a better word makes me think of... you know... her. And the explanation you gave regarding her magic... You know... Right? Right...

The lack of dialogue for a few paragraphs is a nice way to keep the chapter from dragging through an uneventful morning. But also the lack of meaningful exchange between characters also builds that tension. It's like the chapters of this and the previous chapter would say "the calm before the storm." Nothing big is said because the quiet is building towards the chaos.

While Helena isn't a Magic Knight, she does embody a bit of their spirit. She may have the power/position/opportunity to benefit only herself but instead exercises her privilege to help others. She harnesses her large mana reserves to become a healer and her position of safety in the hospital gives her a chance to open the doors for the endangered citizens. Overall, good character beat.

Helena truly does take patient care seriously as a doctor and not merely a battlefield healer. At least if I were writing the scene, I would had Helena pull the girl away from the door and started healing on the spot. But no, you have Helena take the girl (and her rescuer) to a quieter and better equipped area to do more thorough mending. It goes to show your own knowledge as someone learning medicine/healthcare. This is one of those things that makes me enjoy reading the works of others, seeing what they choose to write more elaborately over others things.

And here we come to the first of many scenes reframed through Helena's eyes. Helena may not have known the Silvas long but she's more intimate with them than the ordinary citizenry and sees them not as the all-mighty Magic Knights but as the powerful but still human beings they are. She doesn't gasp in awe at them. She watches with worry and fascination as their full power becomes known to her in this moment. I can tell Helena's respect for them has grown. They all may have gotten off on the wrong foot but this is an incident which helps Helena warm up to the Silvas (much how the audience of the original manga should've been able to respect the Silvas a little on a professional level for their efforts as Knights even if they weren't personally kind to Noelle).

Even when the Silvas are spirited away. Even with Helena's worry for the family that has graciously been hosting her. She is able to focus herself enough to worry about the scared and injured in front of her. Good on her, the poor dear.

... Is this burn victim going to come up in the future? Maybe you're just going into the description of the girl so describing her burn scar isn't out of place. But then again, you could bring her back for something. Something small but... something. Cause really, aside from what ships crop up in the fic, I am going into his fic quite blind and I don't know how much set up and pay off you have stored in this fic!

Can Helena/I please stop getting punched in the gut with disheartening sights? One thinks they're long over Fuegoleon getting wrecked and then they read a fanfiction where it gets addressed/reacted to all over again and they remember the pain. This is a years old wound for the fandom and yet! AND YET!

It a moment where Helena's gentle heart is exposed. Despite only meeting twice, Helena felt a sense of companionship with Fuegoleon and to see him come to such severe harm must truly shake her.

Again, we get a long stretch of text without spoken words from characters. This time, instead of suspense, it builds emotion. Fuegoleon's injury is something quiet and solemn. The quiet of the scene is like the void his own voice and passion has left behind. Helena sees a good man in a broken state and has no words, only a silent grief. Until... Nozel comes along and Helena lets herself break down in front of him. Nozel and Helena aren't friends but their tolerance and growing respect is something more than whatever Helena has with any other person in Clover Kingdom at the moment. So of all the people she allows to see her weakness, she lets Nozel see it. (Which, recalling past conversations about future events in the fic, might not get reciprocated... Ouch.)

Well played to have Nozel break the silence not with any words of comfort but simply his harsh determination to get justice for Fuegoleon. His solid mercury heart hasn't softened yet. And really, as life-long companions/rivals, it does make sense for Nozel to focus on what's been done to Fuegoleon rather than Helena's emotions regarding it. And knowing you, Lola, that's probably something you did intentionally and take pride in. Write the birb man in his cold and distant era!

... Hey why is the next chapter titled "The Breakdown"? Lola...?

Hi!

I'm not as fast with replying as you were with commenting that day, but it made me so happy to read your thoughts. I lately reblogged Laura saying about how the answers to the amazing comments should try to keep up the level.

Ehm... I'm not saying much 😂 I love how you're picking up things based on the spoilers you know. This is amazing. I can't believe somebody's getting this. However it's not in that exact way and certainly not on that level.

I'm so glad I managed to write the tension here, because this was exactly my plan. A fairly normal morning with the exception of Helena's feeling.

She totally embodies the MK's spirit. As you know she will be working closely with them in the future as Owen's second in command. And yes in this moment she feels that she needs to help, she knows she has more mana than probably all the others in the building combined.

Yes Helena is not a healer additionally to being a mage, she's a healer above all and this will always stay as her primary characteristic. Hah I admit when I made her a healer I decided why not sneak in some actual medical knowledge. Just for fun.

Yes so so far Helena knew the Silvas through the House. One time she went to the SE base only to be kicked out by Nozel. This is the first time she can see their power and be truly impressed. Afterall so far she's only seen her father and Gabriel who were very powerful mages and used their magic skilfully. Here Helena also sees the Silvas as protectors. S you're right a new layer of respect.

Helena is a pratical and mature woman. She knows at the moment there's nothing to be done for the Silvas, while she has her duty to the citizens. That's where she can help.

The burned girl ^^ I love how you caught on why my description was so accurate. Yep she'll be back. I'm not saying anything more. And hah there's a LOT of set up going on over here 😂 So you paying attention to details pays off.

This chapter was "Helena faces reality" since she was sheltered for most of her life it hits her even more. I needed to adress Fue's condition and how Helena sees it, because I'm not expanding but there's more to it and why was she shaken up to this level. You'll understand ;) Her pain is much more personal and as you stated these two haven't interacted that much. Just something for you to ponder on.

Nozel was just in the right place in the right time. If not for him she would have probably bottled it in, because yes Helena is rather open and wants to talk about her problems, but there's really no once so far she could share her pain with. Here she assumes Nozel is hurting as well, so he could relate and she just wants to let go.

(yeah... he's not reciprocating... not really)

Nozel isn't really comforting her here. Yes I did that on purpose ^^ and I'm proud of myself. Overall I take pride in the way I write Nozel and keep him rough around the edges. The cold and distant era is so important to show his growth. Yet another reason why PH starts with the start of BC storyline. We're getting the full change.

You already read it 😂. The breakdown well some fighting happens, but it's more about "the breakdown of events" rather than emotions. Word play on my part.

I'm glad you're paying attention to chapter names. I put a lot of conscious effort into picking them.

Thank you for your amazing comment!!! 💕

It truly made my day

[eastofedean]

I've seen a lot of posts about your 20s being the loneliest years of your life. and while I don't think you can that about every person's experiences...

I think I have been angry at myself for most of my 20s. There has also been a huge part of me that's felt an immense sense of grief. Grief about a childhood that ended too quickly, and teenage years that were spent worrying and not thinking I'd make it long enough anyway. I am turning 25 next year and I feel like I've missed out on so much in my life. I grew up pretty isolated. I was never good at making friends and something in me made me incredibly scared of people. I hate that about myself. I wish I knew how to stop pushing away the people I care about most. I wish I could stop feeling so much and nothing at all all of the time. There is a part of me that wants to make friends, I mean fucking hell, who the fuck wants to do all of this on their own? I think I will always feel guilty about the relationships I fucked up and the people I hurt. I know that there is no way to change the past. I just hope it's okay that I'll keep them in my heart. My dad used to make me feel like it's my heart that's wrong. He is getting older and doesn't remember most of the things he said to me. He still hates most of the things that make me me. I still care about him. I hate myself for it. I wish I was stronger, I wish talking would come easier to me. I wish I could be strong enough to tell people I care. And I wish I could get out of this loop of self-pity. I've been feeling sorry for myself for so long. I think, maybe there is still hope. I wish there was. They say you haven't met all the people who will love you yet. I am scared that I have. I worry that my trying won't ever be enough. I want to be needed and I can't deal with it when people actually care. It feels like it's only a matter of time for them to find me out. I am trying so hard to change not only to crave connection but also to let it in when it happens. I feel like I am bleeding out and everyone who tries to help starts bleeding too. It's just me and my self-sabotaging ass against the world lol. This shit is harder than I thought though. I wish I could blame someone for the way I am, but I did this to myself.

