#deathworlder fic

[delimeful]

let my mind reset (6)

warnings: angst, brainwashing, torture, psychological conditioning, references to injury/gore/death, harmful surgical implants, they are really going through it now, lmk if i missed any

-

Where the hours had passed slowly before, now they seemed to slip by all too fast. Every spare moment Roman had was spent in anxious anticipation of the next session and all that came with it.

He had never seen something like the haze used on a person before. Crav’n were invulnerable to it, and he’d only ever witnessed his aunt use it briefly on one of the local fauna once, a harmless and finicky tree-dwelling species about the size of his hand.

(Roman remembered the way Marta had compelled the little creature to pace back and forth, from place to place, wearing its will away until there wasn’t any hesitation between order and action. Then, she’d sent it walking into the nearby pond.

He remembered the way its survival instinct had set in late, the way it began to thrash, and still Marta didn’t call it back. He remembered feeling relieved when his mother stepped in and put a stop to the demonstration, scooping the poor beast from its fate with disapproval etched firmly in the set of her shoulders.

He didn’t remember if the creature had lived through the withdrawal, afterwards.)

Virgil was far from a simple animal, though, and despite Roman’s half-formed nightmares, he didn’t mindlessly succumb to the influence of the drug the first time it was forced on him, nor the second or the third.

In fact, every time the other Humans entered his cell with that unsettling green canister, he seemed just as panicked as Roman, if not more, putting up as much of a fight as he could with a battered body and a wrung out mind. No matter how they tutted or scolded, the other Humans still couldn’t get the mask on him until Roux had him forcibly subdued, which was a tiny victory in itself.

That didn’t stop the drug from taking its toll each and every time.

As horrible as it sounded, the worst part was that the effects weren't painful or malicious in nature. At least that would have been easier to fight against; a logical, instinctive response to being hurt.

No, it was far more insidious than that. The haze dulled pain. First, the physical: it eased away the stiffness of sore muscles and the burning of shocked nerves, leaving only a pleasant numbness behind. Then, the mental: it stalled the production of stressful chemical compounds, replacing them with whatever was needed to trick the victim’s mind into believing they were happy, relaxed, pliable.

Roman had never seen Virgil so unwound, so carefree, and he hated how unnatural the behavior seemed on the Human. It was a miserable experience, finally seeing him without the hunted slant to his posture, and feeling sickened by the sight.

What was worse was watching it wear off.

As though a switch had been thrown in reverse, Virgil would be plagued by a creeping, unrelenting sense of panic and dread, pacing around his cell frantically until a sudden hypersensitivity to touch left him crumpled in one spot, breathing harsh and pained.

Time after time, he was shown exactly how painful withdrawal from even a few doses was, until he was left bracing for it well before the next session had even begun.

“The last guys who had me would have killed for something like this,” Virgil said, nearly panting as he laid out on his back. He had his fingers pressed against his neck, feeling his pulse. His heart was racing so hard that Roman could see the veins pulsing eerily under the skin. A heavy spike of adrenaline, unprompted by anything tangible. “Bet she has at least a few people stashed away just to drain for easy cash.”

He spoke more, like this. Out of turn, about topics that were morbid and pessimistic, as though the thoughts were tumbling free of his mind without his permission. Roman never let his negative reactions to the more grim topics go beyond his ears flickering back; it wasn’t like he had the room or right to judge. They didn’t have very many reasons to be optimistic. Besides, he’d realized early on that the more worked up Roman got, the worse Virgil got in turn.

He still didn’t know the exact details of how Dren harvesting worked, and he was fairly sure he was better off for it. The very idea of setting an entire person aside for something like that was reprehensible, and therefore entirely possible for Marta.

“She said she… she gets rid of Humans that don’t break,” he replied after a moment, the words tumbling freely from him for once. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to turn a profit from it.”

He’d been trying to match the distant, dry tone Virgil had used, but he must have missed the mark, because the Human stiffened, and drew his hand back from Roman’s grasp to press it harshly against his eyes.

Belatedly, Roman realized what he’d just implied. Virgil was one of those Humans trying not to break, was at this very moment barely clinging to his composure, and he’d just been informed he was stuck between two horrific fates worse than death. “I didn’t mean—,”

“‘S alright,” Virgil interrupted, voice rough with exhaustion. “It’s not like I didn’t know. It makes me feel a little better, honestly.”

Roman stared at him, bewildered and still slightly aghast at his own stupidity, and Virgil shifted a few fingers to peer back with one eye.

“At least some Humans didn’t fall for it, y’know? At least some of them got out in their own way,” he continued, a thin thread of hopelessness tangled up in the words. “I was starting to wonder if the rest of space was right. If we were all just destined to be monsters with the right motivation.”

Roman should have been more alarmed at the implication that Virgil felt close to succumbing, that he was nearer than he’d ever wanted to be to a Human on the brink of falling under someone else’s blatantly malignant control, but all he could feel was a painful sympathy.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, and then, more firmly— “Humans aren’t monsters.”

Virgil’s eye widened slightly, gaze intent in a way that would have made Roman bristle in the past.

“They’re just people. They can do good or bad, just like anyone else. And sure, these guys are— they’re not doing good.” A pause, and Roman forced himself to meet Virgil’s stare. “But you have. You saved Patton, and you tried to save me, and you’re— you’re not a monster. You’re a good friend.”

Virgil buried his face back in his elbow and was quiet for a long moment.

“…You’re not so bad yourself.”

—

Roman hadn’t expected Marta to show up in person, not with how much she had delegated to her brainwashed underlings thus far, but arrive she did.

“Don’t fret, ghiva’al,” she crooned to him, passing by his cell with the lightest clink of her claws dragged against the bars. “I’m here to meet your little pet, not you.”

“Don’t—,” call me that, call him that, he wanted to snarl, but his throat closed up so sharply that it sounded a little like he’d choked.

Marta made her stilted croaking laugh, sparing him a glance that might have been pitying if it had bothered to reach her cold, empty eyes. “You always did struggle with words when emotional, didn’t you? Not nearly as well spoken as your mother. What a shame to see that hasn’t changed.”

There was a sharp clacking as an aggressive shudder ran through Roman’s scales, but he still couldn’t find his voice. Not even when Marta moved on to grip the bars of Virgil’s cell, her attention shifting to the Human where he stood warily in the center of the cage.

Roman had learned more than he’d ever thought he would about Human body language over the past few weeks. He knew from the slight sway to Virgil’s every shift that the Human was drained, likely barely keeping his feet.

Still, he was upright to face Marta, his height advantage allowing him to look down at her, and that was better than being crumpled on the ground at her feet. Little victories were all they had now, and they clung to each and every one.

Roux wasn’t there, Roman realized with a jolt, and the knowledge was enough to drag his mind into overdrive, a sudden double-edged hope springing to life in his chest.

Virgil must have already realized, because the way he held himself shifted into something taut and coiled, like he was preparing to lunge forward at the first opportunity, weak or not.

“Back of the cell,” Marta commanded, voice turned brisk and blunt in a way it hadn’t been with Roman. Like she was speaking to a beast instead of a person.

Virgil didn’t move, barely deigned to acknowledge the words beyond a brief flicker of his pupils upwards.

Marta waited, letting the silence stretch for a brief moment, and then clicked her teeth together in a mild reprimand. “The hard way, then.”