I am not sure why I am writing this. Life is so difficult for all of us. We are all trying to make it through. I just want to try and be better. I want to make up for the way I am. I feel the need to apologize for every ask I never answered, and every message I ignored. I know most of you probably think it's not a big deal, but it is to me. I wanted to get more into the fandom, to connect with people... to be brave, but it didn't work. Most of you probably think "what the hell is she talking about" which is fair. I don't think there is a good reason for me to share this so openly. But screaming these things into the void... sometimes I like to pretend it does help. it's like having an imaginary friend. This year has been a rollercoaster. I feel super lost and I am dreading yet another birthday spent alone. But I am still here, I am fighting through it, and even though I'd like life to stop feeling like a battle I have to fight in... I still hope that one day life and my bones won't feel so heavy anymore.

[firecrackerhh]

If the writing in HB is such a disappointment for you I suggest you quit while you’re ahead and just not bother watching Hazbin Hotel at all, obviously your standards are way too fucking high. I suggest finding something you actually like and blogging about that instead.

Also the way some “fans” talk about Vivziepop is frankly really disrespectful. It’s irrelevant that she’s a creator online and thus should expect pushback on everything she says or does, some of you go way too fucking far with it. She is still a human being who deserves respect, if you can’t give the CREATOR of a show you actively choose to watch any respect because of insignificant bullshit reasons like “they made something that personally disappointed/offended me” or because of accusations made against said creator with flimsy evidence at best, then those same people who claim the fandom is full of immature children are the most hypocritical jackasses I’ve ever seen in my life.

You want to criticize? Fine, but do not act like you’re morally above any of us who like the show when you actively choose to treat not only the creator like shit, but the fans as well. Hell I’ll be honest, if you don’t like Viv, I can’t say it bothers me that much, these idiots just shout into the void more often than not and their bitching amounts to nothing in the end anyway. But to treat the fans of HH and HB like we’re fucking idiots all because we have committed the horrible sin that is…liking something and not wanting to be bombarded with ever constant negative bullshit about it? That isn’t any more mature. That’s toddler behavior, crybully behavior even, and I don’t respect that shit whatsoever. “Waaaah these people don’t agree with my opinion on a cartoon so they’re all retarded and delusional and mentally ill I’m totally not projecting you guys waaaah!”

I do not deny that some fans go overboard with defending their favorite show, but notice how it’s all defensive, not offensive. We don’t start this shit, they bully us first, and then have the nerve to cry when we rightfully tell them how full of shit they are? What are you, a fucking baby? If you can’t handle other peoples opinions about a cartoon maybe you should fucking touch grass my dudes.

How’s that shoe feeling on the other foot? Not so nice when those criticisms are laid at your feet huh?

If you think you can do better, fucking do it then. Use your ever constant burning contempt for something useful and productive instead of sounding like a fucking whiny loser online, cuz that’s what you people sound like.

Speaking of disrespecting others…

I never want to hear any of you motherfuckers bitch about ableism ever fucking again. Retard is the nicest word I could use to refer to you fucking troglodytes. You deserve to get called that shit and worse.

Also for the love of god that’s not what gaslight fucking means you mentally challenged amoeba. Pick up a fucking dictionary.

🔥🧨~Firecracker out~🔥🧨

[lonely-shine]

Plagued by Thoughts of You

[Read on AO3]

*Fandom: The Arcana *Rating: Mature *Relationships: Asra/Julian *Characters: Asra, Julian, Mentioned Apprentice *Chapters: 1/1 (one shot) *Wordcount: 2.700~ *Additional tags: Red Plague, unhealthy relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms, hurt no comfort, grieving/mourning, non-explicit sex

*Summary: The death of apprentice Shell left a gaping void in both Asra's and Julian's hearts, which they try to ignore with single-minded focus to their goal (one bringing her back, the other curing the plague) and looking for something they know they can't have in the other.

********

It was late when Asra got back to the shop, the sky dark and cloudy overhead, the streets cold and quiet. He sighed when he finally stepped in and closed the door behind him, tired; it had been a long day at the Palace.

"Finally alone..." he muttered, mostly to himself.

Faust slithered out of his sash and flickered her tongue at him.

"He is so annoying, isn't he?" Asra said, smiling and giving Faust some scritches. He didn't dislike Ilya, and hadn't minded when Countess Nadia asked them to work together, but he was so tiring to deal with. "So clingy and so needy and..." And he's not her, he thought, frowning, but didn't voice this aloud.

He was not her. He was not her and would never be. How could he even think of being with him when Shell was dead? How could he be so preoccupied with the cure when that wouldn't bring her back? She was his apprentice too. He knew her, he knew her and still did nothing to—

Asra took in a deep breath as he braced on the shop's counter, his knuckles becoming white from the force of it. His vision blurred and he saw his own hands in different times and places: cupping Shell's face as she lovingly gazed at him, covered in blood as he retrieved her ashes and charred bones from the grounds of the Lazaret.

'If I can't convince you to stay and you can't convince me to go, maybe we should split up,' she had said, and he had agreed, feeling hurt and betrayed, and left. Left her behind. Left her to die alone and...

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling and redirecting his thoughts to anger instead. "He's not her," he said, aloud this time. Anger and hate felt better than guilt and grieving, made him feel more in control, and he needed that feeling of control. "And he's impossible."

Faust wrapped warmly around his shoulders in a gesture of comfort, and he let out a shaky breath he didn't quite realize he was holding. "You miss her too, don't you?" he said, then stepped away from the counter and towards the shelves, all stuffed to the brim with books and magical items. "Soon enough. I will bring you back, Shell," he said, taking one of the heavy tomes in his hands. "I will fix this."

********

By the time Julian finished his shift it was well past midnight. He crammed into the nook that functioned as his office in the medical dungeons and lit a candle for light.

He rubbed at his face, sighing, and slumped into the chair at the narrow desk —ridden with scattered books, papers, and medical tools— that took one of the walls of the tiny space.

The days at the Palace were long, and the nights were even longer. So much death, so much suffering... How many victims had he seen? Strangers, acquaintances, his own colleagues once they succumbed to the disease...

And then there was her, he thought as he unlocked the desk's drawer and took out Shell's last record to him. He hadn't seen her body —she had been directly cremated at the Lazaret, he later found out— yet he could still picture her dead on his arms, on Valdemar's table during their demonstrations...

Julian shivered. Valdemar always made the fine hairs on his nape stand on end. There was something... off about them. Just as well that Shell's body never entered the Palace. He couldn't have borne to see her in that state.

The paper page of the record crumpled as his fingers reflexively clutched at it, his eyes fixed on Shell's signature at the bottom corner.

How could have he missed her death? She was his apprentice, his responsibility, and he didn't even know she was sick until after her death. How could have he been so careless? He should have kept a better eye on her. Should have protected her. Now all that remained to remind him of her was that record...

The record, and Asra.