Despite her apparent annoyance, the words held a sort of anticipatory delight, and Roman felt the thick tar of dread slide under his scales as he watched her slide a small, triangular remote from a pouch at her side.

When she pressed the button in the center of it, she was looking at Roman.

It was Virgil who went rigid and fell.

Despite knowing it would undercut every lie he’d tried to sell about how little he cared, despite the fact that he was playing right into her claws, Roman couldn’t help but rush to the bars separating them, a shout of horror catching in his chest.

The Human hit the ground hard but stayed chillingly frozen, with every muscle locked into hard lines. He didn’t make a sound until Marta shifted her thumb away from the button, the motion somehow allowing him to finally go limp like a puppet with strings cut.

“Virgil!” Roman managed, though the sound of it was nearly lost in the sudden loudness of the Human’s gasping breaths. He hadn’t been breathing before, Roman realized with a terrified shock.

Whatever Marta was doing, it hadn’t countered Virgil’s natural stubbornness, and he climbed back to his feet with less staggering than Roman would have expected.

His gaze caught on the tremor to Virgil’s hands, the shuddering of his pulse, and he understood. Adrenaline.

The fight or flight instinct, Virgil had called it while talking with Patton. Roman had seen him choose to fight once, at their very first meeting, but even that couldn’t compare to the speed and ferocity of the way the Human lunged now.

Marta didn’t flinch back when he made loud, skull-rattling contact with the bars, but she didn’t blink, either, keeping her eyes firmly locked on Virgil as she pressed the button once more.

Instead of letting him drop, however, she reached out and seized him by the face, claws digging in on either cheek and holding tightly.

Virgil couldn’t so much as flinch away from the pain, and Roman slammed his arm against the door of his own cell with force, furious at his own helplessness.

Marta released the trigger again, and this time, every gasping inhale Virgil took was dosed with her haze. He tried to jerk back, but it was far faster acting straight from the source, and he had barely a moment before his expression dropped to something hollow and smooth, his desperate strength wavering and then extinguishing like a flame with nothing left to burn.

“Down,” Marta commanded, releasing her grip, and Virgil stood in place for a few long heartbeats before his legs collapsed underneath him.

She waved a hand absently down at him, still scattering her haze thick in the air. “There you go. It feels so much better when you listen, doesn’t it?”

Virgil twitched, a ripple of discontent crossing his face, but didn’t respond. He was shaking relentlessly now, his entire body trembling in a way that had Roman deeply concerned.

“You’re safe with me,” Marta lied, reaching down to glide the palm of her hand over the side of Virgil’s face. “You’re only safe with me. Everyone else wants to hurt you, but I’ll make the pain go away. Always do as I say, okay?”

Virgil didn’t move away, even as her rough skin caught on the wounds her claws had left only moments ago. His breathing grew wispier, slower, until he appeared almost calm, his eyes dazed and distant.

“Let’s try this again,” Marta straightened, and when her hand left Virgil’s cheek, he strained after it for a handful of seconds. “Back of the cell.”

Virgil climbed back to his feet, and Roman closed his eyes as the Human quietly began shuffling across his stretch of cell. He felt all of six winters old again, watching his aunt lead something fuzzy and helpless back and forth, closer and closer to the water’s edge.

“Good. Now, heel.” More shuffling, wordless as a corpse.

How long did he have before Virgil took his own plunge?

—

It took longer than before for Virgil to regain coherence, afterwards.

Roman knew the moment he’d come back to himself, because the soft grip around his hand had instantly vanished, yanked away so sharply that he’d barely registered the movement before Virgil was up on his feet and backing away.

“Virgil,” he tried, and the Human shook his head, the motion harsh, his hands lifting up to grip roughly at his hair in a distressed motion Roman had only ever caught glimpses of back on the ship.

He’d continued to retreat until he hit the furthest corner of the cell, where he slid down and curled in on himself, utterly unreceptive to any of Roman’s stilted calls. Roman caught his expression crumpling into a miserable grimace before he buried his face in his knees and hid that away too.

The silence stretched.

If there were some right words to say here, Roman couldn’t find them. Even if he did, he undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to say them. The helplessness sheared against his scales like rough sand, but how could he allow himself to wallow in it when he at least still had his mind, his existence still unarguably his own?

Freshly taunted by the knowledge that he didn’t have even that much, Virgil remained still and taut and quiet in the furthest reaches of his cell for what felt like a very long time.

When he did finally stir, Roman was appalled to see the faint streaks on his face where his tears had washed away the sweat and grime.

Patton had described Human weeping as arrhythmic vocalizations, much like Ampens, but with a physical manifestation as well. Roman hadn’t known that Humans could cry silently, like a pup gone still and quiet in the face of danger, with only the barest hitching of breath to indicate distress.

The expression on Virgil now was creased into firm lines, but it didn’t seem agonized or crumbling at the edges. Rather, as he climbed to his face, he seemed to hold the same bitter resolution Roman had seen in him a few times before: during the tail end of their first meeting, and after the fight with the raiders, both times when he’d thought he was about to be left alone again.

“Roman,” he started, and then worked his jaw tersely, once, twice. Rather than continue, he held out a hand, palm-up in silent offering.

Things had changed a lot over the course of their captivity, Roman reflected as he reached out and set his own hand in the Human’s grasp with barely a shred of hesitation. It felt like second nature by now, to reach out and cling on whenever his stomach was roiling with stress.

Virgil watched him for a moment longer, and then wrapped his fingers around Roman’s hand and drew closer, slowly pulling his arm up until he had positioned Roman’s claws just above the skin of his neck.

“This,” Virgil said, each word resolute, “is the best place to sever if you want to kill a Human quickly.”

The words took a dull, ringing moment to sink in, but once they did, Roman jerked back sharply. “Virgil, what—?”

For the first time, Virgil held on, keeping his hand pinned in place with ease even as he had to grip the bars with his other hand to remain upright. Roman could see the way the Human’s pulse fluttered under the skin, a heartbeat racing visibly exactly where Virgil had indicated.

“It’s important. You need to know,” Virgil insisted, and lifted their joined hands higher, to his temple. “Head wounds bleed a lot. Gashes up here are valuable because the blood runs down and drips into their eyes, which will work pretty well as a distraction—,”

“Stop it!” Roman demanded, yanking harder as his panic increased. “I’m not going to— stop talking like that! I don’t need to know how to hurt you!”

At the start of their voyage, Roman would have done just about anything for information like this, anything to feel safe on his own ship again. So why was he learning it only now, when each word and accompanying gesture made him feel ill and rotted down to the tip of his tail?

“It’s not— Roman, it’s not about me,” Virgil said, frustration seeping into his voice. He let Roman drag his hand away from his face, but still didn’t let go. “It’s about them.”

Roman wasn’t sure he believed that. “I don’t need to kill anyone. They’re brainwashed, this is Marta’s fault! I know the truth, now.”

Virgil shook his head, ghosted the fingers of his free hand over his implant scar with a distant, sickened expression. “It’s not that simple. I don’t want guilt to be the reason— Look. If it’s them or you, I want it to be you. I want you to make sure it’s you.”

And what if it's me or you? Roman thought, but the words lodged firmly in his chest until he could barely breathe around them.

“They all made their choice,” Virgil continued once it became clear that Roman wouldn’t respond. “They’ve kept making that choice, every time. You have to want to survive, too, okay?”

Mutely, Roman nodded, trying to ignore the creeping sense of horror. He pulled Virgil’s hand back towards himself, fumbled for speech for a long moment before finding the words and hoping they didn’t feel like a betrayal when spoken aloud.

“The underbelly,” he started, and Virgil’s expression— shut down. Every hint of body language went flat like stone, and just as unyielding.

“No.” The word was final, a sentence all its own, and Roman scowled mulishly.

“But—!”

“Roman.” Virgil lifted his other arm over so that he was clasping Roman’s hand between both of his own. “You’re the only one left, right? You told me that.”

The thought was still a wound-like pang in his chest, even after all this time. “Yes,” he admitted. “But, even still—,”

“No way. I don’t want to hear it, man. There’s nobody I would be willing to use it on, anyhow.” Virgil kept his gaze locked firmly on a point past Roman’s shoulder, but his shoulders were set, his voice steadfast.

There was no point arguing. Not now, when the both of them were one wrong move from collapse.

“Okay,” Roman finally said, and forced himself not to protest when Virgil reclaimed the position of lecturer. It was a struggle not to wince away with each gory anecdote, a full guide on the quickest ways to make the Human body stop functioning or even turn on itself.

“Gut wounds are slow to kill, but they can be painful enough to debilitate. There are vulnerable organs here, below the rib cage, and damage to them is difficult to treat without surgery if the wound is severe enough…”

Still, he held himself at attention, did his best to memorize every word.

If Virgil wouldn’t accept knowledge about Roman’s own vulnerabilities as a gift of equal exchange, Roman would simply have to treasure this information with the same dedication that he applied to the rest of their small crew.

After all, knowing all the individual weak points of a Human would make it that much easier for him to protect each and every single part of Virgil.

Virgil wasn’t going to die. Not here, and certainly not by Roman’s own claws. Not if Roman had anything to say about it.

[all-eyes-no-dragon]

I wanted to rec this for a while. This is the most amazing humans are space orcs story I've ever read. It's called, "In Search of Home".

It's an original work so there's no fandom you need to know to read it, it's over 362,000 words, which is more than decently long, and has an ongoing sequel that's surpassed the word count of the first story (we love getting closure 💞). It has a happy ending (not a spoiler, it says in the tags) so don't worry about your heart breaking too much.

I'm rereading the first story and I feel kind of cool knowing the alien words.

I cried reading it, I laughed, I felt victorious. I love it so much and want more people to know it exists because original works aren't as popular on ao3.

Mind the tags!

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43547319

Summary:

[sadbigemini]

I've been reading lots of humans are space orcs, humans are space Australians, humans are deathworlders fics but ofc the MHA edition. So, here are some prompts inspired by them!!

Humans are Space Orcs, Deathworlders, Space Australians, MHA Edition

What if space and Earth had heroes?

What if for training they send human class 1-A to train with the otherworldly hero students?? In space.

You could either have the alien hero school on a spaceship, a planet, or a moon– you pick, your decision!!

I would have Shinsou replace m*ne*a the grapist.

Quirks can exist or not either way it's fun. Though they may be a little too OP if you follow the narrative of other fics like this. Or you could have it be where the humans still struggle against opponents and do so more realistically while still being the top dog or apex predator lol

Do your aliens have abilities like quirks regardless if humans do or not??

If humans do have quirks maybe you can mix them up for fun and try to adapt their backstories and personalities to them?? Like Shinsou, having Explosion would be easy and you really wouldn't have to change anything. Bc Explosion is destructive and could be ignorantly viewed as villainous just like his original quirk is. While Jirou having Engine would change everything I'd think.

ALSO don't forget that human behavior, mannerisms, and emotions are complex and can be contradictory. Like we can laugh and smile when pissed off and cry when we're happy. Aliens or some at least may be confused by this.

Maybe class 1-B can be the aliens??? Or you can mix them up where some are the aliens and some are the humans in 1-A.

You can do a crossover and have aliens from other fandoms/franchises where they can be the aliens or you can flip it and 1-A can be the aliens.

REMEMBER (or keep in mind) that numerous certain things may be or are inherently human and earthly things. Such as particular phrases like ‘pissed off’, technology like fans, several foods, familial structures, pack bonding, art, concepts like sarcasm, inventions like movies, animals, or clothes for humans.

Reverse Human Are Space Orcs

Where an alien is either abducted by humans or crash lands on Earth. Or trafficked by evil aliens, escaping with a pod and crash landing on Earth. Either way they are saved by UA heroes and class 1-A.

They would probably also need to be a deathworlder just maybe not the same caliber as humans? I mean how else would they survive? Maybe deathworlds aren't a thing and humans are just space orcs??

The space government could allow them to stay there to train. If they train to become a hero? I would think that would be the idea lol

They could run through the plot of MHA with class 1-A.

Midoriya would love to study them and ask several questions but would also be happy to help them understand human (and Japan's) customs and culture

Again, I would have Shinsou replace m*ne*a the grapist. Or maybe Shinsou is the alien and a deathworlder who was treated horribly by other aliens who are different species and he thinks Earth will be the same until he's proven wrong??

Or maybe you can have someone else from MHA be the alien like a younger Mirko, younger Ryukyu, Toga (same story as Shin above), younger Mirio, younger Spinner (same story), or younger Magne (same story)

OH or Eri!! And maybe the Shie Hassaikai can be evil aliens?

Maybe a younger Hawks was sent to spy on and infiltrate Earth but they grow on him and he helps them instead. Maybe he's supposed to sabotage them by being able to travel space or just gather their weaknesses or both???

Maybe it's more than just one alien? A teen and an adult? Maybe Eri too?

[neonblackroserevived]

So Alien! Monoma has been stuck in my head for a while now. Decided to draw and write what I've been brainstorming for a fic.

[analoceits]

ITS HERE!!!!! HUMANS ARE DEATHWORLDERS AU!!

(note: itd be silly for me not to mention that this is inspired by @delimeful's teoba and wibar fics!! go read them!! right now!!)

for those who do not know what humans are deathworlders is, its a sci-fi trope based off the concept that humans, compared to other intelligent life, are SCARILY strong because of the climate of our planet.

if you have any questions abt this au PLEASE feel free to send them. its taking up so SO much brainspace and theres SO much lore in my head already i need to ramble

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Hypermobility

Okay wait I have a prompt!!! If you wanna So I've been reading a lot of fics recently that are in space aus, with the whole humans are deathworlders concept (idk how this is common across my fandoms but it is so I'm binging them lol). And I had an idea based on recent irl events. – anon (long ask, cut for brevity)

inspired by my lovely @ghostofasecretary who has trained all of our friend group to look for hypermobility on account of our schlorpy joints :)

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: loosely implied analogical i guess, but as with most of my shit can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count; 1809

Remus glances up to see Virgil staring at Logan like his abdomen has spontaneously ruptured. He sees Roman out of the corner of his eye do the same. Virgil swallows heavily. "L," he says slowly, "what the fuck is wrong with your arms?" "Nothing is wrong with my arms, what are you talking about?" "Elbows don't bend like that!" Ah. So there was something wrong. Remus was right. Take that, human etiquette manual. Wait, shit, something's wrong with Logan.

Roman clicks at Remus as he comes onto the lab floor. Remus clicks back as he logs onto his station, sighing as he looks at the absolute mess someone's fucking made of the logs—seriously, it's only been one quarter cycle, how are they this fucked up already?—and Roman immediately leans over to see what he's sighing at.