He was a little surprised, when Countess Nadia introduced him to them. Shell had talked about Asra with him —and from what he'd gathered, they had been very close indeed— but he never thought he'd meet them.

Asra was... a little odd. So carefree and with his head always on the cloud, even in the midst of a plague. Were all magicians like that?

Belatedly, Julian remembered Shell was a magician too —she hadn't talked that much about it, while they'd worked together. Oh, but she made it sound so different! More coherent and less hocus pocus. Almost more like engineering than magic. Almost.

No, it must be something about Asra himself then, and not his profession. But he must be a good one, even so. Shell had spoken fondly of him, and she had been so kind and brave and... Well, she must have had good taste.

Or, well, she usually must have. She must not have been at her best when she answered to Julian's half-hearted flirting. Probably was just humouring him anyway. Or just being kind. He shouldn't assume.

But, ahh, how had she made his heart sore! Should he have confessed his feelings to her? Maybe not, considering how it all had ended up. What kind of man would he be, to confess his love and then forget about her until after her death? Better he had kept it to himself.

Julian sighed and put the report back on its place in the drawer.

He couldn't save Shell, it was far too late for that, he knew, but he could find a cure. He could prevent more deaths. Shell had wanted to help the people of Vesuvia; he had a small hope that in finding a cure he would earn her forgiveness, if only a little, for being too busy to notice it when she was gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

That thought spiralled inside his head enough that it made him dizzy. He got up from the chair and almost hit his head on the ceiling.

He had to get out. The air down in the dungeons was always so thick and oppressive, he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, not with the thoughts and smell of sickness in and around him.

Julian left the Palace at a brisk pace, and soon he could feel the cobbled streets of the city under the soles of his boots. The air was misty, and cold enough that it hurt his lungs when he breathed, which felt right.

He told himself he didn't know where he was going, that he was just wandering, as he walked down the streets. Just a stroll to clear up his mind.

However, his mind was too full of concern for a certain magician for him to believe his own lie, his steps clearly leading to the Centre City.

He was just checking on them, Julian tried to convince himself of on the way. He couldn't let harm come their way. They were the last connection he had to Shell. If they died...

No, he wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't keep Shell safe, but the same wouldn't happen with Asra.

Giving up on the pretense of a random stroll, Julian turned his heel and took the shortest route to the magic shop. It was late, but Asra was a nocturnal creature too. With any luck, he'd find him awake.

********

Herbs, magical tools, and heavy tomes were scattered on the backroom’s floor as Asra tried another spell, the air filling with a thick, purplish mist as their power manifested.

They had consulted every book they could get their hands on during their research. Books about the Arcana, curses, healing, forbidden spells, necromancy… The latter ones always required a body to work with, which was useless when they hadn't found but charred bones and ash of Shell.

None of the books gave them the information that they wanted, that they needed. They’d have to figure a way out themself.

A sudden, insistent knock on the door distracted them from their musings, making them turn their gaze away from the book they were holding. Who could it be at that hour? With a sigh, they went to answer.

When they opened the door, Asra found the lanky, nervous figure he knew well waiting outside. "Ilya?" They couldn't help but frown, not that Ilya dropping by was rare, but the hour definitely was. "What are you doing here? I told you I'd be fine."

"Yeah, I know, I just—" Ilya tiptoed his way around them to get inside, then snuffled his nose at the thick, purplish streams of mist coming out of the backroom. "Wait, what— What are you doing here?" He started coughing, doubling over at the power of the spell in the air.

"Can't you tell?" Asra said, letting the door close and grabbing Ilya by the chin to make him look at them. "Just a magic trick."

"Ah, something from one of those ridiculous tomes?" Ilya asked, breathing heavily.

They sighed, letting go of him. "Something from one of those ridiculous tomes." They took a long look at him then. Ilya was... He was a lot of things, but he held an imprint of Shell in him. It was not strong, but it was proof of her existence. Maybe... "If you'd like to help, I'm sure I could find a use for you."

"I—" He swallowed audibly. "Will it help? If I do it, will it change anything?"

Asra's gaze darkened as they turned away. "I hope so," they said, voice low and dangerous, drawing the curtains to the backroom open.

Ilya followed them inside, giving a wary look to the scattered books and the magic circle drawn onto the small, round table at the centre of the room.

Asra gestured to the circle, serious and looking directly at Ilya's eyes. "Blood. Bone. Sweat and tears. All powerful catalysts for these spells," they explained, carefully regarding Ilya. They knew perfectly well how squeamish he was about magic, how superstitious. How far was he willing to go? How committed was he to Shell? He couldn't know the spell was for her. Would he help them anyway? "I wonder... How much are you willing to give up, Ilya?"

"I— Uhm, well, that is to say— You know—" He gulped, visibly straining against the force of the spell permeating the room, then bit his lip as he looked at them. "I'll give you all of me, if that's what you need," he finally said, blushing.

So loyal. So eager. A lopsided smile twitched Asra's lips up, despite themself. They shook their head. "For now, I just need your hand."

Ilya immediately extended his arm over the table, no hesitation. Asra raised an eyebrow, half amused, half surprised by this. They hadn't expected such willingness, given his dislike for magic... Then again, maybe he was just trying to gain their favour.

No matter, a willing offering was a willing offering. They took out an ornate dagger from the pile of objects scattered around the tiny room and, holding his wrist firmly with their free hand, sliced Ilya's palm open.

Blood sluggishly came out from the shallow wound, trickling down his skin and dripping onto the table.

Asra held their breath when the magic circle started glowing upon coming in contact with Ilya's blood, daring to hope it might be enough... Then deflated when the glow quickly faded away.

"Is, er, is that it?" Ilya asked, sounding uncertain.

They let go of his wrist, turning away from the now-dark circle, feeling tired once again. Another one that did nothing. "That's all I need from you, Ilya."

"Now, hold on, what kind of magic was that? What did that do?" He stepped around the table, towards them, his voice equal parts curious and concerned.

Asra shrugged. They didn’t feel like explaining. "I'm not sure. I won't know until it happens. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps..."

"Are you putting yourself in dange—"

Asra sighed and turned around sharply, shutting him up by grabbing his wrist. "You talk too much, Ilya," they said, their eyes fixed in his.

Ilya looked back at him, blushing up mightily. "Th-then just tell me what to do instead."

Asra felt themself smiling, their anger now faded. Ilya wasn’t always easy to deal with, but then again, he wasn’t always difficult either. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" they said, taking a step forward, forcing him to take one back.

"Y-you— Oh my god, yes." He managed to blush even more deeply as they slid one of their legs between his. "I'll do anything you want, anything at all, whatever you need."

Asra sobered down somewhat at the look of hunger and longing from Ilya. Longing felt too close to love. "You know I can't give you everything you want, Ilya."

He slid down to his knees, not taking his eyes off them. "I'll take what I can get."

They placed a hand on Ilya’s throat, not as much grabbing it as just resting their fingers there, for the moment. Still, they could feel his pulse jumping as they leaned down to whisper on his ear. "And when it hurts you?"

This close, they could hear him gulp. "I can take it."

Asra laughed, with no real mirth nor malice behind it. They pushed Ilya down on the floor, hand on his chest, and leaned down to breathe on his neck. "Then let it be. Just stop me if you need it."

********

'Just stop me if you need it,' Asra had said.

But he wouldn’t. Need it, that was. He wanted the pain. And Asra being the one delivering it felt right.

Julian could feel Asra’s hands sliding under his clothes, griping, scratching, pulling moans and groans from him. He held onto their hips with urgency, pulling them closer.

"Hands to yourself, Ilya," Asra said, their voice firm, snapping like a whip.

He obediently let go, putting his arms above his head, submissive.

"That’s better." Asra smirked and resumed his handling, expert and teasing.

The magic in the air was gone, but Julian’s shortness of breath was not, even if for fully different reasons now. He pleaded, he begged, and wherever Asra touched him, he felt his skin burn in a way that only left him wanting for more.

He could feel the tension increasingly building up inside him as Asra traced paths on his skin with hands, teeth, and tongue, marking their way and making his head spin. He arced his back towards Asra, struggling against their grip and calling their name when it finally released.

Asra looked at him from above, a lopsided smile on his lips. He seemed pleased, but he wasn’t done yet.

"Ah," Julian breathed. "Let me hel—"

"Don’t," Asra said, a hand pressed to Julian's chest while keeping the other on himself. "Stay down."

He nodded, obedient, his heartbeat fast against Asra’s palm as he worked himself up on top of him, sweaty, struggling, and so freaking beautiful Julian couldn’t help but stare as he too found release.

Still panting , Asra stayed still for a moment , catching his breath, then combed a hand through the mess of his white curls, pulling them back and away from his face. He smiled, c heeky , looking at him from above. " I hope that wasn’t too much? "

Julian bit his lip, holding a groan back . " Not at all. "

Then Asra got off him , standing up, and started fixing himself and his clothes back together. " Well, it got rather late to keep at this, " he said, moving away and disappearing from his view.

Julian wasn’t sure if they were talking about the sex or the magic. When he sat up to take look at them, Asra had produced a pitcher of water and a glass from somewhere in the room, and was offering the latter to him.

" O-oh! Thank you,” he mumbled, taking the glass. The water was pleasantly cold.

Asra nodded and leaned against the small, round table, leaving the pitcher on it. "You should get some sleep, Ilya. You start early tomorrow." He paused for a long second, looking away, then got up and away from the table. "You can take the couch in the shop, if you need." He said, finally looking back at him with an expression Julian couldn’t read. "Goodnight, Ilya."

[laffy-taffy-creations]

WOOOOOOOO WHUMPTOBER DAY 8 BABES

This fic was cross-posted on AO3 here

Collateral Damage

Overcrowded ER | Outnumbered | "It's all for nothing"

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Words: 1,188

Taglist: @athenswrites @lili-loves-whump

Warnings: hospitalization, power overuse, past experimentation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The shaking started first. It was the first sign that anything was wrong.

Next was shouting. The sounds of things, walls, doors, windows breaking. I made the mistake of going out into the hall to figure out what was wrong and almost immediately got decked had I not ducked.

Villains. So many villains.

There was reason UA prided itself on security, it set up it’s offense defensively and it’s defense offensively. But the defense had broken somehow.

Shit shit shit what are we meant to do? None of the kids from the lower levels are heroes! Are any of them safe? Are they okay?

[Focus Clo. We’re a hero. We handle this.]

I had already ended up engaged in combat with some of them, but there were just so many that I wouldn’t be able to take any of them out using only the power I showed off.

We’re outnumbered. We’re out of options. We just have to stand our ground until support arrives.

But support wasn’t arriving. I put maybe 3 out of commission, and 6 more showed up for me and the others in the hallway. If we go all out now, it’ll end up hurting people. I cant get them all to safety in time.

Someone hit me in the back.

[Fuck it. Void.]

My power stretched and I let it go as far as it deemed through out the school, causing damage like no other. I knew it would end up going out of control, I fought to stay conscious the same as my fight to contain the full power of my quirk from harming innocents.

I let it rage, let myself go for just a little bit, let them have my wrath. Let them see exactly why they should never come back ever again.

I let the anger and hatred fuel it, let what had happened to me cause chaos, let my quirk handle and give proper catharsis to at least a small sliver of my fury. My happiness, my protectiveness, my want for others to live a better life than I had barred it inside as much as it would be leashed.

And after that I was in a hospital.

“No, nononono stay down! You need rest!” the nurse said when he saw me get up. My confusion must have shown. “We barely managed to get you in but you’re the current most likely source of whatever wrecked UA. You need to rest,” he explained.

My just-waking-up mind was still confused but I wrote it off in the name of sleep.

The next thing I remembered was waking up again. I could think more clearly now. There was an IV in my arm. I was hooked up to a heartrate monitor. I was no longer wearing my suit, instead being put in a hospital gown.

“They’re awake!” I heard vaguely.

My dad was the first to enter along side Ochako and Izuku.

The same nurse as before said, “their condition isn’t critical so we’re allowing the one extra visitor, but if it is to change at any point you all will need to leave the room and they will only be permitted to have 2 visitors after that. “

My friends nodded and my dad immediately crouched down by my bed side.

“Are you okay sweetie? Is everything alright? Did you use too much power?” he whispered so only we would hear.

“Yes… to all three of those. Ugh, I feel like death.”

“Yeah well, you almost put us in death when we couldn’t find you. What happened?”

“Uhhh…” I wracked my brain for memory. “I went to the bathroom, the building started shaking, I heard sounds of general conflict and when I opened the door there were way too many villains for anybody to feasibly take in a fight storming their way through the building.”

There was a pause.

“You mean you dont remember anything about UA having a complete shift in reality for like 5 minutes before going back to normal?” Ocha asked.

“Yeah, even those of us on the training field experienced some of it,” Izuku added.

The nurse cut in, “they’re the most likely source for where all that power would have come from currently, so they probably dont remember anything about it. Plus, if it was someone near them, some part of said power might have knocked them out or caused them to forget.”

“Are you telling us they were the one that caused all that carnage?”

“Most likely, yes,” the nurse answered.

My dad looked at me and I nodded. “They are,” he said.

All eyes were on him now. “It’s been something of a secret since I adopted them, but yes, they have a very intense and powerful quirk that, under the right circumstances, would be able to have done that to UA.”

“I thought their quirk was Illusion?” Ochako questioned.

“One of, yes. I have multiple. Illusion is the one I was born with.”

“...Are you trying to say there’s ways to manifest multiple quirks?”

I sat up. “Well, considering I can do this,” I paused and concentrated, letting my heartrate monitor flatline for a bit, “for a minute straight without any sort of repercussions, I’d say that’s a fair assumption.”

“But why keep this secret?” Izu said confused.

“Because I didnt get these of my own volition. They were forced on me.” Dont think about it dont think about it dont think about it.

“By who?”

“That’s a question best left to the police,” my dad cut in.

“A pro-hero,” I responded.

The silence and tension could’ve been cut with a knife.

“A…A hero?”

“Yes. A very famous one. One that nobody would honestly believe me. He pumped me full of chemicals and now the official quirk blocker on file for me is a sedative.”

“A sedative?”

“You saw how strong my quirk is. Normal blockers dont cut it, I have to make special ones for me that are 10 times stronger than the current strongest ones available to heroes and cops, and even those still break when I lose control.”

The silence was only broken by the small shuffling of clothing as my dad offered me a cup of water.

“...We had a tough time finding you. There was a lot of people rushed to 3 different ERs to properly accommodate how many people ended up injured and otherwise passed out.”

“I can imagine.”

“...What exactly does your, uhhh… lab quirk?... do?”

“I was given three. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Uhm… The one we saw you use?”