"Wait, what's that?"

"Some xetron made an absolute fucking disaster out of the hadron logs."

Roman winces in sympathy and his carapace shifts. "Are you gonna do yours before you clean that up, or—?"

The last part of his question gest interrupted when Logan comes onto the floor, waving a brief hello with his fingers instead of his antenna—because humans don't have antennae, which was a pretty sharp learning curve for both of them when they'd been so confused as to why this human was refusing to talk to them or even show his feelings, they'd had a few apologetic shifts before Logan realized what was going on and explained everything—and raising an eyebrow when he noticed them clustered around Remus's station.

"Is there something wrong?"

"The shift before us messed up their hadron logs."

Logan rolls his eyes. "You'd think that for life forms insistent that their gravitational curves made them more naturally prepared for graviton scans, they'd have a better sense of how to record them properly."

"You're spellcasting on the acolytes, Logan."

Logan frowns, glancing at his tablet, before the equivalent phrase pings on the screen and he hums. "Ah, I see. Yes, well, if you'd like my help at any point, I only have the routine gamma sweeps to do this shift, so I should be amenable."

"Oh, I can do it, it's just a pain in my thorax."

Roman chuckles and heads back to his own station, probably to sneakily-not-so-sneakily ask some of the others on the shift who are fucking competent what the fuck happened. Remus gets himself ready to dive into the long and tedious work of redoing the spin increments and calculating the proper uncertainties for the right variables—honestly, do they even look at the readouts? It has the layout right there! And it's not like the other logs are invisible! Just look at the rows two microns above the empty one you're supposed to be filling out!—and manages to sink into a rhythm for the first half of the shift. Granted, he's absolutely muttering about how stupid it is that they aren't even calculating the basic momentum, let alone the angular velocity to account for the other celestial bodies in the middle of the waveforms, but it's fine, and Roman keeps up his running commentary of the molecular analysis machine that takes its sweet-ass time to do even the most basic of scans, and every so often he'll hear a small huff from Logan as he corrects their probe's trajectory, but for the most part, the lab is a quiet and serene place to be.

God, he can't wait until he gets rotated back to the engineering department full-time.

Like, yeah, he likes spending time with his brother, and the human's cool—he's really funny when he lets himself be, like his wit is drying than the mountain deserts on Cre-Ativa, and his facial expressions are fucking plat when their superiors are being xetrons, but there's only so much he can take of this quiet where not much happens. And he has to deal with the idiots who don't know how to format hadron logs correctly. This is the third time he's had to correct a typo that's rendered the rest of the calculations useless.

"I'm honestly about to recommend them for a review of the training course, that's how fucking serious this is."

"Maybe there's something wrong with how the keyboard is adapted for their limbs?"

"That would explain some of the typos, not all of them. And it definitely wouldn't explain why there's a massive formatting change about halfway through."

"Perhaps there's a shorthand they're using for some of the notes that we don't know about, and they're forgetting to correct them at the end of their shift."

"Yeah, but then they should tell us that, instead of—" Roman trails off and Remus looks up.

Logan is…stretching, yes, that's the right word. His limbs are extended over his head and his back is arched, but his upper limbs are…bending. Not like the way they normally bend, they're bending…too much? Not enough? The wrong way? Yeah, that's it. The wrong way.

Logan notices they've gone quiet and looks over. "Is there something wrong?"

"You're, uh," Remus stammers, "are you—okay?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine, what is it?"

"Nothing, nothing."

He and Roman exchange a look—the first rule in the human etiquette training manual was if they get weird, just roll with it for a reason—and get back to minding their own business. Admittedly, some of the errors do make more sense now that he's looking at it like it's some kind of shorthand he doesn't know yet, but that wouldn't explain why some of these variables are straight-up wrong and why they wouldn't bother to tell him what the shorthand is so that he's not trying to do the work of two shifts in the time of one.

Something he does appreciate is that the way the shifts in the lab are set up, opposed to engineering, is that sometimes there will be people whose shifts halfway overlap with theirs. So there's always at least one set of people that are staying in the lab while a changeover is happening and then there's not that risk that the equipment will be left unattended. Apparently they learned that lesson the hard way when the molecular exhibitor decided to go into overload in the five minutes where there wasn't anyone logged in, and nearly destroyed the matter wave projector on the station next to it. The justification was in the name of safety, but really everyone knows it's just so the higher-ups know exactly who to blame when shit goes awry.

Whatever the case may be, the door slides open to reveal the other human down here, Virgil, yawning as he makes his way over to his station.

"Hello, hello, everyone."

"Hi, Virgil!"

Virgil winces. "You are way too chipper this early in the morning."

"It's past the circadian half cycle, Virgil."

"Yeah, and?"

"I'm afraid you're going to have to acclimate to your schedule on your own time," Logan says, stretching again, "even though I'm sure your caffeine tolerance has—what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Remus glances up to see Virgil staring at Logan like his abdomen has spontaneously ruptured. He sees Roman out of the corner of his eye do the same. Virgil swallows heavily.

"L," he says slowly, "what the fuck is wrong with your arms?"

"Nothing is wrong with my arms, what are you talking about?"

"Elbows don't bend like that!"

Ah. So there was something wrong. Remus was right. Take that, human etiquette manual.

Wait, shit, something's wrong with Logan.

"Logan? Do we need to take you to medbay?" Roman's already rushing out from behind his station. "There's a pack in the corner, I can—"

"Oh, for—relax, all of you, I'm fine."

"Uh-huh, yeah, fine, that's what I'd describe elbows that bend all schlorpy as, yeah," Virgil says, "what the—does that not hurt?"

"What? No, it doesn't hurt, look, your joints—"

"My joints suck ass but at least they're fucking bending the amount they're supposed to!"

Remus isn't quite sure how human joints are capable of such a surprising and invasive act, but never let it be said he's not curious. "Your joints are capable of performing anal suction?"

"What the fuck? No! It's a turn of phrase!"

"Oh. Disappointing."

"Ignore him," Roman says, "Logan, are you sure you're—"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, I'm just—oh," he mumbles, prodding at his tablet, "what's the word for this in Common?"

"There's no word for schlorpy elbows, Logan—"

"Yes, there is!" He pokes around for a few more seconds before he lets out a noise of triumph and says something that the translators don't translate.

"It's what?" Virgil just shakes his head when Logan tries again. "I don't know what that means, bud."

Logan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, let me try it this way. What's it called when you are in a state of heightened energy and it leads to outbursts of things like running around, or talking too loudly, or being high-strung?"

"Remus," Roman offers helpfully.

"No, Roman."

"Are you talking about being excitable?"

"No, there's a specific word for it. It also serves as a prefix for being too much of something, or an overabundance of something."

"Too much—do you mean the word hyper?"

"Yes! Yes, that's it. And then what's the name of the thing that some people hang over cribs that have little stars or animals?"

Virgil stares at Logan for another moment. "You mean a baby mobile?"

"Yes, but only the second word."

"Mobile?"

"Yes, that's it. Then put the two words together—"

"There were probably so many other ways you could've said you were hypermobile, L, I'm just gonna put that out there—"

"Well, it got you to guess it, didn't it?"

"It's too fucking early for this shit."

"Again, it is afternoon—"

"Shut up."

Roman looks back and forth between the two humans, still twitching as though he's going to be asked to sprint for the medbay at a moment's notice. "So…is Logan…are you alright?"

"Yes, for the fourth time, I'm fine. Virgil's just a little excitable, that's all."

"You try being normal when joints are doing unexpected things," Virgil mumbles, more to his caf than anything else, but he reaches behind himself to pat Roman's carapace. "He's fine, his body just does that."

"But you said it bends the wrong way, how is that fine?"

"There is a thing known as hypermobility," Logan says, "it…oh, dear, it basically means that certain joints will bend…more."

"He's not hurt, that's pretty much all I know."

Roman looks like he's about to protest but Remus just clicks at him. They exchange another look as the humans settle back to work.

Humans are weird, just gotta roll with it.

These hadron logs, on the other hand—

"I'm gonna punt these flimflobbers into the next star we see."

"Can I help? They fucked up the carbon dating program as well."

"How do you fuck that up?"

"Ask them, not me!"

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

[pherryt]

my daughter kept sending me humans as space orcs and humans are deathworlders posts and that made me start looking up fics on ao3 and now i want to write a Witcher version.

i've been thinking about it for DAYS. already have a (long ass) title and everything but telling myself NO, don't do it. DO NOT start this, you have a ton of OTHER fics to work on.

so of course i just spat out 350 words. i don't even have a PLOT, wth. Just two characters i know i want in it.

why am i like this?

[starspell57]

Ok, so, imma just put this out here first: space fics in the mha fandom are absolutely amazing and hilarious, and I AM HERE FOR IT. There's an entire bookmark called "Humans are space orcs (mha)". I'm reading one of the fics, and I think that it's absolutely hilarious that the only species, besides the Terran Deathworlders (aka humans), are 'Eeps. M'naa (Mina Ashido) is an 'Eep, and they have to eat a Yanjine to keep their acid levels up, but humans just eat them for shiggles. It's literally their equivalent of acid juice, and Midoriya nearly gives A'zawa a heart attack the first time he ate a slice of M'naa's Yanjine. And apparently coffee is also deadly to non-Terrans?

Anywhizzle, go read the fic. It's called 'Maybe getting kidnapped by space pirates was a good thing?' By Beige_Eclipse on AO3.

[delimeful]

you can't go back (10)

warnings: depression mention, death mention, animal violence mention, angst, lmk if i missed any

-

Roman had been poking and prodding the alien in his barn for answers for the better part of a month, to no avail. 

No matter what combination of words, actions, or prop-laden charades he and Logan had attempted, they’d come no closer to anything resembling communication than they had when Roman had been angrily threatening the alien with a broom. He’d been growing more hopeless— and admittedly, more guilty— by the day. 

And then, entirely unintentionally, along came Patton. 

Less than an hour after their accidental introduction, Patton had somehow managed to not only convince the alien to speak to him, but also earn their apparent undying loyalty. 

Roman kind of got it, because, well, it was Patton, but he was still feeling incredibly miffed about how the entire situation had played out. He couldn’t even say as much, because then Patton would start making pointed statements about not hiding things from one’s friends and how nice it would have been for him to have met their excitable extraterrestrial earlier. 

Going by the way the alien kept hovering over Patton like a brooding hen, Roman figured their captive-turned-guest(?) probably felt the same way. Not that he could really blame them.

Despite Patton’s gentle prompting and Logan’s intense staring, the alien refused to utter so much as a recognizable syllable in front of them, sticking firmly to bobbing a clawed hand up-and-down or side-to-side for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, respectively. 

That alone was enough to confirm that Patton was right: the alien absolutely could understand human speech, though not as comprehensively as Star Wars would have had him believe. Even with this new willingness to interact, around half of their questions were still answered with a hesitant motion of bumping the sides of their forearms together and then drawing them back apart, which seemed to be the alien’s version of a shrug. 

This wasn’t the only new gesture they were introduced to over the course of the next few days. From subtle shifts of their faceplates to the absent air-pedaling their stabby limbs did while they were thinking, they were now witness to a whole gallery of unfamiliar mannerisms. The thick spiral-ring notebook Logan had dedicated to documenting the alien’s body language had rapidly begun to run out of blank pages, with the frantic scribbling becoming such a well-worn background noise that even the alien stopped being wary after a while. 

As it turned out, the alien was a lot more expressive when all six of their limbs weren’t forcibly restrained. This was one of those things that seemed a lot more obvious in hindsight. 

Given that four of those limbs had both the sharpness of a spear and the spring-loaded power of a harpoon gun, Roman still felt a fair amount of uncertainty about just how much trust they were placing in a relative stranger, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

After all, this was a welcome change from the quiet, still way the alien had been curled up on their makeshift bed for the past week, not nearly as aggressive as before but also not nearly as alert or even responsive, some days. Roman had been getting more and more worried, half-expecting to find a corpse every time he went to check on them, like a bug left in a jar to suffocate. 

Whatever magic Patton had worked, it had brought an undeniable spark of life back to the alien, and wary or not, Roman was unspeakably relieved about it. 

The past couple of days had been dedicated to finding supplies for the alien’s project, which they had figured out (mostly through extensive guessing) was a makeshift translator. One of Logan’s old laptops, the disemboweled guts of the alien’s helmet, and an old car battery from the junkyard had been sacrificed to the alien’s tinkering, along with various bits and bobs pulled from old charging cables and a broken VCR player. 

After the third unsuccessful game of charades, Roman had just grabbed the whole junk drawer in the kitchen and tipped all the contents out in the hopes that the alien would find what they needed. 

Seeing as there hadn’t been any more requests, they seemed to have found the pieces they needed— or at the very least, acceptable substitutes. From there, all that was left to do was loiter in the barn and wait for them to finish. 

“Guys,” Patton called, the only one allowed to sit nearby while the alien worked. “I think it’s ready!” 

The moment the words split the air, Logan practically teleported over to their corner of the barn, and Roman was only a step behind, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm in his chest at the thought of finally learning what had happened to his brother. 

The alien was crouched with their backwards-jointed legs folded under them, and as they all gathered around, the limbs on their back pulled in to avoid grazing any shoulders, as though even the barest touch would be poisonous. As always, they didn’t make direct eye contact with anyone, simply reaching out to the contraption and pressing one of the buttons on the VCR. 

They made a series of carefully enunciated clicks and churrs, the same muffled language that they had used during Roman’s pointless interrogations, and then released the button and pressed down another one. 

There was a brief moment of silence, and then: 

“Can you understand this sentence?” 

The voice was robotic, the inflections slightly strange, but the words were clear. 

“Yes!” Roman exclaimed, half an answer and half a cheer of success. “It worked, we understood that!” 

The three of them exchanged glances, sharing a sort of awed joy at the impossibility of it all. The alien waited for a moment longer before recording another stretch of clicks and sending it through the translator. 

“The energy cell won’t last long. Ask important questions first.” 

Like mirror images, both of his friends turned to look at him at the same time, and whatever expression he was making seemed to tell them everything they needed to know. 

“No matter what the answer is,” Patton told him, reaching out to hold onto his hand tightly, “we’ll figure it out together, okay?” 

Logan flipped his notebook over, abandoning the list of questions to set the tip of his pen to a blank page. “I’ll record the information verbatim. It’ll ensure we don’t miss anything.” 

Embarrassingly enough, Roman’s eyes began to sting. He cleared his throat, smiling weakly at his best friends. “Thanks, guys.” 