I put down the water. “That one’s my most powerful. It started as a general item-creation quirk, with the main component being a form of matter manipulation that with enough stamina turned into this.” I shifted the room around us, changing realities, shifting the environment, then letting it settle back to normal.

”So it’s matter manipulation?”

“At one point while it was still developing fully. Its true form is much better described as reality bending.”

Ocha spoke up, “That’s… terrifying.”

“Indeed.”

There wasn’t much else to be said.

The truth is finally out.

[persephoneflouwers]

Hi Angie, i hope it is alright that im calling you Angie, this is C.

Sorry for not replying earlier, I hope you are doing good. I’m also sorry to see that you lost someone so important to you, hope you are feeling better now.

I kinda screenshotted your answer to get back to you at a more suitable time (I see that I have the best timing now that the circus is back in town like talk about that wasted time eh Harry, anyway..)

I’m sorry that the fandom evolved into a place where you (and me and I’m sure many others) are feeling bad for voicing opinions that are essentially the fundamentals of being a larrie. The way this has been happening is particularly disheartening when people accuse us of apparently not respecting their closet or blaming them for their closets, like that is some level of gaslighting and guilt tripping.

I guess the fandom became this way now because louder voices are more occupied with following the biggest popstar (their words definitely not mine) of recent years than two closeted musicians that they can see past all the bs H and his team pull to the point where them voicing all the praise and how this fuck-boy persona is a must to make it big are drowning out the reasonable judgments of many levelheaded fans that can still manage to be here.

It really makes me wonder how it would be now with H and L if the fandom could have been more open with our criticism towards their recent way of handling fame, business etc, like im not trying to attribute more importance than we deserve to us as a fandom in their lives or saying we know better than them but we experienced firsthand how they were attuned to the chatter of larry fandom, maybe some tough love is what they need to hear instead of all the coddling (especially H) they are oddly receiving mostly from this part of fandom.

Also, im not trying to sound insensitive but it feels like they are missing Jay-like figure in their lives who im firmly believing was the voice of reason for them (I dont wanna get into this too much out of respect for Jay)

I have so much respect for you (and other blogs like you) bc you guys refuse to give into pressure of following whats come to be “the truth” and still speak your truths, there is nothing off putting about that believe me, it is admirable.

Im sorry if this ask feels incoherent, if it is so, you are gonna understand why in my following ask which would be just for you.

Hello, C 🦋 it’s so comforting to read your messages every now and then. I hope life is treating you well.

I know I made myself a reputation of an hater, but I’m not. I’m just constantly pushing back whatever stupid move they make. I don’t care if it’s good for their business, it’s not worthy on a human level and I fear the day people will start prioritising job and money and commercial success.

I also understand ignoring whatever thing you don’t like is a way to cope and go through this and curate your experience, but still it won’t make it go away. It’s hard at times, especially here - I’m not particularly close to anyone here so it feels like my experience is just me speaking into the void, you know? - and in this isolation sometimes I feel like the evil character but I don’t think I am. I’m a fan like everyone else, except I am very opinionated and more often than not I don’t agree with what I see/read here and there.

But thank you for coming back. I will not post the other part II because I like that little secret between us 😌 you’ll find me here when you decide to share more of your thoughts of course <3

[iphigeniainaulis]

...You know how sometimes we are filled with warm thoughts that, for some incomprehensible reason, we refuse to let out? So here are mine.

I've been scrolling down your blog, and post by post, this warmth kept knocking on my heart. I think it is fair I mention here that I don't see there being much merit in forced positivity -- and that I stress that it is very much not the thing that I see here.

However, things are all the more precious this way. Whether I see pain in your posts, understanding and strength acquired through struggle, or "just" sweet joy, it is all so immensely warm, gentle and honest. It feels like walking through an art gallery, except it is also your home and you are wrapped in a warm blanket while enjoying a good mug of tea.

[I think I've used the word "warm" in every second sentence here... But truth be told, I simply cannot find any better word for that pleasant feeling that spills over one's chest and makes one want to smile.]

Even if it’s shameful, narcissistic or simply selfish, I have to admit that I’ve kept rereading this message over and over again.

Lorei, you once wrote that people might pay no attention to your disappearance because of how small your blog is in comparison to others. But I strongly disagree with you. 

Your contribution to Ikemen fandom is everlasting beyond a shadow of a doubt. But this is not the case (or, better say, this is not the only thing that matters). I’ve been here long enough to witness dozens of talented creators. Brilliant artists, gifted writers. Some of them are still here, while others decided to follow a different path. Yet, your place among them has always been so special. It is not just talent, it is your courage to try new things. Warmth (pardon me for quoting you here) that you share with every person approaching you. Endless kindness. It is hard to be a good writer but being a good writer and person is in another league. I haven't seen a single person here who wouldn’t mention how your posts, whether they are personal or for the public, brought a smile to their face or made them reflex, encouraged them to go further. It is very cliche of me, but you seem so dazzling, especially because I know the struggles you’ve been facing, and watching how you deal with them with so much grace, modesty and optimism simply makes me speechless. I am no stranger to jealousy, but with you it’s always been admiration and nothing more. 

So, thank you. This is such an overused phrase, but my limited mind can come to nothing more than that. I think that probably this is a special gift of yours. Knowing what to say when it is needed. This week was too much to bear. Exams, uncertainty, doubts. I tried to never lose hope, but those ‘what if’ thoughts occasionally happened to win the battle. So, hearing that I am strong enough to handle it, when, in fact, I felt nothing but void, was a great relief. 

Thank you.

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Radio Silence

@summer-of-bad-batch prompts week 12 Radio Silence & week 10 Hugs

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Hunter, Tech (mentioned), Echo, Omega (mentioned), Crosshair (mentioned) Set from after S2 Episode 'Plan 99' & throughout S3 Word Count: ~4090 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: After Eriadu, Hunter tunes the com to a familiar frequency and sends a message out into the void, hoping beyond hope for an answer.

Partly inspired by @indigofyrebird's request earlier in the event for 'Hunter breaking down, and being comforted by one of his brothers'

Hunter eased himself gingerly into the pilot’s seat of the Marauder, movements stifled by injuries still swathed in bandages.

The pain in his body was nothing compared to the yawning chasm of emptiness in his soul, a dark vortex that threatened to suck him down into suffocating despair without end.

Omega was gone. Taken by Hemlock and his men.

The brave, teary, defiant look on her face as she had given herself up to ensure he and Wrecker were spared was seared into his ragged heart like a brand. It was too much. He couldn’t take it.

After all he’d tried, he couldn’t protect his little sister when she needed him too.

Achingly slowly, he typed out a com code and opened a radio channel. Stiff and uncooperative, his fingers closed clumsily around the commlink and lifted it to his lips.

He was silent for a long time, listening to the crackle of the empty channel. He didn’t know what to say.

Eventually he started, in a voice so thick he barely recognised it as his own.

“Hey, Tech. Thought I’d update you on what happened after…”

The words tangled in his larynx, choking him off.

“After we got separated.”

The sentence was grit out, guttural with a pain that was so much more than his broken ribs.

“We went back to Ord Mantell. Didn’t know where else to go, after…

“Went back to Ord Mantell. Just to regroup. Wrecker and I, we were ready to stop. Said we’d take the kid to Pabu, keep her safe there.

“Couldn’t keep doing it. Trying to fight.

“Couldn’t risk losing anyone else.”

Some aching shudder of grief spasmed against his injured body. With a stubborn growl he dismissed it, forcing himself to continue.

“I let you down, Tech. Cid sold us out.