The question sat heavy on the back of his tongue, the shape of words practically memorized after the many times he’d spoken, shouted, screamed them. When he looked forward to the alien, though, he realized that there was something else he owed it to them to ask. 

“What’s your name?” 

The alien went rabbit-still for a moment, a reflexive attempt to hide that Roman was pretty sure meant they were surprised. He didn’t rush them; he was pretty surprised at himself, too. 

Finally, they leaned close to the speaker again. “I am known as Anxiety.” 

“Anxiety?” Patton echoed, his eyebrows lifting in bewilderment. 

The alien shuffled their hands over each other in an uncertain-looking gesture before speaking into the translator, a little quicker now. “Was that the wrong word? The direct translation is more like ‘he who fears needlessly’?” 

“Anxiety… is a good word for that, yes,” Logan answered after another uncertain pause. “It simply isn’t a word we would usually use as a name.” 

“Alien,” Anxiety replied succinctly, with another one of those forearm shrugs. 

Roman nodded, fitting the name carefully into the list of things they’d learned about this stranded stranger. “My name is Roman, and this is Logan and Patton.” 

Each of them waved on cue, one perfunctory and the other over-enthusiastic. Anxiety glanced between them for a moment before apparently giving in to his curiosity. 

“Who is first?” he asked through the translator, earning three confused looks. 

“I’m the oldest?” Roman offered, not in the least confident that this was the answer Anxiety was looking for. “But not by that much? We’re all in the same grade, um, which basically means we’re only a few months apart in age.” 

Anxiety didn’t lose the air of puzzlement, but he shook his hand in the ‘no’ gesture. “Nevermind. Ask your questions.” 

Roman swallowed, his nerves returning to him twofold, and forced the words past numb lips. “What… What happened to my brother?” 

Although Anxiety had almost certainly expected the question, his limbs still flexed behind him, trembling slightly with tension. Foreboding sunk into Roman like a stone through water. 

“Your brother was abducted,” Anxiety finally answered, the translator turning the words flat and stilted. “Stolen, but most likely alive.” 

Alive. Alive. Most likely alive. Roman’s chest felt like it might burst with how hard his heart was beating.

“Why? What are they going to do to him?” he asked, his voice rising louder in his desperation. Patton squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

Anxiety’s hesitance stretched even longer. This time, after speaking into the translator, he shuffled backwards slightly. Preparing for a violent response to whatever he’d just said. 

“Deathworlders are valuable in some circles. That crew is money-hungry. They probably took him to use as a champion in illegal fighting rings. Dangerous, but not lethal if he can fight,” the translator spit out dutifully. 

Fighting rings. Roman thought about every movie scene he’d ever watched with gladiators, every news article about local dog fighting, every old story about men shoved into a pit of starving lions. Pictured Remus, dropped into some horrible real-life version of that scene from Star Wars, but without magic powers or even so much as a lightsaber to his name. 

He felt sick. His hand went limp in Patton’s grip, nausea churning in his gut. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. What could he possibly say to that? How was he supposed to ask about his own brother’s odds, his life expectancy on an alien battleground?

“What do you mean by ‘Deathworlder’?” Logan asked, his gaze sharp as he picked up the slack. 

Anxiety’s attention was clearly riveted on Roman’s response, but he managed to answer after several seconds passed without anyone lashing out, leaning forward again. 

“It’s a title. Sapient species that originate from deathworlds.” When this clearly wasn’t as helpful as he thought it would be, he elaborated further: “Planets with harsh terrain, hostile fauna, lethal weather patterns. A Deathworlder has adapted to thrive in these conditions. You make a home out of a place that is difficult for most aliens to even survive.” 

Patton frowned, confused. “You’re surviving just fine, aren’t you?” 

Anxiety’s faceplate twitched slightly, an expression they had no reference for. 

“I thought Patch would kill me for our entire first interaction.” For the first time, a sense of his voice was audible even through the machine-tone translator. “I pay attention to danger. This planet is full of things that could very easily kill me.” 

His extra limbs twitched slightly, as though he’d said more than he’d meant to, and he firmly averted his gaze to the ground. 

Abruptly, Roman realized that they were one of the things Anxiety was referring to. The primal panic that they’d witnessed while interacting with him wasn’t a farce or an exaggeration. To Anxiety, humans were a potentially lethal threat.

“Patch?” Patton asked.

The angles of Anxiety’s back limbs shifted to point at where Lady Macbeth was sprawled out in a beam of sunlight, content that all was well within her kingdom. 

“You renamed my cat?” Roman asked incredulously, and then, more pressingly, “If you thought she was going to kill you, why did you befriend her? You tried to stab me the moment we made eye contact!” 

Anxiety’s arms twitched in what seemed like a hastily-aborted shrug. “Predatory beasts normally kill to eat or to defend territory. Sapient species are capable of a lot worse. If I am going to die, I want it to be quick.” 

Something about the way the words were spoken, present tense and oddly direct, made Roman’s skin prickle unpleasantly. It was uncomfortably close to a request. 

(Sure, Anxiety understood their language, but had they ever said aloud that they wouldn’t kill him?)

“To aliens, humans are dangerous?” Logan asked, dragging them back on-topic. “How so? From my perspective, you have more natural weapons than we do.” 

Anxiety made a dragging chirp that seemed to serve as a wordless scoff. “Humans are impossible to kill. I bite you, and you hit me. My bite bothers you, but your hit shatters my exoskeleton. I bleed out and I die. Your body heals and you live.” 

Patton looked discomfited at the very idea.

“Aliens are delicate, compared to us,” Logan surmised. “Because the environments they evolved in weren’t as hostile as Earth.” 

Anxiety nodded a fist in confirmation. 

By the time Logan turned to him with a grim look, Roman had already put the same pieces together. 

“They wanted Remus because they were sure he would win,” he said, fists clenched at his sides. “Because he’s a Deathworlder, so he’s hard to kill.” 

Remus wasn’t being tossed to the lions. He was the lion, trapped and caged far from home. A monster only let loose to slaughter. 

Sure, maybe his brother wouldn’t die, but what kind of a life was that? Remus was sixteen. He was supposed to be trespassing in abandoned buildings with his shithead friends and creating bizarrely gory trash sculptures for his art portfolio, not fighting for his life in front of a crowd of alien scumbags. 

“How do we get him back?” he asked, lifting his jaw stubbornly.

Anxiety only watched him, making no move to speak into the translator. 

“Come on, there has to be a way,” he urged, shoving to his feet and staring down at the alien. “He can’t just be gone. I have to help him! You have to do something!” 

Patton stood too, frowning in a way that suggested he thought Roman needed to back off, take a few deep breaths. 

“Please!” Roman added instead, his voice cracking down the middle of the plea. “Please.” 

Anxiety shifted to press the record button again, but the laptop screen flickered and faded, nonresponsive. Their battery power had run out. 

With a displeased sound, Anxiety slowly rose back to his full height, immediately moving several steps away, and for a moment, Roman thought that was it, his begging had been rejected. It was hopeless, and there was nothing else to be said. 

Then, there was a strange crackling sound from Anxiety, who had turned to face away from them in an uncharacteristic move, his spidery limbs shifting tensely. 

“Give t—ime,” he spoke, the words nearly made unfamiliar by the odd pronunciation. “Thhhin—k.” 

“Think?” Roman echoed with uncertainty; the ‘th’ sound dragged so long it was almost a hiss. 