“Hemlock caught us. All that work to find him and…

“He found us, and he… Hemlock, he…

“He took Omega.”

It was a broken confession, a whispered sin begging for absolution.

“She’s probably in the same place as Crosshair now.”

Another catch to his voice, words choking past sorrow.

“I don’t know…

“I don’t know how to find them.

“Don’t know where to look.

“Tech…”

Hunter bowed his head, fist holding the com pressed to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut against the tears which beaded on his lashes.

“I really wish you were here.”

*

“Hey Tech.”

Hunter ached with missing his brother, but his voice was steady enough, all things considered.

“Just checking in. Updating you on…

“Yeah.”

Hunter chewed on his thoughts for a while, com held loosely in the cage of his hand. His gaze was unfocused, staring at the Marauder’s nav computer without registering the readout as more than flickering light.

“Echo left.”

The words were heavy with finality.

“Not surprised. It’s… best for all of us.

“Can do more this way. Cover more ground.”

His voice rang with hollowness. He wondered how many times he’d have to repeat this same sentiment before he started believing it.

“He went with Rex. Said Rex’s network would have a better chance of finding the intel we need to find Tantiss.

“To find… Omega.”

He kept his head carefully turned straight ahead, rigid above his shoulders. Text danced across the screen, meaningless to him.

Better than looking… there. Omega’s space in the gunner’s mount remained like a shrine, and every time he looked at it he felt nauseous.

“Wish we had you to help us.” Hunter shuddered in a deep sigh, fighting down the wave of emotion that threatened. Better to stay numb.

Easier to stay numb.

“We’d probably have found them by now if we had you.” It was a whisper, Hunter’s voice coarse with damning self-criticism. “Sorry. I keep letting you down.”

He dropped his forehead to his hand, fingers clawing anxiously at his hair, spilling loose over his bandana.

“I got a lead. A crime syndicate.

“Echo and I fought. He said it was too dangerous.

“I… I think we can handle it.

“Wrecker’s asleep. The ship’s on autopilot to the rendezvous.

“I’m… supposed to be sleeping too.

“I… wanted to talk to you.

“Ask your advice.”

He let his gaze drift away from the screen. On top of the console, Tech’s goggles winked back at him, blue-light of the screens gleaming softly in the cracked and dirty lenses.

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, hissing a breath in through bared teeth as tears beaded on his scrunched-closed lashes.

“I’m sorry, Tech. For all the times I didn’t listen.

“I’m… trying to remember your lessons now.

“Trying to remember your voice.

“I… I’ll let you know how it goes.

“Goodnight… Tech.”

*

Hunter waited until Wrecker had settled the clone cadets in the racks at the back of the Marauder, and he could detect three peaceful heartbeats settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. Wrecker himself was moving quietly round the ship’s tiny galley, cleaning up after the meagre meal they had prepared for the boys. Then he sank into the chair by the com, opening up the silent radio channel.

“Hey Tech. Got some… got some good news, I guess?

“Remember I told you we had a lead on a facility linked to Hemlock? It… wasn’t Tantiss. Was bombed out by the time we got there. Like Kamino.”

A quick glance to the back of the ship. Lula slumped against the edge of the gunner’s mount, her felt face staring mournfully down the ship. The emptiness inside Hunter resonated as achingly as ever, but now he could hear three sets of peaceful teenage breathing, and that filled him with wild, dangerous hope.

“We found three boys. Cadets. Clones. Survived the bombardment.

“They… hadn’t seen Omega. Had seen Hemlock though. Said he transferred his experiments before the base was bombed. So that means…

“Means even if Omega was here, she should have been gone by the time the strikes took out the facility.”

Unbidden, a small, soft smile played across Hunter’s lips as he huffed a laugh into the com.

“You’d have loved the creatures we fought. Sorry you had to miss it. Don’t know anyone else who would have been as interested in the Empire’s experiments as you…”

He sniffed, startled to find dampness on his cheeks, but the tightness in his chest somehow felt good. Relaxing back in the chair, he continued to speak.

“We got the co-ordinates for another sector of space. Haven’t searched there yet. Echo and Rex couldn’t meet us here in time, but hopefully between us we’ll scour that sector and find…

“Find our girl.

“Bring her home.”

*

“Hey Tech.”

Hunter leaned against the side of the Marauder, sheltering under the folded wing. He tapped the com against the thin seam of his lips, pressed tight in consternation. His brows knitted in a deeply furrowed frown, the tension and bright-light flashes of a developing migraine constricting, vice-like, at his temples.

“Mission success.”

He paused again, fighting to untangle the words from where they cloyed to the roof of his mouth.

“We got Omega back.”

It was an understatement. They didn’t get her back. She got herself back, and Hunter was still struggling to wrap his head around how.

“She’s alright. Shaken, maybe.”

He swore softly. He had spent hours hovering near Omega, constantly reaching out to touch, a hand to her shoulder, brushing her elbow, anything to ground himself and prove that she really was there with them.

They had checked her over. She had let them, with an affectionate, long-suffering eye-roll, even though she assured them she was uninjured.

He had left her in the ship now, with Wrecker and…

With Wrecker.

“Shaken, definitely,” he amended his commentary.

He hadn’t thought his heart could break any further than the shattered pieces it had been in since they lost Omega. Having her back was meant to heal him, surely.

But he saw the hollow, hunted look in her, the way her smile stayed painted on her lips and didn’t reach her eyes. His girl had been changed, irrevocably, by six months of something Hunter couldn’t begin to understand.

“And…”

He choked on the words.

“…And…”

Gritting his teeth in a bitter scowl, he hunched over the com and forced them out.

“…Crosshair. We got Crosshair back too.”

He took his thumb off the transmit button, breathed heavily as he listened to the hiss and snap of the unresponsive radio channel. His gaze was long and unfocused, staring off into the distance at nothing whilst he tried to corral his thoughts. All the while, his tongue lay thick and heavy in his mouth; daring him to speak further, unwilling to co-operate.

“Kriff, Tech, I wish you were here. I don’t know what to do.”

His voice was the lowest murmur, lips pressed so close to the com that the metal began to warm from it.

“I can’t…

“Can’t face him.

“Don’t know what to say.”

Something that might have been a laugh bubbled up in his throat, harsh and abrasive, sandpaper inside his throat. He gasped the sound out, braying his displeasure to the dark, empty expanse beyond the Marauder. Then he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, pressing the com to his forehead as his knuckles massaged the headache there.

“It’s not fair. I don’t…

“Don’t want him back. Should have been you.

“Wish it had been you…

“Who made it back to us.”

Slowly, he slid down the side of the Marauder, fabric of his jacket ruching up uncomfortably at how much weight he leaned there. How much support he needed. Eventually he sat on his heels, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed and hanging between his shoulders.

With a deep breath, and he activated the com again.

“Tech.

“How am I supposed…

“How am I supposed to do this without you?”

His voice was twisted with guilt and grief.

“I don’t know how to handle Crosshair. Not any more.

“I thought…

“Thought when we got him back, I’d have you to help.

“I want to go back inside and see Omega. But I don’t want…

“…Don’t want to see him.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Another deep breath.

“But you’re not here. So I can’t ask you for help. I just…

“…I’ll handle it, Tech. Don’t worry about me.

“Gonna go inside and check on the others.

“………I……………...

“Gonna try and learn to do this stuff myself. Try not to bother you for advice so much.

“Hope…….

“Hope things are going well, wherever you are.”