“You need time to think of a way?” Logan interpreted, clearly exercising all his willpower to remain where he was instead of circling around to see Anxiety’s face. 

“T—ry,” Anxiety emphasized. “Don—t. Hope.”

“Trying is all we can do,” Patton replied warmly, while Roman was still puzzling out the soft clicks Anxiety was using for the ‘T’ sound. “Thank you for trying to help us, Anxiety.” 

There was another odd noise, like the crinkling of paper, and Anxiety’s face was as concealed as ever when he turned and hurried back over to his makeshift bed, apparently done with speaking for the day. 

Feeling more than a little exhausted himself, Roman didn’t begrudge him it. All that mattered was that Remus was alive, and they would figure out a way to rescue him. Anxiety might have warned them not to hope anything came of his efforts, but long odds had never stopped Roman from hoping before. 

He wasn’t giving up on his brother. No matter what it took to bring him home. 

[setaripendragon]

Hello, I'm intrigued by "404 Battalion Not Found". Can you tell me more ?

Yes! =D

So, this one was inspired by a line in... General Jocasta, I think? Also borrows heavily from fandom's tattooine slave culture and the lore established in... the Double Agent Vader series?

It's a timetravel fic where Cody wakes up as a tiny clone toddler and basically makes it his mission to save as many of his brothers as he can, by slicing the decomissioning droid and making it sedate rather than kill the decomissioned clones.

This causes more problems than it solves. He has to deal with trying to hide, feed, and supply an exponentially growing cadre of enhanced (and thus bored) toddlers, most of whom have some form of 'disability', some of whom are actually very badly sick.

Eventually, Cody manages to get them a way off Kamino via a freed slave turned cargo freighter pilot, who recruits some other people to help them set up a refugee camp/outpost on a mostly uninhabited planet, where they grow up more or less running wild on a deathworld.

The fic probably isn't going to quite cover this except maybe in an epilogue, but eventually, when the clone wars start, this little colony is going to be like 'those are our brothers out there, dying for no good goddamn reason' and call for volunteers to make up a rescue battalion that everyone else is very absolutely sure should not exist.

Hence the title.

The fic was originally meant as a short backstory oneshot to a bigger Cody/Mace timetravel fic I had planned, but it grew out of control on me (as per usual with my backstory ideas ^^"). The first chapter needs some serious reworking, and I'm still a couple chapters away from finished, but it's mostly plotted out, I just wandered away from Star Wars before I quite managed to finish it.

Have an excerpt:

Warily, Gerda looks around the cockpit, paying more attention to the little things. The drawer under the dash isn’t quite shut, though nothing seems to be missing when she opens it to check. There’s a scuff-mark on the arm of the co-pilot’s chair that Gerda’s pretty sure she would have noticed before now. If it weren’t for the missing crates, she might have dismissed it all, but with everything put together, she’s pretty damn sure something’s not right here. She gets up, planning to go tell Eedi they’ve had an intruder on the ship, only to freeze in place, half-turned and half-upright, when she spots said intruder attempting to back away down the corridor to the bunkroom.

It’s a toddler.

A human or close-human toddler in a grey onesie, their skin only a little lighter than her own, but their hair dark instead of ruddy, cropped short and just a little curly, staring at her with an almost angry look of defiance on their chubby little face.

“Hi,” Gerda says, for lack of anything better to say.

“Hullo,” the toddler says, slow and wary. They don’t sound frightened, but their eyes dart around the cockpit in a way that suggests they’re looking for a rescue, or an escape.

Slowly, Gerda stands up properly. The kid clenches their jaw as they stare up at her. Gerda crouches down, a little awkwardly between the two pilot’s seats, and offers the kid a smile. “I’m Gerda, and this beautiful lady is the Tanager,” she introduces, patting the pilot’s seat as she names the ship. “What’s your name?”

The kid’s eyes narrow at her. “Cresh-Cresh-Twenty-Two-Twenty-Four,” they say, rattling the number off by rote, and a chill goes down Gerda’s spine.

“That’s a number, not a name,” Gerda says, very softly. The kid – Gerda is not going to call him by a registration number, she is not – only blinks at her, not even confused past the wariness he’s still regarding her with. “Is that what people call you here?”

The kid nods. “My brothers call me Twenny-Four,” he offers.

“Brothers?” Gerda asks, pulling up a mask over her growing horror, a mask she hasn’t wanted to use or had to use in years. A mask she’d hoped she’d left far behind her. “I have a brother, too. Well, he’s my wife’s brother, which makes him my brother, but there’s only one of him. How many do you have?”

“Ten-thousand-one-hundred-and-five,” the kid answers, then shrugs. “Less than that.”

Gerda’s going to scream. “Less?” she asks, even though she doesn’t want to know. She does not want to know. …She needs to know, anyway.

“The defective ones get taken, and they don’t come back,” the kid explains. They – he, probably he if he’s calling them all brothers – still haven’t stopped watching her like she’s a threat, despite the factual, bland way he’s been answering her questions. He’s one eerie kid, Gerda can’t help but think. His vocabulary is too good and his diction is only slightly warped by childishness. “Some didn’t come out of the tubes right, but they took Eighteen because he cried too much and Twenny-Six because he was growing feathers instead of hair.”

“Do you know where they took them?” Gerda asks around the lump in her throat.

“The decommissioning centre,” the kid answers dutifully. Gerda closes her eyes and takes a moment to just breathe through the horror. Kids. Babies, killed because they cried too much. Gerda’s no stranger to the horrors of the galaxy, but there’s something about the clinical wording and the kid’s well-trained apathy that shatters her own carefully built defences.

[beangirl73047]

BNHA/MHA Fic Recs

Lessons Learned

Rather than the police station, Katsuki's friends bring him to a hospital after rescuing him from the villains. His wounds were minor, but it didn't make having them treated any less important. As it would so happen, Best Jeanist was also brought to this hospital after the attack. Sometimes, small choices have a big impact on how a story plays out. --------------- Aka: Best Jeanist Acquires A Son. Featuring: Serious talks regarding abuse and emotional scars, one adult finally stepping the hell up and trying to help Katsuki, me going off about the sports festival because I'm still not over it, pro-heros having a group chat, and Katsuki finally getting a chance to learn how to be good.

throw me a goddamn rope - just enough to hang myself with

Shouta’s plan had been ill-defined and desperate from the start, but he figures the important shit boiled down to, “Change as little as possible, make sure Midoriya doesn’t get himself killed, and stock up on lychee jelly pouches because that flavor got discontinued three years from now.” Keeping it simple’s always better, and he’s normally good at improvising.

Somewhere along the way, he must’ve fucked up since now he has:

A quirkless problem child hanging off of his every word

His best friend going through a sexuality crisis thanks to said problem child’s mom

His other best friend clinging to him like a security blanket

Some two-bit mob boss threatening him with bouquets of daffodils

To wring the number one hero’s fucking neck for not telling him anything useful before sending him decades into the past

All he did was walk Izuku Midoriya home. It wasn’t meant to turn into whatever mess this is.

landscape after cruelty

“Bakugo, you need to update your costume.” Kirishima said, “There’s this one dude in the support class- he’s got a literal waiting list, that’s how good he is- but he did my new upgrade."

“Yeah,” Bakugo sighs and leans back on his hands, staring at the bracer. “I know. I’ll go,” his mouth twists a little. “I’ll go tomorrow. This is just- this is my design you know?” he’s not explaining himself very well, and refuses to look at Kirishima.

“It can be hard to give up your first hero design, and you did a great job,” Kirishima said. “You definitely had the best one out of all of us when we first got our costumes."

Bakugo hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t design it,” he grumbled.

Let's Reach the Horizon

After defeating All for One, all Izumi Midoriya wants are some holidays.

Then she gets kidnapped by aliens right after.

Well, at least her alien cat cellmate is nice.

It Takes a Child to Teach a Village

Life doesn't always go the way you want it to. Sometimes it just throws you in a garbage can and lights the garbage can on fire and laughs as you scream in agony. And all you can do is tell yourself that it'll be okay. That you'll be okay. And sometimes you're right and you wake up the next morning to a wonderful day full of sunshine and rainbows and singing birds and you start living life in a damn Disney movie.

Other times you're wrong. The cycle just continues. Maybe Life adds lighter fluid next time. Or fills the bottom of the can with dead fish. And it's up to you to get up off your sorry ass and do something to fix your life because it is clear that you're basically alone. When there's no hero coming to save you, you're forced to save yourself. Be your own hero.

Izuku decides the best way to be a hero is to be a teacher.

Packbonding with a Predator | MHA alien AU

[NO MHA KNOWLEDGE REQUIRED]

Humans- The primitive, savage beasts that poachers across the universe were dying (quite literally) to get their claws on. The no contact order placed on their deathworld, Earth, was supposed to ensure that none would ever pass the fringes of their solar system. They hadn't reached deep-space travel (and probably never would), so the Hyperspace Public Safety Commission was fairly certain that their unimaginable strength and bloodthirsty ways were no threat to the universe at large.

So imagine H'zashi's surprise when he and his bondmate, Shouta, were placed in a cell with one after being captured by intergalactically wanted poachers. He just hoped his flock would get a funeral.

And yet how, even though everyone knew humans were unintelligent and vicious, could the purple furred human speak Common? Even more surprising were its first words.

"No fight?"

same faces.

Midoriya is accidentally sent back in time to the entrance exam by a villain attack. He decides to take advantage of the situation and fix the things that went horribly wrong himself.

(this is a standalone teaser for now; I'll probably come back to it at some point but I wrote this with the intention of showing off a snippet, not the first part of a series)

Things aren't as bad as they seem (they are usually worse)

Giyuu can feel the tugging of his heartstrings and realises, with the briefest flash of horror, that he got attached to Class 1-A.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Daily Writing Snippets

Created a more detailed outline for Space Fic, wrote a few paragraphs

Re-read notes for Spoke No More and created an outline for rough draft, wrote a few lines

Re-read through next Gibbous chapter scraps, wrote a few lines

Wrote some prose lines

Patton had heard only rumors of humans; gangly nearly hairless beings with sharp eyes and quick reflexes. Smart but vicious, even a hatchling was capable of untold violence. A Deathworlder, a being that brings nothing but death to worlds The human hatchling swaddled in his feathers does nothing more than lean their head against his chest, fingers gently curled around him. Patton purrs, unable to keep himself from refraining from the sound. It is instinctive, natural, for the noise to reverberate in his throat. It is meant to soothe young hatchlings, to keep them relaxed and alleviated from any stress. It is one of the very few things that Patton can do for Virgil. Even though the young human is not a Moralian hatchling, it seems to affect him in a similar fashion. -Space Fic

Virgil can feel their eyes lingering on him -A Dagger of the Mind RD, Spoke No More

For weeks he had waited in the wings, listening for his cue to enter the stage. But sometimes when someone forgot a line—one had to improvise. -Gibbous WIP

In the gleaming sunlight of the afternoon. In a park with a clamoring, cheering crowd amidst fireworks. In the rainy downpour. In the silence of a local quaint coffee shop. Anywhere and everywhere one can exist, one thought can occur. -A Thought, prose

[analoceits]

For ur humans are deathworlders au, how does the crew meet lo? How do the crew meet eachother?

the crews meeting is admittedly part of the backstory mush that isnt Detailed yet. only details i have is that patton sort of "adopted" roman and virgil. BUT them meeting lo is Very Detailed soo:

they are a crew of space pirates. all of them engage in Crime.

theyre on what they think is a Normal ship, doing some routine ransacking. they have ethics, so they dont hurt more than they need to, and their heading to the lower decks. and they find.. cells? with.. this weird, rusty red substan..

oh jesus fucking christ. oh Jesus Fucking Space Christ. thats a human.

no. wait. thats a Baby Human. ohh no.

Fic Ensues.

[ao3feed-dadzawa]

Why obtain just ONE deathworlder when you could have THREE?

Why obtain just ONE deathworlder when you could have THREE? by Tokkiwaltz

I'm in dire need of new mha fics on this “humans are space orcs” tag, so I decided to write one myself. ——-~ No way no way nowaynowaynowaynoway!!! There's no KREFFTING way these KREFFTING guards threw in an EVERKREFFTING DEATHWORLDER into the cell with them!

It's drugged, prone body lay eerily still, sprawled out on the linoleum floor like some false starfish. The air around them felt suffocatingly thick as they all stared it down.

Thank the stars it wasn't awa-

It shifted, upper face-hairs scrunching.

KRREFFFFFT!! THEYRE ALL GONNA KREFFTING DIE!

Words: 2397, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Shinsou Hitoshi, Yaoyorozu Momo, Todoroki Shouto, Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Class 1-A, Monoma Neito

Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Shinsou Hitoshi, Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Yaoyorozu Momo, Midoriya Izuku & Todoroki Shouto, Bakugou Katsuki & Shinsou Hitoshi, Eri & Shinsou Hitoshi, Shinsou Hitoshi & Todoroki Shouto, Class 1-A & Eri, Class 1-A & Midoriya Izuku, Class 1-A & Shinsou Hitoshi, Class 1-A & Yaoyorozu Momo, Shinsou Hitoshi & Yaoyorozu Momo, Todoroki Shouto & Yaoyorozu Momo, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Monoma Neito & Shinsou Hitoshi, Class 1-A & Monoma Neito, Class 1-B & Monoma Neito, Kirishima Eijirou & Shinsou Hitoshi

Additional Tags: Humans are space orcs, deathworlders, humans are space australians, Alien Abduction, Alternate Universe - Space, Aliens, Non-Consensual Body Modification, No Romance, Midoriya Izuku is a Problem Child, Todoroki Shouto is a Mess, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Adopts Shinsou Hitoshi, BAMF Yaoyorozu Momo, Bakugou Katsuki is a Little Shit, Kirishima Eijirou is a Ray of Sunshine, Protective Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Monoma Neito Being an Asshole, Tired Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, and he's lucky he doesn't get that ass beat, LMAO, Someone get this cat man some coffee, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47594158

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

I really love your work♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ and I wanted to ask if you would make a fic based on my idea👉👈for sanders sides

I got into 'humans are deathworlders'/'human are space orks'✨✨✨ and I would really like it if the only human was Virgil and at first they are against him but then they realize that he is just a misunderstood sweetheart🤔

I don't mind if he was put on the ship by someone as a crew member or if he was rescued or something alse🙂

but it would be cute if Virgil was short for a human🤭 and things like flexibility to get into small spaces and other things that are in the community about deathworlders'🤩

Again. i love your work❤️❤️🩵🧡💚💛🩵❤️💙❤️💛❤️💛🧡🩵❤️

love me a good humans are weird fic :)