*

Hunter slouched in the miniscule hold of the unfamiliar ship, unease gnawing in his gut. The bounty hunter was shut in the cockpit, taking them stars knew where for a contract he was sure would be more dangerous than she implied, and he had no recourse to push back against her manipulation. Their position was desperate, and he had nothing to bargain with.

Nothing except himself, and his brother, and their skills.

Wrecker sat opposite him, head lolling as he drowsed on their way to the mark. Better to get some rest now, whilst they could.

Hunter’s vision felt hazy, tiredness prickling at the edges of his consciousness, but the low-grade rush of adrenaline combined with the hollow pit in his stomach kept him from resting.

He needed something, anything, to distract him. A way to sound out his concerns.

He couldn’t help but feel like they were walking into the maw of a trap.

Eventually he raised his wrist-com, tapping in the code he knew by heart. His voice was barely a murmur, words blurred to indistinctness, but it didn’t matter.

“Hey Tech. It’s me again.

“I know it’s been a while.

“A lot has happened.”

He blinked tiredly, looking his slumbering brother. Even in sleep, lines of strain were etched deeply into Wrecker’s broad, tired face. Hunter ached to see his easy-going brother looking so drawn.

“Trying to find out why the Empire is still hunting Omega.

“Feels like…

“Like more than just retrieving an escaped asset.

“Feels different to when we first left Kamino.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

“We know they were experimenting on her.

“Different to how…

“Different to how they experimented on Crosshair.”

His voice was a rough whisper, barely able to voice the thought out loud.

“We’re doing better. Him and me. Since Barton IV.

“He still won’t tell me much.

“Wish you were here to help him. He’d open up to you.”

It felt dangerously vulnerable to be whispering these thoughts out loud, knowing that the bounty hunter was just the other side of the locked cockpit door. Hunter wished he was alone.

Completely alone.

Just for a short time.

To hide from the responsibility of trying to take care of them all, in the face of everything.

“Once we’re done with this mission, we’ve been promised the intel on m-count bounties. That’s… that’s why the Empire are after Omega.

“Don’t know what it means yet. But the last hunter who came after us…

“He wasn’t playing games.

“Took out Rex’s base.

“Nearly took out…”

Hunter took a deep breath, surprised to find himself so affected as he forced the words out, breathed past barely-moving lips.

“Nearly killed Crosshair.”

For a time, he simply breathed into the silence of the humming ship. When he felt his eyes prickle, he crawled across the tiny cargo space, settling himself against Wrecker’s side and leaning back against his shoulder.

Wrecker shifted with a snort, but quickly dropped back to sleep again.

Hunter took a deep breath, raising the com to his lips again.

“They’re not messing around. They want Omega alive, but the rest of us are collateral damage. I don’t think they even need her co-operation this time. Not like when Hemlock took her the first time… when he promised her our safety.”

Hunter choked with the memory of Hemlock tossing the shattered pair of goggles so carelessly to the floor. The last remnant of his brother, casually discarded, like he had never mattered.

Presenting them with the goggles had just been a bargaining chip to manipulate them into handing over Omega.

Tech fell. Just fell, fell into endless cloud cover.

The image rose unbidden, his brother’s body lying broken on the ground, defiled by Imperial scavengers who stripped him of the goggles to taunt them, to destroy them–

It was a long span before he was ready to activate the com again, the quiet hiss of the channel like a baseline of finality piercing his soul.

“I’m doing my best. Trying to keep them safe.

“Feels harder every day. They want… Omega wants… for us to be together. All the time.

“I understand. I do.

“We…

“We’ve already lost so much.

“But I don’t want to drag her into danger.

“Got her to stay behind this time. Asked her to keep an eye on Cross.

“Don’t know what I’ll do the next time.”

Another sigh, this one accompanied by a coarse, humourless laugh.

“Wish you were here. I always end up saying that, don’t I?

“It’s true.

“You’d help me think things through.

“Come up with a plan.

“It’s what you always did. What… what we always did.”

He cuts the thought off abruptly, dropping the commlink to his lap and instead burrowing his face into his arms. At his back, his brother’s warm, living, vital presence was a small comfort.

Him and Wrecker are a team. They only had each other for so long. They’ve seen each other through so much.

And Crosshair is back. Whilst it might be tentative for now, he was learning how to trust his brother again.

Echo is out there, only ever a call away. Calm, collected Echo, who Hunter can fall back on when the danger they face is more than he can handle alone.

But none of them are Tech.

*

"Thought I'd find you here."

Echo picked his way through the debris surrounding the burned skeleton of the Marauder, carefully balancing along the remains of a wing strut to approach his former Sergeant.

Hunter sat cross-legged on the floor of what was once the cockpit, gaze empty and desolate as he stared out across the expanse of Pabu's ocean. Flotsam bobbed against the stone docks, oil and chemical slicks dirtying the surface of the water in the troughs of unsettled waves.

"Hunter?" called Echo softly, when he didn't receive a response.

"Yeah," came the reply, little more than a grunt. Hunter's always rough voice sounded even scratchier from tiredness and smoke inhalation. "I'm here."

Now he was closer, Echo could see Hunter's hands folded palms-up in his lap. They cradled a familiar set of goggles, broken amber glass of the lenses glinting in the hazy light.

Echo crouched carefully next to Hunter, at right angles to him, in his peripheral vision but not his direct eyeline.

With his scomp he reached out and nudged the goggles, a flash of sorrow painting his face with a pained grimace. Hunter’s hands tightened round the fragile item, an instinctive convulsion, before relaxing again.

“I thought Omega put these in the Archivum,” said Echo gently. It was neither a question, nor an accusation. Simply an invitation for Hunter to expand.

“She did,” said the Sergeant thickly, the words catching in his throat. “I went and got them. I just…”

He trailed off, looking around him with a despairing gaze.

“Just wanted to sit here with him for a while, you know?”

Echo blinked in surprise to see the usually stoic clone sergeant’s eyes filling with tears. Hunter’s lip wobbled but he resolutely clamped down on the reaction, sniffing hard, dashing his damp eyes against his forearm to sit and stare straight ahead again, stony-faced once more.

“You came.”

“Yeah, I did,” said Echo, still careful to use a gentle tone. “We’re going to have to move quickly to stand the best chance of finding Omega again.”

“Was the intel Crosshair gave us any good?”

“It checks out,” Echo nodded. “Rampart is being held in an Imperial mining prison. If we can get to him, we stand a chance of finally finding Tantiss.”

“That’s good.”

Hunter’s voice was distant and flat. Brows knitting in concern, Echo eased himself down to settle beside Hunter, mimicking his cross-legged position.

“The Remora is too large to evade the detection systems around the planet,” he said, watching Hunter’s face carefully for a reaction as he spoke. “Phee is going to take you in The Providence.”

Hunter nodded. “That makes sense.”

His hand coming to rest on Hunter’s shoulder, Echo’s question was gentle.

“Did you ever really stop to grieve him?”

For a moment Hunter looked nonplussed, before the meaning of the question sunk in and he dropped his head, long hair swinging forwards to hide his expression as his hands tightened round the goggles once more.

“I’ve had too much to do,” he growled, but there was something broken in his voice. “Besides…” He trailed off, blinking hard, mouth twisting into a miserable grimace. “It’s not like it would bring him back.”

“Oh, Hunter…” Echo breathed a sympathetic sigh, fingers going tight over Hunter’s tense muscles. “That’s not the point of it.”

He rubbed a hand along Hunter’s shoulders, feeling the way the Sergeant trembled under his touch. Hunter’s breath hitched erratically, gulping air to try and subsume the tears which threatened.

When he spoke, Hunter’s voice was thick with fought-back emotion.

“Stopping to think about it… wouldn’t have gotten us anywhere. Tech sacrificed himself so we could escape, and the first thing I did was let Omega get captured.” The words rankled with self-loathing, accompanied by a violent shake of his head. “Had to keep going. Get her back. It’s…” He trailed off, lifting his face to gaze desolately at the horizon again. “It’s what Tech would have wanted.”

“Tech wouldn’t have wanted you to beat yourself up like this,” countered Echo softly.

“And now I’ve lost her again,” continued Hunter as though he hadn’t heard him. Unbidden, tears began to track down his cheeks again. Although he rubbed at them, they didn’t stop. “Tech wouldn’t have lost her. If he’d been here, things would have been different–”

“You don’t know that.” Echo’s voice was heavy with sorrow, but the words were spoken with conviction. “Omega gave herself up to save the people of Pabu. Because she learned from Tech. Because she knew what it meant to sacrifice herself to save others. To protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

He leaned into Hunter, nudging their shoulders together.

“Tech wouldn’t have wanted you to live with this guilt for the rest of your life. That’s not why he did what he did,” he said, his voice a murmur.

The first audible sob escaped Hunter, a sound he tried to swallow and couldn’t. He curled in on himself, knees coming up to his chest, head dropping to the cage of his arms. The goggles swung uselessly from one hand.

“I let him down. Let you all down. Wrecker doesn’t smile any more. You left. Crosshair was tortured because I left him behind, and Omega has been captured.”  The words were half-lost, burbled past tears he still fought, into the hollow space he hid his face in. Then his voice dropped to a miserable whisper, wracked with guilt. “Tech died. For nothing. I couldn’t keep the squad together.”

“Hunter.”

Echo draped his arm fully round Hunter’s back now, pulling the unresisting younger clone into a hug. Hunter’s head came to rest on his collar-bone, heavy with grief, and now a howl of despair ripped from him. He didn’t return Echo’s embrace, arms still locked too tightly round his own body as he coiled tight around his sorrow, protecting the jagged edges of it in a way that would only cut him deeper.

Humming a soothing noise, Echo merely rubbed his shoulders, holding him close, letting him break down. His own gaze was distant, past the charred pillars of the harbour and scattered ship debris to watch the waves bob on the horizon.

He was used to this. He had mourned brothers before.

Had mourned Tech, after Eriadu.

Hunter hadn’t.

After a time Hunter’s sobs subsided to hiccoughs, and his weight went heavy against Echo’s side. He still cradled himself, his hand wrapped so tight around the strap of Tech’s goggles that the edges bit into his skin, but inch by inch he uncurled, relaxing into Echo as his breathing became more regular.

“I radioed him,” murmured Hunter unexpectedly, another guilt-wracked confession. “All this time. Kept… kept him updated. Kept hoping that if I sent something out on his frequency, one day I might hear back.”

Echo merely rested his cheek on Hunter’s hair, grimy with sweat and battle smoke, and held him tighter.

“I never did. Never… never heard anything back.”

“I know,” said Echo softly. “It’s not wrong to hope, though.”

Hunter shuddered a sigh, and now his thumb moved absently along the strap of the goggles, feeling the texture beneath his grip.

“How do you move on, Echo?” His voice was thick and anguished. “I feel like… like my life stopped. I don’t know how to go on without him.”

Rubbing between his shoulder-blades, Echo murmured, “There’s no easy way. You just keep going. Like you have been.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I don’t have any better advice than that. You just keep living for them. On their behalf.”

“I wanted us to be safe on Pabu,” Hunter whispered brokenly.

Echo smiled, wan but hopeful.

“I think that sounds like the best way to honour Tech.”

Hunter sniffed as another few tears trickled down his cheeks.

“But they took Omega. Again.”

“We got her back last time,” Echo reminded him, injecting confidence into his voice. “We’ll do it again.”

“She got herself back last time,” Hunter corrected, and now the hint of a grin showed through his sorrow.

Echo chuckled. “That’s right. We should feel sorry for the Empire.”

With a deep breath, Hunter straightened, pulling away from Echo’s embrace. Echo let him go, watchful as Hunter smoothed the glass of the goggles, then tucked them into his jacket.

“We should put these back,” he said carefully, rocking forwards and easing to his feet. He turned and offered a hand to Echo, helping the ARC trooper up too. “Then find Crosshair and Wrecker.”

Although his cheeks were still stained with clear tracks where his tears had cut through the grime, Hunter smiled grimly.

“We have a job to do.”

[flownwrong]

really heavy and oversharey vent on that under cut. i thought many times about dropping it in someone's dms, but it just does not seem mature or respectful, lol. no one should be my mental health counselor. still, if you read this and have anything to say, i'd really appreciate it.

so, i kinda suck at journal-type blogging and i'm kinda at a loss about what i can contribute to fandom—

i'm too hampered by my issues to keep up a writing schedule, too insecure to actually work on my writing via critique, too incoherent to do meta or recs, too inexperienced to do any kind of archiving, too inert to initiate anything fun, too removed from western context to fit in, too ESL to get my point across, read too little, talk too much, too young to be smart, too old to be this dumb, should care less, should care more, should get a life, should stop self-flagellating—you name it, i'll self-flagellate about it. the worst part is knowing it doesn't help but being unable to stop.

some days it gets so bad i can't bring myself to even look at others' fanworks or blogs because of this—and, of course, then i shit on myself for not doing my part as cheerleader and commenter.

but when i got kindly encouraged to try dw out, i figured anything is better than talking myself out of fandom because it's too late and fandom's best years have come and gone without me or whatever defeatist pessimistic bullshit i cultivate in my brain every day that has one point: shut up, log off and don't come back. no part of fandom will ever be as isolating as my brain is.

it's better to make a greeting post and come look at the reading page and maybe even take part in some events once than not at all, right? even if some comms keep dying out and getting smaller and events keep closing (and I keep missing the dates every year anyway and then sit in horror thinking it might've been my last chance), even if current state of the internet is bullshit and seems hell-bent on making it harder to fandom—it's not like i'm walking through barren wasteland of a fannish post-apocalypse, right? it's not like there will ever be a fannish post-apocalypse, right? you can't take away people's impulse to fandom any more than you can take away their impulse to, say, make music, right? right?

didn't i have exactly the same thoughts coming here a couple years ago—or, hell, before that, deciding to break my lurking credo of 10 years and leaving my first comment on fic—thinking i'm always too late, have nothing to contribute and will just post into the void twice a year? yeah, no, it did not turn out like that.

i'm lucky to be friends and talk with amazing folks on here and over at discord every day (even if i get choked up thinking that in the vague future where i suddenly get over myself and can create something good they might not be around to see it). i'm lucky to have written words people respond to. i have something to say that people are willing to hear. i'm lucky to have met people who have been doing this for literal decades and don't seem to be going away anytime soon. point being—i had time to outgrow fandom and that ship has sailed. i love this shit, and i'm lucky to share it with wonderful folks.

i just wish i could internalise it, too.

[claps hands] anyway! come see me on dreamwidth. who knows, we might have some fun.

heya, i know i'm like 20 years late to the fandom party, 15 years late to the journal-era fandom, and definitely also late for this — but i'm on dreamwidth now, for whom it may concern! come see me if you are too, i'll try to keep it semi-active